To his daughter, Parker had passed on various technical tricks of different acting styles and some other characteristics. These included the energy and idealism typical of actors, an encyclopedic knowledge of theatrical superstition, and the defensive optimism so necessary to survive in the profession. Now, going through the stage door, Willa called on that optimism and assured herself that her employer wouldn't be angry.
In the shadows just inside, the elderly janitor was struggling into a rubber rain slicker. "He's in the office, Miss Parker. Shouting for you every five minutes, too."
"Thank you, Joe." So much for optimism. The janitor jingled his keys, preparing to lock up. He was leaving early. Perhaps Wood had given him the night off.
Willa dashed through the backstage area, dodging between bundles of unpainted prop tree branches — Birnam Wood, which would come to Dunsinane in the next production. The vast fly space smelled of new lumber, old make-up, dust. Light spilled from a half-open door ahead. Willa heard Wood's deep voice:
"I go, and it is done — the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell — that summons thee to heaven or to hell" Then he repeated "or to hell," changing the inflection.
Willa stood motionless outside the office, a shiver running down her back. Her employer was rehearsing one of the leading character's speeches somewhere other than the stage. This play of Shakespeare's was a bad-luck piece, most actors believed, although some noted that it contained a great deal of onstage fighting, and thus the causes of a gashed head, a bad fall, a broken arm or leg were in the text, not the stars. Still, the legend persisted. Like many other actors and actresses, Willa laughed at it while respecting it. She never repeated any of the lines backstage, or in dressing rooms or green rooms. She always referred to it as "the Scottish play"; saying the title in the theater guaranteed misfortune.
She glanced behind her into the darkness. Where were the other company members she'd assumed would be here for the rehearsal? In the stillness she heard only the tiniest creak — perhaps the playhouse cat prowling. She had an impulse to run.
"Who's there?"
Claudius Wood's shadow preceded him to the door. He yanked it fully open, and the rectangle of gaslight widened to reveal Willa with the petition in her hand.
Wood's cravat was untied, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. He scowled at her. "The call was half past the hour. You're forty minutes late."
"Mr. Wood, I apologize. I fell behind."
"With what?" He noticed the papers with signatures. "Another of your radical crusades?" He startled her by snatching the petition. "Oh, Christ. The poor wretched Indian. Not on my time, if you please. I'll dock your wages. Come in, so we can get to work."
Something undefined but alarming warned her then — warned her to run from the silent theater and this burly man, whose handsome face was already giving way to patterns of veins in his cheeks and a bulbous, spongy look to his nose. But she desperately wanted to play the difficult role he'd offered her. It called for an older actress, and an accomplished one. If she could bring it off, it would promote her career.
And yet —
"Isn't there anyone else coming?"
"Not tonight. I felt our scenes together needed special attention."
"Could we do them onstage, please? This is the Scottish play, after all."
His bellow of laughter made her feel small and stupid. "Surely you don't believe that nonsense, Willa. You who are so intelligent, conversant with so many advanced ideas." He flicked the papers with his nail, then handed them back. "The play is Macbeth, and I'll speak the lines anywhere I choose. Now get in here and let's begin."
He turned and went back in the office. Willa followed, a part of her saying he was right, that she was infantile to worry about the superstitions. Peter Parker would have worried, though.
Overhead, a rumbling sounded — the storm growing worse. The actor-child in Willa was convinced that baleful forces were gathering above Chambers Street. Her hands turned cold as she followed her employer.
"Take off your shawl and bonnet." Wood moved chairs to clear a space on the shabby carpet. The office was a junkshop of period furniture and imitation green plants in urns of all sizes and designs. Handbills for New Knickerbocker productions covered the walls. Goldsmith, Moliere, Boucicault, Sophocles. The huge desk was a litter of bills, playscripts, contracts, career mementos. Wood pushed aside Macbeth's enameled dagger, a metal prop with a blunted point, and poured two inches of whiskey from a decanter. Green glass bowls on the gas jets seemed to darken rather than lighten the room.
Nervous, Willa put the signed petitions on a velvet chair. She laid her velvet gloves on top, then her shawl and bonnet. All in a pile in case she needed to snatch them quickly. She had started to mature at twelve, and men who worked around the theater soon began responding to her beauty. She'd learned to stand them off with good humor, even a little physical force when necessary. She was expert at running away.
Wood strolled to the door and closed it. "All right, my dear. First act, seventh scene."
"But we rehearsed that most of yesterday."
"I'm not satisfied." He walked back to her. "Macbeth's castle." Grinning, he reached out and ran his palm slowly down the silk of her sleeve. "Begin in the middle of Lady Macbeth's speech, where she says 'I have given suck.'"
He relished the last word. The gas put a highlight on his wet lower lip. Willa struggled to suppress fear and a sad despair. It was so obvious now, so obvious what he'd wanted all along, and why he'd engaged her when there were scores of older actresses available. Mrs. Drew had done everything but tell her in explicit language. She wasn't flattered, only upset. If this was the price for her New York debut, damn him, she wouldn't pay.
"Begin," he repeated, with a harshness that alarmed her. He caressed her arm again. She tried to draw away. He simply moved and kept at it, blowing his bourbon breath on her.
"I have given suck, and know —" She faltered. "How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me."
"Do you, now?" He bent and kissed her throat.
"Mr. Wood —"
"Go on with it." He seized her shoulders and shook her, and that was when freezing terror took hold. In his black eyes she saw something beyond anger. She saw a willingness to hurt.
"I would — while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums —"
Wood's hand slid from her arm to her left breast, closing on it. "You wouldn't pluck it from mine, would you?"
She stamped her high laced shoe. "Look here, I'm an actress. I won't be treated like a street harlot."
He grabbed her arm. "I pay your salary. You're anything I say you are — including my whore."
"No," she snarled, yanking away. He drew his hand back and drove his fist against her face. The blow knocked her down.
"You blonde bitch. You'll give me what I want." He caught her hair in his left hand, making her cry out when he pulled her head up. His right fist pounded down on her shoulder, and again. "Does that convince you?"
"Let go of me. You're drunk — crazy —"
"Shut up!" He slapped her so hard, she flew back and cracked her head on the front of his desk. "Pull up your skirts." Lights danced behind her eyes. Pain pounded. She reached up, fingers searching for some heavy object on the desk. He stood astride her right leg, working at his fly buttons. "Pull them up, God damn you, or I'll beat you till you can't walk."