Francie Comes Home (12 page)

They had not, as a society, said anything of the sort or expressed any such conviction, but his eyes were fixed reproachfully on Francie as he spoke, and she knew what he meant. It was exactly what she had hoped for at the beginning. She left moved to defend herself. “We do want to do all that,” she said, “but whatever we try must be done right, especially the first play. And if we try to put on something grand and difficult and fail, we'll get an awful slap in the face. It might kill the whole thing.”

“This town is nothing but a bunch of Philistines,” said the intellectual young man hotly.

“It is not!” said Francie, as stung as if she had not often made the same remark. “I keep telling all of you, there are plenty of beautiful little short plays. I'm very keen on Yeats myself. There's one of his,
The Land of Heart's Desire
, that we just couldn't go wrong on. Do let's have a shot at that, Lucky.”

Lucky muttered something unkind about Celtic twilight, but Francie persuaded the society to have a trial reading nevertheless. In vain: they didn't like Yeats as much as she thought they ought to. She reflected that the effect was ruined, anyway, by the way it was read. They had to circulate one book round and round the circle. There were never enough volumes, naturally, for everybody to have one to hold during a reading. Chadbourne attempted to overcome the difficulty and give everybody a chance to feel that he was participating in the proceedings at the same time by suggesting that they take turns reading the parts in tryout.

“It will give us practice as well,” she explained, pink and earnest. “It ought to make a very nice impression, and give us an idea of the way the play sounds at the same time. You know the technique—like
John Brown's Body
.”

Alas, their early attempts didn't sound in the least like
John Brown's Body
. It was much more like the reading hour in grammar school, and was guaranteed to spoil the effect of the most rugged lines. Abandoning
The Cherry Orchard
, which was Mrs. Fredericks's idea, they listened to Bruce and turned their attention to Dunsany,
The Gods of the Mountain
. That wasn't too good either. In fact, it was even worse. “We'll have to learn a lot more before we attempt that play,” Bruce admitted.

Lottie Fredericks had drifted in one evening to perch like an impatient butterfly on the edge of a chair, listening to the arguments. Finally she spoke up. She said she couldn't understand why nobody had yet thought of suggesting
Lady Precious Stream
. It was a charming play! You wouldn't have to worry much about scenery, as everybody knew the
Chinese used their imaginations instead of backdrops
. But with the exception of Chadbourne, who always listened with adoring open-mouthed attention to whatever her mother had to say, this contribution left them cold: whimsy was not their dish in Jefferson.

So it went. Shakespeare was rather wistfully proffered by the intellectual boy, but Lucky promptly quashed that; he said he couldn't possibly face directing anything as difficult as the
Dream
or, worse, one of the tragedies. No, no Shakespeare, said Bruce. Chadbourne then spoke up for comedy. After all, she pointed out, people didn't want the Jefferson Dramatic Society to improve them; they wanted to be amused. The members, on the whole, agreed with her, but they couldn't carry their agreement to the point of picking out a play. It was all getting boring, if not exasperating.

Now Chadbourne walked out onto the platform carrying an armful of books which she plunked down on a table. She started to say something that was lost in the chatter, and she pounded on the table with her fist, shouting, “Quiet, everybody! Please!” Chadbourne's attitude had changed noticeably during the past few meetings; she had developed authority, in her pallid way. Certainly the society had brought her out, Francie reflected. A little more pride in her position, a little more independence of her mother, and she might even be better-looking. The way you feel does have something to do with the way you appear, Francie firmly believed.

Chadbourne went on to say, without understatement, that things had come to a critical point in the J.D.S. They couldn't fool around any longer; everybody was getting heartily tired of these preliminaries. “Me, too,” she said, “and so today I went to the library, and I found the shelf where they keep comedies, and I just swept it clear and brought along everything I could carry.”

“I didn't know they'd let you take out more than two at a time,” said somebody.

Chadbourne said, “Special case. I just explained what I wanted them for and she let me go ahead.”

There was a hum of admiration; Chadbourne flushed with pleasure and spoke faster to hide it. “Now I'm going to go right through them reading the titles out to you,” she continued. “If a title doesn't mean anything to you, skip it. There must be a lot of stuff here we can't possibly use anyway. But if you happen to recognize something and it sounds promising, please speak up, otherwise I don't see how we're ever going to get over this hump. We've got to come to a conclusion tonight—that's the way I feel about it.”

Without waiting for any objections she picked up the first book and, announced its title. It was a selection of plays from the repertory of the Abbey Players. Nobody, not even the intellectual boy, showed any stir of interest; the prospect of trying to instill an Irish accent into an entire cast of Midwesterners was enough to make even Bruce Munson pale. He gave a panicky glance around the room and relaxed. Chadbourne put it down and picked up the next book. Evidently, it didn't mean a thing to anybody. Nor did the next or the next. At last Francie stood up.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, “but I think one of our troubles, or anyway one of the troubles with this method, is that most of the plays in the library are naturally unfamiliar to us, and I don't know if we're going to get anywhere at this rate.”

Chadbourne said, “Oh dear, that's what's been the trouble all along. I guess we'll have to admit we just aren't a very well-read group. What do you think, Francie, shall we draw lots, or decide arbitrarily and stick to it no matter what anybody says?”

A girl from the zoo, who was a dramatically pale blonde, cut in. “We don't want to do anything we don't already know,” she said. “It would be more fun, and easier, and more popular with the audience—if we ever have an audience, while I'm beginning to doubt—to put on a play that's recently had a popular success. Something everybody's been down to Chicago to see. People like things they
know.”
She sat down hard and looked around defiantly.

Bruce Munson said, “But, Evelyn, I've told you the trouble with that scheme. I've said it over and over—an amateur company can't usually get permission to put on anything new; they naturally won't issue acting rights until a thing's been sold to Hollywood, and the radio, and television, and everything else; in other words until it's just about dead and buried. I've been up against all that before. You can take my word for it.”

“Oh, bother,” said the blonde. “Well, all right. Then let's have a good old mystery play.”

“Such as?” asked Lucky.

Chadbourne suddenly wailed. “Oh
dear
, we just go over and over the same ground, every time we meet.”

“I'm sorry I started all this,” said Francie. “Your idea's as good as any we've tried out, Chad, so go ahead reading and don't pay any attention to me.”

Duly they plowed through half a dozen more titles until only a few books remained on the unscanned heap. Chadbourne picked up a worn, dirty little volume and read mechanically,
“Charley's Aunt.”

She looked up inquiringly as Francie snorted with violent giggles, covering her face with her hands and rocking back and forth in the chair. Chadbourne was about to ask the reason for this behavior when the blonde named Evelyn cut in: “Isn't that terribly funny? Seems to me I've heard about it somewhere; Mother or somebody mentioned it. Must have been an old movie.”

Other voices joined in; there was a general impression that
Charley's Aunt
had indeed been made into a picture—lately? They couldn't be sure, but certainly it had been funny, of that they were positive.

Bruce spoke with lazy assurance. “Yes, it
was
a picture. And a few years ago it was extremely popular in New York. Ray Bolger played in it. Made from a farce that's been popular amusement for at least fifty years. Yes, it's funny all right, if you don't mind something that's been funny all that time.”

“Well, I saw it,” said a girl who had never spoken before. “I laughed myself sick, that's all I know. Maybe I haven't got very good taste but
I
laughed myself sick.”

“It must be side-splitting,” said Chadbourne. “Look at Francie. Tears running down her cheeks and everything.”

“Have we at last hit on something?” asked Evelyn.

Francie was sobered abruptly. She sat up. “Oh,
no!
” she said sharply.

“Why not? What is this?” asked Chadbourne. “What have I missed?”

Why not indeed? There were various reasons, good ones no doubt, but Francie realized she couldn't very well convince them with the main one, which was that Cousin Biddy had made the suggestion first. The J.D.S. could hardly be expected to share her conviction that Biddy must never on any account be encouraged. Francie fell back instead on the argument that had long since become her theme song: they didn't have the experience or the stamina to act a full-length three-act play. “You need somebody professional, even if it's only one in the cast, to carry it,” she argued, but it was a lost cause already and she realized it. Wasn't Bruce practically professional? Evelyn made the point triumphantly; Bruce modestly deprecated it, but you could see he wasn't displeased actually, and Francie had no desire to offend him. He had no Cousin Biddy: plainly he was favorably disposed to the idea, and so were most of the others. As for Chadbourne, she was overwhelmed with relief at having at last hit upon something that attracted popular support.

“Let's put the matter to a vote,” she said. “Let's have a show of hands. All in favor of
Charley's Aunt
—”

It was nearly unanimous. As the others waved their hands in the air Francie turned around solemnly and shook her fist at Bruce. Dead-pan, he muttered, “It was a pretty close race between Charley's Aunt and Francie's Cousin.”

The rest of the evening was occupied with plans on practical matters, an easy task now the important decision had been made. A new spirit was abroad in the J.D.S. Somebody promised to make typescripts of all the parts before the first important reading and casting. It was turned into a late, enjoyable session. Bruce drove Francie home; he almost always did now when they had both had supper with the Frederickses.

“Thank God that's over, anyway,” he said as he turned, the car out of the driveway. Francie didn't reply immediately; she was still preoccupied with her chagrin. “Tired?” he asked softly, and dropped his hand over hers on the seat. She thought of pulling away, and then she didn't. It would have seemed like making too much of what was probably merely a friendly gesture, the sort of thing people did without thinking twice in Lucky's crowd. Nevertheless she remained very conscious of it.

“Oh, I'm not tired,” she said, sitting up extra straight, “but you can't expect me to shout for joy, considering everything, Biddy'll be telling the town it was all her doing, and she'll have every right to think it was. That's what burns me up.” She laughed to show it didn't really matter that much.

“If she didn't have that, she'd be doing something else to annoy you,” he said. “Don't carry on so!”

Francie said, “You're right, of course.”

He drove slowly through the dark, quiet streets. There was a smell of spring flowers in the air that brought thoughts of the coming summer, and swimming, and melting asphalt, and ice-cream sodas. As they drove up to Aunt Norah's house Francie saw a light still on behind the living-room curtains. “Come on in,” she said.

“I might, for just a minute, if you don't think your old man would mind you having callers at this late hour.”

“I've got a hunch they're still up,” said Francie. “They might have left on the light for me, but Mrs. Clark was coming in to see the TV show tonight.”

Mrs. Clark had gone, but Pop and Aunt Norah were in the living room with a coffeepot on the table. “Come in,” said Aunt Norah. “Francie, you've got a whole pack of mail out there on the telephone table. Your best beau's written.”

“Best beau, huh?” Bruce picked it up. He turned around and demanded, “You been holding out on me?”

Francie said, crossly, “I don't know what Aunt Norah means.” It was unreasonable to be cross because Aunt Norah had only meant the remark as a mild pleasantry, and she knew it. She added hastily to cover up, “I wish I
did
have a best beau; it's almost a necessity in a place like this. If I had, you wouldn't see me wasting my time with dramatic societies. I'd be up till all hours at night clubs, wouldn't I, Aunt Norah?” Chattering all the while, she retrieved the envelopes from the hall and shuffled through them. “This is from Glenn,” she announced. “Is that the one you meant?” After all this waiting, she thought, it finally comes tonight; maybe too late.

Pop had asked Bruce if he wanted coffee, and now he held the pot poised over a cup, but Bruce suddenly changed his mind. “It's later than I realized, sir,” he said, “and Francie's got a lot of mail to read. I'd better get on home.”

Francie saw him to the door. He was silent until he had gone halfway through. Then he turned, said, “Glenn, eh?” and ran down the steps. Francie had no time to reply.

Her family looked at her with interest when she came back into the living room. Aunt Norah said, “Guess I put my foot in it that time, Francie. I'm sorry. It never occurred to me not to say anything; I thought Mr. Munson was Chadbourne Fredericks's property.”