Fifth Wall

      The flat hit the stage with a solid whap! and Whitaker stumbled in his lines. He turned toward the sound to see a pair of surprised stagehands venture out to right the toppled scenery. Behind them stood Samantha, dressed as Rosalind dressed as a man. He thought she was embarrassed for being exposed backstage until he realized her frantic waving was at his hesitation.
      Then he heard the laughter. Angered, he turned to face them. The company was doing Shake in the Park this season. The audience lounged on the grass in comfortable disarray, extending back into the darkness beyond the lights like the unfathomable limits of the sea. Despite what he clearly heard, however, none laughed. They sat like a field of tombstones, unmoving but for an occasional scratch or cough, none of them daring even to smile in the deathly pause. But still Whitaker heard laughter. It drifted over their heads from the darkness beyond the lights, and he glared in confusion until it faded away.
      To die on stage was worse than to die in life; Whitaker ignored his fears and pressed on. He regained his -- Orlando in the forest, his servant once his treacherous brother's, now his own and loyal, both hungry, he demanding food from Duke Senior whom he has just found to be a gentleman like himself. With a flourish he sheathed his sword and proclaimed, "Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you. I thought that all things had been savage here, and therefore put I on the countenance of stern commandment..."
      The spell had broken and he could not recast it. He limped through the remainder of the performance, accepted sporadic applause, and tried not to reveal his distress when the company congratulated him backstage.
      He and Samantha drove to a party afterwards. He had no appetite for festivity, but Samantha insisted and he likewise had no appetite for argument. She lounged in the seat beside him, the smoke from a rare cigarette drifting out the window as if eager to run. After some time, she said to the ceiling, "You looked angry for a moment there, my love."
      "Maybe I looked angry because I was angry."
      "Not a good thing for an actor, to become angry at the audience. After all, the show is for their benefit. And it's not their fault."
      "It's not my fault either, that the scenery fell."
      She lowered her gaze to him. After a moment, she said, "My dear Whit, are you hearing things again?"
      He shrugged and shook his head. Then he said, "Well, yes. I am. I did. On stage this time. And don't think the embarrassment is easy, Sam, to go mad while hundreds watch."
      He gripped the wheel and endured her searching gaze. Finally she said, "My dear Whit, I never know whether to take you seriously with these things."
      They drove on to the party. Whitaker found it crowded, noisy, and typical, of the sort he had once enjoyed but now suffered with impatience. He drifted about the room with a drink in his hand, sampling bits and snatches of tiresome conversation until Rudolph cornered him next to the cold cut spread. The director, somewhat drunk, leaned toward Whitaker and blew the smell of wine at him.
      "Whit, good! I wanted to talk to you. I've tried to catch you for two days now but you keep running from me. Have you seen the reviews?"
      "What reviews?"
      Rudolph held a napkin, which he tapped with a stiff forefinger as if it was a newspaper. "The reviews! In the papers, for the show! Your Orlando has been falling off the last few performances. And don't think I'm the only one who's noticed."
      "Do we have to talk about this here?"
      "Is something wrong, Whit?" He placed a hand on Whitaker's shoulder. "If it is, tell me. I'll do what I can."
      Whitaker looked at him. The director leaned forward, eager and confident, and slightly off-balance with his eyes fixed squarely on the end of Whitaker's nose. "Just a slippery spot," Whitaker said. "I'll be okay."
      Rudolph nodded. "All right. You'll let me know, will you?"
      "I will."
      "And don't forget, it's not too late to recast Hamlet next month."
      The director pushed off through the crowd like an uncertain dinghy in choppy waters. Whitaker watched him disappear, then cast his gaze over the party. He spotted Samantha talking animatedly on a couch with John Pierce. He made his way over and sat next to her.
      Pierce was a short man with crooked teeth and eyeglasses so thick he appeared to stare even when blinking. His glass of whiskey was filled nearly to the brim, yet he gestured so broadly that it threatened to spill across their knees. "Whit! Good to see you! We were just talking about your mishap tonight."
      "Oh. You saw it."
      "I was there. Had trouble picking up the pace again, didn't you?" Before Whitaker could answer, Pierce said, "And the intriguing thing is, the whole episode parallels a play of mine they're producing at the Bijou. I was just telling Sam..."
      Samantha leaned forward, placing both elbows on her knees and cupping her chin in her hands. "Yes, go on. You were talking about the fourth wall."
      "Yes, of course. That's what happened, you see, Whit. You broke the fourth wall."
      "I broke the fourth wall?"
      "When the scenery fell. With that interruption, the audience could no longer pretend that the people on stage were anything more than actors. That is, after all, what we do in theater. Pretend." He wrinkled his nose at Samantha, and she wrinkled her nose at him and giggled. He continued, "That's what my new play is all about. In it, I break the fourth wall intentionally, over and over. I have actors actually passing through the imaginary wall at the front of the stage." He gestured again, and whiskey slopped unnoticed across his knuckles. "The whole thing was inspired by Bridgeley."
      "Who?"
      "Bridgeley. A metaphysics professor at Harvard in the Thirties. He wrote a pamphlet about the limits of the four dimensions. You know, height, depth, width, time. In this pamphlet he talks about the limits of the four dimensions, and I thought of the poetic connection. You know, four dimensions -- "
      "Four walls!" said Samantha.
      "Exactly! And the rest of the play occurred to me when, in the pamphlet, he talked about transcending by force of will the four dimensions we're familiar with. He concluded that his theory would logically imply further dimensions beyond our own four, and that a weakening of the barriers between dimensions would introduce a host of phenomena. It might explain UFOs, frogs falling from the sky, extra-sensory perception, things like that. It's all in the play, you'll have to see it. He even postulated that it might be the root cause of some forms of madness..."
      He stopped and looked at Whitaker. Whitaker looked back, then glared at Samantha. "You told him."
      "Well, I..."
      "You told him."
      "Excuse me," said Pierce. "I think I need to freshen my drink."
      He stood and walked away. Whitaker continued glaring at Samantha, until she burst out, "Well, I only just mentioned it."
      "I can't tolerate this any more. Let's go."
      The drive home was heavy and quiet. She spoke only once, and that to say reluctantly, "Well, what am I supposed to do? You're going crazy and I can't tell anyone?" When he only shrugged, she said, "If you're really going crazy, why don't you see a doctor?"
      "I don't know. I suppose I don't really feel like I'm crazy. I mean, I'm not bouncing off the walls or drooling in my soup. And I can still hold a job."
      She looked at him for a long time, then closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat, and said nothing for the remainder of the drive.
      When they got home, he walked out to the balcony and sat with hands stuffed in his pockets and feet propped up on the railing. He watched the city lights until Samantha came out and stood behind him. She leaned over to kiss his forehead, her fragrant hair covering his face for a moment, then rising like a curtain as she straightened to rub his shoulders.
      "Poor Whit, depressed and unable to focus. You really need to concentrate. I think Rudolph has noticed."
      "I know he has. He's thinking of someone else for Hamlet."
      "Then why don't you get to work?"
      "I don't know. I think I'm suffering from classical ennui. I just don't feel there's any point. I don't feel like there's anyone watching anymore."
      "There's people watching every night."
      "I know, I know. But it no longer sustains me." He slumped in the chair and draped an arm across his brow. "We walk alone through life, Sam. There's no getting around it. We're creatures surrounded by our own kind, yet solitary." He heaved a sigh and said emphatically, "Oh, for an audience that cared."
      She lifted his arm and said with irritation, "What am I, slaughterhouse offal? Get a grip, Whit. None of us are that important." He kept his eyes closed. She said, "You're inconsolable," and dropped his arm again. He heard her light footsteps retreat into the bedroom. He remained on the balcony for another hour, dozing, until a tearing sound, like fabric ripping in one long pull, woke him.
      He sat up. The sound had come from directly ahead. He stood and looked over the balcony, but saw only cars moving on the street below. With a shiver, he turned into the apartment and went quietly to bed.
      A murmuring commotion woke him again early the next morning. It sounded for all the world like the gathering of an audience before a performance. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Samantha slept beside him. The murmuring faded so quickly he could hardly tell if the sound had been real or only a dream.
      He slipped out of bed and went jogging through the park. He ran twice around the duck pond and through the stand of trees, then slowed to a trot as he approached the stage. Cold and deserted, with props locked away, curtains rolled up, and grass trampled, it looked like an abandoned castle left to gather dust. He sprinted out to it, then leaned over with hands on knees to catch his breath.
      The tearing sound came again, then a long, deep yawn. He whirled.
      "What! What is it! Do I bore you? Is that the problem?"
      He glared at nothing. Across the turf, a breeze rustled the trees and a duck quacked in the pond. But no one answered. Whitaker ran home.
      Samantha taught a workshop in the morning and was gone when he arrived. He showered, ate breakfast, and paced the balcony. He considered going to see a doctor, as Samantha had suggested, but instead drove to Pierce's apartment.
      He banged on the door for five minutes before Pierce opened it a crack and glared out at him. "What are you doing here, Whit?"
      "I want to borrow that book."
      "Which book?"
      "The one you were talking about last night. The four dimensions."
      Pierce blinked. He was not wearing his glasses and had trouble focusing. "Oh. Bridgeley. Can't it wait? Do you need it now?"
      "Right now."
      Pierce looked at him with impatience, then opened the door. He wore only a towel. Whitaker looked around at the apartment stacked with books and papers, and said, "Where is it?"
      Pierce seemed confused. He tousled his hair with his free hand. "Um...wait here."
      He disappeared into the hallway. Whitaker waited impatiently, until Pierce returned dressed in pants, shirt, and glasses. He handed Whitaker a thin, well-thumbed book.
      "Thanks," Whitaker said, turning toward the door. "I'll bring it right back."
      "Whit," Pierce said. Whitaker turned back. The writer regarded him for a long moment. "Are you okay?"
      "I'm fine. Why?"
      Pierce said nothing. He only gazed in distraction, as if he expected Whitaker's head to sprout a tree of freshwater salmon at any moment. Whitaker thanked him again and left.
      He spent most of the day reading on the balcony. Though the book was brief, it was filled with lengthy, convoluted sentences, and exhausting phrases such as "the creation of encapsulated conjectural frameworks within the accepted modes of particle conjectural theory" and "the persistence and modulation phases of n-dimensional vortices." He still had not finished it when Samantha returned. He said nothing, but after a while he noticed an unfamiliar agitation from the bedroom. He set down the book and walked in to find Samantha packing a suitcase.
      "What's going on?" he asked.
      She cast him a furious glance, then continued throwing clothes about. "You're asking me? I'm leaving, that's what."
      "Why?"
      "Because you're crazy, Whit. You're a loon. You won't see a doctor, you won't let me help, you go barging into people's apartment's demanding books -- " She stopped and glared at him, half angry and half frightened.
      "Pierce," he said. "You were there. And damned if he wasn't wearing any clothes." She set her lips together and continued packing. "Fine!" he shouted. "Go stay with him! Your tastes run to the avian, go live with the owl!"
      He stomped back out to the balcony. After a while he heard her moving across the living room. She tossed at him, "I'll be back for the rest," and slammed the door.
      He glared at the city, then out of spite began reading again. He would finish the book, damn her, and solve his problem. But when he completed the book, he felt no more illumed than before. The only portion he even vaguely comprehended was the final, two-page chapter, which seemed to indicate that, when weakened, Bridgeley's "dimensions" could be transcended by force of will.
      He set the book aside, placed his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples, and did his best to will the barrier to fall. But his mind kept wandering back to Samantha, and he heard nothing but the traffic from below.
      Depression set in that night. It was the first time he had slept alone in two years. He tossed and turned and kept waking up, until early morning light filtered through the bedroom window like an unwelcome guest.
      Haggard and weary, he went jogging. According to routine he ran twice around the duck pond, then through the trees and onto the grass. He slowed as he approached the stage, that construct of wood and iron and kleig lights where worlds were recreated nightly, and his chest felt as if it was filling up. He heaved himself onto the stage and dangled his legs over the grass, dropped his face into his hands, and brooded.
      Then came the laughter once more. He looked up. The park was deserted, yet the laughter continued. Angered, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, and shouted, "Stop it! Just stop it, stop it, stop it!"
      The tearing came again, loud as thunder. A sparkling light appeared in the sky above the trees. It descended like a falling star, right to the ground, leaving behind a solid line like a pencil mark drawn by a ruler. The line split open. The sky and trees and ground disappeared behind a massive rift, and beyond it Whitaker saw a crowd of people. They were bald and their eyes were purple, and they were ranked row upon row into the distance.
      And they laughed. And pointed at him.
      Mouth hanging open, he stared in shock. One purple-eyed woman in the first row stopped laughing. She glanced uncertainly to the side, as if something out of sight had grabbed her attention. Then two others noticed, then the whole first row watched as the rest of the crowd continued howling with glee.
      Two small figures, little purple-eyed cherubs with bald heads, drifted into sight from either side. Each held a bright shaft which twirled and sparkled. They met at the base of the rift, touched the shafts together, and ascended. As they rose, the rift closed, shutting the crowd from sight. Just before they disappeared completely at the top, one cherub hit the other on the shoulder.
      Whitaker had seen that gesture once before. Last year, he had watched one stagehand punch another when the first had wandered on stage during a performance.
      The rift closed completely, leaving Whitaker to stare dumbfounded at the grass and trees and sky. He stared for a long time before walking home. And he never heard the voices again.
      But his reviews for Hamlet were excellent.