Cascade (46 page)

Portia’s casket and a copy of the opening-night program rested on her lap. For the program’s cover and accompanying poster, she had painted a great, swirling wind blowing a ship onto an island where the lone figure of William Hart as Prospero stood with arms outstretched, in welcome, in wait, and as if to embrace infinity.

She had placed advertisements in newspapers in major cities across
the country, announcing the reopening of the Cascade Shakespeare Theatre in Lenox, Massachusetts. She wanted anyone who cared, anyone who had an interest, to have the opportunity to see it again, and in truth, there was a vague hope that Jacob would see and respond to one of the ads. It had been years since that day he walked out of her apartment, since she sent that last, unanswered letter, but she’d never let go of the feeling that seeing him once again was somehow necessary, and probably inevitable.

At Lenox, she was met by Albert, one of James’s assistants. As they drove through town, with its prosperous-looking storefronts, Dez imagined that Cascade might have looked like Lenox if it had been allowed to grow after the Depression. Shiny new cars lined the streets, pedestrians filled the sidewalks. Dez counted two ladies’ dress shops, two coffee shops, a stationer’s, a barber, and two drugstores.

At the Curtis Hotel, Albert handed her luggage off to a porter, then took her directly to the playhouse a short mile away. Though she had seen it in its new home many times, it was always momentarily startling to see it in another space. It was no longer riverside, but its location, set back from the road and framed by tall pines, had its own peaceful beauty. Box hedges had grown in around the foundation; the building no longer looked transplanted. Rather, it looked like it had graced Lenox forever.

Stepping inside evoked a flood of memories—of her parents, of Rose, of Cascade—but what struck her most was that her father built something so long ago, before two wars now, and it had lasted. It had mattered. The wood shone. The ticket window had been lined with new glass and brass trim. The new drinks bar was a beautiful, curved mahogany. The plinth in the display case had been covered in fresh red velvet, and on it rested a fine, imposing-looking reproduction of the First Folio, opened now to
The Tempest
.

James wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon, in time for the cocktail party, but the director, the manager, and the cast were all on hand to greet her. Prospero was being played by the veteran actor Richard Leslie, now sixty-eight years old, the man who had once knelt to button her shoe when she was a child. As a younger man in Cascade, he had played both Hamlet and Macbeth. Older, he looked remarkably like William Hart, enough so that her poster of Prospero could have used either man as model. “My dear Desdemona!” he cried. “Did you ever think you would see the day?” He draped an arm across her shoulders and they looked around, necks craned to take it all in as Dez shook her head, no. No, she really had never thought to see such a magnificent rebirth.

Behind the mahogany bar, James had arranged for the construction of a concealed fire cupboard, with a paneled door that swung open when the top left corner was pressed. Dez tried it out with one push of her index finger. There was a click, and the door popped ajar. The cupboard itself was four feet high and four feet deep, lined with metal. She slid Portia’s casket inside for safekeeping.

The preshow cocktail party on the lawn recalled past parties, but was, in reality, far more elegant. These days, any occasion was an occasion to dress up—men in tails, women in long gowns. Dez wore emerald satin and a rope of pearls around her neck. Her hair, grown long, fell in waves down her back.

Four musicians perched on bamboo chairs under a bank of trees, Haydn’s string quartets drifting along the evening air. A long table, spread with white linen, displayed buckets of champagne and rows of crystal glasses. White-gloved waiters passed frosted grapes and tiny canapés on silver trays that glinted and flashed in the sinking sun. James, remembering Dez’s stories, had ordered madeleines, platters of them; they graced a
long table near the playhouse door. Dez bit into one, remembering Stan and his tale of nearly having choked to death. She never again, after that last letter, heard from his wife.

James arrived just as the party got under way, in time for the hearty hellos, the shoulder claps. When Dez caught sight of him, striding across the lawn, greeting people, a grateful shiver passed through her. How extraordinarily lucky she and her father and the playhouse had been that the planets had aligned themselves and produced James Lawrence King as savior. Fate had played a role, she was sure of it. The dots had connected—the postcards, James seeing them, his Lenox connection, his money, his desire to preserve what deserved preserving.

Lenox people arrived—local politicians and supporters—all mixed in with the current summer crowd. A small contingent from Cascade showed up, a group of about ten, including Zeke Davenport. Zeke had shrunk, turned slim and white—he would die of lung cancer within the year—but he was jolly as ever. He grabbed her in a bear hug and laughed and said, “They’ll never see the likes of a Falstaff like mine, though.”

Personal friends arrived, too—associates of Dez’s and James’s, friends from New York and Pennsylvania, all of them swarming around with congratulations, with talk. The conversation became, for Dez, a background buzz, a general feeling of well-being. Abby had come up with her husband, Bill Richdale, the stockbroker she met at Dez’s first show and married during the war, on one of his leaves. Abby was chic in a claret off-the-shoulder gown, and she looked around approvingly. “Now
this
is what I imagined Cascade to be, all those years ago.”

Asa did not come, though Dez had invited him. He still, technically, owned the theater, and would until he died, but he had done the decent thing and turned all operations over to the James Lawrence King Philanthropic Foundation. He sent a letter, cordial but brief, offering congratulations and “all best wishes.” Early on, when war was declared, he’d tried to enlist, but was deemed necessary in his civilian capacity. Instead, he married a widow from Springfield, a woman with two children. She and
Asa had not had any of their own. In a movie, he would have married Lil, but life was not a movie at the Criterion Theater, and as far as Dez knew, Lillian Montgomery never did marry.

After all those early years of hoping to see Jacob, Dez never truly expected that he would respond to her advertisements and come. Yet, when she glanced across the lawn and saw him under the pines, wearing a dark suit in place of black tie, using his program to shield his eyes and scout the crowd, his presence felt inevitable.

She excused herself—barely aware of whom she was excusing herself from—and crossed the lawn. Inwardly, she was trembling, but how easy it turned out, thanks to that balm, the passage of time, to behave like he was anyone, to say, “Jacob Solomon, I don’t believe it,” to thrust out her hands and take his in welcome. Up close, he looked remarkably the same—a bit more chiseled in the face perhaps, the roundness of youth gone. But his dark hair was still thick, only a few silver strands shimmered through the black.

They said the things that people say when they meet after a long absence:
How are you? So good of you to come
. But underneath the pleasantries and catching up, their eyes said other things:

I thought I’d never see you again.

I missed you.

I thought of you for years.

Then why did you let all those years go by?

I don’t know. I don’t know why I let all those years go by.

She heard herself chattering, saying she had heard he’d ended up in New Haven and wondered why he’d gone there after working so hard to get back to New York, but inside she was willing time to slow down, to stop for just a moment so she could marvel, could drink in the fact that they were actually together, talking, after all these years.

“I guess,” he said, and he was rueful, “because I’d been part of a couple
of shows, and no one even noticed. They didn’t even say I was bad. And then they were phasing out the federal art projects, so when that teaching offer came, even though it was only for a year, I grabbed it. I had to. I had a wife and daughter to support.”

She nodded, knowing better than anyone the role of luck, of chance. But what of Dr. Proulx’s legacy, she wondered?

He seemed to read her thoughts. It was tied up for years, he said. “When I finally got it, I honestly didn’t know what to do with it until I realized it should be for Esther. She’s bright. She’ll go to college.”

“Is your family with you?” She peered around, more out of politeness than any real sense he’d come with someone, because some part of her sensed something was amiss.

He shook his head. It was a long story, that shake said. “Get back to your guests, please. I just wanted to congratulate you.”

“You’re my guest,” she said, insisting, until she finally got the story out of him: how after the teaching stint ended, with the war ramping up, he’d enlisted. How Ruth’s mother, Sarah, had moved down to New Haven to help out with Esther. How he’d been in Samoa six months when he got word that Ruth had woken up one morning with a headache like a hammer; a few hours later, Sarah found her on the floor. “They said it was cerebral apoplexy. A little time bomb we never knew was there. She lasted only a few days, and everyone said it was a blessing, considering the state she was in. But I don’t know about that. It’s been hard on Esther.”

“Of course,” Dez said, infusing those two little words with warmth and concern. Esther would be—nearly twelve? Of course. Twelve. Twelve years since Jacob said, “
Ruth is pregnant. We’re married.”
Just a little older than the age Dez was when she lost her own mother.

“So it’s been a tough road,” she said.

Somewhere, a laughing voice called out, “
Where the hell is Dez?”
She slipped into the shadow of the pine tree, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t spot her.

“Dez, I’ve taken up enough of your time. It’s your big night. Everyone wants to see you.”

“No, no.” She positioned herself deeper into the shadow. “I see these people all the time.” But the cocktail hour was ending, the sun sinking, waiters tidying up, groups of people starting to drift toward the doors.