Free Master Me by Trina Lane, Lisabet Sarai, Elizabeth Coldwell

I’d dreamt.
    Then I saw her. Sitting alone in the front row, a vision in scarlet chiffon and green velvet, jet curls cascading over her full bosom—Anne Merrill. She looked at her watch and a little frown twisted her ripe, red-painted lips.
    I felt as though the earth had opened beneath me. What was she doing here? Had she returned to claim my master?
    Letting the curtain fall back into place, I concentrated on breathing deeply. Of course she’d be interested in seeing Geoff play Stanley, given all the publicity he’d gotten. It was nothing. I would not allow it to affect me.
    The curtain rose and I was back in the play, back in Stella’s body, feeling the kick of her unborn baby and the heat of her lust for her husband.
    The next interval came after Scene Six. I went looking for Geoff, wanting, I admit, another kiss, or anything else he cared to bestow. I was still in character and I wanted my tough, hungry Pollack. I craved, “all those coloured lights going,” that Stanley talked about.
    He wasn’t backstage or in his dressing room. I headed down the corridor to the back door. Maybe he went out for a breath of fresh air or a cigarette.
    I heard their voices before I saw them. Out in the yard, silhouetted by the lights on the shed, Geoffrey and Anne Merrill were holding a muted but urgent conversation. Their heads bent close. I couldn’t see their faces, but I was pretty sure she was holding his hand.
    I didn’t wait to see more. I couldn’t anyway, not through my tears. I raced back to the stage and sank down at the table inside the Kowalski flat. Breathe , I told myself. Let go. I dried my eyes on my sleeve. I could do this. I had to. There was nothing more important than the play.
    Still, when the curtain rose once more, my disappointment and anger flowed into Stella’s breast. As Blanche sank deeper into self-delusion and Stanley became more determined to destroy her, Stella began to hate Stanley as much as she loved him. When Stanley grabbed Blanche—“Oh, so you want some rough-house? All right, let’s have some rough-house!”—and dragged her into the bedroom, I felt sick with simultaneous desire and disgust.
    I played it well. Hell, I was brilliant. I didn’t allow my grief through, or only enough to make Stella more poignant and real. Geoffrey gave me a puzzled look, but that was Stanley, too, not understanding that he was killing Stella’s love through his cruelty to her sister.
    Finally, the curtain fell. The honky-tonk piano swelled, then faded away. Applause thundered in my ears.
    Geoffrey snatched my hand and pulled me in front of the curtain. The audience roared. We bowed, smiled, bowed again. Helen—Blanche—emerged, looking tremulous and frail, to more clapping and cries of, “Bravo!”
    The cast bowed together. Helen stepped forward and made a perfect curtsey. More applause. In a daze, I let Geoff lead me forward for yet another bow. Before I knew what was going on, he lifted me like a doll and gave me a feverish kiss.
    The crowd went wild. “Stanley!” they howled. “Stella! Kiss her again!”
    “Put me down,” I hissed in Geoff’s ear. Startled by my vehemence, he obeyed.
    We smiled and bowed through three more curtain calls. I’d never felt such pain.
    As soon as the lights came up, I ran.
    * * * *
    Still in costume, I raced out the front of the theatre and up the drive. I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had to get away, away from Geoffrey and his lover, away from the treacherous Stanley who’d raped my poor, fragile sister and sent her away to an institution.
    I sped past the green and down a side street bordered with neat clapboard houses and well-trimmed lawns. It was nearly eleven. Barrington was mostly asleep. Televisions flickered blue behind drawn blinds. A cat wailed at the half-moon.
    A few blocks down, I slowed to a walk. No one was following. Why should they? I passed Barrington Elementary School on the right. On impulse, I let myself into the fenced