Page 7 of Potion Sickness

“You know who.”

“You know he always comes late,” Dana says. “He gets here at seven-oh-five, every night. Rehearsal starts at seven. He’s worked out that seven-oh-five is the largest possible audience for an entrance.”

At seven sharp, Vivian claps twice from the front row and delivers the speech Hannah warned me about, which turns out to be a fairly benign lecture about community and courage, right up until Dana, from the back, says “Viv. Time,” at which point Vivian stands and says “Thank you, my love. ACT ONE.”

At 7:05 on the dot, the lobby doors swing open — both of them, though just one would have done the trick. Damien Carter comes through the middle. He is handsome, but he’s handsome in the sort of way that a historic building is beautiful. You can see it was true, once, and it still is, but it’s obvious that there’s been an extensive effort put into maintenance and upkeep. He’s wearing a dark coat too warm for August and sunglasses indoors.

“Please, please,” he calls out. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Nobody had stopped. Several people stop now, though, presumably out of confusion.

“STOP,” Vivian calls out. “We need a full run-through tonight, people. We’re starting from the top at every interrup⁠—”

“Everyone,” Damien announces, “this is Skye.”

“We’ve met Skye,” says Dorcas from her position on the stage. “Four times.”

Behind Damien, there’s a girl I hadn’t noticed at first. I’d put her at twenty-three or twenty-four. She’s blonde, wearing a white sundress, and carrying two green juices and a phone mounted on a little stick, filming his entrance. She taps the phone, lowers it, and beams at the room.

“Hi again!” Skye does a small wave with the juice hand. “You guys are all so talented. I cried on Tuesday. Like actually cried.”

Damien’s sunglasses come off in a single practiced motion. His eyes find me and he course-corrects toward my row with his hand already extended.

“You must be the press. I’m Damien. Damien Carter.” He says his own name with a small pause after it, leaving room for a reaction. I don’t give him one. “I do a lot of press. The trick, and I’ll give you this for free, is that a profile lives or dies on access, so consider me” —he taps his own chest— “open. Byways, right? Sweet little magazine. I think I did their cover once.”

“That was Yankee,” Skye says. “It was a listicle. You were number eight.”

“It was a feature, angel.” He turns back to me. “Regional coverage is the soul of the American theater, that’s what I’ve always said. You know, I did a sit-down with the Times once — this was during my second run at the Belasco — and the writer said to me, ‘Damien, the camera loves you but the stage forgives you.’ I’ve never forgotten it. You can use that.” He pats my hand and releases it. “Anything you need, my door is open. Well. My mother’s door is.”

He scans the room and I watch him find what he’s looking for in real time. His gaze locks on Pru, three rows over, running her lines with her back to him. He immediately crosses to her.

“Prudie.”

She ignores him.

“Prudence, darling!” He drops into the chair beside her, arm along the seatback.

“Damien.” Pru turns to look at him, and her expression, is similar to one I’d imagine she gives to opposing counsel when they’ve cited the wrong statute.

“Twenty-five years, and you still say my name like it’s a curse.”

“Damien,” she repeats. “In this production, you are my husband, I am your wife, we murder a houseguest, and at no other point do you need to be within ten feet of me. Places were five minutes ago.”

She gets up, squirming to avoid his outstretched arm, and walks to the stage.

Damien laughs and turns to the room at large. “She’s always been like that,” he says, as though he’s just been paid a compliment. “Fire. You can’t teach it.”

Skye, who clearly witnessed this whole interaction along with the rest of us, still has the smile on, but she’s stopped blinking. For about a second and a half she watches Pru walk away with fixed attention, but then Damien touches her elbow. She blinks, then she’s sweet again.

“Babe,” she says. “Drink your greens.”

* * *

The second attempt at the run-through starts nineteen minutes late. Englebert, who is installed on a stool in the wings with his tail wrapped around his feet, announces that this is an improvement.

The witches open on the thunder cue. Dorcas delivers her lines flatly, in the same tone she’d inform you she’s out of focaccia. Tiffany’s nasal voice comes out sharpened to a point. She’s honestly perfect for the role.

When Pru comes on with Macbeth’s letter, the whole gym goes quiet — even Tiffany, who has been posted up in the wings muttering every word along with her.