They call her Dana (60 page)

"I think it's all a tempest in a teapot," Laura said, gazing into the shop windows as we strolled down the sidewalk. "It wouldn't surprise me a bit if Jason has staged the whole ruckus

just to sell tickets. The people here in Atlanta have been splendid to us. It's a wonderfully civilized and sophisticated city, and—"

"And there are a lot of hostile bigots," Michael interrupted, "even in a city as forward-thinking as Atlanta. Some of those threats were genuine. I want you both to be on guard tonight."

"We've got you to protect us, love," Laura said blithely. "Look at that hat, Dana. Wide-brimmed black velvet with blue egret feathers sweeping over one side. What do you think?"

"Perfect for you," I told her.

"I must try it on. Let's go inside."

As she was trying on the hat, Laura agreed with me that it was dastardly of Jason not to tell us that Robert Courtland was in the theater last night. She, for one, would have paid more attention and given more spark to her teeny, tiny, shockingly small role of Lenore, hardly more than a walk-on. As it was, she had been desultory and boring, with no animation at all, and he probably hadn't even «6>ticed her. He was frightfully wealthy, she understood, as rich as Croesus, in fact, and extremely good-looking to boot. A girl needed to keep her eye out for the main chance.

"What's that you said?' Michael inquired.

"Girl talk, love. Go back to your guard duty."

Laura and I agreed that Jason must have made a very good impression on Robert Courtland, for Courtland had given him a free hand and provided him with unlimited funds. We had a full crew backstage, all of them paid top salaries, and sets and cosmmes were of the very finest quality—Dulcie had been in heaven, using the most exquisite silks and velvets, the costliest linens and broadcloth. All of our dressing rooms had been refurbished, my own completely redecorated in white and gold with gilded white Louis XV wardrobe and dressing table and an antique mirror, all of this done, according to Jackson, at Court-land's specific instructions. He seemed determined to give us the best production, the most lavish accommodations, yet he had remained in the background, indeed a man of mystery.

"It'll be interesting to meet him at last," Laura said.

"It certainly will," I agreed.

"I wonder if he likes brunettes." ^

"He'd better not," Michael informed her. '^

Laura passed on the hat, deciding that the faux jewel clip on

the crown was gaudy, but she tried on several more, as did I, until Michael finally manhandled us out of the shop. We bought long, creamy soft kidskin gloves in another shop, reticules and silk parasols at yet another. Laura made Michael try on a beau-tiftilly tailored dusty tan jacket of heavy corduroy at Atlanta's leading emporium. It was a perfect fit and he looked quite magnificent. She bought it for him despite his protests and told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to get rid of that disreputable jacket he'd been wearing ever since we'd met him. Both Laura and Michael protested when I insisted on going into the downtown bookstore, where I purchased nothing but learned that Julian's book had gone into its ninth printing and that he had been the toast of Atlanta when he lectured here in May. It was well after five when we finally arrived back at the house, Michael heavily laden with packages and grumbling most unpleasantly.

We were all edgy and apprehensive as the hour to leave for the theater drew near. None of us could eat anything, but Billy poured himself a very stiff whiskey. He'd had a miserable afternoon. The belle had accused him of being insincere and he had accused her of being a prude and they had fought bitterly. Ollie complained that both boys had been absolute terrors and made themselves sick on maple sugar balls and Andy threw up and it was the last straw, positively the last, she intended to have nothing else to do with the little buggers. Bartholomew said that Theodore was looking puny and had turned down his chopped chicken and he, Bartholomew, was in no mood to go on tonight, he was too worried. Corey came in looking resplendent in garnet taffeta and a black lace shawl and told us that Adam had fully recovered and would be joining us as soon as he could decide which fancy waistcoat to wear to the theater.

"Headache powders do the job?" Laura asked. "Or was it the ice packs?''

"Wudn't either of 'em. I just finally got tired of pampering him and told him he was going to get his black ass outta bed or I'd kick it from here to Sunday. He leaped right up, fit as could be."

Adam dutifully appeared, extremely dapper in shiny black pumps, dark maroon breeches and frock coat and a noisy orange satin waistcoat embroidered with huge black and maroon flowers. A diamond stickpin glittered in the folds of his carefully

arranged orange silk neckcloth. Gaudy as it was, he carried the attire off with jaunty aplomb, preening like a peacock. Corey raised her eyes heavenward and shook her head, but I could see that she was proud to possess so handsome and virile a man. The boys came in behind Adam, looking angelic and benign after long naps. They prompdy rushed over and curled their arms around OUie's legs. She rested a hand on each ftizzy litde head and emitted a heavy, martyred sigh.

Although we usually walked the few short blocks to the theater, it had been decided that, under the circumstances, we would take carriages tonight. Jackson arrived with them at seven, sporting his usual loud checked coat and brandishing a smelly cigar. It was dark when we stepped outside, Bartholomew carrying a patient and bored-looking Theodore wrapped in a blue wool shawl. Adam elected to ride with Billy, Bart, Theodore, OUie and the boys, and the rest of us got into the second carriage, Corey acidly informing Jackson that she was an artiste, her voice was very important and she did not intend to start coughing because of his foul cigar smoke. Jackson scowled and tossed the cigar away. He and Corey sat across from us. Michael, in his new tan corduroy jacket, curled his arm around Laura. Sitting on his other side, quite close because of limited space, I could tell that he still had the six-shooter jammed into the waistband of his breeches. AH of us were grim as the carriage pulled away.

*'I suppose Dulcie is still at the theater," I said.

"Been there all day," Jackson replied, "ftissing over the costumes, guarding them like they were gold."

"I shouldn't wonder," Laura said. 'That gown Dana wears in the last scene cost over fifteen hundred dollars. In my one infinitesimal appearance onstage, I wear a blue serge skirt and a white cotton blouse with balloon sleeves."

"Hush your moanin', gal," Corey scolded. "Me, I wear faded gingham—ragged at that."

"You're a milliner's assistant," Michael told his inamorata. "That's what a milliner's assistant would wear. My part isn't all that large either, but do you hear me complaining? I just consider myself lucky to be in a major production like this one."

"Sod off, love," Laura said.

As it was a warm evening, the carriage windows were open, and we could hear the grinding of spinning wheels and the lazy

clop-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones. Gazing out the window, I saw an ashy gray-black sky strewn with silvery chips of stars and, as we neared downtown, the yellow-orange blur of lights. We turned onto Atlanta's main street, the theater up ahead, and we could hear shouting then, hoarse and raucous. Michael tensed. Jackson sat up, scowling darkly. The carriage would let us off at the stage entrance in back, but we had to drive directly past the theater before we turned.

"There—there's a crowd in front of the theater," I said nervously. "Men with torches. Women with placards."

"Everyone stay calm," Michael said grimly.

The din grew louder as we drew nearer. The horses became skittish, and the driver had to tighten his hold on the reins. The carriage slowed down. A pack of twenty or more uncouth-looking men dressed like farmers swarmed over the pavements in front of the theater, many of them waving torches, all of them shouting obscenities, while a prim brigade of bespectacled, middle-aged women dressed in drab gray and brown dresses marched to and fro, holding up hand-printed placards denouncing our play and warning decent folk to stay away. T\vo large baskets and a cart of what looked like tomatoes stood near the curb, the entire scene bathed in the flickering, nightmarish glow of the torches. Michael pulled out his six-shooter.

'' Lawdy,'' Corey whispered.

"Just stay calm!" Michael snapped.

"Anything you say, cowboy."

A husky lout in muddy boots, old brown trousers and a patched, coarse-woven white shirt with sleeves rolled up over his forearms stared intently at our carriage and recognized me. He shoved lank yellow locks from his forehead and gave a lusty hoot, running toward one of the baskets.

' 'That's them!'' he bellowed.' 'That's that Dana-gal, and look! There's the nigger woman, too!"

He dove his hand into the basket and pulled out an egg and hurled it at the carriage. It flew right through the window and crashed with a loud splat directly over Jackson's head. The carriage was pelted with several more eggs as other men joined the leader, though no more came through the windows. The lank-haired lout urged his fellows on, reaching for a tomato now, holding it aloft, prepared to throw. Michael shoved me back, leaned across me and took careful aim. There was a deafening

blast as he fired. The tomato exploded in the man's hand, soggy red pulp seeping over his palm and down his arm, his eyes widening with shock. "Jesus!" he cried. "They got guns!" Michael fired again, shattering the wheel of the cart. It toppled over, rotten tomatoes spilling into the street.

*' Bravo!'' Corey exclaimed.

"Show-off"," Laura said dryly.

Michael scrambled over me and leaned out the window. "Get the hell out of here!" he yelled at the driver, and then the carriage moved briskly on down the street, turning a comer and eventually bringing us in back of the theater, where a single lamp hung over the stage door, illuminating the wooden steps and making a misty fan-shaped slur in the darkness. Laura and I were both shaken as we got out of the carriage, but Corey climbed out like a queen, wrapping her black lace shawl regally around her shoulders. The second carriage pulled up right behind us, it, too, covered with ugly splatters. Bartholomew alighted with great dignity, cradling a still-bored Theodore in his arms, and then the boys came spilling out, quite elated by all the excitement. Billy and an exasperated Ollie helped Adam out. His dark brown face looked ashen. He was trembling visibly and jibbering incoherently. Corey gave a weary sigh.

"He's a lover,'' she explained, "not a fighter. You aren't hurt, buster!" she informed him. "If you don't want a boot up your ass, you'll stop that snivelin' right nowV

Adam gave her a mournful look, sobbed and tried manfully to pull himself together. A stem-faced, agitated Jason was waiting backstage. Striped waistcoat and gray frock coat had been removed, the neckcloth was gone, and his thin white lawn shirt was soiled, one sleeve badly ripped and hanging down at the shoulder. His black locks were ammble, the skin on his right cheekbone scraped, as though he had received a blow. That he'd been in a fight was fairly obvious. Ignoring the rest of us, he took Michael aside, and the two men conferred in lowered voices for several moments. Michael finally nodded and started toward the front of the theater. "Everything's under control!" Jason announced to the nervous assembly of actors. "Go on to your dressing rooms. The play will begin at eight sharp, exactly as scheduled." Everyone started talking at once then, and Jason came over to me and took hold of my arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm a bit shaken up, but—you—you've been hurt."

"It's just a scrape."

"It needs to be cleaned. What hap—"

"There was a litde set-to—nothing you need bother about. I'll tell you about it later. You're all right—that's the only thing that matters. When I heard those gunshots—"

"No one was harmed. Michael was wonderful. I wish you'd let me—"

"I knew Mike'd be with you. That's why I didn't go back to the house with Jackson. I figured there'd be trouble—I didn't expect anything like this. We have the front doors barricaded, and Courtland has hired some men who'll be here shortly to handle the mob. It'll be dispersed before the paying customers start arriving. Sure you're all right?"

I nodded. He squeezed my arm.

"See you later, then. There're a lot of things I still have to do. You're a trouper, Dana. You're going to be great tonight."

"That scrape—I wish you'd let me clean it and put—"

"It's nothing!" he said testily. "I'm busy, Dana."

An excited Dulcie waylaid me as I started toward my dressing room. Yellow curls disarrayed, brown eyes asparkle, she was wearing one of the familiar tentlike garments that only emphasized her girth, this one of apricot linen, and the familiar pincushion was strapped to her wrist. With great elan she told me how the men outside had tried to break into the theater when they first arrived, how Jason and the stagehands had battled them back and barricaded the doors, how Jason had felled three of the ruflians, ever so heroic, it was better than a play, how that Mr. Courtland—so nice, so gallant, so attractive—had pitched in, too, then left immediately to go fetch the men he had hired eariier for security tonight. No one had expected trouble to erupt so soon, which was why the men hadn't already been here.

"You're going to adore that Mr. Courtland—he's a real gentleman. Told me I'd done a magnificent job with the costumes, said he'd never seen finer. He planned on meeting everyone in the cast before the performance tonight, but with all this ruckus I imagine he'll be too busy."

"I imagine he will be," I said. "No doubt we'll meet him afterward."

A heavenly fragrance assailed my nostrils as I opened the door of my dressing room. Candles filled the room with a bright

glow, and I was startled to see three enormous white wicker baskets of roses, a veritable bower of roses, velvet-soft petals a delicate pink. There was a floral bouquet on my dressing table as well, white and mauve hyacinths tied with a blue satin bow, but it was completely overshadowed by the roses. I reached for the small white card visible in one of the baskets. You are going to be magnificent tonight was written in strong elegant script, and it was signed Robert Courtland. The roses must have cost a formne, I thought, touching one of the velvety petals. Our producer certainly didn't do things by half measures. I reveled in the beauty of the roses for several moments, then picked up the bouquet of hyacinths. There was a card with it, too. It simply read Love, Jason. I smiled and my eyes grew suspiciously moist. Those two words, that paltry bouquet with its tacky blue ribbon, meant more to me than all the roses in the world.