his chest and joining the rest of his ashes.
After graduating from the Playhouse, I was hired for the summer at Green Mansions, a wonderful little theater in the Adirondacks, a great job for a young actor. Idling in a rowboat on the lake after rehearsals, I fantasized about Herbert. Lying back in the rowboat under the summer blue sky, the clear cold water under my fingertips, I would romanticize our relationship.
“Herbert,” I would breathe. “Heathcliff.”
We had a few days off unexpectedly, and I was given a ride to the city. In the little mirrored phone alcove in our apartment on Riverside Drive, I called Herbert. He was glad to hear from me, his voice warm and provocative.
“What are you doing tonight?” Did I ask it or did he?
He said, “Do you want to come down to the Village?”
“Sure.”
Then Herbert said, “Come to my apartment, but if you don’t want to go to bed with me, don’t come.”
Silence.
“Lee, do you hear me? Don’t come here if you’re not going to go to bed with me.”
“All right.”
“All right, what?”
“All right I’ll come down.”
His apartment was small and grim. We sat across from each other in the living room. He was a jovial host, but who was this man?
“Have you had dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
I wanted to leave, but I remembered that I’d promised not to come down unless I went to bed with him. A promise was a promise. There was absolutely no air in the balloon, no attraction, no romance, nothing. He opened the door to the bedroom. There was a large satin-covered bed in a small room. I guess we both undressed. I remember clearly, with my eyes closed, visualizing a Roman landscape, steps leading to pillars, the vertical lines on the pillars, a sunset backdrop behind them, and figures in Roman togas moving around on the steps.
I felt nothing. My concentration was focused on the images in my head. All I could think of was,
Is it over yet?
When he was done, he was concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, really.”
It was stifling in his apartment. I had to get out to breathe.
• • •
A ll my one-night stands through the years would be a replica of that experience in one way or another: the anticipation—breathless and really hot, scorching to the touch. The actuality—the underwear coming off, the white body, the sheets, the strangeness. A total turnoff. Except for one, much later. No, two.
Within seven years I would call Herbert again. He had met, married, and opened an acting school with Uta Hagen, a remarkable actress and human being. My own life had undergone a radical change. Herbert and Uta opened their doors to me; their school gave me a home away from home.
On the Road
R ight after I graduated from the Neighborhood Playhouse, Richard Rodgers of musical fame cast me in a play. I was eighteen. Since the play wasn’t to be produced for another six months, he offered me the interim job of understudying Ado Annie in the road company of
Oklahoma!
I took the train to St. Louis to join the company by myself. I wore a skunk coat and a red beret. The chorus people told me later that they all made fun of my snobby ways after they asked, “Are you a singer?”
“No.”
“A dancer?”
“No.” Pause, then, in the new lower voice I had acquired in speech class at the Playhouse: “I’m an actress!”
As it happened, Dorothea McFarland, whom I’d gone to understudy, broke her arm the day I arrived. I was desperate to go on in her place. I’d had no rehearsal with the cast, no rehearsal of the songs with the orchestra, but I had insane eagerness. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed and the lovely girl who was the understudy I was sent to replace went on that night. I was never to perform Ado Annie. (Dorothea made sure of that.)
The company was spending two weeks in St. Louis. I’d been there just a few days when I came down with influenza. We were staying at some famous old hotel. For three days I was out of
After graduating from the Playhouse, I was hired for the summer at Green Mansions, a wonderful little theater in the Adirondacks, a great job for a young actor. Idling in a rowboat on the lake after rehearsals, I fantasized about Herbert. Lying back in the rowboat under the summer blue sky, the clear cold water under my fingertips, I would romanticize our relationship.
“Herbert,” I would breathe. “Heathcliff.”
We had a few days off unexpectedly, and I was given a ride to the city. In the little mirrored phone alcove in our apartment on Riverside Drive, I called Herbert. He was glad to hear from me, his voice warm and provocative.
“What are you doing tonight?” Did I ask it or did he?
He said, “Do you want to come down to the Village?”
“Sure.”
Then Herbert said, “Come to my apartment, but if you don’t want to go to bed with me, don’t come.”
Silence.
“Lee, do you hear me? Don’t come here if you’re not going to go to bed with me.”
“All right.”
“All right, what?”
“All right I’ll come down.”
His apartment was small and grim. We sat across from each other in the living room. He was a jovial host, but who was this man?
“Have you had dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
I wanted to leave, but I remembered that I’d promised not to come down unless I went to bed with him. A promise was a promise. There was absolutely no air in the balloon, no attraction, no romance, nothing. He opened the door to the bedroom. There was a large satin-covered bed in a small room. I guess we both undressed. I remember clearly, with my eyes closed, visualizing a Roman landscape, steps leading to pillars, the vertical lines on the pillars, a sunset backdrop behind them, and figures in Roman togas moving around on the steps.
I felt nothing. My concentration was focused on the images in my head. All I could think of was,
Is it over yet?
When he was done, he was concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, really.”
It was stifling in his apartment. I had to get out to breathe.
• • •
A ll my one-night stands through the years would be a replica of that experience in one way or another: the anticipation—breathless and really hot, scorching to the touch. The actuality—the underwear coming off, the white body, the sheets, the strangeness. A total turnoff. Except for one, much later. No, two.
Within seven years I would call Herbert again. He had met, married, and opened an acting school with Uta Hagen, a remarkable actress and human being. My own life had undergone a radical change. Herbert and Uta opened their doors to me; their school gave me a home away from home.
On the Road
R ight after I graduated from the Neighborhood Playhouse, Richard Rodgers of musical fame cast me in a play. I was eighteen. Since the play wasn’t to be produced for another six months, he offered me the interim job of understudying Ado Annie in the road company of
Oklahoma!
I took the train to St. Louis to join the company by myself. I wore a skunk coat and a red beret. The chorus people told me later that they all made fun of my snobby ways after they asked, “Are you a singer?”
“No.”
“A dancer?”
“No.” Pause, then, in the new lower voice I had acquired in speech class at the Playhouse: “I’m an actress!”
As it happened, Dorothea McFarland, whom I’d gone to understudy, broke her arm the day I arrived. I was desperate to go on in her place. I’d had no rehearsal with the cast, no rehearsal of the songs with the orchestra, but I had insane eagerness. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed and the lovely girl who was the understudy I was sent to replace went on that night. I was never to perform Ado Annie. (Dorothea made sure of that.)
The company was spending two weeks in St. Louis. I’d been there just a few days when I came down with influenza. We were staying at some famous old hotel. For three days I was out of
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