Irritable and restless from alcohol and cigarette deprivation, Fletcher relied on Brooke to run the rehearsals while he sweated and quivered behind the last row.
(click here for the first episode; here for the previous one)
To Brooke, the thin, quick woman playing the mother in “Pious Lies” embodied the play’s spirit. Her wit appeared in little gestures and her movement punctuated every interaction.
After Fletcher had fed his addictions, he said, “Quite right. Pay attention to her approach; she’s an uncelebrated star.”
Brooke asked everyone’s advice before presenting her strategies and interpretations. In return, the actors and managers collaborated with her wholeheartedly, eager to spin the language and lift the tired plot.
Secretly, she worried that her favorite idea—to fit each character’s vocal patterns to a persona—was farfetched. In her head, she heard each voice clearly. But she had no idea how to describe styles of speech, let alone develop them.
Fletcher said, “Tut-tut, not to worry.” If the men sounded vaguely like Edward G. Robinson (the actor who played the father) and Jimmy Stewart (the son), they were actually on track. While the mother, the key, was farther along. She and Brooke were parsing the cadences of a housewife’s subversive sunniness.
During these hours, Brooke scarcely thought about Matthew. He probably breezed along making “Readiness Is All” the same way.
But Fletcher said, “Not according to Sung. Your boyfriend loves you so much, it’s killing him.”
“Don’t tell me I’m killing him, Fletcher. It’s unfair.”
“My dear, it’s a testament to your sublime nature.”
“I can’t stop you from reading our letters. But will you, please, not accuse me of hurting him?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. Bond’s the one who’s allowed his passion to run amuck. He’s the one who’s insanely jealous of me.”
She tossed her head. “That’s impossible, Fletcher. How could Matthew feel jealous of you?” (Unintentionally, she emphasized “you,” making Fletcher smile.)
“Answer this, genius tyke, who is living with you and who is not?”
“He’s grateful to you, Fletcher, not jealous. Did you know Matthew can sing? He could star in a musical.”
“I doubt—ah, that reminds me, child. ‘Jesus Christ Superstar?’ Can you take that abomination off my phone?”
She did, and downloaded the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks, the Who—all the top albums according to “Hey-day.” And because Fletcher fancied himself a homosexual seventies punk, she added the Sex Pistols.
Creeping behind him while he drank his morning tea, Brooke settled a new headset over his dyed hair—earphones in place.
“Good Lord!” He rose from his seat, his facing beaming—and sang, ‘Brown sugar how come you taste so good.’ He moved up and down in a tight circle. ‘…just like a young girl should.’ He strutted back and forth and when she declined to dance with him, he kissed her cheek.
The music calmed his cravings. Brooke showed him how to download whatever he wanted and from then on, he wore headphones to every rehearsal.
Soon after this, one of the actors said, “He’s not so bad. I’ve known worse.” The actor was Matthew’s age, playing the nineteen-year-old son (ha!), and Fletcher had pulled him aside the first week as Brooke gathered her things. Low but audible—Fletcher was always audible—he said, “Don’t you dare look at her, you rutting miscreant. Your attention compares to a slobbering dog’s.”
Yet, this actor had known worse!
Brooke, however, refused to put up with it. She could take care of herself.
“Be that as it may, my dear, I know...mankind. Point to a specimen and I’ll tell you his tendencies, attitudes, and appetites.”
Suspecting he had spoken likewise to her driving instructor and Taekwondo teacher, Brooke said, “You’re doing what Pop did, Fletcher. And Pop doesn’t know the first thing about himself, does he?”
“You hurt me, dear. Your father treated you like a possession nobody else could touch but he was free to smash to smithereens. Would your Pop have arranged for your boyfriend to ring here tomorrow night?”
“Jez-us, Fletcher, really?” She jumped up, thrilled but then—halted. “Will you leave us alone? Or do you plan to listen in?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Bond’s calling the landline so in theory you could talk to him in your room while I listen in mine.” He shuddered and winced convincingly. “Perish the thought! Your piquant missives enchant me, Brooke. And even your boyfriend’s labored efforts amuse me. But hearing your repetitious clamoring for each other? No, thank you. And should you indulge in phone sex, I shall scream bloody murder.”
“What’s phone sex?”
“Your boyfriend will know. Expect a titillating conversation. Tell him your ears have healed and are now as fetching as ever.”
“Sir Fletcher, I love you!” She spun on her toes. “Do you know what time?”
“I suggested before your yoga class.”
Fletcher hurried upstairs. Her happiness made him blush. The bewitching child, so innocent and so—blasphemy though it be—sexual, would make a god drool.
(click here for the next episode)
