They call her Dana (59 page)

"Lord," I said, "those smell delicious."

"Reckon they are," Corey replied. "They're my specialty. Adam always did love my cinnamon rolls. Them and my peach pies."

"Don't mention your peach pies," I told her. "I can gain five pounds just thinking about them.''

"Wouldn't hurt you to put on a few pounds, honey. You're too thin."

"You sound like Jezebel."

"That Jezebel must've been one smart woman."

"She was—is," I corrected myself. "Bossy, too, just like you."

Corey grinned and began to remove the rolls from the pan with a pie server, arranging them on a large blue platter. In her fifties, she had pale brown skin and gorgeous black-brown eyes and thick, frizzy hair that had gone entirely gray some years before. She had lovely bone structure with high, broad cheekbones, a thin nose and full, Negroid lips. A little taller than I was, she had the slender frame of a girl, and she was given to bright, showy clothes, like the purple frock she wore this morning. Corey wore dangling opal earrings, coated her lids with mauve shadow and used special rouge to emphasize her cheekbones. The leading actress at the Jewel Theater in New Orleans, she was proud of her collection of wigs and sorry she wouldn't be wearing any of them in The Quadroon. Makeup and earrings were also banned when she was in character as Jessie.

"There," she said, "the icing's thick and gooey, just like Adam likes it. I'll just let it cool for a minute or two and harden up a bit. Don't know what I'd do if I couldn't piddle around in a kitchen now and then. It's so relaxing after the tension of the theater."

Corey had a deep, throaty, beautifully modulated voice that

was quite theatrical. She was a superlative actress, and as Jessie she employed a raspy, broken half whisper that could be heard in the top row of the balcony and indicated a lifetime of defeat. All of us were dazzled by her skills.

"Is Adam up, too?" I asked.

"No, that man is still piled up in bed, snoozing away. Takes an earthquake to get him up—that or a bucket of water in his face. Thought I'd just let him sleep this morning. He's nervous about tonight.''

"I'm absolutely terrified," I confessed.

"Isn't any need to be. It's just a play, honey. You white folks all get too hetup. Either they likes us or they don't. If they don't, Adam and I'll go back to the Jewel and you-all can hit the road again with them noisy melodramas Mister Jason wrote."

"God forbid," I said.

"Isn't anything wrong with melodramas. We put on lots of 'em at the Jewel, them and the classics. Sometimes it's a relief storming around in entertaining hokum, particularly after a heavy season of Marlowe and Congreve and Webster."

"You—you do Mariowe and Congreve and Webster at the Jewel?"

Corey gave me a knowing smile. "Guess that surprises you. Idn't too many plays written for colored people, honey. We just do what all the other companies do and pay no mind to skin color—no one but colored folk come to the theater anyway, and they see nothing unusual about it. My Duchess of Malfi is a big favorite. I'm always having to revive it."

' 'It seems—'' I hesitated, groping for words.' 'It seems somehow unfair—I mean—"

"I know what you mean, honey," Corey said. "If I were white—but I'm not white, I'm colored, and don't you go feelin' sorry for me. I'm one of the lucky ones. I have my papers. I'm free, so's Adam. Us Free People of Color have our own section in New Orleans, our own customs and culture. Things is what things is, Dana, and if you're smart you make the best of 'em."

She looked at me and nodded, black-brown eyes full of sad wisdom.

"Idn't no sense frettin' about what isn't," she said. "Just get on with what is."

' 'I—I wish I could be as—as philosophical as you are, Corey.''

"You got a lot of years to get that way, honey. I am almost

old enough to be your granny, though I'd deny it with my dying breath. Sit yourself down now, have some coffee."

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the battered old oak table, resting my elbows on it and watching tiny curls of steam rise from the cup. We really were fortunate to have Corey with us, I reflected. She had been the main draw at the Jewel for almost two decades. Adam, her husband in spirit if not in law, acted at the Jewel as well, usually in flashy roles, Corey confided. Eighteen years her junior, Adam was a strikingly handsome Negro, very vain about his looks and constantly grumbling about the fuzzy gray wig and heavy makeup he had to wear to make a convincing Rufus. Adam and Corey had no children of their own but had appropriated her two young nephews to play my little brothers. The boys were a lively pair, a "mettlesome handful," Corey declared, but, rambunctious as they were, both had quickly become pets of the company. Ollie spoiled them deplorably, clucking over them like a stem mother hen. The outrageous Englishwoman with her bright red wig and imperious manner was the only one who could keep them in line.

*'Here, honey, try one of these rolls," Corey said, setting the platter on the table. "Icing's good and firm now. Still warm, too."

I wondered how she could be so calm and matter-of-fact about tonight. Much of the protest about The Quadroon was due not only to its shocking theme but because real Negroes were to appear in the production. A certain highly vocal segment of citizenry vehemently protested this seditious affront to white sensibilities, and one of the leaders claimed that if the play opened he and his cronies would march on the theater with tar and feathers for the whole company. Answering this threat in an interview in Atlanta's major paper, Jason said that no one would be permitted inside the tfieater without purchasing a ticket and he seriously doubted any of the "redneck yahoos" could afford the price. He added that he would personally beat the bejesus out of any lout who tried to disrupt his play or molest any of his company. The interview caused quite a stir and prompted a whole spate of letters to the editor, both pro and con. It also sold hundreds of more tickets.

Corey sat down with a cup of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully as I sampled one of the rolls.

"It's sinftiUy delicious/' I told her.

*'They always are," Corey said. "My cinnamon rolls can't be faulted. Have another one."

' 'I wouldn't dare, but I will set one aside to take up to Jason.''

"You and him were sure going at each other last night," she observed idly. "For a while there I thought you might actually kill each other. When you threw that lamp at him—good thing he ducked."

"He deserved it," I said.

"And you deserved the shakin' he gave you afterwards. You make up yet?"

I nodded. "In bed," I confessed.

"Best way there is to make up. That there's one fine man, honey. If you were smart, you'd latch on to him good and make sure he never got away. You're altogether too casual about it."

* 'It—it's just a casual thing."

"For you maybe, honey, but it idn't for him. Man's in love with you. Oh, he pretends to be as casual as you are, but he's got it bad. Men like that one are few and far between. You let him slip through your fingers, you'll be mighty sorry one of these days."

"He—he's merely a bonbon, Corey. I'm fond of him, of course, extremely fond, and we have—what we have in the bedroom is quite marvelous—but I don't want—" I paused for a moment, reaching for the right expression. "It's a convenient and very satisfying arrangement for both of us, with no strings attached. I don't intend to—to become emotionally involved."

"You think you ain't already? Lordy, hon, you white gals sure does love to fool yourselves."

She shook her head, took a final sip of cofiee and stood up.

"Reckon I'11 cook some sausage and biscuits and cream gravy. That teasin' Mister Michael always comes down round seven-thirty, likes a good hot breakfast in the morning, something he sure idn't going to get from Miss Laura. She's another one foolin' herself. That cowboy's done lassoed her and got her hog-tied good—she just don't know it yet."

I carried hot coffee and a roll upstairs to our room, expecting to find Jason still in bed. He wasn't. He had already bathed and shaved and, wearing his best gray breeches and a white lawn shirt, stood in front of the mirror brushing his hair. I paused in the doorway a moment, watching him. He was so tall, so lean,

rakishly attractive with those unusual features, those glorious gray-green eyes that could blaze with murderous rage or sparkle with merry humor or smolder with lazy sensuality or reflect the soul of a vulnerable boy, put-upon and ever so misunderstood. At the moment they were quite sober, reflecting the serious, dedicated, formidably intelligent artist and businessman he was at heart. What a complex creature he was, full of contradictions, full of moods, decidedly mercurial. During the past three and a half months a number of women here in Atianta had tried their best to capture his interest. He had given them all the cold shoulder. A rogue he might be, but at least he was a faithful rogue.

Putting the brush down, running one strong hand over sleek, neatly arranged black locks, he turned and saw me standing there in the doorway. He nodded and reached for the black and emerald striped satin waistcoat he had tossed over the bedpost.

"I brought your coffee," I said. "One of Corey's cinnamon rolls, too."

"Thanks," he said curtly, pulling on the waistcoat. "Just set it down on the table there.''

"Where on earth are you going at this hour?"

"Jackson and I have a meeting with the stage crew at eight o'clock—there are still some technicalities to work out. Too much time elapses between scene changes in Act One, we've got to figure out how to speed it up. Need to get on it early so there'll be plenty of time to work out any problems."

"For that you're wearing your best clothes?"

"We've a meeting with Courtland and the theater directors at ten, then I'll take Courtland to lunch."

"You mean Robert Courtland has finally come to Atlanta?"

Jason smoothed down the waistcoat and picked up his elegant gray silk ascot, turning back to the mirror. "You think he'd miss opening night? Of course he's in Atlanta. Been here a week, in fact."

"And none of us knew?''

"There was no need for you to know," he informed me. "You had enough on your minds without worrying about Court-land, trying to impress him. Besides, he didn't want to bother you at this crucial time."

"Very considerate of him," I said.

Ascot finally arranged to his satisfaction, the flapping ends

neatly tucked into the top of his waistcoat, Jason reached for the full-tailed gray frock coat he had also tossed over the bedpost.

"He's quite pleased with everything, incidentally. He caught the play last night, thought you were all superb."

I could feel the color drain from my cheeks. "Robert Court-land was in the theater last night?" I spoke each word carefully, with lethal calm.

"Told me he wanted to sit in on the rehearsal. He was out front, in one of the seats near the back of the house."

"You didn't tell us," I said.

"No reason for you to know," he replied.

"He—he saw that fiasco. He saw me make an absolute fool of myself. He saw me throw a lamp at you—"

"He understands all about nerves and temperament. He—"

"He probably thinks I'm a madwoman!"

"He thinks you're a brilliantly gifted actress. He wants to see you before the performance tonight, extend his personal best wishes. Extremely nice chap. You'll like him a lot."

' 'You son of a bitch!''

Jason looked at me with puzzled eyes, shrugged into the frock coat and then stepped over to pick up the cup of coffee I had set down on the table. I glared at him, two bright pink spots blazing on my cheeks. He sipped the coffee, gazing at me calmly over the rim of the cup. It was obvious he saw no reason why I should be upset. He was that dense. He was that blockheaded. I longed to hit him with something very heavy. I told him so.

"You really must get hold of yourself, Dana. Opening night jitters can be bad, I know, but—"

"You let us all make fools of ourselves! If we'd known he was out there we would have been on our best behavior, we would have—"

"You're making far too much of this," he said in an infiiri-atingly calm and reasonable voice. "Courtland didn't want you to know he was out front. He was afraid it might inhibit you. It probably would have, too. You'd have been even worse than you were."

"Even worse? Who would have been even worse?"

"You, my pet."

"I happen to have been brilliant last night!"

"Billy was brilliant. Corey was brilliant. You were abysmally

bad until I finally got a performance out of you. Mmmm, this cinnamon roll is perfectly delicious."

"I hope you choke on it!"

Jason grinned, finished coffee and roll and then sauntered out of the room, pausing to plant a perfunctory kiss on my cheek. I seized his empty cup, ran to the doorway and hurled it at him. It crashed against the wall, missing his head by a good two feet. He turned, waved and strolled on down the hall, disappearing into the stairwell. I felt much better after throwing the cup. I felt remarkably stimulated, as a matter of fact. Jason had a way of making me feel richly, gloriously alive, even when he was at his worst.

We had all been instructed to relax today, to rest up for tonight's performance, but that, of course, was totally out of the question. All of us were entirely too keyed-up. Immediately after lunch Dulcie went back to the theater to fuss over the costumes some more, and Billy went out for a drive with the Atlanta belle he was currently squiring. Ollie took the boys for an outing, promising Corey not to stufl" them with too many sweets, and Corey was busy preparing headache powders and ice packs for Adam, who claimed he was sick and couldn't possibly go on in that fuzzy gray wig and awful makeup. Bartholomew elected to stay in his room, teaching Theodore a new trick, and Laura and I decided that we simply had to go shopping, something we had had precious little time to do.

Because of the unrest over the play, Michael insisted he come along, and he dutifully trailed after us from shop to shop, looking painfully bored and splendidly masculine in scuifed tan boots, snug tan breeches, a faded old salmon-pink shirt, and the familiar battered tan kidskin jacket. A wide-brimmed west-em hat slanted atop his sun-streaked golden-brown hair, and drooping lids half-concealed his clear gray eyes. His six-shooter, I knew, was jammed into his waistband and hidden by his jacket. We received a great many stares as we made our progress, but no wild-eyed redneck came after us with tar and feathers, nor did a League of Decency lady pummel us with a placard. When I pointed this out, Michael reminded me that it was early in the day. He clearly expected trouble tonight.