Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  * * *

  I cannot tell you how the final dress rehearsal went as I spent its entirety belowstairs and backstage. Leo had taken my suggestion that Mr. Harney’s part be changed from father to mother. For Mrs. St. John the joy of throwing away Mr. Harney’s old costumes was offset by the necessity of creating new ones. That morning, Louise and I had called her mother and persuaded her to give up some of her more “old-fashioned” looks; we would helpfully clear out her wardrobe. Mrs. Benchley was smaller than Mr. Harney, but the rough outline was the same and with extra panels, a magnificent ensemble was coming together. Mrs. St. John gave me the honor of creating Mrs. Frobisher’s signature hat out of a singularly ill-judged purchase of Mrs. Benchley’s. Between us, Mr. Harney and I created something so vividly awful that Mr. Harney said it should have its own credit in the program.

  I sewed, pasted, pinned, and painted. I carried scenery, soothed nerves, swept sawdust, ran sheet music upstairs and down. All hierarchy and pretension fell away; there simply wasn’t time for it. At one point, I crossed paths with Claude Arden and we got caught in a tight spot, as my arms were too full for him to get by. “Is this going downstairs?” he asked. I nodded. “Give it to me, I’ll go.”

  I can’t even remember what time it was I slipped into the bathroom, more for a moment to collect myself than anything else. I was not alone. One of the stalls was in use, but not for its usual purpose. The occupant was kneeling—and being violently sick. Noting the plumpness of the leg and the sensible shoes, I said, “Miss Biederman, do you need help?”

  The answer was emphatic and negative. After a moment, she emerged, still looking unwell. She was flushed, her brown bubble hair clung to her cheeks. Self-consciously, she went to the sink and drank from her hand. As she dabbed at her mouth, I said, “You should go home.”

  “Tonight?” She smiled wanly. “Nobody goes home tonight.”

  “But if you’re sick…”

  “I’m fine. It passes.”

  It struck me that “passes” was an odd way to put it. As if she often threw up and it was of no consequence. The only way it would be of no consequence was …

  “… Congratulations?”

  She smiled as if relieved to have someone know her secret. “Thank you. It’s very bothersome, all this…” She gestured to the toilet. “I know, I have been a little distant with you. But you notice things and I did not want you to notice this.”

  “I had no idea,” I said, thinking how admirably she’d carried on.

  “Please don’t tell anyone. The wedding isn’t until next month and it’s … I am a little embarrassed.”

  Pleased to be on friendly terms again, I said, “How on earth could such a happy thing be embarrassing? But you should tell Mr. Hirschfeld if you’re feeling ill. I’m sure he would…”

  “No.” She turned the faucet, began bathing her face.

  “He’s really not the sort of man to fuss over a few months.”

  In a voice that strove for lightness—and failed—she said, “I would really rather Mr. Hirschfeld not know.”

  Puzzled that Leo could inspire such fear in a woman who was quitting anyway, I was about to press when Harriet said in a voice choked with tears, “I’m so sorry, I did not want you to ever know.”

  For a moment, I remained utterly bewildered. Then I realized, not just that I had been stupid, but the depth of my stupidity. And insensitivity. Placing a chair under the door handle, I suggested we both sit down on the settee. Harriet glanced upstairs, worried.

  “They can manage without us,” I said.

  A small smile. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, at least let them try.”

  * * *

  Hours later when Louise had taken the cast out to dinner, I walked into the main theater to find Leo standing in the middle of the empty stage, gazing out at the seats. He was in his shirtsleeves, collar open, hair at its messiest and most vibrant. I fixed the image in my mind, then made myself known.

  “There you are!” He scrambled off the stage. “Everybody went on to dinner. I wanted to wait for you. And Harriet, where is she?”

  “I had to send Miss Biederman home. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  He made a brief expression of sympathy, then it was back to buoyance. “So you want to go? I know it’s late, but I’m starving.”

  Taking my hand, he started up the aisle. I held him back. “I have a question for you.”

  “You have a question for me.”

  “Have you spoken with a lawyer? About an annulment?”

  “Sure, because I’ve had all this time.”

  “You should speak with a lawyer. Soon. I’ll have Mrs. Tyler recommend one.”

  A little fearful, he said, “I hate lawyers. Why so much concern over my marital status?”

  I took a seat on the piano bench; he followed and we sat facing each other like children on a seesaw. For a moment, I wondered if I really had to say what I was about to say.

  Then I said it. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to lawyers. And I’m afraid you will be getting married again.”

  “Yeah? Who’s the unlucky girl?”

  “Harriet Biederman.”

  This was not the name he had expected. “I think Harriet’s spoken for.”

  “Think, Leo.”

  He did. “That? That was one time. You weren’t back yet. I was married, she was engaged…”

  “She wasn’t engaged then. She just told you that so you wouldn’t worry.”

  “Why would I worry? It was a late night, a scene wasn’t working. Warburton had screamed at her. Violet had screamed at me. We went out for hash,” he added as if the humble meal underscored the meaninglessness of the encounter. “Then we came back here to work and…”

  “Was it nice?”

  He half smiled. “Yeah, it was. She’s nice to talk to, she knows everything about theater. It was…”

  Breaking himself out of the reverie, he took both my hands in his. “But it was just the one time, I promise. Harriet’s…”

  Before he could dismiss the mother of his child, I said, “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

  All humor went out of his expression as he finally realized. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “You’re married, Leo,” I reminded him. “And she values your work more than anything. In her eyes, you’re a great man, and you don’t bother great men with petty details like a baby. You certainly don’t ask them to be good men. You, however, are going to be both.”

  He looked doubtful. “How do you know it’s what she wants? Maybe she loves the butcher.”

  “Of course it’s what she wants, Leo. She doesn’t care about the butcher, she adores you. She has since you met, but you were too busy with Miss Tempest to notice. She had some hope when it became clear you and Violet weren’t blissfully happy. But then I came back. She ran out of Rector’s partly because she was sick, but mostly because she saw you watching me on the dance floor, and whatever she saw, it made her unhappy. She loves you, Leo. Why shouldn’t she? You happen to be rather lovable.”

  Swinging my hand, he said, “For two people who dance well, we have lousy timing.”

  I smiled, sharing his regret. “All Broadway is about to become one big Leo Hirschfeld production. You need a wife. Not just a wife, you need Harriet. And she needs to work. Don’t make her give that up.”

  “Believe me, Harriet will have all the work she wants from me.”

  Then with more difficulty than I had anticipated, I added, “And your child needs you.”

  The thought of imminent Hirschfelds seemed to cause more apprehension than joy. But he managed, “My mother will be happy. Confused, but happy.”

  I suspected Mrs. Hirschfeld would not be in the least confused. “She’ll like Harriet.”

  “Well, that’s fine for my mother. But…” He waved a hand between us.

  A year ago, Leo’s way of saying he cared was to announce that he never wanted to not know me. At the time, it had seemed a
thin substitute for “I love you.” Now it seemed big and wide enough to encompass a whole world of feelings, from friendship to flirtation to devotion and yes, love.

  “You will never not know me, Leo Hirschfeld.”

  “That stinks, using my own words.”

  “What better words?”

  We left the theater. I asked him to tell Louise I had gone home. But he was on his way to Harriet’s apartment, having found the address in her precisely kept records. As we went past the Times building, I saw the headline in the window had changed: GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA. How had that happened? I wondered. How had we gone from that ill-fated car ride to this? But I had no answer and the question quickly faded.

  As we turned to go in our various directions, Leo said, “Can I ask you something?”

  I stopped.

  “How come you never fell in love with me?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  21

  There was one final, crucial decision to be made: what would Louise wear to the opening night? For days, she had been too busy to even consider the matter—at least when I asked. But when Mrs. St. John put the question to her point-blank, she said, “I thought something quiet.” She looked at Blanche. “People aren’t coming to see me, after all. It’s your night.”

  “But you have paid for this night,” said Mrs. St. John crisply. “And at the party afterward, you are the person intelligent people will want to meet.”

  Louise looked panicked. I thought to defend her inclination to dwell in the background. Then asked, “Did you have a suggestion, Mrs. St. John?”

  “As it happens…”

  She went to the dress rack where we kept the costumes and pulled out a dress I had not seen before. Its base was a simple cream gown of silk chiffon, almost Grecian in its flow. A deep neckline left the shoulders and breast barely covered, but the long sleeves trimmed in great plumes of ostrich feathers made it both dramatic and elegant. Over the right half of the dress was a metallic material Mrs. St. John called silver lamé, that looked almost like a half plate of armor; a sash of gold and green ran down the length of the skirt. It was goddess and warrior in one dress, and without thinking I breathed, “Oh, Mrs. Tyler, you must.”

  Louise stared, no doubt thinking this was not a dress that would permit corset or bra, any more than it would permit its wearer to hide. “I’ve never worn anything like that. I’m not certain I’ve ever seen anything like that.”

  Mrs. St. John smiled, pleased with the compliment. “You’ve never produced a show before either. Try it on.”

  Louise did. And when she presented herself to Blanche Arden and Adele St. John, they paid her the compliment of applauding.

  That evening, as I arranged the sash so the slight swell at Louise’s middle would neither be squeezed nor revealed, I said, “I can’t wait until Mr. Tyler sees you.”

  Louise had been gazing at herself in the mirror, still stunned by this new self. I had arranged her hair in the closest approximation of Blanche’s style I could manage.

  Now her expression turned melancholy. “I’m not certain he’ll come. He said he would, but he hasn’t mentioned it all day. I have the awful feeling he’ll find some reason to stay home.”

  It would not be appropriate for me to express disapproval, so I did not. If William was still uneasy about Louise’s involvement in theater, this was not the night to make those feelings clear. Not if he wanted to be told he was going to be a father—something Louise had sworn to me she would do after the show.

  Anxious eyes on her reflection, Louise said, “After tonight, will you please explain to me how Mr. Hirschfeld came to be”—the precise status being complex, she avoided it—“with Miss Biederman? And why you’re not upset?”

  That was also complex. My heart did hurt to think of losing Leo. But the truth was, I didn’t want to marry Leo Hirschfeld. I wanted to dance with Leo Hirschfeld, laugh at movies with Leo Hirschfeld, run down beaches, share coconut candy, and forget myself on divans with Leo Hirschfeld. Probably, I always would. But when I thought of Harriet’s life as Mrs. Hirschfeld, endless days in theaters, taking the phone calls he didn’t want to take, managing actors, typing contracts, soothing nerves, prompting lines—in short, making his business hers, his life hers, I realized it would make me as unhappy as it was going to make Harriet blissful. Even the baby, I suspected, would not keep her from the theater for long; that child would be raised in the wings. For Harriet, it was her passion and the man she loved. For me, it was a man I adored, before I’d had the chance to figure out if I even had a passion.

  “Yes, Mrs. Tyler. Shoulders back. Head up.”

  Louise complied and I stood back to judge the effect. The dress was marvelous. But there was something missing. Earrings? I fretted. A different necklace? Then I heard the chime of the clock; whatever it was, Louise would have to do without.

  We left the bedroom with some trepidation: would William be waiting for his wife or no? But then I saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looked absolutely splendid in white tie. For a moment, the Tylers gazed at each other.

  “Oh, William,” said Louise.

  “You look … magnificent.”

  And with that came the final ornament the dress needed: Louise’s smile.

  My own dress for the opening night was far more modest, although Louise had insisted I have “something nice.” It was a dusky pink silk with a silver velvet sash and silver thread through the bodice and a fashionably hobbled skirt and short sleeves. I had not wanted to think much about my appearance; I wasn’t at all sure I would be attending the party at Churchill’s afterward and no one would be looking at me anyway. Yet at the last minute, I had done up my hair in a Psyche knot, tying it back with a swath of rose satin. Tilting my head in the mirror, I thought I did look rather … fetchingly forlorn. Mr. Harney had made me promise him a dance and who knew? Perhaps Rodolfo worked at Churchill’s on Tuesdays.

  As we went through Times Square, I noticed the streets were more crowded than usual. At first I thought it was simply the pretheater crush. But people did not seem to be moving; instead they were gathering by the Times building. Glancing out the window, I saw a new headline in red letters: FIRST SHOTS. We rolled past before I could see more.

  If the crowd outside the theater were any indication of future success, Louise’s investment would be returned severalfold. Louise and William were startled to be greeted with cheers as they left the Ghost and made their way through the front doors.

  As I made my way through the crowd to the stage door, I heard people calling out the names Arden and Fiske as if conjuring them would make them appear. I thought of how many people I would never see again after this night: the Ardens, Nedda Fiske, Roland Harney, Harriet … possibly Leo. I hadn’t seen him at all today and couldn’t envision a moment when I would see him this evening. Which perhaps was for the best.

  Then to my surprise, I heard my name and turned to see Michael Behan. Who asked, “What are you doing out here on your own? I thought you’d be with the maestro.”

  “He’s busy at the moment, and don’t be rude.”

  “Well, he’ll like the dress.”

  It took me a moment to understand his assumption—and decide whether or not I wished to correct it.

  I said, “It’s not actually important whether he likes the dress or no.”

  He frowned. “He’s free of the clutches of Miss Tempest—who I now hear is Mrs. Bigamist Somebody or Other—what’s stopping him?”

  “A very nice girl he’ll be marrying in a month or so.”

  “A very nice girl … who isn’t you.”

  “Who is not me.”

  “I stand ready with that punch in the nose.”

  I laughed. “Not on my account, but thank you. Anyway, I can deliver my own punch in the nose if need be.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  I opened the stage door. “I don’t suppose you want to see the show? After everything you’ve heard about it…
”

  “Isn’t it a packed house?”

  “You can share my spot in standing room. One condition.”

  “It’s the biggest show in town since Moses and the Red Sea.”

  “Exactly.”

  Louise had of course offered me a seat but I had told her I preferred standing room. Seeing the show with an audience for the first time was going to be nerve-racking and I didn’t relish the thought of absorbing the full weight of someone else’s anxiety by sitting next to them. In standing room, I would have the freedom to step back, even away if need be. Leaning on the cushioned barrier, I pointed out various wealthy and famous people in the crowd—including Detective Fullerton, whose success in arresting the Killer Chorus Girl had only increased his own celebrity. I may have gestured too ostentatiously at that gentleman, because he made his way over. He wore white tie very well and I told him so.

  “Miss Jane Prescott.”

  “Detective Fullerton. This is Michael Behan of the Herald. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell him the true inside story of how you caught Sidney Warburton’s killer.”

  “I would like to.” The little eyes glittered. “But it seems to me that is your story to tell.”

  “Yes, it seems to me as well,” said Behan, notebook at the ready. “Miss Prescott?”

  Startled to be the focus of attention, I stammered. The Nag’s Nose, the brunette, Harriet’s notebook, the growing sense of the rage behind Violet’s vagueness—not to mention what I had learned in clearing the rest of the cast. None of it was the sort of thing Mrs. William Tyler’s maid should be telling the papers. Mrs. William Tyler’s maid should not be in the papers.

  Of course, there was no law that said I must continue being Mrs. William Tyler’s maid.

  Lightly, knowing the answer, I said, “Are you offering me a position, Detective?”

  “You might be another Isabella Goodwin,” he said, referring to the city’s first female detective, promoted just two years ago after solving a bank robbery sixty male detectives failed to.