Grandmother Beverly had done. He phoned a few times, but each time, he sounded terrified of talking too long. We made value promises to see each other as soon as possible. but I sensed that we each knew our plans were fantasies. I could feel him letting go of my hand.
I felt heartsick, but helpless. My first disappointment in love. I thought, would certainly not be my last. By the time I decided Mommy was strong enough to hear about the whole incident. I decided there wasn't any point in upsetting her over something that no longer mattered. We were too involved in my play by now anyway. That absorbed most of our time together. Mommy enjoyed playing different roles and rehearsing with me. We would do it in the living room sometimes, which drove Grandmother Beverly away. Often, we would stop and throw lines back and forth, even at dinner. It was truly as if we had set up that fourth wall: impenetrable and protective.
Grandmother Beverly couldn't do anything but look in at us.
My first weekend rehearsal at Miss Hamilton's seemed innocent enough because Dell and two other members of the cast were there as well. We came in the morning and then she sent out for pizza and we had lunch before putting in another hour.
The weekend rehearsals were important and better because we were all fresh for them, not coming to a rehearsal after a full day of school. We had more time to analyze the lines, talk about our characters and think about our reactions.
Miss Hamilton had a small house. The living room wasn't much bigger than my parents' bedroom, but it was a comfortable two-story Queen Anne with a patch of lawn in front and a little backyard. The house itself was done in a Wedgwood blue cladding with black shutters. She had a patio at the rear of the house and a sunroom off the kitchen. We rehearsed in the living room, pushing aside some furniture to get a wide enough space for stage movements. I learned about blocking, moving upstage and downstage, projecting to the audience and reacting to characters. She at least knew all the basic things about theater, and she appreciated my interpretations and insights into my character. Most of that came from the sessions Mommy and I had spent together.
The third weekend Dell was unable to attend rehearsal because he was going on a trip with his family. I thought Miss Hamilton would just skip it, but she suggested I come over anyway. She said she would play his part and we would refine my performance. The play itself had been criticized as too adult, not something the student body would appreciate and support, but she stuck to her choice, defending it as a significant dramatic work.
"Besides," she reasoned. "our students get enough fluff on television and at the movies. They deserve somethi
ng different for a change."
There was already some resentment toward her because of that. However, she saw it all as a greater challenge. 'We have to win their respect, leave them in awe, show them what real talent can do," she told me. "You'll never forget this. Cinnamon. Everyone starts somewhere."
It both amused and intrigued me that she believed I could be a real actress and make a living at it, perhaps even become famous. Was I permitting her own frustrated dreams to move over into mine? I supposed there was only one way to find out for sure and that was to be on the stage when the curtain opened and when it finally closed.
The applause will tell. I told myself, as well as the afterward. Would people really remember my performance? Would they talk about it a day later? It was truly exciting. I couldn't help but do everything possible to make it work.
That third weekend. I was surprised when I arrived at Miss Hamilton's and discovered none of the other members of the cast would be there.
"We're just doing your big scenes," she explained. "I didn't see the point in bringing them all here this time,"
I suppose I was aiding and abetting the gossipmongers and hatemongers in my school. but I couldn't help being nervous alone in Miss Hamilton's house. Dell had successfully planted the seeds of suspicion in the darkest, deepest places of my imagination.
"She's nearly thirty." he told me, "and no one has ever seen her with a man. Why doesn't she have a boyfriend at least? She's not that bad looking, is she?"
"I don't care," I told him. Her personal life is her own, and besides, you and everyone else can't know what she does or who she sees out of school."
He shrugged. "I'm just telling you what people say," he replied.
I hated that, the pretended indifference and innocence people put on when underneath they are enjoying the spreading of rumors When I mentioned it to Mommy, she nodded and said. "Life for most people is so boring, they have to find ways to make it interesting, even if it means hurting someone. Watch out for that." she warned. "It's not only the jealous who do such things. Cinnamon. It's sometimes just people who literally have nothing better to do. Sometimes, I think they're the worst."
Miss Hamilton began our rehearsal the same way as before: reviewing where we were in the script and then starting a discussion of what we were about to rehearse.
"When you are alone with Death, you've got to keep the audience thinking you don't know who he really is. Think of him only as a charming, handsome man, so when you reveal the truth, that you've known all along, it will both shock and amaze the audience," she said.
I knew this, but I listened as if I didn't. Then we began our rehearsal with her reading Dell's lines,
"I know it's hard for you to look at me and think of me as a handsome young man," she said after a few minutes, "but that's what you have to do."
She paused when I looked skeptical. She thought a moment and said. "A friend of mine who is an actress told me she had to do a love scene with a man she not only didn't like, but whom she said had had breath, even body odor. She said just the thought of doing it turned her stomach. She was in tears about it. She thought she would do so badly she would hurt her career forever."
"What happened?" I asked.
"An older actor gave her some good advice. He told her to imagine the man was someone she liked, someone she actually loved, if possible and see only that person. If she concentrated hard enough, he told her, she wouldn't smell a thing. She said it worked and she got through the performance."
"Why didn't she just tell the man he stunk?" I asked.
Miss Hamilton smiled and tilted her head, the small dimple in her left cheek flashing in and out.
"Now, Cinnamon, how do you think that would have gone over? What sort of relationship would they have on the stage? He might pretend to appreciate her honesty, but don't you think his ego would have been bruised badly? Remember that essay we read about the messenger? He was despised more than the message."
"I guess when the truth is painful, it's better to turn to illusion," I said.