Free Screen Play by Chris Coppernoll Page B

somebody else’s millions, or our reputations, or invested months, years, making our families sacrifice,” Ben said, drifting into a dark place. There was a pause, then a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just about out of gasoline here. Good thing there’s just one more day.” He turned and smiled, reaching up for my hand. “It was easier once, wasn’t it, Harper? We had to go and ruin it by chasing our dreams, then catching them.”
    “Maybe the best is yet to come.”
    I let go of Ben’s hand and said a silent prayer on my way out. It was quiet backstage, the truck unloaded, the hallway absent of actors and busyness. I headed for the stage in search of a little hang-out time with Avril before she went into makeup.
    Helen’s dressing room door was partly open, so I glanced inside as I passed. Helen was sitting upright on a silk love seat the color of soft money, like the queen of England awaiting visitors. She looked up at me.
    “You there,” she called out. I stopped, shuffling back to her dressing room.
    “Did you want something?” I asked. She gestured to me with her finger, curling it toward herself twice like she wanted me to come closer. It was a command, not a request.
    “I hope you’ve got your lines down for tomorrow night, just in case,” she said, holding back a chuckle.
    “Yes,” I said, playing along, albeit uncomfortably. “Just in case.”
    Helen allowed herself to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. You won’t be called upon anytime soon, but I do think it’s good training for an actor to be ready for anything.”
    I nodded in vague agreement and began backing myself out her door.
    “There is a certain romance to the role of understudy, don’t you think?” she asked. “You serve no purpose whatsoever, lend nothing to the success of the show, and no one in the audience even cares to know your name— unless the star cannot, for some reason, perform. Then you must take the stage without the benefit of a dress rehearsal, and knock everyone’s socks off.”
    Helen stared at me from her love seat. She was wearing a large Egyptian necklace, a scarab resting at the base of her throat. I thought about Mrs. Gruens at that moment, picturing her standing in a frosted window, watching for James to return by train from a winter stint in Boston years ago when he was acting, greeting him with a bowl of hot clam chowder, happy to make him feel like a king in one world, even if he were only a serf in another.
    “I’m sure it won’t be necessary for me to fill in your shoes, Ms. Payne. You said it yourself, you never miss a show.”
    “Oh, come now. Don’t play goody-goody. Every actress wants a shot at knocking the star down a notch or two,” she said in a voice both sweet and accusing. “The legendary Bette Davis said it best: ‘The person who wants to make it has to sweat.… And you’ve got to have the guts to be hated.’”
    Helen sipped from the water glass on a table in front of her and set it down again, leaving dark rose-colored lipstick in a crescent moon on the rim. “I was aggressive at your age,” she said, rising to her feet. “Ready to do whatever was required to get on that stage—to be the best in the world.”
    Helen’s voice grew louder. I thought I saw some of her Audrey Bradford escaping through the seams of her tightly stitched personality. “I wasn’t going back to Hartford, not after feeling the heat of Broadway lights. I would do whatever it took to keep myself here, and I’m sure you’re the very same way.”
    “I don’t think I’m like that,” I said, trying to give deference, not correct her. “I’m only the understudy, but I want to feel gratitude for what I have.”
    Helen crinkled her face like I was certifiable.
    “Gratitude? But darling, you haven’t got anything!” She laughed, popping and hissing like a coffeemaker finishing its brew. “Oh, that’s delicious. Now why don’t you run along and play with the others?”
    Helen shooed me out of her