Chapter Text
From stage-left wings, Ivy watched the dancers spin and fall; the curtain dropped. Jimmy sprang from his platform, dashed off right. Would they, she wondered, re-stage the bows? She hoped not.
The curtain rose, Sam on the platform behind the ensemble, orchestrating them forward. They bowed and stepped back; Sam beckoned right, and Martin Mickleson, whose Meyer Wolfsheim had only the two bar scenes (he sang a brief march-tempo reprise of “No Tomorrow” in each; menacing first, then, after Gatsby’s murder, with amused resignation), ran on, bowed, stepped back into line with the dancers.
Sam gestured with both arms; Jessica came in right, Simon, left, squeezing Ivy’s arm and winking at her as he passed. Another gesture from Sam for Porter and Ana, to a noticeable upsurge in applause. Sam moved downstage, bowed. Volume up further. Stretched arms again – Ivy and Jimmy met him center stage, the three joined hands, bowed. Sam joined Ivy’s hand to Jimmy’s, stepped back as they bowed together. Jimmy guided Ivy forward, took his own bow in turn. Into line for the final ensemble bow.
More curtain calls – Ana, Porter, Sam, Ivy and Jimmy again and again. Finally, Manhattan Theatre Workshop’s mainstage curtain descended on “The Great Gatsby” for the last time.
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Gatsby’s wrap party - same venue as opening night, different feel. Happiness subdued. Faint melancholy. Eileen Rand, eyes on Broadway, every synapse eager for her work, was baffled.
None of the cast was. Ivy suspected, correctly, that they felt akin – something special was over. Broadway would be different. Maybe better, objectively, but not this - the specific, tiny jewel they’d cut and faceted so painstakingly. Almost, she felt protective of what had been, suspicious of what would come, that it might eclipse what they’d done at MTW.
Eileen, rehashing what could (for the umpteenth time) be rehashed with Derek in advance of their possession of the Maud Adams stage, pricked with impatience. Shake them up. She had a surprise for her cast and team.
Tinkled a fork against her empty glass – gestured to a waiter for another martini as heads turned.
“Many of us have worked with Karen Cartwright; all of you’ve at least met her through Jimmy. She opened in a Montclair revival of “Chicago” last night; I thought we’d make a show of support. I’ve a block of tickets for all of us next Saturday; limos will take us from MTW.” Eileen had, in fact, planned weeks ago; had made sure the grapevine whispered just enough to keep everyone’s evening open. She’d confided in Porter Mallory alone; he would not be denied in contributing in-limousine refreshments.
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Three black limousines, SUV-style, glided through the dark, over the twinkling bridge. Ivy, in the vanguard, wished herself one car back, with Jimmy and Porter – who had declined Eileen’s invitation to join them so charmingly she could take no slight. Ivy had not felt it possible to counter urgings from both Eileen and Derek. Felt, physically, the separation from her fellow actors, even as she spoke warmly with Tom and Julia, nibbled delicacies, sipped excellent champagne.
What on earth would she say, what would she be able to say, to Karen Cartwright? They’d met, of course, in recent months, but if Ivy knew Eileen Rand at all, they’d be expected to descend on Karen backstage en masse, post-performance. Had Eileen even let Karen know they were coming? Oh, God, if she hadn’t - ! It might be just the thing Eileen would seize upon – to surprise the chosen recipient with her largesse. From on high. Which might – reasonably, Ivy thought reluctantly – rankle. And felt, not for the first time, a secret sympathy for Karen Cartwright. In her place, this parade was the last thing Ivy would want. Support? More like rubbing Karen’s nose in her fall. Oh, Eileen. Road to hell, and all.
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“Chicago’s” backstage buzzed loud and happy. All but one of the local reviews had printed and posted. Joe Marcus’ blog brief had been up since Monday, beefing ticket sales. Not a pan to be read – praise for Price Davis’ work, with a couple of cavils on over-influence from the film. Good mentions, each time, for Giselle Freeman, Geraint Rhys, Steve Whitman. Special kudos for Marcus Benedict. Approbation for Karen – which boiled down to “good job,” basically. All the reviews singled out her singing, though. Before heaping tons of praise on Caroline. “Breathtaking talent!” “Astonishing presence!” “Breakout star!” And, “Why have we not heard of her before this?”
Karen had come to terms with it. She knew Caroline was better, here, than she was – she hadn’t needed Marcus Benedict to come out baldly with it. And a good job was just that – a good job. No shame in doing a good job. Was there?
Hair in pincurls, under stocking cap, she made up carefully. Caroline likewise, in their shared dressing room. Giselle Freeman had her own, but it was closet-sized. They two had more individual space, if less privacy.
A furious knock, Steve Whitman burst in without waiting for an invite. “Holy cow! Guess who’s in the audience! Eileen Fucking Rand!!! With Derek Wills, and Levitt and Houston. And Ivy Lynn! OMFG, guys, what gives?”
Caroline, quick, “Karen, that’s you! Why didn’t you tell us? What a compliment!”
Karen never knew what inanities she uttered. Fuck. This was the very last thing in the whole wide world she needed. FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!! Until she tumbled through the barrier. Smack into FUCK IT. Fuck it all. Fuck her, fuck them. She was doing a good job. Everyone said so. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
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Curtain down, house lights up. Gatsby’s cast and production team immobile in their seats. Stunned. They’d applauded dutifully. But. Jimmy’s eyes met Eileen Rand’s; each recognized in the other the self-same consternation. Derek met no-one’s eyes. Seeing Karen so, though in undeniably lovely voice, shamed him in his own estimation. What had he projected on this paper doll? What had they all?
Ivy Lynn, alone, sat serene and radiant. Vindicated, provided with everything she needed.
Since no-one else moved, “Shouldn’t we go backstage? Say hi?”
Thus prompted, the party gathered itself, followed Ivy’s composed trajectory.