He’d been right on the money about Elise Klassan getting under his skin. As the day wore on, he found himself distracted and unable to study for either the New York or Pennsylvania bar exams he’d be taking back-to-back in July. His mind couldn’t shake the image of her dead body on the stage floor, and he had this insane feeling that he’d grieve her, or miss her, for the rest of his life if he didn’t just bite the bullet, buy another ticket, and see Elise Klassan alive and well, playing the dreadful Matilda once again.
Calling himself all sorts of a fool because the New York bar exam was one of the toughest to pass and truly required his dedicated attention, he bowed out of his study group, hailed a cab outside the New York Public Library at seven-thirty and arrived at the crappy theater on 12th Street twenty minutes later. With only ten minutes to spare before they raised the curtain, Preston found a seat in the third row center, noting that the theater was only slightly more packed than it had been yesterday which still meant that fewer than half of the seats were full.
Glancing to his left, he noted with some surprise that his unlikely friend from last night had also returned.
“Back again?” asked the man, lifting an eyebrow. “And here I thought the play was ‘not good.””
“Maybe it deserves a second chance,” mumbled Preston, feeling exposed and way beyond ridiculous for finding himself back in the audience so soon.
The man chuckled. “No it doesn’t. But she does, doesn’t she?”
Preston gave the man an annoyed look meant to discourage more conversation, then glanced back up at the closed curtain. He was incredibly irritated with himself for not getting off with Beth last night and blowing off his studies tonight. He wasn’t acting like himself one bit. Yes, it was Elise Klassan’s fault. No, he was not in the mood to discuss it.
“Let me give you some advice,” said the man, leaning over the empty seat between them and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Remember her name after tonight. Remember Elise Klassan. Because whether you meant to or not—”
He sat back without finishing his statement as the house lights dimmed and the curtains opened to show a Victorian parlor with Cyril and Constance sitting side by side on a loveseat. Preston looked away from the man beside him and braced himself for a guaranteed onslaught of dreadful over-acting.
Relaxing as much as he could in the uncomfortable seat, Preston recalled that Elise wouldn’t appear until the next scene, so there was no reason to pay attention now. He hadn’t paid attention much to the program last night, but tonight he’d made a point to take one, and now he opened it to the Cast Bios page. Tilting the thin Playbill at an odd angle to catch the dim light in the theater as Constance tried unsuccessfully to dull her strong southern accent and Cyril continued to prove that he wouldn’t be able to act his way out of a cardboard box, Preston narrowed his eyes in an attempt to read the small type.
Elise Klassan (Matilda)
Preston’s eyes slid to the left where a tiny black and white picture of Elise smiled back at him, making his heartbeat quicken. In the photo she was wearing a white tank top with some sort of floral pattern at intervals. Her hair was back in a ponytail and her shoulders, neck and long arms were tan. But her face stole his breath away and made him softly gasp. She wore the sweetest, loveliest smile he’d ever seen, anywhere, at any time.
Forcing his eyes from her face, he scanned her biography: Elise Klassan (Matilda) is delighted to be back at the 12th Street Rep Theater again after starring as Jenny in “By Proxy” and Francesca in “Tuscan Summer” last season. Elise holds a B.A. degree in Fine Arts from the Tisch School of Arts at NYU and was honored to train with Richard Bromberg for one semester at Julliard. Raised on a farm in upstate New York, Elise dedicates this performance to all of the little girls who dream of the big city lights. More at www.EliseKlassan.com It was a treasure trove of information about her, and his eyes skated swiftly back to her face as he processed the pertinent facts of her life…raised on a farm, dreamed of more, attended college in the city. He noted that her credits didn’t include a mention of Broadway and he wondered how she was living—if she had independent means or if she worked odd-jobs to make ends meet.
And suddenly he wanted to know, almost like it was important… no essential… to know how she survived, and if her life was good, and what had happened to her that made her voice break when she whispered “Cyril” before collapsing.