As the run winds down, artistic joints loose. Crave, itch for, expansion, new angles of motion. And make antic hay.
It was inevitable, Derek knew. About a week and a half before the MTW run closed, it bit down on his cast. The antic atavism. The urge to close what circles something in the actors felt still open. The urge to fling wide doors felt still maddeningly just ajar. The urge to throw a wrench into the works, to see what happens. That, too.
He called them early before each show. Stern notes. Containment, so far as possible. But the phenomenon was common to every show, every production.
And there were, amidst the flash and noise, real lights switched on. Dennis' stage-muttered ad lib of "even the soot is sweating," during "Heat, Dust, (We Need) Ice." That was right on, that was. He'd keep that in, oh yes.
Some suffused moments between Daisy and Jay Gatsy, connection and conflict clashing like swords. Immediately sheathed, heads turning away, nothing solved. Ivy's and Jimmy's work, and his own, Derek reminded himself, had produced an astonishingly complex, compelling relation between Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. So much hope and so much pain, on both sides. Such incompatible flaws and unhealthy needs, finally. Eating the natural, wholesome connection, its simple extance. Could you, in art, or in life, keep an uncontaminated awareness of that connection? Derek wondered. He hoped so.
He was trying, with Ivy. Miranda helped – there was no question she cemented them. A new layer of cement, anyway; there were other things binding them. Derek knew he had no better shot at combining a full commitment to his work with a – well, a decent basic human life. As an active husband and father. To a wonderful wife and a wonderful little girl. Derek was aware, sometimes not comfortably, that it had not actually hurt his work, his family life. The contrary. He'd confessed part to Ivy – the part that was just hers. The rest – God, let him get used to having been wrong, at all, in the first place.
Eileen stood midway down centre aisle in the empty theatre. Remembered the call, the voice, creaking with age, never cracking.
"Eiieen. I've seen your new show. Quite good. A bit outlandish, for an old lady like me, but quite good, on the whole."
"Margery. So good to hear from you. I'm so glad you liked "Gatsby." We're pleased."
What did she want? Margery Thayer, ninety-one years old, was the last scion of a once-mighty theatre family empire. The Thayers had once owned a dozen Broadway theatres; Margery Thayer's single remaining venue, the Maud Adams, was a tiny house, grandfathered with less than 350 seats and at the north end (54th Street) of the "Broadway" area; it had been closed for renovations for more two years.
"I hear you're bringing your little piece to Broadway. Maud's done with her beauty treatments; she'll be back in circulation ahead of schedule. I thought she might suit you."
"Oh, Margery, thank you. You're so kind, but Maud's tiny. I was thinking of a larger scale, and it happens a few shows have closed earlier than expected. We're only going to be a six month run, so we can sandwich in quite easily in any one of them."
The steps had to be danced. Eileen knew, of course, that the intimacy of the MTC main stage, 280 seats when they brought out the folding chairs (which they could not do for "Gatsby," the musicians taking up that space), facilitated the emotional immediacy of the production's impact. Whether a large Broadway venue would dissipate it had been a worry. The beautiful Maud Adams stage, its jewel-box fittings, its small size, could, perhaps, up-scale "Gatsby" without distorting it. Margery Thayer, theatre elder, would surmise this, of course. But the steps must be danced.
And here, now, she stood, looking at the stage, so lovely of proportion, on which "Gatsby" would dance, in some ten weeks. They would open just in time for Tony consideration.
Power snaked in her. Eileen breathed. Smiled.
Jimmy felt restless; oddly bereft. Monday-loose-end blues were an occupational hazard for a working stage actor, but bereft had no good reason. The written notice of non-renewal he'd received from his first-story tenant had been a shock, but should not have been; the one-time club had been closed since before Jimmy and Kyle had moved in as tenants.
The rent loss would hurt, but the space, code-compliant and ready for commercial lease, according to the inspector, could easily be rented for more than the lease payments had amounted to. But, Jimmy realized, he had like the space being empty. He had no clue why.
He had a different clue, suddenly. Very different.
Jimmy rummaged in a drawer, pulled out an array of keys. Went downstairs, unlocked the former club-space. Big. Open, Very dusty. Decent corner stage for a band. He'd need a piano.
Jimmy pulled out his phone; pushed a contact. Ended the call before it connected. Hit a different number.
Could you get PTSD from a bad experience in theatre? Was it a despicable self-indulgence to even wonder?
Ana, tears slipping down her cheeks, stared, shaking, into her mirror. Broadway transfer. Everyone on "Gatsby" said how good she was. She thought she was good. But everyone involved in "Hit List" had said the same thing about her – and she'd known she was good. But she'd been fired, replaced. No matter, Derek's efforts later, to ameliorate the damage he'd done, Daisy Parker had got the Tony, not Ana. The Hollywood contract. Daisy Parker's new sitcom was getting rave reviews and high ratings. And Ana Vargas shivered and wept, for an unreasoning fear her Myrtle Wilson was finished.
Snatched up her phone as it rang, waited two additional rings, breathing, to ensure her jaunty "Hello!" betrayed – nothing.
