“It sounds as though she were some sort of mechanical doll,” Randy said.
“That’s exactly it!” Peggy cried. “We’re all mechanical people. We go through the right motions and say the right words, but it’s all so stiff—without any life or warmth.”
“Even Tom Agate?” May asked.
Peggy’s face softened. “No,” she said quietly. “He’s wonderful. I don’t know how he does it. He’s the only one with any spark to his performance. It’s a joy to see him come out on stage.” She shook her head wonderingly. “I think that man could act with a stone statue.”
In Oscar Stalkey’s office, two men were pacing back and forth restlessly. One of them was Stalkey himself, but then he always paced. The other was Craig Claiborne, who was usually relaxed and easygoing. The director threw out an impatient hand. “It just won’t work, Oscar!” he said. “I’ve tried everything, but that woman stiffens them all up like blocks of ice. She won’t do a thing I tell her, and as a result, this so-called comedy we’re about to take out on the road sounds like a dramatized version of an obituary column.”
“Now, now,” Oscar Stalkey soothed. “It can’t be as bad as all that.” But his face looked drawn, worried.
“Come on, Oscar,” Claiborne said. “You know it is.”
Oscar Stalkey sighed heavily. “Maybe it’ll get better,” he said hopefully. “You know, with opening night and all, there’s bound to be some excitement.”
The director shook his head with stark finality. “Opening night is just around the corner,” he said, “and they’re getting worse. Every last one of them. Except,” he added hastily, “Tom Agate. What a remarkable old man!”
“Three weeks in Baltimore!” Peter looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and laughed bitterly. “We’ll be lucky to last three nights!”