Mourning Becomes Her: A Novella

By K.C. Washington

Broadway baby Antigone Clark, fresh from her triumphant theater debut, is ready for her close-up when her mother succumbs to cancer and then her boyfriend kicks her out on the day of the funeral. Thrown off balance by grief for a woman she thought she despised, she fears she will exit stage left with sorrow and anger, when Baldwin Dahl takes center stage. Mr. Right, on and off the boards, Baldwin challenges Antigone's desire to self-destruct. Antigone challenges Baldwin's right to mind her business. Sparks fly and many bottles of top-shelf gin go the way of ancient Greece as the thespians navigate their burgeoning careers and their tumultuous love affair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 20, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462077687

K.C. Washington

K.C. Washington, the spiritual love child of Katharine Hepburn and James Baldwin, is a poet, novelist, and dreamer. A member of the Harlem Writers Guild and a Mellon fellow, she believes in illuminating the present by revealing the past. This is her first published novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 2 

That low down rotten son of a—

Ah, Jolie, is Leigh in the room?

Whoops. Thanks. Antigone’s sister lowered her voice. I know that Marc is the O.G. original gangsta snakeoil salesman, but come on. I can’t believe that—

Well, believe it, and if you still haven’t gotten your mind around it in the next few days I’ll let you check out my freaking hotel bill. That outta clue you in right quick. Antigone took a deep drag on her cigarette, simultaneously reaching for her half empty pack and her Sapphire martini. She had ordered a glass, a bucket of ice, a bottle of dry vermouth, and a jar of green olives sent up before she had even seen her room.

She was flippant and practiced as if her life on almost every conceivable level hadn’t been decimated. She should have been behaving as if she were drawing on her last cigarette instead of like someone who had just bought a whole case of cigarettes on Mrytle Avenue for five bucks. But then again, that was Antigone Elizabeth Clark, obdurate to the end.

Shoot Tigger, what are you going to do? And with everything else going on, too! Antigone made a face at the rising alarm in her sister’s voice. As usual, Jolie was the one who was going to break down in tears, need to be comforted. What was the point of being the baby in the family if she never got to act like it. She fired up another cigarette off of her dying one. She didn’t know why it bothered her. She was the stern little girl, her pigtails vibrating with indignation, squaring off with the neighborhood basketball-stealing bully as her sister cowered and cried, hoping one of the other kids had gone for their father. It had always been that way.

What hadn’t been for a long time was Antigone being straightforward with Jolie. She couldn’t believe she had actually told her the truth about her humiliating breakup instead of making up some elaborate lie. They were close, always had been, but Antigone usually played her cards close to her designer blouse, parceling out information on a need to know basis or more usually, under duress. It was a telling slip, a sign of her mental state, whether she was ready to acknowledge it or not.

Don’t worry, Jolie Marie. As we know, I am the bitch that Marc is always accusing me of being. I have some money put aside—

Of course. Mama didn’t raise no fools, but is it enough? Your show is ending soon and you don’t have anything lined up. How long will it take you to get another? I can help a little, but Daddy only has his pension at least until mom’s life insurance comes through. You have expensive—

Calm down, Jolie. This isn’t ‘Good Times.’ This really is just a temporary lay off. The sisters shared a chuckle. I’ll get Lynn to start looking for a place right away and I have a few things in the air work-wise that now I’ll just have to give a bit of a nudge to. In the meantime, this will be a good break for me. I needed to be away from that Palermo parasite. Of course, I would have liked to do the packing and shipping, the sneaky bastard, but in the end it doesn’t matter who dumped whom. It just matters that it’s over.

You’re sure you’re okay with it, with it being over? He is fine. Jolie was hesitant, tears lurking despite her attempt at girl-from-the-hood sauciness. It never would have occurred to Antigone that her sister’s teary emotionalism was due more to them having buried their mother that morning than the abrupt break up of her

turbulent relationship. There was a reason she had been drawn to acting and it only had partially to do with her love of language and everything to do with her love of the spotlight.

If the two sisters had been in the same room, the oldest would have been blinded by the false radiance of younger’s smile. As it was, Antigone herself, had to avoid the mirror above the vanity. I’m perfectly okay with it. Nobody’s that fine. And like I said, I just wish I had thought of it first. I have to give it to him. It was cold. It was perfect.

And mom?

Antigone’s smile faltered but not her voice, training was everything after all. All in good time, Jolie Marie. All in good time. Well, sister girl, I’m going to ring off. It’s been a long day. I’ll call you later, okay? Kiss Leigh for me. Antigone hung up before her sister could get a last hysteria tinged word in.

She would have slumped with fatigue and defeat if years of ballet had allowed for it, instead she stretched her tired legs and admired the red piping on her black Carole Lombardesque open-toed high heels before looking around the stark room with barely concealed distaste. After walking out of the loft, she had gone directly to the theater, unable to face choosing a hotel. She had informed the stage manager that she was going on that night and had hid away in her dressing room until it was time to go on. Even after the show, which had saved her from doing something bloody and illegal, she had walked around the crowded streets of midtown for an hour before settling on the W Hotel. It was conveniently located, famous, and wildly expensive. Just where an up and coming Broadway star would bunk after leaving her boyfriend.

Her pungent cigarette smoke obscured her view of the room, but did not hide it. Just like how her sharp, denial prone mind protected her from her own thoughts, but not entirely. Remembering she was alone and didn’t need to keep her game face in place, Antigone let all the distaste and bitterness she felt rise to the surface. Within moments, it paraded itself about the room like a gaudy harlequin joker.

She started with all the complimentary knickknacks on her vanity table, sweeping her arm across its glossy glass surface as if auditioning for a revival of All About Eve. The echo of glass shattering and silky powder clouds was all the more shocking against the brittle, disapproving, white-and-chrome backdrop of the overpriced, cell like room.

Cloven-hoofed motherfucker! She ripped at the faux blue of the ancient Nile colored Egyptian cotton sheets, stumbling backwards into a boxy, featureless bedside table. She sent an equally anonymous lamp crashing to the floor. Righting herself, she grabbed for the half empty gin bottle. Grasping it by the neck, some of the liquid fire sloshed her hand and she thought better of it. The price of a bottle of Sapphire was almost as chilling as her environs. Plus, she had a long night ahead of her. Racing for the complimentary bottle of Evian instead, she smashed it against the farthest noncommittal wall with a grunt of satisfaction. She hated Evian.

The room was small, a single occupancy, much to her disgust, but she kept going, breaking things down to their smallest components, their essence, just as her boyfriend had tried to do to her. By the time she came to her senses, she had wrecked whatever wasn’t fastened down and a few things that were.

Hands on hips, Antigone looked around in triumph. The room was a perfect facsimile of what she wanted to do to Marc Blades ne Blandibanco, what she felt like inside. If her mother had been there she would have said Antigone had gone mad and shown her color, and she would have been right.

Fractured bits of glass scraped her scalp when she pushed hair out of her face. She headed for the bathroom. She would take a hot shower, wash the debris off and then have a nice, expensive meal in the world class restaurant downstairs. Perhaps she would start with a lobster cocktail and a glass of Veuve Clicquot. She shrugged, reaching down to turn on the white enamel water tap. No matter what she chose she would enjoy it because it would all be on Marco. Apparently he had used another credit card when reserving the movers,

because his platinum card was nestled firmly in her vintage Chanel handbag at the foot of her rented bed.

Humming, she flipped on the shower and turned the water full blast. She made a mental note to ask the concierge to have a maid come up.

CHAPTER 3 

Antigone, you were fabulous.

Yes. The best performance yet.

And the last, thank goodness, Antigone whispered under her breath. She returned the hugs of her second principal Leona and her understudy Tina with a smile as bright and insincere as a woman late for an all day spa treatment stopped by a child with a scraped knee. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her fellow actors, it was more that she didn’t have any more use for them than they had for her. And yet, Antigone, without a hint of humor or a trace of irony thought of herself as a people person. Luckily no one was foolish enough to put that to the test.

Watching until the others walked away, Daniel Ellsworth, Antigone’s leading man, gave his own bright, sardonic smile as he linked arms with her. He steered her toward their adjoining dressing rooms. They wound their way through a soft, hazy riot of dust created by stagehands, lighting men, and dressers, as they scurried about breaking down the set for the last time. It was loud and chaotic and despite the cooling effect of Daniel’s presence, Antigone thrilled to it.

So, you’ve survived your first Broadway run. It wasn’t a long journey, but was it a fruitful one and will you be asked to take it on the road? These are the questions of the day. Inquiring minds want to know.

After a year at the Kerr Theater, and two months out of town working out the kinks, Antigone was more than used to Daniel’s arch tone delivered beneath the hint of a mocking southern drawl. He had been up nawth thirty plus years and yet the corn pone could still be heard in his voice. Every night he joined her on stage after her opening monologue, she marveled that it was nowhere to be found when he opened his mouth, just like his malignant underbelly. The theater really was a place of wonder and magic, she thought.

I don’t know the answer to your first question and I haven’t decided on the second, so I can’t be of any help to you, my little gossip rag. She was clipped, her arm in his grip as loose as three-day-old codfish. Being aloof, avoiding him, was usually all she allotted herself. She knew better than to play the grand dame with Daniel Ellsworth.

Twenty-two-years her senior, he had been at it considerably longer than she had and would have called her on it before she could say the Calla Lillies are in bloom. Besides, she still trembled with humiliation whenever she thought about the one and only time she had tried to show her fangs. She and Marc had split up just before she left town and horny and not above a little game of sexual politics, she had let Daniel entice her to his room with visions of a modern day Tracy and Hepburn, the Lunts, the Barrymores, and unbeknownst to him, Ossie and Ruby Dee. They had slept together for the entire out of town run and then on their last night out before returning to New York and Broadway, he had put her in his bed and then shown her the door. She had snatched up her clothes and swept out of the room to the accompaniment of his twisted chuckle without revealing her tears. It had been one of her finest performances.

Her best friend had talked her out of quitting A Dark Lady, but she didn’t speak to Daniel for two weeks offstage, confining herself to the lines that would eventually win her rave reviews.

You may not know the answers to those questions, but you could be of use to me in other ways, Antigone. She tilted her face away from his spearmint and decay scented mouth., not wanting to show any response, revulsion or otherwise. He may have been an asshole,

but he was also a brilliant actor with connections even broader than his range or the stench of his bad dentures.

Will Marc be at the cast party tonight?

You know full well he won’t be, Daniel. He never attends these things. He bores easily. The words tripped off her tongue as she tossed them casually in his direction.

Then perhaps we could go together?

Antigone didn’t have to see his face to recognize his pompous smile. He knew. Good news or rather spite, traveled fast. They must have all gathered around the bar at The Hudson like Macbeth’s witches and tittered over her downfall, her comeuppance. She would have expected a show of comfort from her fellow actors, no matter how brief or hollow, she thought bitterly.

For a moment, Antigone permitted herself to feel hurt, beginning to whip that small, surprising emotion into a self-righteous froth until she remembered that Leona’s ten year marriage had ended six months before and she hadn’t even bothered to squeeze her hand as night after night she ran offstage and cried in between scenes. She may have been cold and self-serving but she wasn’t a hypocrite. It was one of her most genuine qualities.

Reaching her dressing room, she let her exasperation fall away, relishing the gratification she always felt at the sight of the gold star and her name on the door. The feeling hadn’t diminished over the fifty-two weeks she had played the house. Turning, she looked up into Daniel’s dissipated, yet still ruggedly handsome face. She gave him her best smile—lips slightly moist, gently curled at the corners.

The show is over, Daniel. What on earth would you want to do with me and in public no less? She held her eyes wide and had to fight off the evil twist her full lips wanted to make.

You’re a vibrant, beautiful, talented woman, Antigone. Any man could think of a thousand things to do with you, public or otherwise. Daniel leaned in close, leering like a Euripidean antagonist beneath his lurid stage makeup, his briny denture breath forming a cloudy threat around her head. I’m thinking of a few things right now as a matter of fact.

The image of a quick, invigorating, stress relieving tussle played itself out in seconds, leaving Antigone cold. The nights they had spent together for two months had been pleasant, the days and weeks of mortification afterwards, hell.

Opening the door, but keeping her back to it, Antigone rested a hand on her co-star’s chest. If she had had any qualms or hot spurts of desire, the cool shift behind Daniel’s dark, expressive eyes that suddenly reminded her just a little too much of Marc, would have tempered them. Both men had dangerous control of their instrument and a taste for cruel exhibition, which Antigone was coming to finally understand was a sure sign to take care of herself later instead of giving in to the moment.

I’m sorry if you mistakenly went through all the ingenues and extras without leaving one for final call, but I’m not in the mood to be the booty prize, so you’ll just have to look elsewhere. See you at the party, Daniel.

Pitching her voice to its lowest register, she imitated Daniel’s laughter, the very same punishing laughter that had sent her scurrying out of his hotel room a year and a half ago. His annoyed pique better than multiple orgasms, she shut the door in his face.

Still chuckling, Antigone grabbed a fistful of her brocade Empire-waisted gown and threw herself onto the fifth-generation divan lodged in the corner of her weathered, character-driven dressing room. The huge chignon at the base of her neck cushioned her fall.

She kicked off her shoes. She knew she should hurry, the party started in an hour, Jolie would be waiting for her in the hired Town car, and she still had to take off the pound of makeup that made her visible to the cheap seats. Antigone didn’t move. She was weary to her bones and didn’t feel like moving quickly if she had to move at all. Firing up a cigarette, she stretched before leaning over to make herself a drink. One of the first things she had done upon entering the Kerr was to request a standing order for Bombay Sapphire, ice and two

fresh packs of Benson and Hedges for her dressing room. Those were her only demands at the beginning and at the end.

Because she mistrusted, like she did most things, that it would last, even as the run was extended two and three times, her reviews getting better and better, she had left the room almost how she had found it. Other than an old Vanity Fair featuring a rare, lengthy article on the rise of Blacks in the New York theater—past and present—it could have been anyone’s shop worn, pre-war dressing room. She had often joked with Marc that Ethel Barrymore’s grease paint and highball glass were still on the dressing table.

With a sigh, she smoked and drank, as relaxed as she had been in days. It had been a good run, a great run, for her first Broadway outing, she thought, staring up at the faintly cracked and peeling ceiling. She had lived up to the hype.

Lying there, granting herself a frown before smoothing her forehead out, Antigone waited for the elation. She waited for her heart to speed up and the small secret smile to overtake her. She waited for triumph. Taking a deep swallow of gin, all she felt was the burning sensation of lung destroying nicotine, liver bloating, finely distilled spirits, and fatigue.

It had been a long, troubling year and although she felt she