Brooklyn on Fire by Lawrence H. Levy Read Free Book Online Page B

she was not performing the same movements and gestures as the others was minute compared to the clear difference between being truthful and being artificial. So when the chorus looked down, she looked up. When they stepped to the right, she stepped to the left. At one point, Abigail collided with another actor.
    In a very short time and after howls of laughter, the curtain came down, only to be raised a few minutes later with one less Woman of Mycenae in the cast. Abigail wasn’t nearly as upset at being fired as she was at the audience’s reaction. She thought,
How could people be so shallow?
How could they fail to see what was so clearly presented in front of them?
She had decided from that moment on that no one’s opinion would matter except for her own. She would not only dig deeply into each role she played and become the truthful incarnation of the playwright’s intent, but she also had no need for her art to be confined to a theater. She would no longer be Abigail Corday in everyday life but rather the characters she portrayed or wanted to portray. That way she would not only attain more insight into her roles but also give people who never went to the theater, like her local grocer in Brooklyn, the benefit of experiencing true art anywhere, anytime. One day she would be Ophelia in Shakespeare’s
Hamlet,
another she’d be Agnès in Molière’s
The
School for Wives,
and yet another Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’s
Agamemnon
. When she got bored with portraying someone else’s creation, she would invent her own characters or portray people she knew or had casually met, making up histories for them to fill in what she didn’t know. Shakespeare had written, “All the world’s a stage,” and she would take it literally.
    Abigail dismissed the many who snickered at her. And much to her delight, there were some who appreciated her efforts. An occasional pedestrian would toss her a coin. Her butcher gave her a free piece of meat, and she got hired to play the part of someone’s mother at a birthday party. It filled her with hope and encouraged her to continue.
    Abigail Corday was no more. Only greatness remained.

    M ARY, G EORGE V ANDERBILT, and the Huntingtons were having cocktails and lunch at a crowded saloon on Third Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. Mostly frequented by Irish laborers, it was a rowdy place, hardly known for catering to the upper crust of New York.
    “My goodness, Arabella,” exclaimed George, surprised and enjoying the atmosphere, “I learn more about you every time I see you. I never would have imagined you patronized places like this.”
    “I must confess I’ve never been here before. But I thought Miss Handley might feel more comfortable dining here.”
    “Mother!” Archer interjected. “I’m certain it wasn’t your intention, but I do believe you’ve insulted Miss Handley.”
    “As usual, you’re absolutely correct, Archer,” Arabella said with a sigh. “I apologize for my behavior. I do tend to get testy when people aren’t being forthright with me. I’m sure Miss Handley can understand that. Can’t you, Miss Handley?”
    As she turned to Mary with a pointed stare, the waiter delivered their food to the table. He was an unshaven, grubby-looking man whose clothes were as unkempt as his person. The chill running through Arabella’s body was almost visible, but Mary decided that no matter how amusing the woman’s discomfort might be, she had to stay focused.
    “Please excuse my little charade near your home earlier.”
    “A charade?” George interrupted. “That sounds like fun.”
    “Not now, George,” Mary replied.
    “But I insist. I want to know. I
need
to know.”
    “I will tell you at another time. I promise.”
    “Good. It’s a date then.” George slyly smiled. Intrigued and interested, Mary smiled back.
    “Mrs. Huntington, it might be more prudent if we have this discussion in private.”
    “Please, there is nothing you can tell me that I can’t share with