Acts of Love by Judith Michael Page A

do and in any event was exhausted and so could not go upstairs with her when he took her home. But what he really had wanted was just what he finally had: silence, the seclusion of his library, and a tray provided by Martin with a sandwich in case he was hungry, cognac, coffee and a bowl of pistachios placed conveniently at his right hand.
    He sat for a time, enjoying the silence. He watched a newscast on television, then enjoyed the silence again, letting the day unwind in his thoughts like a movie reel, speeding up, slowing down, reversing.
    They had a cast for The Magician, or they would have one by tomorrow when they filled the minor parts. Marilyn was working on sets; Fritz was agonizing, as he always did; the theater was booked, the rehearsal space rented, the first run-through set for Thursday. Everything was on schedule.
    He finished his cognac and reached out to put the glass on the tray, and his glance fell on the box of Jessica’s letters. No time tonight. I’m too tired. But he continued to gaze at the box. Well, maybe just one.
    Dearest Constance, I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long; I’ve missed writing to you even though we talk on the telephone now. It really is wonderful to hear your voice (even better to be with you, oh, so long ago now . . . wasn’t that a splendid day we had together at my graduation?) but there’s something special about letters so I decided to write this time instead of calling. I was sorry to leave Steppenwolf—those were the most wonderful two years of my life and I’ve never learned so much so fast—but you were right: Anna Christie on Broadway is much more important. Did I tell you what Phil Ballan said when he called? This was how it went:
    Deep, deep voice: “Miss Fontaine, I was in Chicago last week and caught the latest play at Steppenwolf.” Then he stopped and it took me a minute to understand that he was waiting for me to say something. “Really?” said I, just a trifle breathlessly. His voice got deeper. “I must tell you that I have never been as impressed with a performance at Steppenwolf as I was with yours.” He stopped again, waiting, and I said, “Oh, thank you”—so unutterably dull— why couldn’t I think of something clever? But I couldn’t quite get myself together because except for you nobody from Broadway has ever told me I’m really good. “And,” he said, dragging it out like Santa with his presents, “we want you to come to New York and read for Anna Christie. I think you’ll be an absolutely splendid Anna. And I’m never wrong about my judgement.” Another time I might have laughed, but not this time: he could have whinnied like a horse and I would have thought it was a beautiful sound. And then he said, “Are you still there? You’re coming to New York?” and “Yes!” burst out of me, and then I apologized because I thought I’d blown that poor man’s ear off through the telephone.
    So now here I am, back in New York—so enormous and hectic after Chicago and my “family” at Steppenwolf, but in another way a lot of fun: like walking into a huge party where I don’t know anyone but they all look familiar. I found a tiny apartment in SoHo; it barely has room to turn around but it has a window and for about forty minutes a day it gets sunshine. Of course I’m almost never home for those forty minutes, but it’s nice to know it’s there anyway. Isn’t it amazing how little sunshine we see when we’re working on a play? It’s like we forget what daylight looks like. I’ve had two long talks with the director about how to play Anna; he has some ideas I never thought of that might work. The best part is, he cares about what I think and I’ve thought about nothing else but playing Anna since that phone call so I have some very definite ideas of my own. Do you