Shakespeare's Valentine Pt. 02

She sighed again: "Oh, it sort of is and it isn't. The guy is an absolute pig of a human being, which doesn't say much for my judgment, I suppose... Anyhow, I didn't think I'd mind giving testimony...in theory, but now there's a trial date. 10 days after we close, actually, and I'm...I guess I'm just scared. I mean, the man was an artistic director, so how's that going to look, and..."

Oh Jesus! "Wait a minute. I'm sorry to interrupt, but would this be the guy who ran Nth Degree in Atlanta?"

"Yeah, Topher Jameson, why? Do you know him? Oh shit! You never worked there, did you? You're not a friend of his, or anything?"

"No, no, nothing like that! It's just...okay, look." I had no idea why I felt so guilty, all of a sudden. It wasn't like I'd deliberately concealed anything from Cherri. "I don't know Jameson. From what I've heard he sounds like the worst kind of manipulative scumbag. But I do know Diana Calder."

Cherri looked at me like I'd slapped her across the face. She said: "I see."

And of course the waiter chose that moment to bring her soup and my cheese board.

33.

After the man had left, Cherri got up. "Excuse me, I have to..." She hurried off towards the back of the restaurant, and disappeared into a hallway under a sign which read 'Les Toilettes.'

I waited. I thought: her soup will get cold. Wait. Isn't vichyssoise supposed to be cold? I looked at the soup. No steam. I looked at my watch. Time passed. No Cherri.

I checked my phone. No texts. A new email: SAG-AFTRA had posted a "Don't Work" notice against a show called "Hiram Rings the Bell." What the fuck is "Hiram Rings the Bell?" More time passed. No Cherri.

Finally I got up and headed towards Les Toilettes. Single occupancy. I tried the door of Les Femmes. Locked. I knocked gently. I said: "Cherri?"

Nothing. I waited, knocked again. "Cherri?"

"Leave me alone, Dai!"

Ah hell. "Cherri, I'm not sure why you're mad at me, but if you are, you are. We don't have to stay and eat. You don't even have to talk to me. But I've got the keys to the car, and eventually they're going to close this place, and you're going to have to ride back with me."

"I'll Uber."

At ten at night in the snow in the middle of the fucking Hundred Acre Woods? Come on. I'll get the check, and let's just go."

The door swung open. She stood there glaring at me. She'd been crying. I fought an overpowering urge to put my arms around her and let her cry on my shoulder like she had the other night. But that probably wasn't the best of ideas. She looked ready to punch me in the nose. Or knee me in the groin.

She followed me back to the table, and sat like a statue while I motioned for the waiter, apologized for leaving the food uneaten, and paid the check. Then we stood. She let me help her into her coat. A good sign? Probably not. Then we headed back out onto the street towards the borrowed RAV.

34.

Outside it had begun to snow harder. Phenomenal. I opened the passenger door for Cherri, then popped the back, grabbed a scraper and got as much ice and crud off the windshield as I could. I got behind the wheel, started the car, and cranked up the heat and the defroster. I mapped myself back to the theater on my phone, prayed I wouldn't lose the signal, and headed off back towards Oakhurst. Cherri sat beside me, her arms folded across her chest, silent and motionless.

After a few miles I began to speak.

"Look, Cherri, I'm going to tell you everything I know and everything I think about the whole Nth Degree Liaison thing. Don't say anything, if you don't want to. Hell, you don't even have to listen. But I've had a...a really wonderful week working with you, and getting to know you. And I'm not letting all that go to hell without saying my piece."

Nothing.

I sighed. "I've only ever toured through Atlanta, and that was ten years ago. I've never worked there; don't know the scene, don't know the smaller theaters. Oh, I've auditioned once or twice for the Alliance, but no joy, ok?"

Nothing.

I'm also not super close with Diana. She's directed me twice; once at a small theater in Cleveland, and once at this now defunct dinner theater out in east Jesus, Wisconsin. So. Not long after I got back from the festival last summer, Diana is putting together a group of actors to read this new play she was excited about. I've got kind of a big living room at my place, and I'd had readings there before. Long story short, we do the reading and she stays after for a bit to ask about Oak Ridge, and you know what the first thing I told her about was?"

Still nothing.

"You. I'd done two full-length Shakespeare plays, and I had plenty to say about both of them. But the first thing out of my mouth is all about this beautiful woman, who wasn't even in the season, but who I am completely obsessed with. And I might have gone on for hours. I'd met you all of once, remember. Anyway, then I mentioned your name, and she hits the roof. She tells me all about Liaisons and what a prick this Topher Jameson guy was, and how you had an affair with him, and got her fired so that you could play Merteuil, and on and on."

I hazarded another look over at Cherri. Still nothing, and now tears were rolling down her cheeks. She hadn't bothered to wipe them away. Okay. Now or never.

"And you know something, Cher? I didn't believe a word of it. Oh, I believed she'd been fired, and I believed she'd fought with the AD. Diana loves to fight. She'd go after her shadow for following her too close, never mind some chauvinist neanderthal prick who second guessed her in front of her cast. She thinks of herself--and I'm not saying she's wrong--as a woman warrior in a profession full of complacent, mediocre men, who are less interested in creating art than they are making pompous speeches and fucking their leading ladies. She has nothing but contempt for these kinds of men, and--and this is why I take everything she says on this particular subject with a half cup of kosher sea salt--for the women who get involved with them.

I took a breath. I didn't look over at Cherri.

"Liaisons may or may not have been a good fit for Diana. I don't know. It's a play about sexual politics, and Diana despises sexual politics as much as anybody I've ever met. Frankly I can't imagine why Jameson hired her in the first place. Probably pressure from his board to hire some women. And God knows the man sounds exactly like the kind of asshat who would need that kind of pressure. But he does not for one moment sound like the kind of guy who would pay off contracts, risk lawsuits, and potentially fuck up an expensive piece of his season because his new mistress told him she wanted a bigger part."

"No. That's not exactly why he did it."

I took a deep breath. We'd re-established communications.

35.

I spoke quietly: "Cherri, I'm not going to pretend that my interest in you doesn't...bias me in your direction. But first of all, nobody hired me to judge you. Second of all, beyond the fact of her firing and her fight with the guy, all I heard from Diana was rumor and innuendo, and, look, I get it: as a profession, we love that shit and we thrive on it, but it doesn't make any of it true. And finally, I've spent a week working with you, and I think you're fucking marvelous! You're smart as a whip, and funny, and gorgeous, and, yeah, maybe you're a little nuts--I mean working in regional theatre, hell, we're all barking--but...I just don't think you're that kind of mean."

Cherri continued as though I hadn't spoken. Her voice was small, and sad. "He hated her. I mean he HATED Diana. I kind of liked her," and I could hear the tears in her voice. "I mean, we weren't close or anything, but I thought she was a decent director. I didn't agree with the direction she and Melissa were going with Merteuil, but...doesn't matter. Anyway, it all came to a head in one of the notes sessions. He was being completely abusive. I mean he was screaming at her. Had she even read the play? How come the scenes had no beats? Why were the performances so flat? How many dicks had she sucked to get an MFA out of Yale? I mean just absolutely poisonous shit. I think it was just me, Melissa, and Roberto, the guy playing Valmont, in the room. And finally Diana...I guess she'd just had enough, because she stood up and she smacked him: open palm, hard, right across his cheek. And he...did not expect that. He took a step back. Honest to God, I thought he was going to have a stroke or something. He was panting and sweating, and then...he swung at her, like a roundhouse punch. He wasn't that big a guy, but if he'd hit her...anyway, he didn't. I guess she had some martial arts or self defense training or something; she ducked the punch, and hit him, hard, in the face; broke his nose, actually. There was a lot of blood."

I said: "Jesus! Diana never told me any of this."

"I called 911, and somebody else got a hold of the Managing Director. Anyway, he showed up along with some suit I'd never seen and they hustled us actors into the green room and shut the door. An hour later, they're back with these forms they want us all to sign. Apparently they'd worked something out: Diana was gone, Topher would take over as director, and nobody'd get prosecuted or sued. Roberto and I signed, but Melissa refused. She said if Diana was gone she was quitting too. So they took her off somewhere, and when the dust settled, she and Diana were out, and I took over Merteuil. I mean we were basically blocked. Topher pretty much just supervised tech. By the way, I'm not supposed to talk about any of this..."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She sighed. A small sound. "Thank you."

36.

Neither of us spoke again until we pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex. I killed the engine, and we sat for a few minutes in the rapidly cooling car. Then Cherri said quietly: "I don't really know why I was angry with you. That whole experience was just so miserable, maybe I just resented you for knowing about it. I don't know. I'll ask my therapist."

"And maybe you should demand your money back for the session where she said you should talk to me about it."

She didn't say anything. I asked: "Would you like me to walk you up to your place?"

She nodded.

"Come on," I walked around and opened her door, "let's get inside before we freeze."

37.

At her door she turned to me. "I'm sorry to have spoiled our dinner. Hell, you didn't even get that much to eat. I'll Venmo you for it, if you like."

I said: "Cherri, are you still mad at me?"

She shook her head and gave me a small smile.

I felt something inside me unclench a little. "Don't worry about it then. Uh...might be fun to try again next Saturday, if you can get the car again. And if you want to."

"I'll ask Clancy."

I smiled. I wanted to ask if she would be alright, but I didn't want to sound patronizing. I wanted to hug her, but after the evening she'd had, and the stuff she'd been forced to relive, I thought maybe not so much of the physical contact from a member of the male sex. Finally I just said: "Cherri, I'm so sorry. The subpoena, that whole fucked up situation. If it helps, I admire the hell out of you. Getting hit with something like that, in the middle of rehearsing a major role...you've got serious guts. Anyhow, try to get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow." and turned towards the staircase.

"My Thane?"

I'd just reached the stairs, but I turned at the sound of her voice.

"My Lady?"

"Can I please have my goodnight kiss?"

38.

Sunday: the end of the first week. It seemed like we'd just started rehearsing, and at the same time, it seemed as if we'd been together for months. We worked a straight six: six hours of rehearsal with a twenty minute break somewhere around the halfway point. We stumbled through the entire play, got notes from Gil, took our twenty, and went back to the top to begin working through a second time, a process which would take most of the next week. Rehearsal ended at 5:00 pm, and we scattered with visions of Monday--our one day off, the Equity weekend--dancing in our heads.

I waited in the lobby of the theater for Cherri. We'd agreed to walk back to the apartments together. When she appeared she was finishing up a phone call. I watched her cross the lobby to where I stood by the entrance. The woman could make a knee length puffer coat sexy.

She tucked the phone into her pocket as she approached, took my arm and leaned into me. I could feel the swell of her breast through our coats, and we headed out into the evening cold.

"So, my Thane, were you pleased?"

"Provisionally. We've got work to do post murder, and they really need to spend some time with that England scene. You're sleepwalking is heart-breaking, by the way."

"You're sweet. But I know what you mean about England. Kal's face: like he's trying a different glower on every line. And I'm afraid the Banquet's still a bit of a mess."

"God! Isn't it just?"

"On the other hand," and she gave my arm a quick squeeze, "I'm having a blast with our early stuff!"

"Me too, and it's only going to get better!" We were approaching the apartments. We'd ended the previous night with a long hug and a gentle kiss, and, as far as I could tell, Cherri had been content, if not delighted, with the day's rehearsal. Still, I didn't want to just assume that all was well. I hesitated for a moment before asking: "Do you have any plans for the evening?"

She shook her head. "Not really, I had promised myself a hot bath, and a few hours of mindless television, but if you're not too tired, and you don't mind talking a little shop, I'd love it if you'd come by for a bit, maybe around 10?"

"Sure. Shall I bring the whiskey?"

"No need. I picked up a little something at the Kroger this morning. Just bring yourself."

Then she leaned in, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and headed for the stairs.

39.

Theater people tend to be punctual. The powers-that-be frown upon, and therefore don't often rehire, those of us who make a habit of being late to rehearsal. So I knocked at Cherri's apartment door at around 9:57. I'd made a quick run to the Kroger myself, and came bearing a couple of bars of upscale bittersweet chocolate. She opened the door in her bathrobe and what looked like a man's blue striped nightshirt, buttoned just below her throat. Her calves were bare, but she was sporting a pair of oversized fuzzy slippers, so I guess she was warm enough. The place was pretty well heated. Her dark hair was up in a loose French braid, and her makeup was understated, but definitely present. I caught my breath: I'd seen a bunch of different Cherri looks by this time. I'd seen Cherri at work, Cherri out for the evening, Cherri depressed and anxious, Cherri distraught, radiant Cherri, seductive Cherri. As Lady M, I'd seen furious Cherri, scheming Cherri, terrified Cherri, broken Cherri. At every time, in every mood, with a twinkle in her eyes, or with tears streaking her mascara, the woman was beautiful enough to stop your heart. Or my heart, anyway. I offered her the candy. Her eyes lit up.

"Oh, my Thane, I adore chocolate! But don't you dare leave it here, or I'll never be able to wear all those snakey, sexy gowns Simone is trying to shoehorn me into."

I stepped inside. She closed the door, and then sauntered past me towards the kitchen. I followed her and stood next to the same round wooden table which served as dining room/breakfast nook in my apartment. As I draped my coat over a chair, I caught a hint of a scent I didn't know I'd remembered: a musky base with something floral around the edges.

"I don't think a little chocolate is going to diminish your snakiness, my Lady. And by the way, that's a lovely perfume you're wearing."

"I'm glad you like it." She was reaching for something in a cabinet. "That's a little indulgence of mine. I enjoy wearing perfume, even when I'm alone. It makes me feel alive and...attractive, not just in a sexual way, although that's nice too, but it's more like--I don't know--something appealing and maybe a little mysterious for the world to respond to. Does that sound silly?"

"No, but you know what is funny? I recognize it, or maybe I should say I recognize it on you. Didn't you wear it to the opening night party over the summer?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just so in thrall to my feminine wiles that your senses are playing tricks on you. Here, try this" She handed me a glass of something amber, raised her own glass, and clinked gently with mine. "Your health, my Thane."

"And yours, my Lady." I took a sip.

"Holy shit, Cherri, that's spectacular! What is it?"

She beamed at me: the more confident cousin of the delighted smile she'd given me when I'd handed her that sorry little bouquet of Krogers flowers. "Oh, I'm so glad you like it! I figured you were a bourbon guy, since I've never seen you drink a cup of non-alcoholic tea. It's called Willett Pot Still Reserve. A bartender friend of mine recommended it." She took another sip. "Ooh, it is nice, isn't it? She giggled. "It's got a kick to it too."

"I love bourbon, but I've never heard of this. Where did you get it?"

"Krogers. I don't know if you've checked it out, but they've got a couple of locked cabinets behind the wines with a pretty fair selection of high end stuff. I took a picture of the bourbons and texted my buddy. He said definitely this. Here." She stepped back into the kitchen and returned with what looked like a long necked Cognac bottle. "For you."

"Cherri, this is an expensive bottle of booze! I can't just..."

She put the bottle down on the table, stepped into me, took my face in her hands and kissed me, hard. Her mouth was open and her tongue attacked mine. I could feel the pressure of her lips, and taste the whiskey in her mouth. My cock stirred in my pants. I put my hands on the small of her back and began to pull her into me, when she broke off the kiss. With her face maybe an inch from mine she panted: "Shut up!"

40.

She stared into my face; her eyes on fire, and her voice almost angry as she snarled: "We've known each other for a week. Do you realize that? Not even a continuous week! One day in August and six in January. And do you know how many men in my life have been as kind and caring and...and decent to me, and into me, and open to me as you have been, are...whatever? None! Not fucking one! Not my dad, not my idiot brothers, not my ex-fiancee, not a teacher, a director, a fellow actor, and certainly not a single one in a depressingly long line of mostly indifferent lovers. So do your loving and homicidal Lady a favor and accept your fucking gift like a person!

I grinned. I couldn't help it, even though the litany of male disappointments appalled me. I pulled my loving and homicidal Lady into my arms, hugged her tight, kissed her forehead, and said: "Thank you, Cher."

41.

We were sitting next to each other on her couch, sharing the comforter from off her bed, each of us sipping a second glass of my excellent bourbon when I asked: "Like a person?"

She giggled. "I know. My grandpa used to say that, my dad's dad."

"Was he Jewish?"

"I'm not telling."

"What, why not?"

She finished her whiskey, put the glass down on the coffee table, yanked the comforter off me, and wrapped it around herself until only her head was visible. "You're not getting another thing out of me, no nice warm comforter, no family information, and no sexual favors until you tell me how Macbeth and Lady Macbeth met!"

"Wow, cold, ignorant, and celibate. My horoscope must've sucked this morning."

She said, in a pleasant voice: "You know that you're a complete bastard, right? And that if I wasn't so warm and toasty, I'd go get a butter knife--which is pretty much the sharpest thing in that kitchen--and castrate you with it?"