Free Vital Secrets by Don Gutteridge Page B

Lear’s cri de coeur was heart-wrenching: a deep animal howl bred in the flesh and bone of love and loss. Armstrong might be old, but he was not past his prime as a tragedian. Slowly the howls came nearer and the ruined old king staggered forward with the hanged Cordelia in his arms and floating, it appeared, on the cloak. Tessa lookedlifeless, one arm adroop, the body arched but limp, the hair lifting and falling with the cadence of Lear’s step, as if something of her was yet living and not ready to die. Marc was moved deeply, and braced himself for the speech he knew by heart.
    It was at this critical point, and just as Cordelia’s slipper struck the floor like a severed appendage, that Dawson Armstrong staggered, careened, and toppled sideways. Then, in a pathetic effort to maintain his balance, he dropped Cordelia upon the boards with an ugly thump.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing, you goddamn moron, you drunken pig, you stinking excuse for an actor!”
    Marc leaned forward in alarm, as did Rick and Jenkin.
    But having spewed this venom at the toppled Lear, who lay semi-comatose where he had fallen, Merriwether dashed to Tessa’s side, almost colliding with Clarence Beasley.
    â€œI’m fine, I’m fine,” Tessa said, whipping her dress down over her prettily exposed knees and scrambling to her feet. “I fell on my derriere.” She giggled, and gave that part of her anatomy a reconnoitring rub. “An’ there’s nothin’ much to hurt down there!”
    Beasley insisted on taking her hand, as if she were still on the floor, and giving it a gentlemanly tug.
    Tessa rewarded the effort with a dazzling smile. “What’ll we do now?” she asked Merriwether.
    â€œFirst, I’ll drag this intoxicated sot into the wings, where he can sleep it off. Then you and I will do this scene properly.”
    â€œI’ll see to Dawson,” Beasley said. He went over to the oldman, spoke softly into his ear, then helped him over to the wings on the left, where he collapsed peacefully.
    â€œWe better wait for Annie,” Tessa said nervously.
    â€œI’m the director, love.”
    Just then Mrs. Thedford returned. “Well, Jason, you were right. He’s found a bottle somewhere and downed it. I’ve searched his room, but when he sleeps this off, we’ll have to watch him every minute until the show opens at eight-thirty.”
    â€œHe’ll never make it,” Merriwether said.
    â€œNow, you know he’s an old pro. If he’s awake and no more than half drunk, he can outact any of us.”
    â€œJason says he’s going to play Lear tomorrow night,” Tessa said with just a hint of little-girl mischief in her voice.
    â€œWe’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now I’m more concerned with Dorothea’s health. She’s taken a tisane to help her sleep. She insists she’ll be ready for the farce tonight. And I believe her. She made no objection when I told her Tess was going to play Cordelia—to lessen the load on her till she’s feeling herself again.”
    â€œOh, thank you, Annie. Thank you!”
    â€œSo, whether Dawson does Lear tomorrow night or you, Jason, Tess needs a couple of run-throughs right now. Clarence and I will observe.”
    â€œJust remember what I told you a few minutes ago and you’ll be fine, sweetie,” Merriwether said to Tessa as they walked back into the shadows, Merriwether looking very Promethean beside the slight, five-foot figure of the girl-woman.
    â€œThey’ve edited out the other parts, so there’s just Lear and Cordelia,” Hilliard whispered. But Marc’s attention was riveted on the stage.
    There was a collective intake of breath in expectation of the five howls. Out of Jason Merriwether’s mouth they came, but this time they were more bellowed than uttered, more impressing than impressive. From the upstage shadows emerged this