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“You’re here,” Mr. Hamilton said, and everyone finished setting up. For the first time I realized he was the director. He was so young.
Theo finally glanced up at me. He stared through those fake glasses of his, and I couldn’t look away.
“Ms. Harper—no, Margaret, Margaret Beauchamp.” Mr. Hamilton nodded to himself. “Mr. Darcy told me you were nervous. Don’t worry, none of this is real. Well, of course it isn’t real, but what I mean is, don’t be nervous. We’re just going to test this. I doubt it will— What I mean is, I’m sure you will do great, but this—”
“Mr. Hamilton, I’m sure she understands,” Theo said, not moving from his spot near the fireplace.
“All right, everyone, places!”
I moved over to Theo. “The directors seems more nervous than anyone else,” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me. “It’s his first movie. Of course he would be, and this isn’t your place, Margaret, so go back to the kitchen.”
Our scene wasn’t in the kitchen. He was just being, well, Ernest Beauchamp.
“Careful, Ernest. That’s where we women keep the knives,” I shot back.
The corner of his lips turned up as I took a seat on a chair. A needle and threaded handkerchief was waiting for me. The prop team handed him a glass of scotch on the rocks, which was really juice apparently.
Knowing this wasn’t going to be seen, on top of it being Mr. Hamilton’s first movie, I felt more relaxed. I could mess up, but I was going to try my hardest not to. I wanted to do this.
The lines were all running around in my head, and I just needed to breathe and grab the right one.
Breathe, Fel—no, Margaret.
“And… ACTION.”
“Andrew came by,” I said softly, concentrating on the sewing in my lap. He didn’t speak. “I told him you were out. He was kind of shocked he didn’t see you in town. Where did you go?”
Silence.
Theo—Ernest—drank, staring into the fire.
“Ernest? Ernest, are you—”
“I was about,” he finally replied.
“About where?”
He sighed, finishing his drink. “I’ma turn in for the night—”
“Ernest, please talk to me.” I stood up and walked to him, but he backed away.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“I ain’t got nothin’? When did you start talking like them? And look at her—”
“Goddamn it, Margaret!” he yelled, throwing the glass so it flew past my head and into the wall. I jumped, and it was not acting. Finally turning toward me, his face was hard, his eyes angry. “When are you going to realize the man you married is dead?”
“Do not say—”
“He died in the war. He died killing men while trying to come home to you. He died, Margaret. Who gives a damn how the hell I speak, or if I do or don’t spend my time with some halfwit who ran off instead of fightin’! The world ain’t the same anymore—”
“Stop it!” I yelled, slapping him hard across the face. “You weren’t the only person to go to war, Ernest. You weren’t the only one who saw things and lost people. It was hard here too. We weren’t laughing and filling our faces all day, no matter what you might think. The war is over. It’s over. So come home.”
“Ain’t that what this is?” He stood in the middle of the living room with his arms raised. “I am home, Margaret—”
“No.” I shook my head and stepped back. “You used to say home was me. That home was being with me. That even if this house had no roof or walls, if I was here you were happy. I’ve been waiting and waiting for my Ernest to come back. Everyone else has either buried their husbands or held them in their arms again. I don’t got either. Instead you drink and you drink until you have got nothing in you, you ain’t a person at all—Urgh! Goddamn you, Ernest Beauchamp! You should have died.”
