Fletch and the Widow Bradley

20

“R E A L L Y, M O X I E,” S A I D the theater Director in the light-weight, double-breasted blazer, “this does not bode well. If you’re so late showing up for a cocktail party, how can I expect you to show up on time for rehearsals and performances?”

“We got held up on the bridge,” Fletch said.

“Everyone gets held up by a bridge,” the Director said. “That’s what bridges do.”

“We were delayed on the bridge,” Moxie said.

The Colloquial, like most theaters not putting on an illusion at that moment, looked a cross between a dirty warehouse and an impoverished church. On one side of the stage, lumber was stacked. On the other side, a long, flimsy table held half-eaten wheels of cheese and many empty wine bottles. Out front were rows of dispirited, sagging chairs, existentially weary of tears and laughter, tragedy and comedy.

When Moxie and Fletch had entered the stage from the wings other members of the cast and crew summed up Moxie coolly, professionally watching the way she walked and stood. None evinced a more human interest in her. Only the Director had come forward to greet her.

“At least you’re alive,” the Director said. “And you’re here. We must be grateful for small favors.”

“And I’ve studied the In Love script,” Moxie said in a small voice.

“Paul, I think it’s wonderful.”

“You’ll meet the author tomorrow, I trust,” the Director said. “He flew in from New York this afternoon and was just too exhausted to stand up, he said. I suspect the truth is he intends to use his time out here trying to get a paying job in television.” The Director elevated his eyebrows at Fletch. “Is this the boy you wanted me to meet?”

“This is Fletch,” Moxie said. “You said on the phone you’re not all that keen on Sam …”

The Director stood back, eyebrows still half way up his forehead, and looked Fletch up and down and up again, as if to gauge his suit size.

“Nice looking,” the Director said. “Natural. I suppose your bodies would work well together.”

“They do,” commented Fletch.

“How do you feel about being naked?” the Director asked.

Fletch answered, “I was born that way.”

“But you weren’t born on a stage,” the Director said. “Although, of course, Moxie was. How is dear Freddy Mooney, Moxie, your inveterate Pa?”

“Inveterate, thank you.”

“But, my God, doesn’t he bathe?” the Director said of Fletch. “I mean, I know dirt turns some people on, but not enough of them to fill a theater at these prices.”

“Am I dirty?” Fletch asked Moxie.

“Grimy,” Moxie said. “Streaked.”

“I’ll swear I took a shower in the Fall.”

“He’s really as clean as a whistle, usually,” Moxie said. “It’s just that, on the way over, he …”

“He what?” asked the Director. “Did the backstroke through the city dump?”

“He saved a woman’s life,” Moxie said. “Sweaty work, that.”

“But can he act?” the Director asked.

“No,” Fletch said. “Not at all.”

“How refreshing of you to say that. Finally, in California, I’ve heard a new line: No, I can’t act. If you’re seriously applying for the male lead in In Love, Mister Fletch, or whatever your name is, you must know you have to appear nude on stage not once, but twice. I’ll see to it that you take a shower before each performance. Afterward, you’re on your own.”

Fletch turned to Moxie and asked, in a reasonable tone, “Moxie, darling, what are you doing?”

“Tell him what a great actor you are, Fletch.”

“I can’t act at all.”

“Nonsense,” said Moxie, “you’ve been acting all your life.”

“Never.”

“You need the job, Fletch.”

“Not a job acting.”

“It would be fun,” Moxie said. “You and me.”

“It would be horrible.”

“You don’t have anything else to do.”

“In fact, I do have something else to do.”

“What? Interview more dead people?”

“Moxie?”

“Anyway,” the Director said, “you should meet Sam, Moxie. Your present male lead. Tell me what you think of him. Oh, Sam!” the Director called.

Across the stage a dark-haired, heavy-browed young man stood up from a pile of lumber and started to walk over.

“Ape,” the Director said quietly. “He walks like an orangutan with gonorrhea. Heavy thighs. Today’s audiences do not like heavy thighs. Oh, Sam, meet Moxie Mooney.”

“Hullo,” Sam said.

“Hullo,” said Moxie.

“Why don’t you two children greet each other with a kiss? You’ll be working together.”

Both Moxie and Sam put their faces forward to be kissed, neither to kiss. After indecisive, awkward maneuvers, the kiss was perfunctory.

“Theater history is made,” said the Director sardonically.

“It will be nice working with you, I’m sure,” Moxie said.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I saw your dad play King Lear. Is it true he once ran a carnival knife-throwing act?”

Moxie’s eyes became slits.

“Instant electricity,” the Director said. “Serendipity. I must rush home and get it all down in my journal, for posterity.”

“See you,” Sam said.

“Ten a.m.,” said the Director.

Sam ambled off-stage through the scenery.

The Director sighed. “What do you think?” he asked Moxie.

“I don’t think,” Moxie said. “I act.”

“At least you have the sense to realize it, dear. I wish other actors wouldn’t think they could think. Listen,” the Director said to Fletch. “Hang loose a few days. I don’t think Sam is going to work out. I hate to fire someone for thick thighs—”

“What?” Fletch said. “No.”

“Okay,” Moxie said. “He will.”

“I can see you two as much more of a team. I mean, you’d be beautiful together, if one of you would take a shower. Really exciting to watch.”

“I’m sorry to come to your party with a dirty face,” Fletch said.

“Dirt can have its charms,” the Director said. “Especially when used to grow tulips.”

“May we go now, Moxie?”

“We just got here. I haven’t met the crew.”

“I need a shower.”

“He does need a shower, Moxie. You can meet the rest of the cast in the morning. Do try to be here at ten A.M. Excuses will not be tolerated.” The Director pointed at Fletch. “Take this boy home and wash him!”