The Cornerstone (8 page)

Now he was being careful to, as Morris put it, dial it back, holding that undercurrent of electricity in check, creating dramatic tension onstage but not letting it overpower the acting itself. This particular scene they were rehearsing, in which Faustus has a fleeting repentance for selling his soul so easily and requires a visit from Lucifer and the Seven Deadlies to renew his commitment, was fast becoming one of Tom’s favorites.

Tom allowed his thoughts to drift as he waited for rehearsal to begin, first back to the accident where he’d felt his body shift into protection mode moments before it hit the ground, and then further back to the time he’d discovered the Janus Theatre and the Mummers Theatrical Company. He’d only been in town a few weeks when he’d spotted the auditions display ad in some arts newspaper he’d picked up in the metro rail station downtown. Following his instinct, he’d come here, tried out for a few parts, offered his services for some non-acting jobs, and had been accepted into the fold. He was intrigued by the people in the company, and in particular its ginger-bearded director, who was brilliant and overbearing in an old-world, European royalty sort of way. It was Kit Bayard who’d suggested he look for a paying job at The Rookery, a large used bookstore on the south side frequented by the city’s academics and literati and specializing in hard-to-find, even rare, books. A number of Bayard’s valuable first-edition playbooks had come from there.

“Places!” Bayard’s baritone cut across the backstage chatter. Claire watched Tom get up with a flinch and take his mark. Silence descended, and Ruben adjusted the spots to focus on the figure of Faustus standing beside his desk. Lucifer, a portrait photographer in his forties who said he’d wanted the part because he got to wear red face paint and horns in costume, entered and commanded Faustus to have a seat and observe a little show cooked up by the underworld entertainment board.

“Go, Mephistopheles, fetch them in.” He waved grandly.

One by one, Pride, Covetousness, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, Sloth, and Lechery paraded across the stage as Faustus questioned each regarding his or her particular talents. When he inquired of “Mistress Minx” what manner of apparition she was, Addie oozed voluptuousness that ensured no one would miss the double entendre of her answer: “I am one that loves an inch of
raw
mutton
better than a plate of fried stockfish”—a line guaranteed to draw laughter from the audience—“and the first letter of my name begins with Lechery.” Tom leered at her appropriately.

The mage’s allegiance to Hell firmly reestablished, Lucifer turned and led the Sins offstage, calling back to Faustus, “I will come for thee at midnight.” The lights dimmed to a single murky pool encircling Faustus in his ornate chair with Mephistopheles hovering at his shoulder like a vulture.

“Farewell, great Lucifer,” Tom said, signaling their retreat with an upraised hand. He then got up and turned to his companion. “We twain shall be off as well. Come, Mephistopheles!” Linking arms, Hell’s lieutenant and Faustus exited stage left, like mates off to a rugby match. The lights winked off, but for a second or two a murky red haze lingered around Faustus’ chair instead of plunging the stage into the intended blackout. Claire put the script down and rubbed her eyes. No, the effect was gone. The house lights came up. She cut a quick look at Bayard standing in the wings beside her. Although he chewed the end of an index finger as he stared at the chair in Faustus’ study, there was no other sign he might have seen anything amiss. But then he pulled out his cell phone and called someone. Claire listened intently as he talked to Ruben.

“So what was that just now?” Bayard turned and faced the lighting control booth nestled in a small balcony above the back row of seats. “Is that so? No, everything’s fine.” Bayard walked out onstage and stood beside the chair, seeming lost in thought. He didn’t ponder long, though.

“All right, everyone. Gather round, please.” He addressed this to the empty rows of seats in front of him, but his voice carried well enough that within a minute or two the entire cast and crew had gathered.

“Very well done,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the assemblage. “The play is in brilliant shape, so we’ll call it a night. Go home, get a good night’s sleep. I needn’t remind you full dress rehearsal is in two weeks. This is the first time the Mummers Theatrical Company has mounted a production of
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
, so donors and patrons will be attending the opening night performance, and I feel safe in saying they are in for an amazing evening of theater.”

The guy playing Lucifer—Dave? Drew? Claire couldn’t remember—initiated a brief round of applause, followed by laughter and heated chatter as the troupe dispersed. Bayard stayed onstage, conferring with Ruben. Claire would have paid good money to stay and eavesdrop, but that wasn’t happening. She collected up her things, went to the back of the theater, and stood around by the double doors, waiting for Addie. There was that business of a promised tarot card reading and the building’s so-called resident haunt she wanted to ask about. She also wanted to compliment Addie on her interpretation of Lechery, which was both campy and chilling, probably exactly what the great Marlowe’d had in mind. Being one of the Sins looked like it would be a fun part—you got all dressed up in an outrageous costume and only had one or two lines to learn. Claire had dallied with the notion of trying out for one of those parts, but was so certain she’d screw up the dozen or so words allotted to her, in the end she’d backed out of the audition. Still, it was fun to watch Addie vamp it up. She wondered if there was a subtle difference in meaning in Marlowe’s use of the term Lechery, as opposed to Lust, the name moderns applied to that particular Sin. She’d have to ask Morris. Of anybody in the cast, he’d be the one most likely to know.

She’d also noticed Tom seemed a little stiff moving through some of the more active scenes. Maybe she ought to question him about it, although admittedly if she hadn’t seen him on the ground yesterday, she’d never have guessed he’d been in a traffic accident. She supposed the bike was in the shop and wondered how he’d gotten to rehearsal.

Addie was coming up the aisle with Tom in tow. He seemed to be moving okay from what she could see, but as they drew closer she could tell he was favoring his left side.

“…and I think this play is just the most exciting thing I’ve been involved in for ages—” Addie was gushing. Which she did better than anyone Claire knew. Tom had a pinched look around the eyes that Claire instantly recognized.

“You should have come with us to the hospital and at least gotten a pain prescription,” she said, reaching out for his injured arm almost without thinking. He flinched away.

“It’s just bruised.”

Addie looked from one to the other. “What are you guys talking about?”

Claire bit her tongue. Maybe it wasn’t her place to tell anyone about the accident since Tom hadn’t shared that little piece of excitement with the cast.

“Dropped my bike in traffic yesterday,” he said. “Claire came to my rescue.” He gave her the briefest of smiles.

“Wow.” Addie was bugeyed. “You’re really lucky you weren’t killed!”

There was an awkward silence in which the strangest expression passed over Tom’s face. Like that illusion onstage tonight…Claire was sure she’d seen it, but when she blinked it was gone.

“So,” Morris said, coming up behind her. “Who’s up for a drink in honor of the brilliant Mummers’ acting society?”

Addie grinned and raised her hand. “Me!”

He looked at Tom, who shrugged. “Why not?”

“And the lovely Miss Porter?” Morris cocked his head and rocked back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his wool blazer.

“Well…” There she was again, caught between duty and guilty pleasure. She felt like Faustus tempted by the Seven Deadlies, only this time there were just three of them. As far as she knew, she was the only one who lived at home with a parent and had a compelling reason not to stay out late. Addie was divorced from some guy in Boston, where they’d been patrons of the arts and attended a lot of galas and parties for ballet and drama until he’d cheated on her with a very young ballerina. Morris was a bachelor, but as to whether he had a significant other, who knew? And Tom? She had no idea what his story was, but he’d become more interesting with each rehearsal.

Addie looped her arm through Claire’s. “She’s in. Who’s driving and where are we headed?”

“I’ve got a rental car…might as well use it,” Tom offered.

“Driver picks the place,” said Morris.

Tom wrestled the keys out of his jeans pocket. “I know a good biker bar not too far away.”

Addie squeezed Claire’s arm. “I’m definitely in.”

Morris looked skeptical. “You’re not serious.”

Tom cracked a smile. “Nah. It’s just a neighborhood pub with really good stout.” Claire wanted to giggle—it was clear two could play at this dead-pan humor thing. Funny how fascinated she’d become over the dynamic between Tom and Morris, on and now off stage.

“Okay, I’ll tag along.” Once again, her mother would need to wait while she spent some time just for herself. She felt guilty as all hell, but had no willpower to turn her new friends down and go home.

*   *   *   *

The pub, Doyle’s Tavern, was exactly as Tom had described it—hidden away on a side street with roomy padded booths, dark-paneled walls, dim shaded lamps, and a heavy-duty wooden bar with beer on tap and a brass foot-rail that ran its entire length. The tables between the booth seats appeared to be made of lacquered, and much scarred, solid pine planks.

On the tableside menu, the food list offered fare such as seafood chowder, haddock smokies, lamb stew, and a cheese board with Irish and French cheeses served with bread sticks or cracked-wheat crackers. The special of the day was smoked ham, Stilton cheese, tomato, and onion piled on toasted pumpernickel bread. The beer side of the menu was arranged into stouts, ales, and lagers with names like Guinness, Murphy’s, Beamish, Harp, and Smithwicke’s. Claire felt as if she’d stepped through a time-tunnel leading straight into downtown Dublin.

Though a Saturday night, the pub was nearly empty, with just two older guys on stools at the bar and a couple of college students studying in a booth near the door. Tom steered his group to a big round booth at the back of the room.

“Wow, I had no idea this place was here.” Addie was checking out the bartender topping up the mugs of the stool geezers. “How’d you find it?”

“Instinct, I think. I have a taste for imported stouts and porters.” Tom lowered himself carefully into the booth and Claire followed. Addie slid in from the other side, followed by Morris.

The middle-aged pony-tailed bartender showed up and nodded at Tom as if to an old acquaintance. He then offered to explain the wide range of imported beverages to the rest of them. After much discussion, Addie chose something called Killian’s Irish Red, which the bartender assured her was light and refreshing. Morris went for a Guinness pub draught from the bar, and Claire ended up choosing a bottle of Samuel Adams because it was the only name on the menu she recognized. Tom was asked if he wanted his usual, which turned out to be O'Hara's Irish Stout, a wicked pitch-black brew with a roasty, winelike aroma.

“Do you come here much?” Claire asked.

“Only enough for George to remember what I like.” Tom leaned back against the padded backrest. Claire could almost see his trapezius muscles slowly unclinching.

“How’s your motorcycle?”

Tom made a face. “Bent handle bar, kickstand broken off, bent back fender, blownout back tire. Fix all that and it’s back on the road.”

“You were really lucky,” Addie said, licking her tongue around the lip of her beer bottle.

“So are we. Recasting that part twice would be royal pain in the ass.” Morris didn’t sound like he was trying to be amusing, but with him you never knew.

Addie jumped in. “That part was
made
for Tom. You wouldn’t be able to recast it.” She gave him a radiant smile, as if that ended the discussion.

Claire sipped at her beer and then remembered. “Morris, what’s the difference between Lechery and Lust?”

His eyebrow went up. “Well, that’s splitting hairs, isn’t it? And why, Claire, would you want to know? Big plans coming up?” Addie laughed out loud.

Claire flushed. “No. I mean, in the play. Why does Marlowe use the name Lechery instead of Lust?”

Morris sighed. “You’re just no fun, are you? If you must know, it’s a subtle bit of wordplay on the part of the bard. Think about it. One encompasses the other, doesn't it? Lechery is the excessive indulgence in lust, which we can define as unfettered sexual activity. You—well, maybe not
you
—can lust for anything…power, knowledge, wealth. Lechery applies specifically to sexual lust, ergo…” He shrugged as if the answer should be obvious to the average knucklehead.

“Okay, but what I don’t get is why everybody calls her Lust now, instead of Lechery.”

Morris leaned toward her, elbows on the table. “You can thank those Protestant Reformation chaps for that. They used the word ‘lust’ in their sixteenth-century non-Latin translations of the Bible. Dumbing the Scriptures down for the masses. No offense to those religiously inclined.”

Addie gulped at her Killian’s. “Well, that’s obviously nobody at this table. I’m Wiccan, Claire’s a lapsed Episcopalian, Morris is a terminal atheist.” She turned to Tom. “What about you?”

“Buddhist.”

Morris snickered. “I do like your sense of humor.”

“So is there really a ghost in the Janus Theatre?” Claire figured she might as well drop that bomb while she had the chance. Maybe it was the beer. She wasn’t used to drinking, but she’d nearly finished the bottle.

“Of course there is.” Addie’s bottle was empty, too. “Old buildings like that always have some kind of presence attached to them.”

“Have any of you actually seen it?”

“No.” Tom’s answer was quick. The tone of his voice and his body language, arms folded over his chest, were hard to misjudge: nonbeliever. Claire wasn’t surprised, even if he did make a convincing German necromancer.