A Midnight Sun Read online

  Chapter 22

  Marquee

  An Actress Goes to Class & Taps into The Method.

  Oahu, June 12th, 1938

  I sit comfortably on the chair of an old theater. First row. Among the best seats in the house. I close in on the stage in front of me. Like zooming in with a camera.

  Among a milieu of faces, stands a familiar set of downcast eyes. She sits cross-legged on a crate that looks like a stage prop. Others sit around her, women who look too young to be wearing as much makeup as they are. They look like downplayed vixens from a cinematic dream, dressed in tiny shorts and simple poplin blouses, scuffed Mary-jane shoes worn in classes or to rehearsals, and hair that is bobbed and waved falling softly onto their shoulders. Parker’s hair is slightly longer. Something in my mind tells me she’s center stage, which baffles me because the term is foreign to me. She is biting a thumbnail and squinting, fully attentive to a man in high-waisted pants, or maybe they are overalls. His thinning hair is combed from a deep part in the back of his head and plastered onto his scalp with shiny goop. Possibly the same goop that makes his mustache stiff and curved on the edges, unmovable and refined. He holds a long stick, I wonder if you could call it a dowel, and he’s touching the tip of his shoe –the tip and heel alternatively. Then, he sits on a crate too, but not center stage…stage left…my mind says. He crosses his legs at the ankles instead of high on his thighs like Parker.

  “Now that we’ve gone through the soft shoe technique, yet again, I want to cover the texts I gave you for memorization.” He says and grumbles, already dissatisfied it seems. “The late, but no less important Constantine Stanislavski, whose method derived from years of arduous study, is our key study component for this day. I personally derived my own technique from his teachings.” A smile flickers on his thin lips. He adjusts his pants waistline by running both his thumbs along the inseam of his generous midsection. “He specified,” His voice cracks with the inflection, “That one must approach acting as a natural process in such a way that we act in truth. Therefore, I ask, how does it apply to the reading I’ve assigned for your incapable little heads to memorize?”

  “What a pompous ass!” A girl in front of Parker whispers and flicks her thumb on her upper teeth, which she conceals from everyone else, surely a vulgar gesture in this timeframe. I believe if the man teaching had seen it, he would have reprimanded her severely.

  “Yes, so he might be,” Parker says, “But you’d do well to listen to his teachings. He’s brilliant. And if I may say so, you need it more than anybody here Barbara. Now, hush!”

  “Is something the matter, Miss McNamara?” The man says and stiffens.

  “Sir?” She replies.

  “I asked if I must pause my lecture, Miss Parker, to allow for whatever conversation you are carrying with Miss Barbara and Miss Janice.”

  “No, sir, Mister Wentworth. Absolutely not. I was just– “

  “Then, put a lid on it, Parker!” He yelled.

  “Yes, sir.” Parker sneered at the girls who were snickering quietly.

  “Then, Miss Parker, will you be so kind as to remind the rest of the girls, if you please, what we were discussing last Friday about the Stanislavski method.”

  Parker froze. She looked like a deer in the headlights. I felt fright for her…with her.

  “Well? Anytime soon, miss McNamara.” He exhaled with unconcealed impatience and lit a cigarette.

  Parker stood, her shoes clanking as they tapped with her steps, the metal hitting on wood all the way to the front of the group. She looked nervous and I had trouble hearing her speak. “I read what you assigned us…from the library archives, and I... I noted that his method regards truth as a baseline to…shape a character, and how on stage this could be, uh, to the audience in a specific way?”

  “Correct. Please, continue.” He exhaled a silver cord of smoke into the rafters above him.

  Straighter and more confident, Parker continued. “Yes. This is to be devised from the use of preparation of technique, but mostly, as a result of relaxation and concentration. The actor then, must, use purposeful action and what he called the magic if, to imagine situations.”

  Parker shifted in her shoes and they tapped again. She pulled a piece of paper from her sleeve and read. Mr. Wentworth cleared his throat, as if to make her hurry.

  “And, lastly, to be able to develop an ability to portray feelings…” Parker exhaled deeply before talking again “…honestly…through emotional recall. That’s it, I think.”

  “Quite. Very, very good, Miss McNamara.”

  Parker tapped happily back to her crate. I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for her.

  “But sadly, you forgot the importance of projection of one’s voice and the circle of attention, in which we must concentrate on our immediate proximity and what’s in it, to relieve one’s nerve and improve focus. I commend you on your efforts, but more careful study next time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Parker said and beamed. He then walked to a blackboard stage right, my left because I was facing them, thinking how do I know this? Then, I realized it was instinctively and thought I’d dwell on it later. He wrote the elements of the methods so forcibly on the board, twice his chalk piece broke in his hand.

  On the board, he wrote circle of attention, followed by specific focus, and right below it, inner truth. Finally, he wrote MAGIC IF underlined. He also wrote action and an arrow with double direction between the words, finishing with the following words in succession –super-objective, though-line, spine, and emotional recall.

  “Therefore, ladies,” He boomed, “acting is a matter of honesty, but not with yourselves. It’s about honesty with the character and the audience. An actor who is well-trained will never hold onto such a lowly device as a lie. An actor who lies for his character is using improper techniques. Actors portray truths truthfully, carefully arranged within a stage or movie set that must also become, in essence, part of that truth, which includes the rest of the ensemble,” he sneered at some of the girls, “the people we react from.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “We seem to have run out of time. During tomorrow’s session, we will discuss this application for the camera and read some texts in both elements. The technique for the camera changes because the stage is reduced to a camera lens. I will have Andrew, the studio manager, accompany us to the sound stage visit, as we have an overview of various films. Please, ladies. Dress comfortably. We will have our ballet and voice lessons after lunch. So, eat sensibly. Your thighs will thank you, and frankly, so will I. You are dismissed.”

  Mister Wentworth walked offstage, or stage right, my mind said, like he was walking away at the end of a play. I imagined that he carried himself as such during every class.

  I floated above Parker and sat on the rafters, like a piece of scenery, and looked below at a group of girls.

  “Get a load of mister Waddlesworth. What does he know about ‘teek-neek’?” a girl with tight, blond, pin-curls said. “I ain’t seen him do ‘thee-a-ter’ or in front of the camera, yet.”

  Parker looked sullen. She had overheard them and stepped away to angrily fill a bag with clothes, when another girl approached her.

  “Say, Parker, why the long face?”

  “Oh, hey there Phillis. Nothing.” She buttoned a skirt over her class clothes that came to just below her knees. “It’s just…I despise disrespect for knowledge and experience. I really want to learn the craft. Mr. Wentworth deserves our deference, our respect!”

  “Nah. Don’t mind them none. We’ll jump from chorus to movie parts in no time, and then, laugh at them for not paying attention. You’ll see, Parks.”

  Parker smiled weakly.

  “Now, that’s better. Say, has he written yet?”

  “Fitch? Yes, he has. I got an unopened letter right here. Look!”

  I stood so close and, in such disbelief, my soul may have floated from pure joy. A second later, I was sitting in my bed, grinning.

  Chapter 23

 
; Marquee

  Friends Are Like Family, Too, Especially When Sharing Words of Love from A Letter

  Seattle, January 14th, 1990

  Across from me, on a now messy dining table, sits a casually dressed yet polished -by any standards- handsome man, who I call my friend and advisor, Braff Wilkins. I wonder how long it has been since he last smoked. It has been longer than two hours since I last saw him with a cigarette. I hate the damn things. I hate the smell and how sick people can get from them, mostly because I had an uncle who died from smoking almost three packs a day. What I hated most was that it was the only thing I couldn’t stand about Braff.

  Not only was he ridiculously handsome, but he was also smart and well-spoken, and despite the fact that he was an incurable flirt or that he had a terrible temper at times, especially when it came to his work, he was among one of my best friends and I often joked that he should have Loyalty as his middle name, to which Amistad scoffed and Syth would add that he should get it on his ID. “You know, like they put on your driver’s license,” he would say.

  I mostly argued that he should, and Amistad and I will have terrible fights over this with the sometimes-wonderful interjections from Braff.

  Braff has another quality all of us enjoy. He always smells clean, but not offensive with excess aftershave like most men in the office. But more importantly, he’s been a friend and keeps me under his wing, and has said that provided I complete my quota of manuscripts and keep working on my own materials, he’d put in the good word when I was up for review regarding the Junior Editor position at Meadow Press.

  But mostly, it’s his candor I enjoy. He laughs every time and we talk terrible things about him, exaggerating every nuance, to which he laughs even more. Every dinner or gathering we have is filled with these remarks, of which I am sometimes the target and sometimes it’s Amistad or Syth. They were as much a real family as my blood relatives.

  None of us had been born in the city and our families lived far away. The greatest reason why we are the group we have become.

  My family away from home sits at my table. I listen to him talking about a client we have just taken and still admire his intelligent way to think and to speak. He has a way of using prose in a manner that leaves me wanting more. He isn’t exactly poetic in the way he romances each sentence that comes through his lips, but he has a way of formulating them that enthralls me –a lover of the spoken and written word. Syth is always alert, always on his toes, and caring beyond his own well-being. He’s sometimes passive in showing it but honest. I’ve always thought he has a crush on Amistad, who is too practical to pay attention to his soft and delusive ways of communicating. His temper is worse than Braff’s, but, man, can he clean up a manuscript!

  I look at Amistad, who is listening to him and is now smiling a broad, white, perfect denture, and I see more than a friend. I see myself in her deep brown eyes. She holds my story in her secrecy like a caring sister who is always ready to take me to my best place, to lift me if necessary and show me the best way to get what I need in life, even if hearing truths at times sting, I know her heart and that she has my best interest at her. Mostly, she is wrong about what I want but is smart about helping me in my choices. Always kind, yet at times impatient, we are the sister neither of us ever had. I love her and her style is the best part about her personality. I borrow her clothes constantly.

  Amistad is rarely emotive and communicates this side of her little, but she has confessed to us that we are like her family as well. Her austere and wealthy parents are often cold and reticent, so she was given challenges in the form of schooling that were unusual for a black girl growing up in the seventies, as well as anything she ever desired, just so she could accomplish a good social status and find her way in life. Even though she doesn’t need it, she still gets lavish gifts, like cars and jewelry. The most expensive of all was the townhome she lives in and has decorated. Like the rest of her family, the estate in which they live is shared and will be inherited by everyone equally. I often joke she may not have to worry about the fact she has to share with anybody, since she is an only child and her family is not very prolific. Braff jokes that they probably are too stiff to ever have sex. But with Syth, she is different. Always warm and kind, despite the occasional joke. It makes sense. The two of them, such an odd pairing! She so put together and outspoken, wildly curious, and yet so, traditional. He so slovenly and almost loose in manners, sweet and hardworking. I love them both dearly. And Braff, too.

  During dinner, I tell them everything that happened in Oahu. The odd dreams and visions, and I include every detail possible, the happenstances where there were somehow links to what was happening, like the drunken encounter with the woman I never saw or heard of again, Agnes. And the Juniper berries.

  I also told them I was beginning to see and understand Parker as a real person and how I thought maybe they could help me figure things out a little more.

  When I say her name, they look bewildered, but Braff looks almost astonished. “Parker, you say?”

  “Yes, McNamara. Parker McNamara.”

  “Good, Continue.”

  Braff is sitting on a wing chair, one of the four mismatched treasures I purchased at a yard sale last Summer. I pause to reflect on his posture. His legs are perhaps an inch away from the edge of the round table that is filled with magazines, a few old manuscripts, and an unfished book I can’t seem to have time to finish. He rubs his belly like it’s enormous, when in reality, it is as close to washboard abs as the basin where I wash my delicates in the laundry room of the building. He smirks and burps behind his hand, almost politely.

  “Excuse my manners, ladies. Not you Syth. You can suck it.”

  “Wow. Must I always be treated thus?” Syth replies feigning injury.

  “Anyhow, food was delicious, but it’s time to see what you got beautiful.” Braff says and puts his elbows on the table while interlacing his hands. He looks ready for my pitch. “Bring the box.”

  “Actually, we need the table, and it’s quite crowded at the moment with dishes. Any volunteers?” I whine.

  “Oh, shut your mouth. I’ll do it.” Amistad says. “Syth, help her while I make coffee.” She orders more than suggests. “I think Braff is in a food coma at present.”

  I shudder at the thought of being in a coma. Braff interrupts me looking strangely like an old boss we had. What was the word? Yes, he looked pompous. “Yes, my hired hands. I’d also like dessert and a coffee with that. A foot rub would be lovely too, especially while Mirim gives me a manicure.”

  “Braff, you’re lucky I don’t poison your coffee and lemon meringue pie, but only because Amistad baked it for this most joyous occasion.”

  “Go wash the dishes peasant,” he says and stretches over the chair. “And add extra whip on that pie. Mirim will like some too, since she’ll be exhausted from giving me a manicure.”

  Syth smacks Braff’s shoulder and starts carting dishes.

  My kitchen, which would be more aptly referred to as a kitchenette, has no space for a dishwasher, so Syth soaks the dishes as Amistad makes coffee just inches away.

  I slice the pie over the small buffet table I have in the dining space and bring it to the coffee table with plates and spoons.

  “Extra whip for the lazy king.” I place an extra dollop to form a large mound of the fluffy white stuff over his slice of pie. “Your highness.” I curtsy and retreat without looking.

  He laughs. “You sure know how to please a guy.”

  “Tell that to my ex-boyfriends,” I say and sit with a napkin over my legs, where I place a dish with a slice of pie. I look back to Amistad and Syth to see what’s holding them, and get lost in their unspoken fondness for each other.

  “I don’t know why they aren’t together either,” Braff says to me. “She makes a delish pie, I mean. What else can a guy need?”

  “Apparently, foot rubs, manicures, and such. Braff, wait for coffee, will ya?”

  “Fine, but I was hoping fo
r seconds, while you did my manicure.”

  “You’re lucky to get first and forget manicures. Perhaps another day when I am not so tired from slaving away behind a kitchen stove.”

  He pushes the dish away after taking a large bite.

  I have a hard time trying not to laugh while I retrieve the box from the living room. When I bring it to the living room, Amistad and Syth are just arriving with coffee.

  “So, we’ll wait after coffee and pie, but I’ll preface that with this. I’d love it if you can help me with this, but I need your promise to keep this to yourselves. Mainly because I don’t want people to think I’m a freak, but also because it might muddle any information I can gather with suggestions.” They all nod in agreement.

  When we are finished with the coffee and pie, I clear the table and leave the dishes to soak with the rest, so there is more space on the table. As I lay the items out systematically and in order of size, starting with the camera and then the smaller items around it, ending with the letters. I hold these in my hands and exhale loudly.

  “These,” I say softly, “I’ve yet to open and read.”

  “What? Why would you not read them?” Braff asks trying to grab them, but I flinch away just in time.

  “Because Braff…because they seem too important. I fear that everything will come unraveling fast before me and it would be impossible to take back whatever I read.”

  “But, I’m confused,” Amistad says, “Isn’t that the point? To find out what this phenomenal occurrence in your life has been? What it means and why it happened? Who these people are?”

  Syth looks at me. “No, I get it. Something read can’t be unread. You know?”

  I look at them trying to find my footing, “I just don’t know. It feels sort of invasive. They were at some point someone else’s heartfelt words, meant to be private.”