File M For Murder

“Herb, calm down.” The note of panic in “Henrietta’s” voice sounded real to me.

Based on what I was hearing now, I’d have to say these young people were reading well, although I was not in the least impressed by Lawton’s “genius.” Was this reading significantly better than what Lawton heard earlier? If that was the case, then perhaps his temper tantrum had energized them somehow. I’d have to ask Laura about that.

What a shame, though, that what they were reading was so banal.

“Herb” told his wife to shut up in a crude manner. “Henrietta” uttered his name in shocked protest.

“I’m fixin’ to go lie down for a spell,” Toby said. He sounded exhausted, his patience at an end. “I don’t want to hear any more about Sadie’s problems. I’m done with her.” He mimed an old man, shuffling out of the room, leaning on a cane.

“Lisbeth” and “Henrietta” exchanged glances, waiting until the old man left the room. Toby stepped back, and the two young women moved closer together as they continued the scene.

“Mama, what are we gonna do?” Lisbeth practically sobbed the words out. “Sadie can’t go to jail, she just can’t.”

I thought the young woman was overdoing the histrionics, and evidently Connor Lawton agreed. He held up a hand. “Hold on a minute.” He pointed at “Lisbeth.” “What’s your name again, doll?”

The young woman blushed and swallowed. “Um, Elaine, Mr. Lawton.”

The playwright walked forward, and when he paused beside her, he stood at an angle that allowed me a clear view of his face. I caught a grimace, but then his expression smoothed out. He placed an arm across Elaine’s shoulder. “Elaine, you’re giving me too much. Dial it back a few notches, understand? All that weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth this early on, you’ve got nothing left later on.”

He paused long enough for Elaine to nod twice before he went on. “Lisbeth, now, remember she’s thirty-two, married, no kids, and Sadie’s like her own child because Mom and Pop are so much older, right? Lisbeth is emotional and not totally wrapped when it comes to Sadie, but you can’t let it all go in this scene. Dial it back a little, like I said. Can you do that for me?”

Frankly I was surprised by Lawton’s patient tone and demeanor. It almost seemed like a different man had come back from the break.

Elaine gazed at the playwright like Diesel mesmerized by a bird outside the archive window. After a long moment of silence, she swallowed and said, “Yes, sir.”

Lawton patted her shoulder. “That’s great, doll.” He moved back downstage and faced the actors. “Right. Take it from where old man Ferris leaves. Hey, Tobe, excellent job by the way. You’ve almost nailed it.”

Toby blushed and beamed as “Lisbeth” and “Henrietta” prepared to start the scene again. If Lawton kept up “slobbering sugar” like this—what my aunt Dottie would have called it—they’d all adore him and soon forget the earlier tantrum.

“Lisbeth” repeated her lines in more restrained tones, and Lawton nodded.

“Henrietta” picked up from her fictional daughter’s lines. “I don’t see much hope. Your father’s made up his mind. You know how he is when he talks like that. Remember your wedding?” She sighed heavily. “Wasn’t nothing on earth going to make him pay for you a decent wedding once he took against Johnny.”

Could this possibly get any worse? I was no expert, but the average soap opera probably had better writing. But I soon discovered it could get worse.

“He’s a mean old bastard, and I hate him.” Elaine’s face twisted into an ugly mask. “I wish he’d up and die. Let him join the demons in Hell where he belongs.”

“Henrietta” drew back her hand and swung it at her daughter’s face. The intended blow became a light tap on the cheek, but Elaine drew back and howled as if she’d been struck hard.

“Girl, don’t ever let me hear you talking about your father that way. He’s had many a sore trial in his life, and he doesn’t deserve disrepect like that.”

Before Elaine could respond, Lawton surprised everyone by gesturing wildly with both hands and saying, “Enough, enough.”

No one onstage moved. They all gaped at the playwright.

Lawton grabbed his ears and rocked his head from side to side. “God, that’s awful. Freakin’ bloody rank. Sounds like third-rate dinner theater.”

I definitely agreed with that, and I sought Laura’s face to see her reaction to this outburst. Was Lawton talking about the reading, or was he referring to the words themselves? The pitying glance Laura directed toward Lawton answered my question.

“It’s okay, everyone.” Laura spoke in an undertone, but thanks to the acoustics of the theater I had no trouble hearing her. “Connor’s not talking about your reading.”

The actors relaxed visibly. All the while Laura reassured the cast, Lawton continued to mutter, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

If this was an example of a playwright’s method for creating a play, I decided I was glad I didn’t have an artistic temperament.