Shakespeare's Valentine Pt. 06

157.

Maybe a week before tech I'd talked to Cherri about it. I'd wanted to see if there was a way to bring something of the change in the Macbeths' physical relationship onstage. Even though we had, by this time, become lovers ourselves, I still wasn't about to throw her over a table in a rehearsal room without warning her, intimacy coordinator or no intimacy coordinator. In the event, she'd been fine with trying it, and Gil had liked it well enough to incorporate it into the end of the first act.

"Of course, you can't really play it."

"Huh?" Post rehearsal one evening, and we'd been relaxing on her sofa, trying to decide if we felt like watching a little tv before going to bed. Now I asked her: "Can't really play what?"

"The...knowledge of that last happy moment of his life." She paused for a second, collecting her thoughts. "Or can you? I don't know. He's got to stay active, doesn't he? Everything he does post murder..."

I picked up the thread: "Yeah. He's trying to seal everything off. Like in a cop show: perfect crime, except, oops, this guy saw my car. So now I've got to kill this guy, but when I get to his house, oops, his wife is home too. Gotta kill 'em both. He keeps trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube..."

"Until something in him..." Cherri looked for the word, "not snaps...not exactly. But killing the Macduff family, wife, kids, servants? It's excessive...unnecessary. If we were in a serial killer movie, he'd have started enjoying himself, but it doesn't feel like Macbeth is taking pleasure from all the bloodshed. At least not like a sadist."

"No, but he's acting, which he's good at, rather than thinking, which frustrates him, because his imagination is so bleak. 'Strange things I have in head that will to hand / Which must be acted ere they may be scanned.' Every time he 'considers' he winds up dwelling on the bleakest possible shit. Even in that first soliloquy..."

She tucked her legs under her, and sat facing me. "'Two truths are told...?'"

"Yeah. 'This supernatural soliciting / Cannot be ill, cannot be good...' He spends like a line and a half considering the bright side of his new Thaneship, and then dives into ten lines of doubt and terror like something out of Edgar Allen Poe..."

"So you kind of have to play it, don't you?" Cherri was staring at me. "He can't escape his imagination. It's like me with the isolation after we become king and queen, killing Duncan over and over again in my head, because that's when we were...united, and I'd...I guess I'd gotten what I asked the spirits for..."

"The guts to see the first killing through, you mean?"

"Yeah...and the strength to keep you on track when you were losing it. But that's the last time I was...maybe 'happy' isn't the word..."

I smiled. "We were together; partners in greatness. And then I froze you out, because I thought I was protecting you."

"And everything went to shit." She was quiet for a moment, and then she leaned in and kissed me; a long, gentle, sensual kiss. Her hands caressed my face, and when she pulled away she was smiling a warm, contented smile. She really had to stop getting more beautiful every single goddamn time I looked at her. I was going to go blind, or go crazy or something.

Cherri asked: "Dai, do you believe in God?"

158.

Oh. Okay. So apparently I had gone crazy. Or Cherri had. I said: "What?"

My Lady giggled. "Keep up, Brenner, it's a simple question."

"No it isn't!"

"Isn't it?"

"Do you?"

"I asked first."

"What does that have to do with anyth-mmph!" She kissed me again: harder, hotter, her tongue reaching for mine. I could feel my whole body begin to respond.

Then she broke it off, sat cross-legged, grinning at me. "Well?"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Tell me. I promise good things will happen, if you answer my question."

"What kind of good things?"

Cherri purred: "Trust me."

I sighed. "Do I believe in God? Honestly, Cher, I'm not sure. I know I don't believe in a God who gives people shit or changes stuff because they pray to him. But sometimes I think there is a...guiding creative force behind...things. And other times, I don't know. The left brain takes over, tells me that science makes a pretty compelling case for how most things came to be, and are. But...I do like the idea that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. And I'll say this: I believe in man, or humanity. I believe you have to have something...other working in you to write King Lear or compose the 9th Symphony, or paint "the Night Watch." Maybe that's God, or a version of God. I don't know. Does that sort of answer your question?"

"Uh huh." She was still smiling.

"How about you?" I was smiling too. Couldn't help it. Cherri relaxed, thoughtful. Cherri happy. That was a project I could dedicate some serious time to.

"Nope. No God." The smile never waivered. "I believe we're here by chance, and that when we're gone, we're gone. Back to the dirt."

Grim, but... "Well, I'm with you on the afterlife. We get what we get on earth, and then we're gone."

"Hmm, but you know what I do believe in?"

"What?"

Her smile deepened. Her eyes shone. Color came into her cheeks. "I believe in us. Not just you and me-I mean, I believe in that too, but-okay, how to put this-people, human beings, spend their lives looking for food, shelter, sex..."

"Money," I added.

"Yeah, but even before money was a thing; people...stayed alive as best as they could. They hunted, and eventually planted stuff, and built houses near the stuff they'd planted, and made fires to stay warm, and eventually they invented God, or gods, to keep them...hoping, I guess. But you know who made it all fun, or at least interesting?"

"Who?"

"We did. Storytellers. We sat around those fires and made up stories about gods and heroes, and how things were made, and why things are the way they are. Some of us recited in rhyme and became poets, some of us sang and became singers, and some of us gave the gods and the heroes voices; we stood up and demonstrated how this goddess arranged the trees which hold up the sky, and how that hero killed ten enemies with his bare hands. We did that; we, the actors. And we're still doing it. You and I. Telling the story of a man who came home from the wars and kissed his wife, and was happy for the duration of that kiss, and who was never happy again."

I nodded: "Telling the story of a woman who sold her soul to make her husband king, but he turned out to be a bad king, and forgot how to be a good husband."

"We create life for a living, you and me. Sometimes multiple lives in an evening. We do it eight times a week, counting matinees, when we're lucky. And there have probably been people-maybe still are-who think that's blasphemy. But I believe in it. I believe it needs doing. I believe it makes a difference."

159.

She sat silent for a little while, the smile still on her lips, but her gaze a million miles away. When she started speaking again, I thought, for just a second, that she'd lost the thread.

"It's what makes me happy. Hell, there have been times when it was the only thing that made me happy," her eyes found mine, "the job, I mean. But now..." She uncrossed her legs and crawled onto my lap. Her arms wound round my neck; mine curled about her waist, and for a few seconds we sat, smiling into each other's face, our noses maybe six inches apart.

Eventually Cherri asked: "So kissing Lady Macbeth makes Macbeth happy?"

Oh, now we're back to character analysis? "Well yeah, particularly after they've been apart for so long."

"Does kissing Cherri Morganthal make Dai Brenner happy?"

Ah. I was staring directly into a pair of beautiful, deep, green eyes. How could eyes that cool liquid color be so warm and inviting? I'd decided what I'd say, and...hmmm. I was pretty sure I knew how to speak. I had some distant memory of making my living by speaking. So...if I'd forgotten how to speak-and apparently I had-how the hell was I supposed to pay the rent? Oh well. Worry about that later. I nodded.

"Good," my Lady purred, "because kissing Dai Brenner makes Cherri Morganthal very..."--her lips brushed mine-"very..."--another kiss, slightly longer, warmer, wetter, and our lips stayed in contact as she opened her mouth to finish the thought...-"happy."

I tasted the word on her tongue. We stopped talking for a while.

160.

The audience was silent. I broke the kiss. Even in the middle of a performance, I found it hard to do.

"Duncan comes here tonight."

"And when goes hence?"

"Tomorrow, as he purposes..."

"Oh never shall sun that morrow see. Your face, my Thane, is as a book..."

161.

If you're lucky, you get three or four truly special productions over the course of a theater career. I'm not just talking good solid clear work, or two brilliant performances from the leads, or a box office record breaker, or even a star-studded Broadway critical darling. I mean an electric production of a magnificent play in which cast chemistry is perfect, and there's not a false note struck, and at the end the audience leaps to their feet, not because that's what's expected of them, but because the energy in the theater is such that they can no longer keep their legs bent. That's what we had. For four weeks, five shows a week, twenty performances. Maybe 7500 people saw it. It wasn't nearly enough. It was everything we could have asked for.

162.

Two extra company bows, and the applause began to die down, as people looked turned back to their seats to pick up jackets and purses and the inevitable cell phones. The theater at Oak Ridge had been designed in the mid-1960's as a shallow thrust in imitation of the Festival Theatre in Stratford, Ontario. All of which meant there was no curtain to bring down at the end of a show. According to curtain call-eography, after we'd taken our last bow, Cherri and I-at the center of the company-dropped hands and filed off at the end of two lines of actors; I to the left, and she to the right. As soon as we were off stage, Kal-immediately to my left-grabbed me and lifted me off my feet in an enormous bear hug.

"Great show, My Man! We fucked 'em in the heart!"

I was laughing: "Dude, put me down, or at least buy me dinner!"

Down I came, but he held me for a few seconds at arms' length, looking into my face. I wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying.

"Dai, seriously...just amazing work!"

"You too, Brother! You too."

He let me go to embrace Regina, who met my eye over Kal's shoulder, but allowed herself to be hugged. I was turning to find Cherri when Marissa leapt into my arms. Holy...from Kal to Marissa was like being floored by a Saint Bernard and then pounced on by a Yorkie. Marissa was maybe 5'2" and less than 100 lbs: all tattooed arms and legs and long red hair.

"Congratulations! Ohmygod, Dai! I am so proud to be part of this, seriously..."

I hugged and was hugged, slapped backs and palms, until I made my way to the greenroom, where I found her, surrounded by Sam, Marcus (tall-of course-ropy 20-something playing Angus, and hopelessly infatuated with Cherri,) and two-thirds of the Scottish army. I waded into the scrum, grabbed my Lady around the waist, lifted her off her feet-two can play at this game, Masters-and spun her around and around, clearing some space. She squealed with surprise, then called me a bastard as I swung her, but when I finally put her down, she brought her hands to my face, shouted "Brenner, you fucking goofball!" Well. I mean I couldn't have her calling me names in front of the cast, so I kissed her, long and hard, as the group around us erupted in cheers and catcalls.

Cherri broke off the kiss, gave me a radiant smile, and hugged me tight. Her last costume, in which she had taken the curtain call, was a thin white sleeveless shift which covered her from breasts to ankles, (although not by much) and I could feel the curves of her body pressed against me. I could also feel my cock respond to both the hug and the kiss. With my mouth at her ear, I whispered: "I don't think I can wait until after the party."

Her answer was a warm breath: "Uh huh! My dressing room. I'll text you when Regina leaves."

163.

We changed into street clothes and wandered into the lobby to greet patrons and staff who stayed to shmooze. A few of the regulars had local friends in the audience, but most of the company had been cast out of New York or Chicago, and friends and family who intended to make the journey would do so later in the run. Everybody, including our Producing Artistic Director, a pleasant if rather distant Goodman alum named Cynthia Pennington, seemed thrilled with the production. Compliments and kind words, but many of the folks who stayed were planning to attend the post-show party, where there would be finger food and booze, not to mention a heated room and comfortable chairs. The lobby klatsch broke up quickly, and Cherri and I headed backstage, ostensibly to get cleaned up and changed for the party.

I returned to an empty dressing room. Not a surprise: I'd never seen anybody get out of period costume faster than Jem Hauptmann. On As You Like It the actor playing Oliver had lost a bet when Jem's dressing roommate-in that case a pudgy little character guy from LA named Tony Cirillo who'd been a marvelous Touchstone-took pictures of Jem's Act V costume to prove that he hadn't had the entire thing rigged with zippers.

I checked my phone. Nothing.

I washed off what little makeup I had used. Checked my phone. Nothing.

I took a quick shower. There was one in every dressing room. Got out, dried off, checked my phone. Nothing.

I was staring at the picture of the Oliviers she'd given me when the phone vibrated. Text from Cherri: "Now."

164.

It took me maybe thirty seconds to walk from my dressing room at the end of the hallway to hers, but I had time to be aware of the unfocused and sometimes violent impulses coursing through my body: elation, affection, love, lust, pride, satisfaction, celebration, exultation, gratitude, all of it surrounding...us: Cherri and me. I was having trouble prioritizing. We hadn't had sex for a few days, and I wanted sex, but I was also fully clothed-sweats and a t-shirt-and striding down a public hallway, albeit a mostly deserted one. I also wanted to debrief, to celebrate, hell, just to talk about what we'd just done, and what we were about to do. And I wanted to thank my Lady for her incredibly thoughtful-and shit, it had to be expensive-opening night gift, and even more for her beautiful card, and apologize for mine which was a little...well shit, here I was. I pushed open the door, stepped inside, heard it close behind me.

165.

Cherri stood in the doorway separating the waiting area-black faux-leather sofa against the wall to my right with standing lamp to one side and glass coffee table in front-wearing a robe and slippers. Behind her, I could see, on the counter in front of her station, the roses I had given her arranged in what looked like a tall thermos or water bottle. Towel with makeup, hair drier, and other paraphernalia in front of a lighted mirror; cards and notes, candles, and of course a few packets of Walkers shortbread.

Her wig was off, and her chestnut hair was brushed out, but not yet arranged. No make up. She was smiling.

"My Thane."

"My Lady."

And then we were in each other's arms, kissing, moaning, tearing at clothing. She was naked under the robe, and I could feel her smile widen under my mouth as my hand reached to caress the small of her back.

I broke off, panted: "What's funny?"

Cherri, on a breathy giggle: "I'm just always surprised by where your hands decide to go first."

Before I could respond, her mouth was back on mine, opening, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. Fuck! I stopped thinking, and started feeling, responding, wanting...all of a sudden my shirt was in my mouth, then it was gone. Cherri's tongue was back. My sweats were around my ankles, and my boxers. I tried to step out of them, almost fell over Cherri's robe. Both of us naked now. Her hand reaching for my cock, stroking...fuck, her hand was warm and soft and...now she positioned me between us and began to grind against me, lubricating my shaft with the moisture seeping from her pussy. Everything was pleasure: lips locked, breasts pressed against my chest, cock sliding between her labia. And I had...I can't call it an idea, because my brain had pretty much shut down; maybe...an impulse. My hand dropped to squeeze Cherri's ass, and then I lifted her leg until I felt it wrap around me.

My Lady murmured something that might have been "Oh fuck, yes!" as I lifted her off her feet. Her other leg came up, and her ankles crossed just above the top of my butt. I hefted her a little higher, as I sought to line the tip of my cock up with the entrance to her pussy. The extra height pulled our mouths apart, and Cherri panted: "Wait, wait..."

She reached down, grasped my shaft, and dragged the crown of my dick across her pussy lips, until I felt the slight give of her entrance.

"Try...now" she breathed, and dropped her body slightly, impaling herself on my cock. The feel of that soft, tight heat sliding down my shaft was so intense that I thought I might cum before I was all the way inside her. I rasped: "Fuck!" at the same time as Cherri gave out several high pitched squeals, and I felt the walls of her vagina tighten as her body settled against me with my cock balls deep in her pussy.

166.

I took a moment to accustom myself to the position. Supporting Cherri's weight was no trouble, but...I found I couldn't...thrust as deeply as...fuck! I needed to move inside her, but I was having trouble figuring out how, which was bizarre, because how hard could it be? I stifled a giggle. Pretty damn hard, but nice as that was, it didn't help with my immediate difficulty.

"Up against the wall." Cherri panted it into my ear. "Put me up against the wall and fuck me, please!"

I looked around for the closest piece of wall which had nothing hanging on it and wasn't blocked by a piece of furniture. Turned out to be the door to the hallway. Getting there was a little awkward, but once I had her back up against the wall and began thrusting hard into her, my Lady went ballistic.

Ballistic, but for once not vocal. Unusually for us, we were both quiet, or mostly quiet. But then we were in a semi-public place. I didn't think anybody was likely to disturb us, not that they could have got in to stop us, even if they'd wanted to. The heavy door, against which I was aggressively fucking Cherri, opened into the dressing room.

And even if somebody had managed to open it...fuck 'em. We were busy.

167.

It was savage, sometimes painful, hotter than hot, intense, fun, passionate, and the pleasure was...urgent, different. We fed on it. We needed it. My hips cocked back and forth as if they were motorized. I could feel the strain in the small of my back. Didn't matter. I could feel Cherri's muscles tensed around me, arms, legs, and core, especially core. The inside of her vagina painted my shaft with moist heat, squeezing me with every thrust, and I was thrusting fast and hard. We kissed sporadically. Mostly I was heaving and panting; no voice, nothing to say. Cherri, when her mouth wasn't covering mine, kept up a quiet purring whine. Sometimes there were words: "Yesohyes, ohyeahohyeah..." Sometimes there was just sound: "hih, hih, hiyih, yih, huh, yuh, yuhuh..." I tried to keep her body against the wall so that the force of our coupling wouldn't bruise her back or crack her head. After a few minutes frantic fucking I felt something in my grip begin to give; couldn't tell what. In desperation, I thrust deep into her and froze, pinning her against the wall, with no thought other than to rearrange my hold on her.