Hate is Strong Word

A diner. Rural Pennsylvania. September 1963. Mary, Bert, and Jack are sitting, eating. Well, Jack is actually reading.

BERT

Christ, you’re a pain in the ass.

MARY

Bert, don’t swear.

JACK

I said I’d rather stay in New York. You wanted me to–

BERT

She wanted you to, if it was up to me–

MARY

Okay. I’m going to the ladies room. If you two are going to fight, do it once I’m out of earshot.

MARY leaves.

JACK

She’s going to shoot up.

BERT

You’re a moron.

JACK

Look, drop me at the nearest airport. I am only here because she asked me to be. If it was up to me–

BERT

If it was up to me, we’d leave you in a field, but we can’t always get what we want?

JACK

You could’ve said no to her.

BERT

She made a good point.

JACK

Tell me.

MARY enters and takes a seat next to Bert again, the glazed over look to her eyes telling a story and a half.

BERT

Mary, why are we bringing him along? Remind me.

MARY

Because we love you.

BERT

(Irritated)

Well, what she said was that you’ve haven’t left the city since Boston and that’s probably bad for you. Especially with your new creative promotion. Something like that.

MARY

That’s a good reason. I’m going to go lie down in the car.

BERT

We’ll be out in a bit.

MARY leaves, bumping into a waiter as she does. Bert giving a look as Jack shakes his head.

It’s later. In the car. Bert is driving, Mary is asleep across the back seat, Jack is sitting up front, reading in the faint evening light. Bert is smoking a cigarette.

BERT

Look at you.

JACK

What?

BERT

Pretending you can read.

JACK

Pretending I can read?

BERT

You heard me.

JACK

What? Do you think I’m just observing the ink on the pages?

BERT chuckles, irritating Jack who closes his book and looks out the window.

BERT

I don’t know how you don’t make yourself sick doing that.

JACK doesn’t say anything. Mary half sits up.

MARY

Bobby, put on the radio.

BERT reaches over and fiddles with the radio. Eventually, after some struggle, he turns on the radio. Quiet jazz plays.

MARY lies back down. JACK looks over at her for a second.

BERT

Hard to believe it’s September.

JACK

It’s been a long year.

BERT

I’m sure it has for you.

A long pause. Jack adjusts and looks over at Bert for a brief moment, as if he’s studying him.

BERT

I have to ask why you’re even doing it.

JACK

Doing what?

BERT

Bothering with it. I mean, you got stuck down during a show and then when you came back to help out, it flopped. I think that means something.

JACK

I thought I…

BERT

Don’t listen to me. What do I know?

JACK

Why do you hate me?

BERT

Do I hate you? I wasn’t aware.

JACK

You treat me like you do.

BERT

Hate’s a strong word. You don’t know what it’s like for someone to hate you.

Jack goes back to his book.

BERT

I do dislike you. Strongly.

JACK

That’s basically the same thing.

BERT

Oh, no, no. If I hated you– here’s how it works. You’ve got like on one end, you’ve got hate on the other, dislike is in the middle. Strongly dislike and lightly hate are next to each other, but still different things.

JACK

What about love?

BERT

Love isn’t on this spectrum. You can hate someone and love them at the same time.

JACK

You’d think it would be next to like.

BERT

But it’s not. You oughta trust me on that.

Bert stubs out his cigarette. They drive in silence for a while.

BERT

Whatcha gonna do, kid?

JACK

What do you mean?

BERT

I’m not complaining about your, your work as the assistant. You’re not bad at it.

JACK

Thank you, sir.

BERT

But… What are you going to do with yourself?

JACK

I don’t know. I want to choreograph.

BERT

Uh-huh. Primary school education.

JACK

I thought what I did for–

BERT

It was good, I’m not saying it’s good. But you gotta have other options. Mary and I see you differently, we’ve known you for so long, see how you can work, but… That’s just us. With your education and everything it’s going to be hard for you to gain that trust with anyone else.

JACK starts to talk but Bert interrupts him.

BERT

I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just being honest with you. Mary and I would vouch for you, but… You’re still just a kid.

JACK

I know.

BERT

You’re so sensitive. When I was your age, it was right in the middle of the depression. Went to college and next thing you know, I’m in the war. Completely different world we live in now. That’s how it’ll be for you, too. You’ll be my age in, what, the 1990s? It’s a completely different life. What you want now won’t be what you want then, you can only hope. So don’t put yourself in a box.

JACK

This is all I want. I thought I wanted to dance, but I can’t do that, not anymore. So now this is what I want.

BERT

But what’ll you do if you can’t do this? What else do you have?

JACK

I think I’d just kill myself.

Bert rolls his eyes.

JACK

I can’t do anything else. I’m not good at anything else.

BERT

You could get your diploma. Maybe enlist.

JACK

I’m not smart enough for that.

BERT

I don’t deny that, I guess.

(He sighs)

Well, we’ll keep you working. Don’t know for how long but you are doing a good job.

JACK

Thank you, sir.

Mary stirs, she sits up and looks blankly forward.

MARY

Be nice to each other.

BERT

I’m always nice to him, Mary.

Mary slumps back down.

MARY

I love you, Bobby.

She nods off.

BERT

Never get married, Alex. Told me 3rd time would be the charm…

JACK

3rd time?

BERT

Don’t start with the judgmental bullshit–

JACK

I thought she was your second–

BERT

Oh. No. Well, the first one was annulled after two days. Only count it sometimes.

JACK

Oh.

BERT

I was young and stupid. Knocked her up and married her and, well, I never bothered to ask her whether she wanted to move out west with me. I was deadset on moving West. So, we got it annulled and I moved out west.

JACK

You’ve- you’ve got another kid?

BERT

Robert Malcolm Corey the third. Went to his, his graduation a few years ago, that’s about all I have of the kid. As I told you, the things you want when you’re young, I was 22, they’re not what you’ll want later.

JACK

But, but you had Polly, didn’t you?

BERT

That was in California. That was after I started digging my heels in, working in Hollywood. That was the life I wanted. It was a good life, but even then… Even then. Christ, kid, you’ve got me rambling, on and on…. I never wanted kids, but they tend to come along if you’re not careful, which I wasn’t as a young man, God knows. And even with Mary, Jesus, I said to her, a few years after we got married, “I don’t want anymore kids. No ifs, ands or buts.”

(He reaches out and touches Jack’s shoulder, teasingly)

and she’s all heartbroken and she goes out and picks up a stray.

Jack rolls his eyes.

BERT

So now I’ve got a daughter who won’t see me, a son who won’t see me, and a son who isn’t even my son. What a pity.

Jack looks at him, startled, but doesn’t say anything.

BERT

So that’s my other piece of advice for you, kid. Wear a damn rubber. No matter what she says.

It’s later. Bert’s sister’s driveway. Mary is asleep in the back, Jack is half-awake as they pull up. Bert sits there, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

JACK

(groggily)

Should I grab the bags?

BERT

Wait a second.

Bert takes a deep breath and turns the car off. Then turns the car back on, and backs up.

JACK

Huh?

BERT

It’s not the time. We’ll get a motel. We’ll… Decide, I guess. Decide later. Tomorrow. I don’t want to be here.

Card Game

1959. Bert Corey’s office at the art center. Late evening. Jack, 14, is sitting across from Bert (43) The two are playing some type of card game. Or, well, trying.

JACK

My problem is that I don’t know how much the cards are worth.

BERT

Geez what were your parents teaching you? Everyone oughta know how to play cards.

JACK

I’m just guessing.

He lays a card down. Bert laughs.

BERT

Not very well. Try again and I’ll pretend that you didn’t go.

Jack takes the card back and looks intensely at his deck.

BERT

When I was in the war, all I did, All I did! was play cards. 60% of my time.

MARY enters, sweaty, carrying with her a bag. She lays it on the floor and goes up to Jack, ruffling his hair.

MARY

Hi, you two.

She leans forward and whispers something in his ear, then takes one of his cards and lays it down. Bert laughs.

BERT

You’re letting him cheat!

MARY

Nothing wrong with needing some help…. We need to get someone to rent out that studio, I do not want to teaching these night classes anymore. Miserable.

BERT

Richard and Wyatt might be interested. They’ve got a play they’re working on, but that won’t be for a few weeks.

MARY

Oh, God, I sure hope so.

Accusation

1960. The arts center.

Jack, 15, and Mary are working together. Mary is occasionally snapping things at him, criticizing him, or stopping him and adjusting his posture. Jack loves it, and he’s very good.

Eventually, Jack starts to get exhausted, and he stops, wheezing, leaning over his knees.

MARY

We can take a break.

JACK

I’m alright.

Mary looks at her watch. She steps away, adjusting her skirt.

MARY

It’s later, maybe we can clean it up for the night.

JACK

I’m alright. I’m- I’m ready.

Mary shakes her head, stretching with her leg on the barre.

MARY

You look like your father.

JACK

What?

MARY

You do. A little bit more every day. Need to keep the weight off or you’ll be identical.

JACK

(Standing up, breathing ok)

I can keep going.

MARY

No, no, Jack. Go downstairs and take a shower. I’ll meet you in reception.

Disappointed, Jack stops, grabs his dance bag, then heads out.

MARY

(Calling after him)

You did a terrific job.

The Favorite

1961.

Mary and Jack, 16, are in a rehearsal for Offender. It’s in the theater, and Jack, an ensemble member, watches Mary review the choreography with a trio of women intently, as he sits on the floor alongside some other dancers. Mary is getting frustrated, irritated, and angry. She takes a deep breath and steps away.

MARY

(To the stage manager)

Has it been this bad every night?

Mary, calming herself down, takes a deep breath.

MARY

(To a dancer)

Sandra, you’re usually so terrific. But today you look a bit like a paraplegic who’s been allowed to walk again thanks to a talented and blessed preacher.

Mary steps back, rubbing her eyes.

MARY

(Calling out)

Can we have the number from the top? Boys too please.

Mary steps back and watches as the dancers run the whole number again, Jack included. Mary puts a hand up to the band.

MARY

Sandra, with the boys please. Jackson, take her place in the trio. Do you think you can-

JACK

(Instantly)

Yes, ma’am.

MARY

Alright. Let’s run that one more time.

They redo the number with Jack now in Sandra’s part, killing it. As the number comes to an end, Mary smiles.

MARY

Right. That’s it.

(To the stage manager)

Would you, darling, do me a wonderful favor and tell Marlene he’s going to need a new costume piece for this number to match the girls, and likewise for Sandra? Wonderful.

(To the dancers)

Well, sweets, that’s all I needed from you today. You all did very well last night, but you’ll do better tonight.

–

Text Five

Surely Everything Will Only Get Better From Here on Out!

Early January 1963.

17 year old Jack is working in the New Haven run for Here and Now and Now, it’s the end of the second act, with him and Mary doing a pas de deux, Jack holding Mary up for a long and tender lift. We see from Mary’s pov, briefly, how Jack looks so young.

Suddenly, there’s a look of pain on his face, but he manages to push through it, lowers her, and the two finish their number, panting and thrilled, to applause.

It’s hours later, in Bert and Mary’s New York home. Jack is sitting in the kitchen, icing his knee with a bag of frozen peas. The physical toll of the show is obvious, his feet are blistered and bloodied, his shins are bruised. He leans back and closes his eyes.

MARY enters.

MARY

All packed for Boston tomorrow?

JACK

Yes, Ma’am.

MARY

Are you excited?

JACK

Beyond it.

MARY chuckles, leaning down and taking the bag of peas from him. He looks at her.

MARY

Go to the couch. I’ll get you an aspirin and a hot water bottle. Heat for pain, ice for swelling. You should know that by now.

JACK pulls himself up by the counter. Mary pulls him into a sweet hug.

MARY

Oh, you’re skin and bones.

(She chuckles, pulling away)

Hey, Mr. Alex Angelopoulos. I am so proud of you. I hope you know that.

JACK

Thank you, Mary.

MARY

It’s all going to be worth it. Eventually. You’ll see.

JACK

I know.

MARY

No, you don’t. You have no idea. But that’s okay. Because you will soon. Now go, go, sit down. Let me wait on you.

JACK

You’ve been on your feet all day, let me–

MARY

(Irritated, suddenly)

Jack, please.

Jack nods and leaves, feeling a bit awkward.

Chickenpox

1958. A 13 year old Jack, is sitting on the Corey sofa in the living room. He is wrapped, looking very small and young, in a huge blanket, but he’s nonetheless shivering. He has chicken pox, and to keep from scratching, his hands have been put in heavy winter gloves. Though, right now, he’s too sick to do anything but sit there and focus on his breathing.

Bert is sitting nearby, ignoring him, as he reads the paper. Mary, carrying with her a thermometer and a bottle of pills, enters and sits next to Jack. She presses the back of her hand against his forehead and then puts the thermometer in his mouth. This is her first time doing any of this, ever, and she finds it as irritating as she finds it thrilling as she finds it a bit scary.

Mary pulls away and examines the results.

MARY

103.

BERT

(Not looking up)

He should be in his room.

Jack starts to get up but Mary puts a hand out to keep him down.

MARY

Bert, he’s been cooped up in his room the past two days. We’ve both had it, and I’d rather keep an eye on him out here than have to go to the other side of the house every 20 minutes.

BERT

You don’t have to go to the other side of the house every 20 minutes, it’s chicken pox, not the black plague. He won’t die.

JACK

I’m sorry.

BERT sighs, looking at Jack.

BERT

(With a sigh)

Not really your fault, I guess.

MARY shoots Bert a look, mindlessly touches Jack’s forehead again, then taps her foot, restless.

MARY

(taking out one of the pills and giving it to Jack)

This will help with the scratching and probably put you to sleep.

Jack nods.

MARY

I’ll make us all a good dinner.

BERT

Oh, brother.

MARY

Bobby, if you’d prefer to cook one yourself, you are welcome to.

BERT puts a hand up to signal defeat. Mary laughs and goes into the kitchen. Bert folds the paper up and puts it on the coffee table, he looks at Jack, who is shivering, staring blankly out.

BERT

My mother’s family believed that chicken pox was a punishment from God. Sign of the first sin. That’s why you get it as a child. Took you long enough.

Jack shrugs.

BERT

Demonstrates your resolve. I guess…

He shifts, uncomfortably.

BERT

(Mindlessly)

My daughter, she’s, oh, 5 years older than you. Out in California. She had the pox when she was, I guess 3 or 4. I was just back from the war….

(He clears his throat)

It’s miserable but it goes away.

(Laughing)

Sure makes a fun parting gift from the show, though, doesn’t?

Jack doesn’t get the joke, and instead just looks at Bert, sorta hurt. Bert frowns.

BERT

Just try to get some rest.

JACK

Yes, sir.

MARY enters, wearing an apron. She stands in the entryway. She is carrying with her a cup of tea. She puts it down on the coffee table near Jack.

MARY

That might make you feel better.

Bert, you want a drink? I’m going to open the bottle of scotch Noah sent us.

BERT

No, I’m alright. After dinner, maybe.

MARY nods, going back into the other room. Time passes, Jack falls asleep. Bert watches him. Mary enters again.

MARY

(to Bert)

Well, dinner is ready.

Bert gets up.

BERT

Let him sleep. Keep a plate in the oven for him.

Mary looks at Bert, sweetly.

MARY

You’re being so kind to him.

BERT

Not my first time at this rodeo. Margaret never had it, so when Polly got sick, I took care of her all by myself.

MARY

You’re just a sweet old man underneath it all, aren’t you?

BERT

(kissing her)

I’m not that sweet.

The two giggle and leave the room together, Bert being awfully touchy feely.

THE LIVING ROOM, LATER.

Bert is in his chair, nursing a glass of scotch, Mary is at the window, looking out as she also nurses a glass of scotch. Jack stirs, waking up, the shivering more severe.

JACK

I think I’m dying.

It startles Mary, who looks at him. She crosses to him, putting her cup on the table, as she grabs the thermometer and takes his temperature again.

MARY

104.

Mary brushes her hand along Jack’s cheek.

JACK

I’m dying. I’m dying. I know it.

MARY

(Matter of factly)

You’re not dying.

(To Bert)

I’m going to run and get some Tylenol. Fever keeps climbing and I’ll have to cancel rehearsal to sit with him tomorrow.

BERT

Tylenol? I thought we had some. I’ll go.

MARY

No, no, I’m already dressed and the pharmacy’s about to close.

She grabs her coat and purse and leaves. Jack adjusts some more, pulling the blanket closer to himself and rolling onto his side. He starts to cry. This startles Bert, who uncomfortably stands up.

JACK

I want to go home. I miss my Mom.

Bert starts to go, but stops himself, sighing.

BERT

Son, you’re with us. We’ll take care of you.

JACK

They didn’t even love me, they got rid of me.

BERT

That’s… not true.

JACK

They don’t. They just left me.

BERT

They made a decision that’s– it’s the hardest decision they ever had to make. They love you so much they’re willing to be far away from you so that you can be your best self.

JACK

They wouldn’t care if I died. I’m going to die and they won’t care.

BERT

You’re not dying, Alex. You’ve just got a fever.

JACK

I’m going to die alone.

Bert sighs, approaching Jack and sitting next to him.

BERT

Mary and I are here. We’re taking care of you.

JACK

They sent me here to die. That’s what they did. They wanted me gone so they sent me here to die where they wouldn’t have to see it.

BERT

Why do you think that?

JACK

They never loved me.

BERT

They do, kid. They really do.

JACK

I miss my Mom. But she didn’t like me either. No one likes me. Ever. They want me all to die. I’m going to die. They want me to die.

BERT stands up again, suddenly a bit overwhelmed.

BERT

I’ll be right back.

Bert enters the bathroom, where he stands over the sink. On the wall, rather than a mirror, is a portrait of Dwight D Eisenhower. Bert splashes some water in his face and sighs, rubbing his temples, shaking his head then wets a wash cloth.

BERT

That kid… Never heard a child talk like that…

Bert returns to the living room, where he sits on the arm rest and presses the wash cloth to Jack’s head. Jack is still distressed, but the human contact calms him down a little bit.

JACK

I’m dying. I’m scared. I’m dying.

BERT

(Gentle, discomforted)

You’re going to be okay. I’m here, Mary’s here, you can call your parents in the morning. Okay? You’re going to be okay.

MARY enters, a bit of breath from the run to the pharmacy and back. She enters and puts the paper bag on the table, taking out the medicine and getting the dose together.

MARY

Just in the knick of time. And by that I mean I had to bang on the door. I can be awfully persuasive.

She gives Jack the medicine, then sits next to him, wrapping her arms around him and letting him snuggle up to her. It’s tender, which the Coreys aren’t particularly known for. Bert ruffles his hair, then returns to his chair across the room, watching with interest.

LATER, Mary and Bert’s room. Both are getting ready for bed. Bert is smoking a cigar, half dressed, as Mary sits in the bed, fixing her hair.

Mary sighs, putting the brush down and stretching.

BERT

Not what you expected, huh?

MARY

I thought most the caretaking would be over with by this age.

BERT

I warned you. You give a person like that an inch, he’ll find a way to get a mile.

MARY sighs, getting up and going into the en suite.

MARY

(calling)

He’ll make it up to us.

BERT

‘Course he will.

Bert adjusts, shaking his head.

BERT

We gotta send him home.

MARY returns from the bathroom, makeup half off, eyes wide.

MARY

I thought we were going to keep him here for the next show.

BERT

He needs his parents. What are we doing? Taking care of this kid? We shouldn’t be doing that. He’s a good dancer, but, you know, different… Different values and everything. Didn’t George say he’s got a brother in Queens? Maybe we drop the kid off there, let George get him on his own time.

MARY

Bert, that’s not even funny.

BERT

I’m not trying to be funny.

MARY

You told me that this was- this was my thing. I get the student, I get the– I get the chance to build something, train someone, create a future for myself.

BERT

Then why do you keep leaving him with me? This is your project, your responsibility.

MARY

Oh, Christ, Bert. You are so selfish.

BERT

You know the difference between having a child and taking in some little stray because he can dance well?

MARY

I took him in to give him a chance. You think he had a chance in Minnesota?

BERT

The difference between–

MARY

Don’t. Don’t argue with me about this. You don’t get to say that you are fine with this, with offering that young man some much needed charity, and then back out! You have refused to start a family with me and that is your right, but if you think I’m going to just sit around and have nothing to leave this world, no one who looks up to me and who I influence, you are wrong.

BERT

The difference between a child of your own and a stray is that a child will always, always come back. A stray will take what he needs from you and then leave, meander to the next–

MARY

I am not going to let you turn me into someone who is nothing and no one but your goddamn second wife.

BERT

What’s so bad about being my wife?!

Mary looks at him.

MARY

I need to be more than that.

BERT

Why aren’t I enough?

Mary pulls on a robe and starts to leave. BERT grabs the ashtray and throws it at her, it hits the wall and shatters.

She goes into Jack’s room, where Jack is asleep. She takes a seat at the desk and watches him.

Fear, Fear, Fear.

Jack wasn’t scared. Not like his parents anyway. It wasn’t that it was bad, they were very good people, they were just scared. Scared about everything. Everyone.

Jack remembered how they’d meet with his first grade teacher once a week. He didn’t get why, and neither did the teacher. Mom and Dad would be there every single Tuesday, hand in hand, while Jack had to wait. He knew better than to say it or show it, but he just wanted to go home, because Mom and Dad would go on and on with all their questions (how’s he doing in this subject or this subject or, oh, what about this subject? Does he act normally?) all the time, and the teacher would always say, “You don’t need to be concerned.” Which on one hand, Jack liked, but on the other hand always made them more nervous. They were terrified that the teacher just wasn’t telling them. It became such a problem, this idea that his teacher was lying to them, that in first grade, he was transferred to all 4 of that year’s first grade classes, ending the school year where he’d started.

Jack tried not to be embarrassed about it, but as he was walked by the principal into the same classroom his parents had demanded he be taken out of a few months prior, his classmates looking up at him with confusion, he couldn’t help despise it. Everyone thought he was so weird.

Jack felt their fear sometimes. But he always knew it wasn’t his fear. He knew that the only reason he had a gnawing pit in his stomach, reaching up his throat, and trickling down his arms and making his hands shake, whenever he got too close to a pond or pool or lake or river, or when he ate something he wasn’t supposed to, or when the neighbor kid tried to talk to him, was because they told him to be. He had no reason to be afraid of it. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to drown from five feet away instead of six. He was pretty sure that splitting a muffin with his classmate that one time wasn’t going to keep him from being a good dancer. He was fairly certain that waving back at the kid through the living room window wasn’t going to lead to being kidnapped. But of course, he didn’t do any of those things. He turned them down despite knowing that he didn’t actually need to be afraid, because his parents were afraid and told him to be afraid too. He was supposed to do what they told him to.

Jack didn’t really feel fear, his own fear, until he was around 11. He’d had a huge growth spurt, and suddenly, it felt like one day, he was a completely different person. When he used to have to look up at his father, now he didn’t have to crane his neck, he just had to glance up. It was a bit frightening. He’d always been small for his age, and now he was lanky and tall and strange, and he’d lay in bed and stare at his new, long, legs that felt just a bit too big for him. He felt a bit too big.

He knew that was a crazy fear, fear of his own body, but Mom and Dad also seemed to have it. There was some uneasiness to how Mom looked at him, since they were the same height. Mom would always comment on it, whenever they were side by side, “Every day, you get bigger.” She’d sigh. Jack wasn’t ever sure how to interpret that sigh. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. He couldn’t go back in time and keep it from happening. They never asked him too, either, of course, but he wished he could’ve done something to make Mom less anxious, every single time she stared up at him like that.

He’d heard Dad talking about him. Jack knew he wasn’t supposed to listen in, but Dad went on about it one night and Jack couldn’t resist the urge to listen. Dad was scared it was going to impact his dancing, or his opportunities, or that he was going to “get attention from girls” and Jack wasn’t sure which of these he was supposed to be worried about too. “I thought we had a couple more years.” Dad said.

He pushed past it. He stomached the remarks and the conversations behind his back and the looks. That growth spurt was the last time he really grew for a few more years. And Dad and Mom put a plan to deal with it. Jack now just had to pretend to be a bit older, he was no longer a wunderkind, there wasn’t a big deal about how young and small and cute he was, he was just a talented young dancer. It wasn’t an act anymore. Jack was fine with that, generally. Though Dad usually made him say he was 16, and sometimes 18, when he was actually only 13.

Mary was not like Jack’s parents. She was not a very scared person. Even when Bert was being awful to her, she rarely cowered and she usually snapped right back. Jack was really impressed by that. She’d scold him for being frightened. Jack hadn’t seen himself as being frightened but apparently, to her, he was. Apparently he was too hesitant, too nervous, too shy, and all of that was fear. She told him he didn’t need to be scared, that there was nothing to be scared of.

“We need to build up your confidence.” Mary had said to him the first time they ever worked together one-on-one, “Because when you’re on the stage with other people, your fear is their fear.”

Jack wasn’t quite sure how to get rid of that fear. He was trying, but he wasn’t sure how to find it and squash it. Mary never told him how to do it, just that he had to do it. It became clear that it was less about being scared and more about appearing scared, and if he tried not to think about it, he would stop looking scared and therefore stop acting scared and therefore no one would know.

Mom and Dad had kept Jack’s life under their thumb. They kept it under control. Everything was on a strict routine, one that he never questioned. Everything had rules, everything had standards. Everything was laid out for him. He never had much of a decision in it. He loved dancing, but he wasn’t doing it because he loved it, he was doing it because he was told he had to. He’d never stopped to think about it. It was what he was doing and he was going to do it. But he did like it. He figured that out, working with Mary, and he liked it and he wanted it. He didn’t want it because he was supposed to want it or because Dad wanted him to want it, he just wanted it.

The first night of his new life, the first night that he spent at the Coreys, he was more terrified than he ever had been. He didn’t mean to be. Mary was nice to him, and he was excited, this was exactly what he wanted. This was what he’d begged for. But he was scared. He sat in his new room, in this new place, and he was scared. He couldn’t push it away or think about something else, because he was just sitting there, 11:30pm, unable to sleep, alone, and there was nothing else to think about other than how scared he was. He was too old to be scared of the dark, but the corners of the room were so heavy and black and the wind was blowing and whistling and he could see himself, faintly, in the mirror on the wall as he laid in bed and he barely recognized himself. He wasn’t even sure what was so scary about it all, just that it was different, maybe.

Jack worked on a schedule with Mary too, but it was much smaller. He had his obligations. Work with Mary and the rehearsals and his chores, but there wasn’t anything else usually. It was never a routine. He knew to say yes when Mary or Bert asked him too, but it wasn’t the same. And Mary didn’t really care what he did as long as he didn’t make it her problem. It was freedom, and Jack liked some of it. He liked being allowed to walk around the city and he liked being able to make friends (even if they were way older than he was and made him feel a bit dumb) and he liked feeling like he was his own person.

But it was also scary. Because sometimes that lack of control veered into chaos and it felt like nothing made sense, and he’d look up at Mary and hope secretly that she’d tell him what to do or say or feel, and she never would. She never even considered it, he was pretty sure. Everything devolved into chaos at times. Everything. Everything would stop making sense. The world around him, the people, and himself. That was new. He wasn’t quite sure when he developed that, when fear twisted itself into something else, strong feelings, trying to rip themselves out of his chest and crawling underneath his skin. It was a great, resounding pressure, like someone was gripping him with their fists, squeezing him tight until his eyes popped out of his head. He wanted to make it stop. He wanted to be released, freed from it.

He found solutions, temporary ones but solutions nonetheless. Sometimes it was a distraction. Sometimes all he needed was to be with someone else, to be told he was amazing and terrific and good at what mattered and cared about. Sometimes that didn’t suffice, even when he really wanted it too. Sometimes it even made it worse, he’d come out of it feeling worse than before. He hated that. That didn’t feel fair. It didn’t just feel unfair, it felt scary. If it worked once, why didn’t it keep working?

When distraction didn’t work he had to try to make it go away. He felt very ridiculous when it came to that. He always felt a little ridiculous but sometimes, when nothing made sense and no one would listen and it just kept building and building, he had to express it, he had to make someone else get it.

He’d said some really stupid things. He even knew they were stupid as he was saying them, standing there, chest heaving, so overheated and angry that he probably looked as absurd as he felt. He wasn’t even sure if he was really angry, if he was really set off, it just felt like the most appropriate approximation.

It was easy with Bert, at least. Saying these stupid things had a clear, in the moment, impact. Bert would sometimes scream right back, but other times he would throw something, and once or twice he’d just hit him. And Jack might storm out or he might keep arguing but he always knew that he had it coming.

The really embarrassing ones were with Mary. Jack never even got close to expressing things that were true with her. He said things just to hurt her and he hated it. He’d said to her once, “I don’t even like you.” emphasis on the “I.” And she’d looked so hurt for half a moment before telling him to get back to work. Then they never discussed it again. Jack never had the opportunity to apologize, which was Mary’s way. She’d get him back, though, she always did. She’d spend the next few days being twice as harsh as usual and always with good reason. Any flaw in his technique or his body or his life or his opinions, she’d make sure to point it out. If she could, she’d do it in front of other people, and Jack knew he had to grin and bear it because he deserved it.

Of course because his, as Mary called them, outbursts didn’t always work to relieve the feeling, to tame the chaos, and to make the terror and the dread simmer down, and oftentimes it ended up just making it worse, he had to take the third option. He didn’t even intentionally do it all the time. It was a form of distraction too, but internal. It had started out as biting his knuckles and then it turned into other things. It felt, at least for a short moment, like total control. Like nothing else mattered and all he had was his ability to gnaw or dig into the blister on his heel or whatever. It made him feel powerful, which he never seemed to be able to feel anytime else. He didn’t like the pain, it was awful, he just liked that he got to do it. Everything else in the world, that feeling, that stupid, ridiculous, strangle you from the inside and from the outside, feeling, it would briefly disappear and it would just be Jack for a moment. He’d find himself doing it even when he didn’t mean to, just because he wanted to be himself for a moment.

If it went too far, Mary would get on his case about it. It annoyed her, it frustrated her, and Jack understood why, it was annoying and frustrating, but maybe secretly he wanted her to tell him to stop a little bit. He liked that attention, that acknowledgement, the combination of both types of distraction. He liked feeling like someone else could see it, and he’d tell himself that whenever she swatted his hand away from his face that actually she was saying, “I understand it, but I don’t think you should do it.”

Jack, when he was really little, knew his biggest concern was to keep the peace. Mom and Dad were so scared of things, he knew he had to make sure he didn’t give them anything to be scared of. That was fundamental. He followed the rules and he made sure never to stir the pot. If he followed the rules and he was good, it was almost always peaceful. They felt their fear and he felt fine.

But with Mary, there wasn’t a baseline peace. There was always something going on, something wrong. Mary would waltz through most of it, but there was a lot of conflict, that chaos in every direction. Jack didn’t know how to keep the peace if it wasn’t there in the first place, he wasn’t sure what method he was supposed to use to make everything alright when problems reared their ugly head. Like, Mary had always told him not to get involved in her fights with Robert, but what about when he was threatening to kill her? Bert wouldn’t kill Jack, he’d never threatened to do that to him, so he’d try to intervene, he’d try to get in between. Then Mary would get mad at him too and then it would all turn in on him instead of each other and he could just remember that it was for the best and pretend it wasn’t really happening and then if it didn’t stop, he’d just combine everything, he’d combine the attention and the destruction and the outbursts, and Jack knew better than to cry around the Coreys because THAT would turn them against each other (Look you got the stupid brat crying! He’s trying to manipulate you, Mary, I don’t know how you don’t see that!), so he’d say something really harsh, he’d say something that maybe was a bit true and maybe it was their fault a little bit and he’d tell them he wanted to die.

That was, as Bert said, the worst thing Jack could ever say. No one could ever tell Jack why, but it was beyond terrible. He didn’t get it. They weren’t his family, they were under no obligation to love him, it was their choice to let it bother them so much.

No matter how angry Bert was, if Jack used that line, he’d immediately drop it to comfort Mary. “He doesn’t mean that, Mary, he’s just saying it to hurt you, Mary.” And Jack sometimes wished he could say it more often because it worked so well. Mary wouldn’t get mad at him about it either. She wouldn’t spend the next few weeks getting back at him about it. It was the ultimate release too, because he meant it enough that it felt like himself and also when Mary and Bert got upset that was proof that they cared about him (which he knew was selfish, but sometimes he felt as if he could actually kill himself and it would take a few weeks for anyone to notice) and it was loud and big and hurtful and he felt powerful. At least until it made him feel very small and pathetic, but then at least he could hide away in shame until Mary got over it and everything went back to how it had been. The cycle repeats.

Since Jack could see how much power it held, he didn’t say it very often. He’d said it once, only once, when he didn’t need to. Every other time, if he didn’t say it Mary was going to die or Bert was going to do something terrible or Jack was going to probably explode or lose his mind, but this one time he just felt like he needed to let it be known.

He was maybe 16, since it was when he was in Offender! and he was on his way out to the theater. Bert was going with him that night, so he was waiting downstairs, and Mary stopped him and made a remark along the lines of, “They’re going to need to remake your costume if you get any bigger.’ and Jack wasn’t sure why, but it was like the words were already in the back of his throat, he wasn’t even thinking as he said it, “Don’t worry, Mary, I’ll kill myself before that happens.” (this was all more ridiculous, since Jack was in the middle of his second growth spurt, and he’d grown an inch and a half) and he’d felt so terrible for saying it that he’d left without saying goodbye and he’d done his stupid little show and then Bert had said that night, “You were great tonight. Let me take you out to dinner.” (Which was RARE for Bert and meant that Bert didn’t want to smash his face in with a book or a some other large heavy object) but Jack felt so weird and wrong and terrible that he’d turned it down (which Bert, of course, took offense to) and so he’d just gone home and Mary was in the kitchen, so he managed to slip into his room and hide there and think about how he actually did, probably, deserve to die for saying that.

He sat at his desk and read and tried to pretend it didn’t happen as Mary knocked and then stood in the doorway a bit later. She just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, smelling of Clairol, with this dark, sharp look in her eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.” She said. Jack wanted to sink into the ground and melt into a puddle.

She came over and put a hand on his arm. She’d repainted her nails that night, bright red. He didn’t look up at her and he knew she didn’t want him to.

“It upsets me.” She said, “And every time you say something like that. I call your family. Because I think they oughta know when you talk like that. And really, Angel, I try to talk to your mother. And it makes her very, very upset. It breaks my heart.” She finally wanted him to look up at her, she tilted his head up. There was no expression on her face, “You should think about what you say before you say it. Get control of yourself. You’re nearly an adult.”

And Jack nodded, feeling sheepish and nauseous and guilty and hurt and scared. He felt scared. He felt scared of her and it wasn’t her fault at all, which made him feel worse. He didn’t need to feel scared of her, but he did.

“I’m sorry.” Jack muttered out and she leaned close and kissed his head, bringing her hands up to his chest, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t think suicide is a sin.” Mary said after a moment, pulling away and taking a seat on the bed, fiddling with the hem of her gingham house dress, “But I do think those who do it deserve to burn in hell.” She let out a long sigh, “What a horrible thing to put the people you love through.” She stretched her legs out, then adjusted the watch on her wrist and stood up, “Alright, kiddo, I’ll see you in the morning.” then left.

Jack wasn’t sure what punishment he believed he should face for it. Most of Jack’s life the punishments he received for being awful were swift and instantaneous. A stern conversation or a smack on the head or a few days without dinner (and Bert would just kick Jack out which sometimes didn’t even feel like a punishment), but Mary had always preferred to delay, and this, he knew, she wasn’t going to acknowledge at all. He had to make the punishment up for himself, he had to have the discipline (a trait Mary had said she admired in him) to do it to himself.

There were a lot of options. He sat there and thought about all the options he had, in fact. Made up a list and went through it. But the problem, of course, was that any punishment he could think of had its upside. It always would have a moment where he’d think, self-contentedly, about how he deserved it. It needed to be something truly bad, something that had no benefits and only made his life worse.

He thought about it for the next few days. It was all he thought about for the next few days. It was even what he was thinking about when he was on stage. He couldn’t figure out what it was, what exactly he deserved and how to ensure he didn’t like it too much. Then he realized, sorta, that thinking about it might’ve been the punishment. Everything else in his life in those few days fell by the wayside. It was all he thought about, all he considered. He didn’t do anything but think about it, there was nothing else he could even try to consider.

The relief that he’d figured out how to get back at himself for his actions was quickly replaced with the anger and fear or whatever it was that he hadn’t even been the one to decide it, which pushed him squarely back into his routines of self control. This time, though, he felt a bit more vindicated in it, Mary had told him to get control of himself, and here he was doing it. That was good.

Jack wasn’t even sure if he cared that much about being good, as much as he cared about not being bad. He was terrified of being bad, of being horrible, of everything he knew about himself being secretly true. He wanted to be normal and he wanted to be special and he wanted to be not bad, all with equal levels of importance. Jack found that trying to get himself to believe that was nearly impossible, though, Jack was always going to fear that he was abnormal and unimportant and terrible, so his goal really became to get others to believe it instead. If Mary thought he was alright, which she usually did, and Mary thought he was special, which she almost always did, and Mary thought he was normal, which he tried not to think about, then he was alright (and if/not Mary, it had to be someone else, or preferably everyone else.)

He still wasn’t that scared.

Boston

Bert wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling about all this. He was exhausted, a little bit. Watching this kid every single night, keeping an eye on him, guiding him, trying to talk him up. Every single night, when he finally crawled into bed, he felt like he was holding the entire weight of the world on his back. His muscles ached from the tension, Mary rubbing his back tenderly, his mind refused to wind down, and sleep didn’t seem to be able to satisfy him. He’d wake up just as uncomfortable as the night before.

The worry was exhausting too. Bert wasn’t unempathetic; he wasn’t seeing this kid wheeze and stumble every night and not feeling a pang of terror for what could happen. Every ragged breath, every mis-step, every coughing fit twisted his organs with fear. Everything felt like it was on the verge of going horribly wrong, like a tightly wound spring ready to burst and hit him right in the eye.

He worried about the show, about what would happen if it did go wrong. Most of the money in this show was their own. It was their dream, their livelihood, their reputation on the line. The stakes couldn’t be higher. He worried about a million different possibilities: the audience’s reaction, the reviews, how the media would eat them alive if anything went wrong. He’d been through that before. He knew what it was like to be torn apart. He was pretty sure that he’d scared the cast into submission, that no one would talk to the press, or, God forbid, get the union involved. He couldn’t afford that, it would be a whole other headache of trouble.

He worried about Mary. It was impacting her hard. He was trying to keep her focus. “Focus on your performance and the steps, let me handle everything else.” But that wasn’t how she worked. Mary had always been very involved. She couldn’t just turn her mind off, ignore what was going on around her. Especially when it came to Jack. She had always been too involved with that kid. It had been her idea to take him in, her idea to keep him around, her idea to put him in this show (though, admittedly, Bert wasn’t blind to just how good this kid was.)

He’d been doing so well in New Haven, which made it feel even worse. Not perfect, there were changes that needed to be made, things to cool down. He’d stumble off so exhausted that Mary had him drinking straight honey at intermission every night, just to keep his energy up. She really put effort in with that kid, though she had a list of complaints (he’s not taking charge of himself, he looks like he likes it too much, he’s got an attitude problem, all issues Bert saw too)

But it was really quite excellent. People loved the show for all its flaws. They loved Jack and Mary, together and separately. The end of act one had people screaming and cheering, applause so loud it shook the theater. Applause that was so loud Bert wondered if you could hear it from the street. It felt, truly, like they were on the brink of something incredible, something that would bring Mary back to him as his wife and give a meaning to the past 5 years of mentorship with Jack.

Boston pushed the kid to his limits. Near immediately, the already burnt out kid went from tired to exhausted. He said it was the winter air bothering his lungs. He’d hack and cough. His movements were slower, his eyes hazier. It reminded Bert of his first weeks in basic training as a young man, where he wasn’t quite adjusted to the pain and the exertion and the struggle. There were a lot less hand grenades to be found in musical comedy, though, thank God.

Mary thought she found the solution, one evening as she and Bert gathered to give each other notes, she had a smile on her face, knowing and pleased, then slipped out a bottle of Dexedrine from her bag, “Found the solution to our problems.” Did it feel right drugging Jack to keep him working? No. Was there another option? Also no. It was helping. Jack could breathe a little bit better, move a little bit more accurately on them. Bert knew that the moment this run was over, they’d bring the kid to a doctor. (He had an army buddy in Cambridge who ran a clinic that would almost certainly be willing to keep it under wraps. This leaking to the press would be a big problem.)

Bert, admittedly, was worried about him, though. Jack hadn’t quite figured out how to care for himself when he was working this much, which Bert knew he couldn’t blame him for. The exhaustion and the asthma and then the Dexedrine—Bert fell pretty quickly into a role of micromanaging the kid’s life. There were other things he needed to focus on: the financials, the rest of the show, the rest of the cast, and, always, Mary. But really, all he was thinking about was Jack. It made him frustrated, irritated with himself and with Jack, that this kid was taking up so much of his thoughts. He was the first thing he thought of in the morning and the last thing he thought of at night.

Bert would talk to him every night before he went on, quietly, in the dressing room. Jack’s head would be down on the table, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Bert ran his hands up his shoulders and neck, feeling the knots along his spine and the sharpness of bones. He was thin, almost too thin, and there was already a layer of sweat gathered on his neck and back just from the coughing. Bert felt a pang of something in his stomach, maybe a natural paternal instinct, looking at him. But Jack wasn’t his son, he wasn’t family, he wasn’t a child, he was a performer, a greatly talented performer in Bert’s show.

That was the whole reason they brought him in. Mary saw his talent, his skills, the freakish level of control and discipline he had over his body, how he moved, and knew that if they didn’t take this kid in, it would be the loss of a lifetime. They had spent the past five years molding him, training him, shaping him into exactly what they needed. He was going to be it. He was going to be their lasting impact, proof that they were more than just bottom of the barrel, summer musical types. Every ounce of skill and training and raw talent was something they had discovered and crafted and placed upon this kid. The world was going to know it.

The amphetamines kept him amped up, but they couldn’t push past the fear, the heaving and coughing, the clear pain this kid was in. It was funny that for all these years, Bert never saw him as a kid, but now that he was an adult, as of a week ago, he realized just how young and naïve and vulnerable he was. There was a part of Bert that wanted to just make it all better, to hold him and console him and fix it, make it so he didn’t have to suffer like this, but he couldn’t do that. The show had to go on. There was no room for weakness, no time for coddling, just time to get it over with, to keep climbing the ladder.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Jack said that night. There was a wooziness to him that was extreme even for the past two weeks. He sat up and looked at himself in the mirror. Sweat trickled down his temples as he fell into an intense coughing fit, every breath coming out as a wheeze. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, glinting light, and his skin was clammy enough that his face was almost reflective.

“You’re going to be fine,” Bert said. “Just tonight. Manage tonight and don’t think about anything but what you have to do.”

Jack poured out two of the amphetamines, staring down at the white capsules like he didn’t even know what they were. Bert took charge. He poured Jack a cup of the elixir Mary had been preparing for him (warm water, honey, and cough syrup) from the thermos. Jack downed it and the pills before having another coughing fit. Bert ran his hands up and down his back. He could feel his muscles tensing, writhing, with every cough. It must hurt.

“Look at me, buddy,” Bert said as Jack calmed his breathing down, “You’re doing great. You’re going to do great. Tonight is going to go fine. Think about the next ten minutes, right? Focus on the next ten minutes every ten minutes.”

Jack nodded, covering his eyes with his hand, looking so small and pathetic. Bert wondered if he was maybe, sorta, making some horrible mistake, that maybe they should cancel the show tonight. But it was too much of a risk. If they stopped moving, they might never be able to move again.

Rod Burnett, legs crossed, looking serious as he scribbled down barely legible notes, sat next to Bert that night as they watched from the audience. Bert never liked Rod. There was something about the man that grated on him. He was the age where he’d never really had to face any troubles. Rich family, all that. Bert had met his father years ago, weird playwright type. He was the spitting image. But Rod without his sister, without his former brother-in-law as a producer, and without Louis Curtis as his lyricist was like a bird without wings. He didn’t know what to do with himself. The man couldn’t be an asshole in this state. He was reduced to a sheepish little composer scribbling notes that probably didn’t mean anything.

Mary was so radiant on stage. It was like she was 21 again, the vibrance that Bert had missed in her all these years. It could’ve been found the whole time by putting her on a stage. Her long limbs moved with grace and precision, her intense gaze commanded attention, and her soprano voice soared without effort or force. She was everything. Bert felt a bit of nostalgia mixed with awe; seeing her like this reminded him of why he fell in love with the theatre in the first place, why he wanted for all these years for Mary to be apart of it, why he left behind Hollywood to chase this life. She always said that she was meant for ballet, but what she was really meant for was the stage. She was everything.

As the show got to the end of act one, Bert felt the nerves pop up again, creeping up his spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand. Jack had been stumbling through thus far. Forgetting lines, messing up steps, looking like a deer in the headlights. But he was doing better than yesterday, looking slightly more confident and moving faster, more on time, always looking pleased.

Then, seven minutes into the twelve-minute ending dance break, Jack stopped. The world seemed to freeze. Bert almost leapt up, he dug his fingers into his thighs to stay seated. Rod dropped his pencil, letting it roll across the carpeted floor, eyes fixed on the stage. Jack stumbled back, the color draining from his face. He tried to do another pirouette but stumbled back a few feet. Then he collapsed with a hard thud. People gasped and whispered, but in a moment, he was dragged off stage, and Mary, rushing back on stage, took his place, finishing the number, doing his choreography as if it wasn’t going wrong at all. But her eyes glinted with terror.

Bert jumped out of his seat and through the aisle. A few moments later, Rod followed behind.

“What’s happening?” Rod said, catching up to him as they entered the hallway to backstage.

“Stay here,” Bert said, his voice tight with urgency.

Carmen, the stage manager, caught Bert’s eye as he entered the green room. Two ensemble members, Sandy and William, were both sitting next to him, a stage hand taking his pulse. Jack was pale, sweaty, gasping out a breath every few seconds. His breaths were shallow, labored, each a desperate attempt to draw in air.

“Out of here,” Bert said. “Sandy and William, out.”

Sandy shot Bert a glare. “Someone needs to call an ambulance,” she said, her squeaky voice desperate. She sounded a bit like a bird that had been trained to talk, “He can’t breathe.”

Carmen pushed past. “We already have. Listen to him, out.”

Sandy shot a glance at Jack, then back at Bert. This might be a problem, Bert thought. She was so angry, chest heaving. Her eyes dark with rage. She pushed past him and left the room, leaving just Bert, Jack, Carmen, and the stage hand.

“I know CPR,” the stage hand said. “Should I do CPR?”

Suddenly, Jack’s body went rigid. His limbs straightened unnaturally, and his back arched off the floor. His eyes rolled back, and his lips turned a deeper shade of blue. The stage hand looked panicked, unsure of what to do. Carmen’s face drained of color, and they stepped back, hands over their mouth.

Bert stayed put, feeling a bit helpless, anxious. Jack barely looked alive. It was as if all the life and energy had been sucked out of him, drained from him like a cow in a slaughterhouse. His arms and legs jerked. Bert held himself back, resisting the urge to get down to his level and hold him down, keep him still.

The convulsions ended, leaving Jack slumped on the floor, as the paramedics entered the room. Bert stepped back, pressing himself up against the wall, feeling a wave of nausea smack him hard. He didn’t want to leave the room, but he really, really didn’t want to be watching this.

Mary entered, her dance shoes clicking on the floor. Bert brushed her back with his hand, looking for comfort or maybe just reassurance that this was really happening. She knelt next to Jack as the paramedics worked on him, the sparkles on her dress catching the light.

Jack seemed to snap back for a second, weakly pushing the paramedics away until exhaustion overcame him. He looked up at Bert with a distant, almost pleading glance. Bert swallowed hard. They put a mask over Jack’s face, but he kept shoving it off, trying to shove them away, trying to say something. Mary pushed the mask back on, holding it there until the paramedics shooed her away.

“Do you have any heart issues?” one of the paramedics asked Jack.

Bert felt a surge of frustration. There was no way Jack could respond. “No,” Bert said. “He has mild asthma. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

One of the paramedics exchanged a look with the other. “Up on the stretcher. Boston General?”

A curt nod followed, and soon they were lifting Jack onto a stretcher, pushing him down as he tried to sit up. Mary clung to Bert, her fingers digging into his arm, her face growing pale.

“Anyone coming along?” one of the medics asked.

Bert knew he needed to stay behind. He had a cast to manage, people who would have questions. Mary looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Carmen,” Bert said. “Would you? Just so he’s not alone. I’ll get things situated here, then be right there.”

Carmen looked uncomfortable for a brief moment but then nodded, “Of course.” They followed the paramedics and the stretcher out of the room.

Mary flunked down onto the couch, peeling off her dance shoes and pressing her knuckles into her forehead, “Oh my God.”

“Get your coat,” Bert said, trying to keep his voice steady. “And his coat, too. Get a cab, go after them.”

“Come with me?” Mary asked, barely loud enough to be heard, “Please?”

“I need to handle things here,” Bert said.

Mary rose to her feet, wiping her eyes with her free hand, and left the room.

The conversation with the cast had gone about as well as could be expected. Bert had assured everyone that the show would be on pause for a few days. Jack was just dealing with a minor illness. Take the time off, enjoy it, no impact to your salaries, just rest and recover yourselves while Jack gets over this mild, silly cold. And please, please, keep quiet about it. It’ll only hurt Jack if you talk about it!

Sandy followed Bert out that night, standing with her arms crossed over her chest, “I don’t appreciate being lied to,” she said, voice like broken glass. She’d always had a fiery side. Bert had never liked her.

“It’s not lying,” Bert replied, lighting a cigarette.

“You people never change. I’ve been in this business for twenty years, and you’re always pulling this crap. You’d let that kid die.” She said.

“You want to turn this into a bigger issue?” he said, keeping voice firm and strong. “Fine. But if you do, I’ll make sure you never work again. Not as a dancer, not as a teacher, not anywhere. I’ll see to it personally.”

Sandy simply adjusted her coat, tightened her scarf, and walked away, leaving Bert alone in the cold alley.

Bert returned to the hotel. It was too late to visit the hospital, and he was too drained to do much of anything. He worried briefly about Jack’s family. What if it hit the press? What if they heard about this all the way out there in Minneapolis? What a disaster that would be. He thought about George Angelopoulos, Jack’s father, always so nervous and uptight. They hadn’t seen each other in 5 years, he wondered if he would even bother to care about Jack.

Of course he would. If this got out—everything got out, the drugs and the lying and everything—it would be trouble. Legal trouble. All sorts of trouble. Controversy. God. He couldn’t handle it. He thought about his own daughter. How he’d feel. He didn’t like that thought. He didn’t like trying to imagine himself in George’s situation. It made him sick, like physically sick, to think about that.

The media would have a field day with it, dragging their names through the mud. Every decision, every misstep would be scrutinized. The public wouldn’t care about the nuances, the intentions behind their actions. They would only see the exploitation, the neglect. His career, Mary’s career, everything they had worked for would be tainted. It would ruin the kid’s life too, probably, the whole world would see him as just the young dancer Mary and Robert Corey had destroyed.

Then there were the legal ramifications. The lawsuits. Jack’s parents would probably throw a fit. The media would come running full force. He could almost see the headlines: “Theatre Icons Exploit Young Star,” “Behind the Curtains of the Corey Empire: Drugs, Lies, and Betrayal.” It made him feel as sick as it made him seethe. Nothing was ever fair. Nothing was ever nuanced or normal. They’d given everything to this kid and it was teetering on the edge of disaster. All anyone would ever remember would be the bad things.

The thoughts about his daughter wormed their way back into his mind. How would he feel if she were in Jack’s position? Vulnerable, mistreated, pushed to the brink. He didn’t like seeing that image creep into his mind. He didn’t want to hurt Jack. Mary had never intended for it to hurt Jack. This show was just as much for him as it was for them. He was a part of them, he was their project!

He thought back to 1952, when he had left his first wife and little Polly behind. It felt like the right thing to do, an escape from the harshness of Hollywood, an escape from his own mind, an escape from bitter feelings, from the fighting and the drinking and the long line of mistresses he didn’t know the names of. He had been 36, his career dangling on the ropes, and he had sought solace in Mary. Seeing her on that stage, he fell in love with her, with the new future he knew she would bring him into. She was so naive, so young, so eager. She was so impressed by him, she immediately bought into him. She didn’t seem to know that he was anything other than what he said he was.

The media had savaged him for the divorce, painting him as a horrible villain in a personal drama he felt was far more complex. His marriage had never been happy. Sometimes things needed to be ended, things needed to be destroyed for a new life to live. Sometimes one needs to be selfish.

But now, he was faced with the possibility of a scandal that might be much worse. Bert felt a familiar hit of injustice. He had fought to rebuild his life, his career, and recreate himself into a new person, and it was all on the cusp of being taken away, stripped from him.

He picked up the phone and dialed George’s number. The line rang a few times before George answered, sounding groggy.

“Hello?” George said, hesitant.

“Good evening, George, it’s Robert Corey. I’m sorry to be calling so late,” Bert said, “I’m calling about Alex.”

There was a pause, then the fear struck his voice like lightning, “Alex? What’s going on? Why are you calling me?”

“I wanted to let you know that Jack’s dealing with a mild lung infection,” Bert said, choosing his words carefully, “It’s not too serious, but I thought you should be informed.”

George didn’t say anything. Bert could hear him breathing, ragged and heavy.

“It came up suddenly,” Bert said, trying to keep his voice reassuring, even and calm, “We’re keeping a close eye on him. It isn’t a big deal, I just don’t want you finding out later and being too worried. I know he likes to write you.”

George audibly swallowed, then muttered out, “Are you sure it’s just a lung infection? Shouldn’t I be there?”

Bert’s tone grew firmer. “It’s not necessary for you to come right now. Stay where you are, and we’ll let you know if anything changes. It’s better if we keep things contained for now.”

The call ended, and Bert sat in silence, listening to the cars outside the window rush by, feeling the weight of everything so suddenly pushing him down, shoving him deep into the earth. He had never felt this terrible before.

Mary walked into the room, closing the heavy door behind her with a thud, coat pulled over her costume from earlier. She looked exhausted, but despite her fatigue, Bert couldn’t help but notice how striking she was at this moment. Tired, hair unpinned, bags under her eyes, what was left of her makeup smudged, and beautiful. That was his Mary. His wife. The love of his life. What he’d given everything up for.

She slumped into the chair by the bed, “I didn’t know it would go that far.’ she said, “I had no idea.”

“How is he?” Bert said.

Mary shrugged, “They say he’ll probably be fine. We should… call George–”

Bert felt a brief moment of satisfaction, “Already did. Said that he should stay away, that Jack is having some health difficulties, but everything is okay.”

Mary suddenly changed, she took one of her shoes off and tossed it across the room. It landed with a thud, “Bert, what if he died? What if I came in here and he had died and we had just horribly deceived that man about his son?”

Bert felt a surge of anger, “He didn’t die. And do you want that man here, getting in the way?”

Mary shrugged.

The next morning, Bert made his way down the hospital hallways, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare on the tiled floors. Inside, the room was bright, uninviting, lit by harsh overhead lights that illuminated every corner with a greenish clarity. It was the color, the feeling, of sickness.

Jack lay motionless in the bed. The bright hiss of the ventilator was a steady, unsettling backdrop to the otherwise still room, with a tube snaking from down his throat up into it. He looked almost dead, like a corpse being kept alive.

Jack didn’t look like himself. His dark eyes, barely open, had a distant, unfocused look. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths, each a struggle. He wondered how that felt, really, to have a machine breathing for him. He wondered if it hurt.

Bert pulled up a chair next to the bed, it’s cold plastic seat feeling uncomfortable against his legs. He placed his hand over Jack’s, feeling the cool, damp skin. He leaned in, his voice a soft, strained whisper. “You’re going to be okay, Jack. Just hang in there.” he wasn’t sure if he meant it, or if he had any right to say it.

A nurse entered, a flabby old woman with a crisp white uniform. She adjusted the IV drip, glancing over at Bert, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “He’s probably much too sedated to know what’s going on. Don’t waste your energy.”

Bert tried to keep his mind off the show for just a moment, focus on the moment at hand, the next ten minutes. But it was all doomed. He knew it then and there. It was all over.

Mirrors

Jack had been fascinated by mirrors as long as he could remember. When he was 3 years old in the living room, his parents would dance to the radio. Sitting on the floor, he’d try to follow their reflections in the mirror on the mantle. He hoped that one day, the mirror would reveal its weakness and mess up, show something that didn’t happen, or be a few seconds behind, but it never was. Jack thought it was magical.

Mary didn’t like mirrors, or rather she thought they had their time and place in life. She had removed the mirror from the bathroom, and replaced it with a handful of standing mirrors throughout the house. They were covered in sheets, and when she needed to use them, she’d dramatically toss the sheet off.

The guest room, which Jack occasionally made his own, had one of those closets with mirrors on the door. When they’d slide they’d make a horrible, vicious screeching noise, so Jack usually just kept it open when he was around.

The most annoying part of those doors was the fact that when he laid in the bed, he’d see himself in them across the room. Jack liked looking at himself, but not at night.

When Mary fired him, she told him to go back to New York and, pressing her key into his hand, instructed him to recover at her home, not with whatever dancer he could convince to let him crash. He appreciated it, but those doors.

Putting down his bag, Jack looked around the room. It’d been a few months since he’d been around Mary’s. Robert couldn’t stand him, they’d argue, Jack would be thrown out. Mary would always say that he could always come here, but Jack wasn’t stupid, and he liked the adventure of finding somewhere new every week. It really showed him who his friends were. Despite that, this room still held elements of Jack’s past life.

Mary called it Jack’s closet, because anything he couldn’t bring around with him lived in here. There was a bag that Jack had brought with him when he was a child, with old shoes and some clothing, books from the Minneapolis Central Library that were well overdue, and letters from his mother. There were a few notebooks, full of sketches and notes from Jack’s time working on Mary’s shows. There was a bit of clothing, nicer things that Jack didn’t really wear, most of it he had actually kinda outgrown, but it wasn’t like he planned to wear them again.

In the mirror, Jack caught his own eye. He looked sick. He looked gray. His eyes were sunken in, his hair was weighed down, sinking past his shoulders, tangled in the back. But he looked thin, for the most part, the steroids had added some weight to him, and strong enough, he still looked like a dancer. Maybe. If he squinted. It had only been a week at Boston General, he didn’t understand how he had deteriorated so rapidly. He’d been in perfect physical condition.

The doctors had been rude, the nurses worse. Jack didn’t know his American history very well, but he was pretty sure there was nothing in the US constitution that meant he had to live. He’d tried to explain this, and they only got more fixated on keeping him alive. His arms were still all bruised up from the IV needles.

They’d sent him home and told him to follow up with a specialist in the city, but Jack didn’t plan to do that. He had a better idea

Jack, during the show, hadn’t been sleeping. He’d take 3 tablets of dexedrine, a gift from Mary, at intermission every day, and that would keep him up all night. He’d feel locked in, his body heavy, exhausted, every muscle tense and painful, staring at the ceiling, feeling his chest rise, until morning came and he was right back up. He must’ve slept at least a little bit, but he certainly didn’t remember it.

Dancers stuck together though, and eventually through trading some of the Dexies, he got his hands on a bottle of Librium. That let him sleep! It was excellent.

And he still had it. Most of it, at least.

And today, looking at himself in the mirror, he was going to take them all.

It was really a double whammy – all of them alone would probably put him in a coma, and just in case, with the state of his lungs, he wouldn’t be able to breathe. It was almost certain. Mary and Bert wouldn’t be around for another week, there was no chance he’d be found until it was too late. It was perfect. It was infallible.

He took 5 of the 10 pills and unbuttoned his shirt. He had one more thing to do. He went to the kitchen and dialed on the phone. He wanted to tell his parents that he’d been fired. They’d learn eventually, but he wanted to be the one to tell them.

Bert hated when he made long distance calls, but Mary always said it was okay, as long as it was his parents.

An unfamiliar voice answered the phone, maybe the stupid operator had connected him to the wrong household.

“Hi.” It was someone young, a little girl maybe, “Let me get Dad.”

It clicked. Jack knew who it was.

“No.” He said, “It’s okay. I can talk to you.”

“I’m not supposed to talk on the phone.” The little girl rambled, “I’ll get Daddy, he’s in the yard.”

“No.” Jack said, “Can I just tell you? I’m your brother, it’s okay.”

The little girl went quiet for a while then groaned, “Okay. But I’m not getting in trouble for it.”

Jack held back a laugh, “I’m just calling to say I got fired. And I’m quitting forever. So you can expect some real big news!”

The little girl didn’t say anything.

“Hello?” Jack said.

Silence.

Jack hung the phone up.

By then the wooziness of the Librium had hit in and he stumbled into the room again. It was over.

But it wasn’t.

Sun dripped in from the inch at the bottom over the blinds, spreading out over the room. Jack found himself, head pounding, on the floor. His chest heavy, when Jack first realized he was still alive he considered just laying there to see if that heaviness would eventually overtake him. But it didn’t, and eventually Jack succumbed to the discomfort of the floor and climbed into bed. He caught himself in the mirror door, looking worse than before.

That was it. That was the worst part about it. He had tried to do the one thing he was supposed to do, the one thing he had spent the past five years training and planning and learning for, and he had failed. Jack had given up so much for it: his family, his schooling, friends, his time, his name. But in an instant, it was all gone. Mary had invested blood, sweat, and tears, into him and he’d fucked it all up. Jack had fucked up the one thing he was supposed to do. It wasn’t a surprise that he wasn’t allowed to die, then that the world was going to keep him here to live out his humiliation, really making him look like a failure in their eyes. Or maybe he was such a fuck up he couldn’t even properly kill himself. Jack wasn’t very smart, he wasn’t good looking, no one really liked him, and he couldn’t even dance. He couldn’t even dance! He wondered if Mary had been lying to him all these years, if everyone had been lying to him all these years, or if Jack had tricked them all into thinking he was capable of it, or really capable of anything. All these people had loved him and he let them down. Twice.

Jack could’ve tried again. Lying there he could think of about 20 other ways he could do it. There were lots more pills in the cabinet, Jack might not know what all they do but if he took lots of them… Jack knew where Mary kept her stash, too. The windows in the front room were big enough to climb out of. There were razors in the bathroom and knives in the kitchen. That is what Jack really wanted. That was the perfect way to go out. Too perfect. It made his stomach twist.

Jack stayed in bed the rest of the day, only climbing out early the next morning. He enjoyed the silence for once, avoiding opening the windows or even the blinds, letting in as little sound or light as possible. It was like a cave. He looked through their liquor cabinet. Neither Bert nor Mary were much drinkers. Neither was Jack. He’d tried beer when he was a kid and anything else that his dancer friends would give him, but he had been 18 for almost 2 months now and he’d yet to have a real drink.

Everything in the cabinet was old, dusty, and most of it was gone. He decided on the one unopened bottle, creme de menthe. Sitting down at the table, he cracked it open and took a swig. He winced at the taste. Why did Mary keep this around?

Regardless, he muscled through it. He got a quarter of the way through the bottle before the nausea took him over and he laid his head down on the table.

“Jack?”

Jack looked up. The Corey’s maid, Shirley, was standing at the entrance of the room. She’d opened the blinds. She looked pathetic, standing in that stupid white dress with her hands crossed over her heavy frame. Why was she here?

“Why are you here?” Jack hissed, trying to sound confident despite the pounding headache, nausea, and overwhelming scent of mint.

“Mrs. Corey asked me to come in every other day to get the mail.” She said, “I am surprised to see you.”

She passed Jack, grabbing the bottle from next to him and putting it back in the cabinet. She went into the kitchen.

“Why are you all the way in here?” Jack said, “Shouldn’t you just drop off the mail —?”

She returned a few moments later, looking serious, “I thought someone was here and investigated. But it’s just you.” She crossed back to the entrance, “I’d recommend vodka if you want to drink at 9 in the morning. Vodka vomit is a lot easier to clean up off the carpets.”

Jack stood up, “I can do whatever I want.” He said. Which was true. Which was amazing. Managing to stay upright, he spun around and pulled the creme de menthe bottle out of the cabinet, then flung it at Shirley with all his strength. It shattered on the wall only inches from her head. She screamed and stumbled back.

Jack felt something, maybe just a pang of nausea or maybe guilt, as he watched the green liquid soak into her white dress and drip down the walls, gathering at the white baseboard. He pushed past her and went back down the hall. He entered his room and stood at the mirror door, then sat right in front of it, watching himself.

Hours later, as it was getting dark, he left, standing silently in the dark hallway, hoping for a sign that she was gone. She was. The house was dark. He stuck his head in the dining room. The walls and floors were not stained green, in fact, other than the broken bottle being sat on a tray on the table, there was no remnant left of what had happened at all.

There was a note by the broken bottle, “Jack, think about what you’ve done. – Shirley”

Jack crumbled it up and pressed it into his pocket, then grabbed the tray. He carried it into the kitchen and dumbed the glass into the trash can, then tossed the tray into the sink. It landed with a loud clatter. It made his skin crawl and his ears ring. He lowered himself to the floor. He hated the kitchen. He hated the kitchen and he hated himself and he hated the kitchen. He hated everything it stood for. He wanted it all to end. But he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve a chance for it to end. He deserved to suffer through it for the rest of his worthless life.

He forced himself up, and went back into the other room to sleep.

Thus became his new routine for the next 4 days. Wake up, drink until he felt too sick to, puke it up, and sleep, and do it all over again. He did nothing else. He did not shower or change or open the windows to get fresh air. He ignored the phone when it rang. He ignored the doorbell. He ignored Shirley. He definitely did not eat. This was what he was allowed to do and it was what he deserved to do. This was Jack’s right and obligation.

On the 5th day Jack heard Mary and Robert come home. He stayed in bed. He waited for them to come to him. 6 hours turned to 12 and finally at around 10:30pm, Robert knocked on his door.

“Jackson.” He said.

Jack half sat up, pretending to not have been listening to everything and anything the entire day. Robert entered.

“Don’t touch our liquor.” He hissed, “Unless you intend to pay for it.”

Robert turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Master of Dysfunction

Mary hated doing this. As long as she’d known this kid, she’d hated playing this part the most. She’d known it was part of the deal, that by getting this wonderfully talented dancer in her life, developing him into a protege, she’d occasionally have to put her foot down and talk to him like he was, she wished he wasn’t, a teenage boy.

Mary and Bert had been home for 2 days. Shirley, the maid, had confirmed on the phone that Jack had arrived over a week ago. She’d also reported that she found him drinking straight from a bottle of creme de menthe. Mary doubted this till Bert and her got in, and found every bottle in their liquor cabinet completely empty. Jack had been nice enough to toss a couple of them out, too.

Bert had lost his lid, hissed that he’d throw the Jack out. They’d argued about it. Then they fought about it. He’d shoved her by the pantry door, her back struck the handle. There was a nasty bruise there, now. She’d conceded to him, told him to feel free to throw Jack out. Jack, who’d been in the ICU only a few weeks ago. She stood in the hallway listening when he went into Jack’s room to argue with him.

Jack didn’t argue, and Bert didn’t yell. Bert approached her a few moments later, closing the door behind him, nose scrunched, looking dull.

“We gotta send that boy back to Minneapolis.” He sighed, “Or we’re going to be in real trouble.”

Mary didn’t know what that meant, and didn’t ask as he swiped her off her feet and brought her into the living room, his hand pressing into her bruise. The weirdest things made that man want to love her.

It had been two days since then, and Mary hadn’t actually seen Jack. She’d heard him leave the room late at night, going to the bathroom maybe, but she’d yet to actually see his face or hear his voice. It was getting nerve wracking. She didn’t want him to hate her.

Jack had really messed things up for the show. Bert had cast an old buddy of his. He was taller and handsomer, and older, and really made much more sense as the male ingenue, and he could sing, but he couldn’t dance. Sure, Jack couldn’t do it all, but he could still dance. This guy couldn’t dance. But he’d come in and he’d learned his lines in a few days and Rod added back in a few songs they’d cut and it was going to be okay, probably.

Maybe. The show felt worthless to her without Jack. Jack was why she’d done it. Sure, she wanted to be on stage, but more importantly she’d wanted Jack to be there with her. Mary could do better than musicals, she’d always known this, but to shape someone up and put them on stage is more impressive than being able to dance yourself.

It wasn’t really Jack’s fault. She knew that, logically. It wasn’t like Jack intended it. Jack was young, he didn’t know what he was doing. She’d failed to show him how to maintain himself. It was hard for her to think about him that way. Like a child in need of being told what to do. Jack had never been that to her. Jack had always been more like a friend, a colleague, his age just happened to be lower than the rest of her friend’s. But seeing him collapse on stage, watching as the first aid guy tried to talk to him, and then the paramedics hauled him off, he looked like a child. Small and shaking and wide eyed…

But at the same time, she couldn’t help but be frustrated at him. He could’ve said something. He could’ve done something. He could’ve… She didn’t know. If Jack couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it. She’d put so much time into thinking he could, but she must’ve been wrong. She kept having that feeling of anger and resentment and frustration bubble up, and she’d have to make note of it before shoving it down. They’d probably have a frank discussion about it eventually, really sit down and piece together what went wrong, but it wasn’t the time.

Mary stood in the entrance of his room. She liked when Jack stayed around. It wasn’t always great for her and Bert, but when Jack was around it meant he couldn’t be late to meet her and she always had someone to talk to. It was company, and sometimes she really needed company.

The room was stuffy and sweaty. She crossed to the window and opened it just a crack, just enough to let the air in. Mary didn’t mind stuffy but she couldn’t stand sweaty. Jack, in bed, was laying face down, one hand pressed under his forehead and the other under the pillow. She twisted the knob on the lamp on the bedside table till it clicked and lit up and tinted half the room a warm white. Jack mumbled something and pressed his head harder down into the pillow.

She thought about sitting on the bed, maybe at his feet or next to him. That felt like the motherly thing to do. Like what her mother did when she was sick with chicken pox as a child. She wished Bert could’ve done it instead. Bert had a daughter. He knew how to deal with kids. But that also felt wrong. Jack wasn’t her kid. Jack wasn’t even really a child at all anymore. That ship had sailed. She didn’t know if he ever really had been.

Instead, she crossed her legs and sat on the floor next to the bed.

“Jack.” She tried to soften her voice, then gave up and repeated herself normally, “Jack. Come on. Don’t ignore me.”

Jack shifted to look at her, revealing his face finally. It was odd to see him with facial hair, even if it was just a bit. He looked older, especially with the eye bags, and the bit of shiny sweat on the bridge of his nose, and his dull eyes. He was sorta handsome in a greasy way.

“I’m sorry.” He said, croaking it out, pitiful and shaky, “I didn’t want to mess it up.” his chest heaved as he started to sob, truly bawl.

Mary had to look away, looking instead at the mirror door on the closet across the room, catching herself in the corner. She looked old.

“I want you to come on as my assistant.” She said, “I told you I wasn’t going to forget about you, and that’s what I want to do. I know it’s not ideal, but I really need your help on this one.”

Jack shifted away and burrowed his face back into the pillow. She reached up, and didn’t know what to do with her hand. She just held there for a second, half an inch away from Jack’s head. Then lowered slowly and gave him a quick pat. It was like petting a dog. She folded her arms back over her chest.

“We can talk about it tomorrow.” She said, “If you want to think about it. But it’s…” she hesitated, then let it go, “It’s either assistant or you’re going back to Minneapolis. You know which one I want.”

She stood up, turned the light back off, and left. Closing the door behind her, she leaned back and sighed. What did she ever do to deserve all this trouble?

The Operation

Summer, 1964.

A rehearsal for The Operation: A New Musical Comedy.

The energy in the room is odd, as JACK, 19 years old, is standing, looking unimpressed, as the dancers in front of him run through a number.

Bert Corey, among others, is watching, irritated.

JACK sighs and puts a hand up.

JACK

let’s- let’s stop this.

He approaches DANCER. She’s older, more experienced, and she cannot stand him. He puts a hand on her shoulder. Very condescending, and intentionally extremely rude.

JACK

When you were a baby did your parents throw you off the balcony? Because you dance like someone who has broken every bone in her body– are we at 10? Great. Let’s-

He goes quiet as the dancers split. He checks his watch and approaches Bert. Bert looks at him with equal amounts of resentment and gratitude.

JACK

If I don’t leave, I’m not going to make it in time to the studio. Unless, maybe she decided she was going to teach that instead of come here, do you think?

Bert sighs.

BERT

She’s just in her own head this morning. Go, it’ll be a problem if no one teaches the class.

JACK

Are you sure?

BERT

We’ll figure something out. She’ll probably be here soon.

JACK nods and leaves.

The Corey Arts Center.

JACK is standing at the reception desk. He is a bit out of breath. SANDY, sitting at the desk, is chatting with him.

SANDY is one of Jack’s very few friends, and she’s quite a bit older than him. She is a dancer, lapsed due to a broken ankle, currently.

SANDY

It’s a big class.

JACK

But they’re all- they know the deal, they’re not going to be mad it’s me instead of her?

SANDY

For the most part. Couple of newer people. They’re still going to complain, but I won’t let you know who.

JACK

Great. You know I am awful at dancing ballet, I don’t know why she trusts me to teach it.

SANDY

Probably because you look so adorable when you try. You need to sit down?

JACK

No, I’m fine. I ran here. I’m helping her at rehearsals of her next show and she didn’t show up, so I ended up… staying a bit longer than I meant to. And it’s raining out there.

Sandy laughs.

SANDY

The life you live.

JACK

What are you up to tonight?

SANDY

Not spending time with you, if that’s what you’re about to ask.

JACK starts to go.

JACK

I had a dream that you broke your other ankle. Maybe it’s a sign.

He leaves. Sandy rolls her eyes.

JACK in the stairwell. He fishes through his pockets and pulls out a mostly full bottle of Dexamyl. He pours one out, takes it, then continues up the stairs.

The class.

JACK is not great at ballet, and he’s not great at teaching it, he was right about that. Everyone in the room is more experienced than he is. He is feeling extremely self conscious, and irritated, and angry. This class also, perhaps because they did not pay money to be taught by a scrawny and nervous 19 year old, are also not particularly dedicated, they’re talking and rolling their eyes and otherwise being not super professional. Jack, feeling a bit out of control and very irritated, approaches CINDY.

CINDY is a newer dancer to the cult of the Coreys. She is actually around Jack’s age, and she’s very nervous. She’s honestly taking this pretty seriously.

JACK

I think it’s pretty interesting to me that you have- the nerve to show up here. Looking like you do. I mean,

He takes her arm.

No part of a dancer’s body should ever wobble like this. Look at this–

He addresses the group:

LOOK AT THIS! It’s disgusting. It’s embarrassing that anyone would show up looking like this, to this goddamn class, that you’re paying good money for. Everyone else here, all these pathetic, unserious, goddamn losers, at the very least, look the part. Now if only we could combine this room into a group of people who acted the part and looked the part! Not all of you are fat and disgusting, but a lot of you seem to think that this is a class for fat and disgusting people and you’re acting like it. So you can either take it seriously or join Ms. “Oink” here and go fuck off out of here.

CINDY

I didn’t – I don’t –

JACK

No, you bitch, don’t protest. You know I’m right. Go, fuck off, go fuck off- and you, you, and you, join her. Get out of here, if me telling you what I say bothers you, go gorge your feelings away like you’re probably going to do anyways.

CINDY and others leave. JACK feels empowered. He relaxes.

JACK

Let’s get back on task now, shouldn’t we? Because I’m being honest with you, I don’t get to make the decisions about who gets a refund when a class goes awry, but they do listen to me.

He smiles.

LATER.

JACK enters the Corey home.

Dick the PRODUCER, BERT, and WYATT are in the living room, mid-heated-conversation.

PRODUCER

We have to discuss the Mary problem, Robert, and I know you don’t want to hear it.

BERT

That’s not a fair assessment.

WYATT

How much money did you raise for this, Bert? She’s your wife, and you know how much I appreciate working with loved ones, but you gotta know when to drop it.

BERT

She’s a bit under the weather. That’s all.

WYATT

How many rehearsals has she missed?

BERT

How many rehearsals have you missed?

WYATT

I’ve got another show–

BERT notices JACK entering, Jack avoids eye contact.

BERT

The work has been getting done, that’s what matters.

PRODUCER

Jack isn’t hired onto the show! He is not working on this show-

BERT

Because Mary and I are paying him directly out of our own pockets. He is her assistant. He is working closely with her–

PRODUCER

But he isn’t Mary and he isn’t hired onto this show and he has been doing, at this point, most of the work. We’re getting to a point where I’m not sure we can ever say she’s the choreographer!

Bert shoots Jack a look, Jack steps forward. No one, but Bert, looks at him.

WYATT

She at least needs to be around.

JACK

Everything I’ve been doing has been all her, just for the record.

PRODUCER

Bert, he’s not working for us, he shouldn’t –

BERT

He lives here, Dick. If you want to meet with me in my living room you’re going to run into–

WYATT

We’ll run into him before we run into Mary? Bert, I’ve been trying to keep myself out of this show as much as I can, this is you two’s project, I’m here because I love my job, but you’re making it real hard. This is a mess. It’s a great big mess. You need to consider taking her off this show, for the show’s sake, for your sake. You put a substantial investment in this show. Now you’re paying this kid, out of your own pocket, to do the work that we raised money for? Do you understand how absurd this is?

PRODUCER

You need to be more open with what is going on. She’s your wife but she’s also the choreographer, she’s here to work and she isn’t doing that.

JACK goes into the other room. SHIRLEY, the maid, is cleaning the dining room table. JACK watches her for a moment.

SHIRLEY

Hello, Jack.

JACK

Hi. Have you seen Mary today? I left early this morning.

SHIRLEY

No.

JACK gives a huh.

JACK is, annoyingly, stretching against the counter in the kitchen, as he reads a letter.

Bert enters. He lights his cigarette on the burner.

BERT

Stop doing that.

JACK

Sorry.

JACK stops stretching. He folds the letter up and puts it into his pocket. He starts to go, but BERT stops him.

BERT

I don’t think you understand how embarrassing it is for us. How hurtful it is. I bet you’re out here enjoying it all, liking the goddamn ego boost, but it is painful, painful watching her struggle. You shouldn’t feel proud.

JACK

I’m not.

BERT

Do- do you understand what I’m saying when I- you ruined her life, do you get that?

JACK

How’d I-

BERT

The moment you showed up here all you’ve been doing is tearing her down, bit by bit, I’ve watched her go from everything to nothing. She used to light up a room. Now what does she do? You showed up and now you’re trying to outshine her, getting all those people to think you’re anything, it’s pathetic. It’s pathetic and it’s embarrassing and it’s hurtful. You don’t even care how much you hurt her.

JACK

Where is she?

BERT

Chicago. She’s visiting her mother. And probably looking for someone to give her pills. She’ll be back next week. Dick and Wyatt are here for dinner, not just to talk you up. I’ll be breaking that news to them. I’m going to give you a list, think you could manage picking it up?

The living room.

WYATT and PRODUCER sit chatting.

JACK walks past them and out the door.

In the hallway, Jack takes out the bottle fo Dexamyl again. He reads the label a bit, then pours out 7 or so capsules. He takes them, one by one, swallowing hard, as he heads down the stairs.

A GROCERY STORE.

Jack is sorta wandering mindlessly, his head is somewhere else. He grabs a jar of peanut butter. He looks at it long and hard. This was before food labeling standards so he’s really just staring it down. He puts it back. He picks it up again, as if he’s considering it, but puts it back.

A small child rushes at full speed around the corner and into his leg. Jack steps away as the kid sorta stumbles down. Jack kneels and helps the kid up.

JACK

Careful, kid, you’ll hurt yourself. You don’t want to do that.

Jack is slurring his words. Which he recognizes and finds a bit funny. He grins as the child’s embarrassed mother approaches, corralling her child behind her.

CHILD’S MOTHER

So sorry. Stanley, say you’re sorry.

JACK

Look, ma’am, children are people. Sometimes they run and sometimes they fall. It happens.

JACK walks away, pleased with himself.

Jack is standing in line with a few things in his arms. He should’ve grabbed a basket. Idiot. His ears are ringing, he’s sweating, he’s tapping his foot. But other than that, he’s doing great. This is like Jack at his finest. A real upstanding citizen.

He finally gets to the front of the line. He puts his items down and the cashier bags them. Jack is utterly smitten by the cashier. He watches the guy in awe.

CASHIER

That’s 2.75.

Jack pays, then glances at the Cashier’s nametag.

JACK

You’re terrific, Stephen. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not.

Jack leaves, bag in hand.

Jack stands outside. It’s early evening. Everything is very busy. He is a bit overwhelmed and irritated, but mostly just tired and dizzy. He wills himself up, tries to remember to keep feeling good, and walks off.

THE COREY LIVING ROOM.

The atmosphere is a lot calmer now. It’s the same folks as before, but now they’re all smoking and drinking instead of arguing. There is a small plate of snacks, crackers and meat and stuff, on the table between them.

WYATT

I’m just saying that this show is, as I see it, a good use of our time, but we have to use this time wisely.

PRODUCER

Your father used to tell me that time was the only thing we couldn’t control when it came to this business.

WYATT

I certainly didn’t come from a family of geniuses, now did I?

BERT

I think we all have much more control than we think we do.

JACK enters and heads, with the bag, straight to the kitchen.

BERT

Excellent. I can get dinner started.

A moment. PRODUCER sits back..

PRODUCER

So, why does he live here? Is it some sordid dynamic we’re not hip enough to understand?

WYATT

I’ve seen that type of dynamic, I’d hope it’s not that.

BERT

He comes from a bad family. Mary and I are doing him a favor. Keeping him working, keeping him out of trouble.

PRODUCER

So, he’s family?

WYATT

That’s sweet. He reminds me of my son, a bit.

PRODUCER

How is sweet Pete?

WYATT

Doing excellently at Columbia–

BERT

(Perturbed)

He’s not family. He’s Mary’s student. That’s all.

BERT goes into the other room.

JACK is sitting at the dining room table, he is kinda staring blankly across the room. He has the bottle of Dexamyl in his hand, tilting it back and forth.

The bag is on the table.

Bert gives him a pat on the back as he grabs the bag.

BERT

Took you long enough.

JACK

It was busy.

BERT

Join us, please, in the living room.

JACK

Why? You don’t want me there. They don’t want me there. I don’t want me there.

BERT

Because you’re an adult and adults do what they don’t want to do for the sake of keeping yourself employed.

Jack thinks for a minute.

JACK

Fine.

BERT

Thank you, buddy.

BERT goes into the kitchen. JACK follows.

JACK

Why are you suddenly being nice to me?

BERT

I don’t know what you mean… because you’re not being a shithead. It’s easy Jack, you do what I want you to do, when I tell you to do it, then we coexist. You think I want to scream at you all the time?

Jack nods. Bert disregards this.

BERT

Well I don’t. I used to want you gone, but now you’ve made yourself useful, I don’t mind having you around. You understand that? I know you think it’s always been something personal between us, but it’s not, it’s simple cause and effect. You’re nice to me, I’m nice to you. You keep giving me that look, I’m going to burn you with my cigarette. So on and so on.

JACK gets himself a glass of water, then takes another pill.

BERT

You’re gonna hurt yourself if you take too many of those.

Jack downs the glass of water.

JACK

They make me pretty good, I’d say. Just very dry. They keep me thin, they keep me dancing, and they make me good.

Bert throws whatever 60s monstrosity he’s been making into the oven.

BERT

(Humored)

Maybe you should take more.

Jack does not need to be told twice. Bert grabs the bottle. Bert puts it up on top of the fridge.

BERT

Two is too many. Don’t be dumb.

JACK, somehow feeling like he’s won, goes into the other room.

THE LIVING ROOM.

Jack is sitting across from WYATT and PRODUCER. He’s not talking to them, nor is he smoking or drinking like they are. He’s doing the real great American pastime, chewing his nails down to the quick.

It’s a pretty quiet, low-key gathering, but to Jack it’s too much. It’s too loud, it’s too bright, and these people are too annoying.

PRODUCER

I’m always so impressed by how Bert pulls people together.

WYATT

It is California. That’s what it is. You work there for long enough, it changes you.

PRODUCER

I’m considering it.

WYATT

If you consider it enough you’ll talk yourself out of it. That’s what I told Annie.

PRODUCER

Sweet Annie, how is she?

WYATT

Busy with her younger boys. Busy busy busy.

BERT enters and takes a seat next to JACK.

BERT

10 minutes.

BERT grabs JACK’s hand. He presses a Dexamyl capsule into his hand. He leans in and whispers.

BERT

You might as well.

Bert looks back at the others. Jack takes a pill.

BERT

Can you imagine what this show will look like when we have the hats?

WYATT

I’m thrilled.

PRODUCER

I still don’t understand why we couldn’t save money and get the replicas.

BERT

It’ll be a reason that people come, Dick.

WYATT

Oh, absolutely.

PRODUCER

Who cares about some fancy European hats?

BERT

Plenty of people.

PRODUCER

Beyond homosexuals?

WYATT

They’re people too.

BERT

Oh, Wyatt, don’t tell me you’re sympathetic to that cause.

WYATT

I’m sympathetic to all people.

BERT looks at his watch, then at Jack.

BERT

Buddy, would you do me a favor and set the table?

JACK goes into the other room. He sorta stumbles.

PRODUCER

Is he alright?

BERT

Bit of a drug problem. Side effect of that bad family.

WYATT

You’re kidding.

PRODUCER

I couldn’t tell in the rehearsal room. Sharp as a damn tack.

BERT

Mary’s been so heartbroken about it. Trying her hardest to get the kid to quit, but alas, you cannot force that on someone.

WYATT

Is that why he collapsed in your last show?

BERT

(quietly)

Yes, but we’ve been trying to save the poor kid’s face and saying it’s asthma. And I’d appreciate it if you kept that narrative the same.

Wyatt looks so sad. PRODUCER shakes his head.

PRODUCER

Kids these days… Do you remember when pot was enough?

Laughter.

THE DINING ROOM.

The conversation is still lively, even if Jack has clearly never been told to set a table before. Jack is barely conscious, not eating, sitting with one knee up, watching.

This is so, unbelievably, awkward for WYATT and PRODUCER. They’re ignoring him.

BERT

Mary will be back next week.

WYATT

I do wish you’d told us this originally.

BERT

She didn’t call until you were already here. Thought I’d at least give us a good meal before I broke the news to you.

PRODUCER

California, you’re right.

Laughter.

WYATT

I guess I can’t fault her for a family emergency.

PRODUCER

But, Bert, this isn’t just a week. It’s a lot more than that.

BERT

We’ll figure it out, won’t we.

PRODUCER

We don’t have half the second act choreographed at all. We’re already behind on schedule.

PRODUCER takes a quick, mildly disgusted look at Jack.

BERT

But what we do have is excellent. Mary can be a very quick worker. Give us a week, she comes back, we’ll have it all figured out by then.

WYATT takes a quick, pitying glance at Jack.

WYATT

Bobby, I think we should consider–

BERT

There’s no one else, pal, and you know it. Mary and I have this. I didn’t just hire her because she’s my wife. She’s the best damn choreographer alive.

PRODUCER

No use denying it, I guess.

BERT

We’ll get through this.

Later. JACK is half awake on the sofa as BERT says goodbye to the others. Once they’re gone, Bert lights a cigarette and takes a seat across from Jack.

BERT

You embarrassed yourself, you know that?

JACK

I don’t care.

BERT

I certainly wouldn’t ever hire you.

JACK

I wouldn’t want you to. Maybe I should take the rest of them, kill myself right here.

BERT

Yeah, bud, do it. But maybe do it in the elevator, only way anyone would ever notice.

Bert pours himself a drink.

He gets up, goes into the other room, and returns with the bottle of pills. He puts it down on the coffee table, right next to the mostly eaten plate of cheese. He puts his feet up, sits back, relaxes.

Jack, for what it is worth, doesn’t have the energy to do anything, he just lays his head down onto the armrest.