and a ratty fur-trimmed hood that unpopular boys wore in high school, the sort of boys who belonged to audiovisual club or played sousaphone in the band. Today a blizzard would trap Delilah in a cabin deep in the Michigan woods, and she would be “rescued” by a fur trapper with murder in his heart.
“Paler, hon,” our director, Art Panella, was saying to the makeup woman, Abby Schwartz. “She’s been freezing in the
elements
for eighteen hours, for heaven’s sakes,” he said. “She’s lost all her color.”
“Art, wouldn’t my face be red, not white?” I asked, thinking of the way my nose had flamed the last time I went skiing.
“Una, try to think of the effect: you’re going to be surrounded by the whitest snow we can make, and night’s coming on. We’re gonna turn on the blue lights.”
“Whatever you think.” I stared into my blue eyes and didn’t cough when a puff of white powder went down my throat. Art left the room. On the set he called directions to Leonard, our lighting man. “I want a bluish cast on the snow,” he was saying. “Think winter in the north woods.” The studio lights were already heating up. A trickle of sweat ran behind my ear. I sat straighter in my padded seat, stared into my own eyes, and spun back seven years.
I was a senior at Juilliard. I was playing Gina in Ibsen’s
The Wild Duck
. My parents, Lily, and Margo had come from Connecticut to see me perform. My auburn hair was swept up into a French twist, and I wore an old-fashioned long dress of pale green silk. It pinched at my waist and flared slightly, and when I walked it swished against my legs. I remember standing in the wings, having the bold, naive thought “I was born for this.” Overhead lights blazed, and although the audience was invisible in the dark, I could sense their expectancy. My cue came, and I flew onstage.
After the performance, people came backstage to kiss the actors and tell us how fine we were. My father gave me a slightly wilted bouquet of long-stemmed red roses that he had held on his lap throughout the performance. My mother gave me a leatherbound edition of
The Wild Duck
. Lily and Margo begged me to tell them everything I knew about the actor who had played Gregers. Into this Cavan family scene enter Chance Schutz, six feet two inches of Prussian will and demeanor. He wore a suit so dark and tailored, so obviously full of silk threads that, although I had never seen a custom-made suit or been to London, I immediately thought “Savile Row.” His silver hair was impeccable, his gray eyes gleamed out of dark sockets like a wolf’s, and his ageless face was that of a man thirty or sixty. He stood in our midst and stared at me. Later Margo told me: “He drank you with his eyes.” He took my hand in a painfully firm handshake.
“I want you for Delilah,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I produce
Beyond the Bridge
, and I will create a character for you. Very vulnerable, just right for you. Come, let’s talk.”
My father chuckled and stepped forward. His suit, although not custom-made, was of the finest wool and fit his lean body perfectly. His curly light-brown hair was merely bordered with silver, and he figured that that gave him the edge. He shook Chance Schutz’s hand.
“Sorry, but not tonight. Una’s got her family in town.”
My head filled with blood and I thought I would explode or pass out from embarrassment. It was so typical of my father to take charge of his daughters, even when one was standing at the crossroads of her career.
Chance engaged my eyes and said, “I shall call you.” He handed me his business card and walked away.
My father, fuming, pulled out his cigarettes. “That bastard, what does he think he’s up to?”
“Excuse me, sir, but you can’t smoke in the theater,” said one of the stagehands.
My father herded all of us into a taxi and directed the driver to Le Perigord. Lily, Margo, and I sat on the pink banquette while my parents
“Paler, hon,” our director, Art Panella, was saying to the makeup woman, Abby Schwartz. “She’s been freezing in the
elements
for eighteen hours, for heaven’s sakes,” he said. “She’s lost all her color.”
“Art, wouldn’t my face be red, not white?” I asked, thinking of the way my nose had flamed the last time I went skiing.
“Una, try to think of the effect: you’re going to be surrounded by the whitest snow we can make, and night’s coming on. We’re gonna turn on the blue lights.”
“Whatever you think.” I stared into my blue eyes and didn’t cough when a puff of white powder went down my throat. Art left the room. On the set he called directions to Leonard, our lighting man. “I want a bluish cast on the snow,” he was saying. “Think winter in the north woods.” The studio lights were already heating up. A trickle of sweat ran behind my ear. I sat straighter in my padded seat, stared into my own eyes, and spun back seven years.
I was a senior at Juilliard. I was playing Gina in Ibsen’s
The Wild Duck
. My parents, Lily, and Margo had come from Connecticut to see me perform. My auburn hair was swept up into a French twist, and I wore an old-fashioned long dress of pale green silk. It pinched at my waist and flared slightly, and when I walked it swished against my legs. I remember standing in the wings, having the bold, naive thought “I was born for this.” Overhead lights blazed, and although the audience was invisible in the dark, I could sense their expectancy. My cue came, and I flew onstage.
After the performance, people came backstage to kiss the actors and tell us how fine we were. My father gave me a slightly wilted bouquet of long-stemmed red roses that he had held on his lap throughout the performance. My mother gave me a leatherbound edition of
The Wild Duck
. Lily and Margo begged me to tell them everything I knew about the actor who had played Gregers. Into this Cavan family scene enter Chance Schutz, six feet two inches of Prussian will and demeanor. He wore a suit so dark and tailored, so obviously full of silk threads that, although I had never seen a custom-made suit or been to London, I immediately thought “Savile Row.” His silver hair was impeccable, his gray eyes gleamed out of dark sockets like a wolf’s, and his ageless face was that of a man thirty or sixty. He stood in our midst and stared at me. Later Margo told me: “He drank you with his eyes.” He took my hand in a painfully firm handshake.
“I want you for Delilah,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I produce
Beyond the Bridge
, and I will create a character for you. Very vulnerable, just right for you. Come, let’s talk.”
My father chuckled and stepped forward. His suit, although not custom-made, was of the finest wool and fit his lean body perfectly. His curly light-brown hair was merely bordered with silver, and he figured that that gave him the edge. He shook Chance Schutz’s hand.
“Sorry, but not tonight. Una’s got her family in town.”
My head filled with blood and I thought I would explode or pass out from embarrassment. It was so typical of my father to take charge of his daughters, even when one was standing at the crossroads of her career.
Chance engaged my eyes and said, “I shall call you.” He handed me his business card and walked away.
My father, fuming, pulled out his cigarettes. “That bastard, what does he think he’s up to?”
“Excuse me, sir, but you can’t smoke in the theater,” said one of the stagehands.
My father herded all of us into a taxi and directed the driver to Le Perigord. Lily, Margo, and I sat on the pink banquette while my parents
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