Reign (16 page)

So, through the years, Terri thought about her mother and Dennis Hamilton, about their young love that, on her mother's part at least, she knew had lasted. And as that love became less of an unattainable dream and more of an attainable ideal, so Terri's anger and jealousy grew toward her mother. Now, with the knowledge that they had seen each other again, she was torn between the joy she knew she should feel for her mother, and the jealousy that was the reality. For Ann to have
two
romances in her life, while Terri had never come close to even one, seemed selfish in the extreme, and Terri, despite Ann's best efforts, had been raised by a spoiling and doting father to be as selfish as possible.

What Ann had, Terri wanted, and, if it could be gotten, she would get it. When Thursday came, she would go with her mother, she would meet
Marvella
Johnson, and maybe, just maybe, she would meet Dennis Hamilton too.

Terri got up from the couch, went over to the wall full of videotapes, and took
A Private Empire
from its storage box. Putting on the earphones so her mother would not hear, she began to watch the film.

Dennis Hamilton really had been a beautiful young man
, she thought, and wondered what changes the intervening years had made. She wondered if he was still handsome, then looked more closely at the perfect face of the bearded young man that filled the screen, and felt sure that he was.

She would like working for
Marvella
Johnson, she thought. Yes, she would like everything about the Venetian Theatre.

Everything.

Donna Franklin liked everything about the Venetian Theatre too. Everything except Abe
Kipp
and going to the fourth and fifth floors by herself. She didn't know how
Marvella
was able to live there alone. She did have Whitney, but in a few weeks, perhaps, the girl would be gone, and
Marvella
would have that suite and those long halls all to herself — and to Abe
Kipp's
ghosts.

Not that that would bother
Marvella
. Though at times she played the comic darkie, it was only in a way that poked fun at the old, tired, white man's stereotype, never at herself or her race. In truth, she was the least superstitious person Donna had ever met. Her imagination was bounded by fabric and sketches, and had no room for ghosts.

Donna didn't believe in ghosts either, but there was something about the upper floors, the fifth floor in particular, that poured tension into her like a stream of ice, and caused the pressure in her bladder that had always been the physical manifestation of
Donna's
anxieties. She thought the feeling was due to knowing that the place had once been a hospital, where people had suffered and died in pain.

Shaking the thought from her mind, she continued down the hall. After all, she was on the fourth floor now, a floor that was already occupied by
Marvella
and Whitney, and would soon be the temporary homes of others as well. The presence of people here would surely banish whatever theatrical or medical spirits still remained.

She paused where the hall turned, and examined the two doors at right angles to each other. One would be Dex
Colangelo's
suite, the other Quentin
Margolis's
, when the two men came down to Kirkland for the rehearsals of whatever show was chosen. Today Donna was to examine the rooms and determine which should be bedrooms, living rooms, kitchenettes and the like. They had been only dorm rooms for the orphan school years before, as had the suites on the third floor. But walls had been battered down so that the dozens of tiny, individual rooms (little better than cells, Donna thought) had become the spacious and elegant suites in which they all now lived. She unlocked the door on the left, turned on her flashlight, and entered.

The smell of old plaster and damp wallpaper hung heavy in the air, although in the flashlight's gleam the place looked clean enough, the rubble of the pulled-down walls removed, the dust swept away. To
Donna's
left was a windowless room that she thought could serve as a kitchen/dinette. She turned to the right and walked down a narrow hall, from the end of which daylight was coming, to find two more rooms, the first with windows at the far end only, which would make a decent bedroom, and the second with windows on two walls, which would be perfect, she thought, for
Dex's
living room, since there was plenty of space for a piano. The bath could go wherever the existing plumbing system allowed. Donna jotted down a rough layout on her clipboard, then capped her fountain pen and turned to walk out.

She had not taken a step before she knew that someone was in the suite with her. The door, which she could see from where she stood, was closed, and she was sure she had left it open so that the light from the hall would help illuminate the interior. Also, she thought she detected the steady sound of someone breathing, normally the quietest of sounds, but terribly loud now in the deathlike stillness of the dark rooms. Whoever it was, she thought, didn't care if she knew he was there or not, and she wasn't sure if that made her feel more or less comfortable.

Donna stood there for what seemed like many minutes, her flashlight dark. Then she decided that this standoff, if standoff it was, had to end, and she called out, with more courage than she felt, "Hey, who's there?" It could, after all, be Harry
Ruhl
, who would probably be more scared than she was.

After a moment's silence, the answer came. "Me." And Donna breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the deep, warm voice of Dennis Hamilton.

"
Jesus
, Dennis," she said, as she flicked on her flashlight, "you nearly scared the hell out of —" But her words choked as the light shone on his face.

It was Dennis, but it was a far different Dennis than the one she expected to see. There was nothing soft and vulnerable about this face that stared at her out of the darkness, nothing yielding about those eyes that caught the flashlight's glare and turned it to red. The eyes were those of a cat, the face that of a wolf, and Donna found she could not speak. Never before had she felt so hunted, as though she were nothing but prey for the man who stood before her.

It took her a moment to realize what he was wearing, and had it not been for the shining gold buttons she might not have noticed. It was his uniform coat, the uniform coat that he had worn in innumerable performances as the Emperor Frederick.

~ * ~

(
THE EMPEROR wears not only the coat, but the jodhpurs and boots as well. The saber hangs by his side
.)

Did you find the bedroom?

 
(
Slowly
) Yes . . . the second room.

Let's look. Let's look . . . together (
He begins to move toward her DONNA turns her back on him, as if with great courage, and leads him into the room. Sunlight is shining through the dusty windows
.) Dexter will like this as a bedroom.

(
Self-consciously
) You're in costume.

I am.

But why? Why the costume . . . Dennis?

Because we should not forget to whom we owe all this. This beautiful building, this success, this . . . soon-to-be bedroom. (
He walks about, hands clasped behind his back
.) And what things might be done here? Do you think that Dexter will form a liaison with any of the chorus members? He has before, you know. (
He fixes her with a challenging glare
.) Did you know that?

(
Nods
) Yes.

Dexter is quite an accomplished lover. Perhaps it is his Italian heritage. (
He gives her a look that would pin a butterfly to a board
.) Have
you
ever had an Italian lover, Donna?

I . . . I don't . . . no. No, I haven't.

A pity. Life should be filled with as many experiences as possible. And such an attractive woman as yourself. . . no, no protestations, please. You know it's true, even though you attempt to disguise it under those owlish glasses and that severe hair style. They merely beg a man to remove them and unpin the hair, and give that classic line, "Why, Miss Franklin, you're
beautiful
." Please don't tell me that you've never imagined that weary scenario, or that it's never happened to you, for I feel sure it has.

Dennis —

(
He raises a hand, interrupting her
.) Spare me, Donna. I can tell when I'm talking to a woman who is experienced. I have empathy for that sort of soul to whom the flesh means much. (
He looks away from her and murmurs, lost in thought
.) The flesh . . .

(
Seeing that THE EMPEROR's attention has shifted away from her, DONNA starts to edge past him toward the door, but he shoots out a hand in front of her, though he does not touch her
.)

When two such souls join — two souls with the proper regard for the flesh — the outcome would be astonishing. (
He lowers his hand and smiles
.) And I think that you and
my
. . . colleague of long standing have long experienced such a bonding. (
He steps aside, bows deeply, and makes a low, sweeping gesture toward the hallway
.) Pray, proceed. Remember me. And my veiled offer. For the time is coming when the flesh will live. And command.

~ * ~

The same fear that had held Donna now allowed her to tear her fascinated gaze away and move past him, walking briskly, then running, to the freedom of the hall. She heard the door close behind her, but she did not turn to see if he was there watching her, or had remained within, in the shadows. All she could think about was escaping. There was something about him that had soured her soul. His presence (his
madness
? — What was the
costume
for?) made her feel all the world was vile. It was not so much what he said as what she had heard actors call subtext — what lay beneath his words was like the pale, flat worms that crawl under rocks after rain.

And those words had come out of him on breath that smelled queer and strange and metallic, nothing as pedestrian as cigarette smoke or as pungent as garlic, but a curious and unique odor, one she had never before noticed from Dennis or any other human being. Whatever it was, it had terrified her almost as much as his bizarre words.

Donna's
heart did not slow until she was back in the office suite she shared with John Steinberg, who was standing next to her desk looking through the day's mail. A pile of empty envelopes lay on her desk top, and Steinberg was smiling as he riffled the contents at her. "More checks," he said. "More good people wanting to invest in the project.
Cissy
Morrison sent ten thousand." Steinberg tossed down the pile of checks and sighed. "I'd feel happier, however, if I didn't think they were coming more in Tommy's memory than as real investments. I know that's what was in
Cissy's
mind at least."

Donna felt secure again. She was back with John now, talking about money, as usual. All was nearly right with the world. "How do you know that's what
Cissy
had in mind?" she asked.

"Because she told me in her goddamned letter. Listen." He picked up a sumptuous piece of cream-colored stationery from the desk and read, "'Not for
your
sake, you pompous windbag, but in memory of Tommy. And I'd better make a fucking profit too.'" Steinberg shook his head. "
Cissy
has
such
a way with words. So. You were up in the highest reaches of the keep?"

"Yes. I . . . I ran into Dennis."

"Dennis? Surveying his domain?"

"I don't know, John. He seemed awfully strange. He was . . . he was wearing his costume."

John eyed her over the top of his bifocals. "What costume?"

"His emperor costume. The whole regalia. And he acted like, well, he wasn't like himself at all. He acted more like the Emperor, like he was playing a role when he spoke to me. It was odd. I was actually a little scared."

Steinberg's face sobered. "Hmm. Well, he
has
been acting strangely. Tommy's death hit him hard. Hell, it did
all
of us. I'm sure he'll get over it."

"But . . . the costume?"

Steinberg heaved a sigh and sat on the edge of the desk. "Donna, Dennis has been the Emperor for many years. Even though he wasn't sorry to stop playing the role, it was a major part of his life. It's rather odd that he should put on the costume once again and roam the corridors above where he'd think no one would see him, but it's not inexplicable. It's like a little boy playing dress-up, for actors can be, as you well know, little more than children at times. When you discovered him, he was embarrassed, so he fell into character. And that," he finished, "is my pseudo-Freudian analysis. I shouldn't worry about it if I were you. Dennis will come around."