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THE APPLAUSE WAS DEAFENING, enveloping the stage in an assured vanity as Keane and I stepped forward for the curtain call. The audience leapt to their feet in a whirl of whistles and cheers when the entire cast joined hands, swung our arms up, bowed, and retreated behind the curtain.
And like that, it was all over. Every line. Every movement. Every wonderfully exhilarating little joke that had been skillfully thrown forward by Shaw. All of it. We had done a total of twenty-one performances; far more than I would have thought possible for a small Californian theatre, but the fact was we couldn’t close. Newspapers gave only the highest praise for our little group. (One even dared mention the physical similarities between Keane and the late Leslie Howard.) Tickets were sold like gold with a full audience for each and every performance. And so it was with some regret, as I wiped away the thick smudges of makeup across my face, that I realised the close of some great moment of my life. Worse, I had no fathomable idea of what to do next. I slipped into a pair of dark trousers and a cream shirt before turning once more toward the mirror. A dark wig sat on its stand: a reminder. I ran a hair through my slightly lengthened curls.
One could not help but notice the healthy glow surrounding James Harrison’s features as he burst in. His strength had returned tremendously with the banashing of the Hydrocodone, but his soul had been truly freed on the day Sam Barker was tried and charged with, not only blackmail, but attempted murder and the arson of the Caldwell Theatre. The burning of his own home, as surmised by the great Los Angeles police force, was an accident: consequence of the rowdy parties.
“Jo, dear, you were absolutely wonderful! Wonderful! I wish you could convince that old fool to stay around longer. We could make a fortune.”
“Old fool?” Keane entered smoothly, his eyebrow raised in the perfect combination of amusement and dignity. For a moment I thought he was still dressed as his professor counterpart, but the tweed was far more expensive than that used beneath stage lighting. “I do hope you don’t mean me, James. There is that saying about being kind to messengers, is there not?”
“Messenger?” I asked.
“A certain beautiful woman sent me to inform a Mr. James Harrison that she is waiting just outside the stage door.” Harrison wagged his head slowly, as though it was an old play scripted between the two in the times of their youth. A joke.
“And did you tell that ‘beautiful woman’ I do not sign autographs after ten in the evening? It is eleven, you know?”
“I did, but I’m afraid Vivien insisted.” Harrison’s head jerked up, straightened his tie, and made some unintelligible excuses before racing wildly toward the stage door. I glanced at Keane.
“Vivien?”
“His wife.”
“Oh.” Surprise quelled to amusement. “I thought you said once that you never interfere with ‘matters of the heart’?” My companion sighed heavily, but the steady glimmer in his eyes was anything but morose or depressive.
“A h-uile riaghailt, tha eisgeachd.”
To every rule, there is an exception.
I chuckled lightly as I finished doing up my shoe laces. Keane was one of those men who didn’t mind the rules, as long as they had acceptions when necessary and understanding toward the common man. He was full of paradoxes and, though private and guarded, was so full of life it was impossible to not appreciate it in his presence.
Keane plucked my leather jacket from where it had been haphazardly strewn over the back of the makeup chair and gently tossed it to me.
“It’s a bit late for dinner, but no doubt we can find something suitable for such an auspicious occasion.”
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EVEN THROUGH THE CASUAL quiet of night the boisterous applause lingerd as Keane and I exited the theatre for the last time. At the bottom of the steps, he tucked my arm securely through his and pulled his hat securely over his head. His grey curls had become plastered into style with an overabundance of pomade. Everything about his exterior had been smoothed into place for the audience’s understanding. Only I had the honor of seeing the gears within the machine; the light within the lamp.
The true Keane.
“Do you think he will be alright?” I asked solemnly, much to my companion’s amusement.
“James? I should say so. They say the best thing for a man in trouble is a wife to clean the mess. And with a successful string of performances—as ours indeed were—Vivien could hardly turn him away now.” Keane paused and cocked his head sideways for a moment before continuing our slow and steady walk down the street. “I can’t say I’m fond of Shaw’s ending, though.”
“In Pygmalion?”
“Precisely. There isn’t any finality to it. And for the man to insinuate that Eliza runs off with that Freddy character. Ridiculous.”
“Perhaps Shaw merely wanted to note Eliza’s independence; that she could be on her own without requiring Higgins. Feminism is rather a fine thing, if used in the right contexts.” An eyebrow climbed upwards above a glimmering ocean.
“And what might those ‘contexts’ be?”
“The liberation of women from masculinity. We can go to school—university, if we like—and do just as well in the world as any man.”
“And you believe that is why Eliza didn’t marry Higgins?”
“No.” My answer surprised me slightly; not the answer itself, but the conviction with which my voice shot quietly through the streets, bounding between walls and lampposts until it was lost as a fleeting whisper. “No.” I started again. “She didn’t marry Higgins because he didn’t ask.”
Nothing else was said for an excruciatingly long time as we walked up and down the streets. If a taxi stopped, Keane waved it on and we continued around another corner. We paused briefly at a bar for a quick drink, but soon set out again for the streets. Los Angeles really was quite pleasant at night; the quiet tones of life at rest. No evil can come in rest. No greed, nor lust, nor any of the other mortal frailties can appear in the wonders of sleep. One was only to close their eyes and dream. And it was in dreaming that realities gave way to the life all wished to live, but never could the sun again rise to its throne in the sky.
At last, when my body had begun to feel the exhaustion of the day, Keane’s warm and rounded English floated seriously above the fantastic world painted meticulously about our heads.
“You realise how potentially disastrous this entire thing is. I am a man set in my ways and can—I have no doubt—be terribly rude and incorrigible. Verbally I am as tactful as a sailor, but, of course, you are aware of this. I dare say you also know how infuriating I can be. I am afraid I am unlikely to show you much romanticism—” Whatever polite drudgery might have been scattered upon the world next was immediately cut off as I threw my arms about Keane’s neck and slammed my lips to his. When my mind at last whirred to the realisation of what I had done, I tried to pull back and regain the brief strands of dignity left between us, but I was faced with an obstacle far greater than I had ever thought worldly possible. His head dipped further to mine and his arms forbid more than an inch’s space between us. When the time came when we could either remain in our precarious position or breathe, we chose the latter; stepping back from one another with Keane’s blue eyes drilling down upon my face and my eyes staring holes into my shoes. At least my voice bore some traces of the confidence I no longer felt.
“You know, Keane, you’re bloody awful at proposals.”
“I could get down on my knees if you like.” Keane’s voice wavered slightly, as though he expected me to actually suggest such a ridiculous thing.
“Don’t you dare. Very well, I will marry you . . . on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That I not be required to take your surname.” For a long moment Keane stared down at me, almost appalled by the audacity of my declaration, but gradually a few drops of reasoning surged forth into a waterfall of the richest, most wonderful laughter in the world: laughter so great it shook every inch of my soul and sent it soaring to a height I had not known existent until that moment. At last, he took my arm and threaded it through his so tightly I could not help but be aware of his warmth.
“I agree to your terms, Lawrence, though my name is yours, should you ever want it.” Without another word, we journeyed back to the hotel and I slept in my room that night, safe in the knowledge that, though the union was inevitable, we were two forces. We were strong individuals. Together we were invincible.
I laughed then; laughed as I never had before. Yes, the union was inevitable. That was certainly no joke. I was not Jo Keane.