[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  She was a genuinely incredible cook, but convenience food was all the rage after the war. Doing these shows would broaden her visibility. And for me, well, it would keep her in town for a couple weeks, which meant I’d see her, but so would Richard. And he would see her more. This lunch was for us. My treat. Imagine, me treating Juliana in Sardi’s. If only Mom could see me now.

  I reserved a center table where I’d have a good view of her entering. No one could enter a room like Juliana. I gazed at the caricatures of Broadway and Hollywood stars hanging on the walls and imagined that someday Juliana’s would hang there too. I would see to that. But I couldn’t imagine how the artist would possibly take some odd feature of hers and exaggerate it. What odd feature?

  Oh jeepers! I was wearing a red dress. I’d forgotten that everything in Sardi’s is red or maroon. The walls, the banquettes, the seats, the menus, the awning outside. As I worried about how to get out of my red dress without being noticed, Juliana came through the door, stepping feather-light on Sardi's maroon carpet. My heart literally leapt up. She wore a mink jacket over a black linen afternoon dress, and a matching wide brimmed hat sloped over her forehead. The tuxedoed maitre’d met her at the door and led the way. She stepped toward me, her dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Well,” she said, standing behind the chair, smiling at me. “It’s been a while. Hasn’t it?”

  I couldn’t speak. I sat frozen with the vision of her perfect self before me. The maitre’d helped her to remove her coat and guided her into her chair. He bent close to her ear and whispered, “I enjoyed your last show so very much.”

  “Thank you, Sidney.” He bowed and left us. “You look very good, Al. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in red before.”

  “I clash with the room.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think anyone else would ever think to say that. I’ve missed you.” She slid off her gloves, keeping my gaze the whole time. Could there be anything more joyful than to look into her eyes? But, of course, we couldn’t touch.

  “We don’t have much time, do we?”

  “Not much. I’ve been traveling so many months back and forth that Richard has been feeling neglected. He made me promise I’d come right home to him when I got back into town. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m already here. Oh, Al, I am so very glad to see you.”

  My heart danced within me. She never said things like that. I wanted to reach across the table and … Oh, well. Sitting in her presence had to be enough.

  We ordered quickly so we could spend more time talking. Our moments together were too fleeting to waste even one. Anything I had to do back at The Haven, and there was a lot, I would’ve gladly crossed off the list to spend one more minute with her. But I didn’t have that choice. I ordered the brochette of beef, and Juliana had the Cornish game hen. Watching her weight as usual.

  We began with a sparkling burgundy wine. Not having had breakfast, it went straight to my head, and I had visions of her and me—well, you know—so it was hard to concentrate on her funny stories of Chicago and L.A. When she reached across the table for the salt—“Oh, let me,” I said. Our hands met for one lovely moment, both holding the shaker; we stayed that way, looking into each other’s eyes, forgetting the danger. Then remembering, we quickly let go, and the saltshaker fell, spewing salt all over the table.

  Sydney hurried over with a crumber. “Allow me,” he said. He’d been watching us. Eyes were always watching Juliana. Probably everyone in the place had seen us drop that saltshaker.

  “Thank you, Sidney,” I said as he left. We couldn’t allow ourselves to forget to be on our guard at all times.

  “Did you read this contract?” Juliana asked, taking us back into the real world. She slipped it from her purse and laid it on the table.

  “I read all your contracts.”

  “Then you read the morality clause.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “They want me to be ‘clean’ in my personal life. I can’t do anything that would embarrass their audience.”

  “Everyone signs that.”

  “They can look into my personal life, Al.”

  “They won’t. Or they’ll find Richard. If you don’t sign it, they won’t let you do their show. It doesn’t mean they think you’re, you know ... They don’t know about that. They’re looking for communists.”

  “Only communists? I know you’re not that naïve.”

  “You have to sign it, Jule. If you don’t, you risk being put in Red Channels.”

  “I thought that book didn’t exist.”

  “Well, that’s what they want us to believe, but I’ve seen it. It very much does exist. You'd never work again. At least not in TV or film, and you have to break into TV if we’re going to push your career to the top. It’s hard to say which way the nightclubs are going. These are uncertain times. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It … I’m not so used to boldly lying, signature and all.”

  “You’re not lying. You’re not immoral—exactly.”

  She smiled and took a pencil from her purse; she licked the end and scrawled her flowing signature at the bottom of the page. “This will get easier, won’t it?” She replaced the pencil in her bag. “Lying.”

  Chapter 49

  “IT’S GONE.” MARTY paced in front of my settee, looking more disheveled than usual. “I had it, but now it’s gone.”

  He’d just burst in. Scott, I guess had opened the door. Max was at the Mt. Olympus. I had hoped to get some rest before going back to the club for the midnight show. The TV hummed in the background.

  “I even thought of quitting school,” Marty went on.

  “You didn’t, though. Did you?”

  “No, but yesterday, my life was all set. A week ago, I found out I got into the Actors Studio.”

  “Congratulations. That’s really something. You can build a career on that.”

  “Yeah, maybe, in the theater, but now this. I was gonna make so much money, I wasn’t gonna need school. Salaries have gone way up in TV for the sixty-minute dramas. I’d be making money at something I’m good at, that I love. I was gonna have the perfect life. But now it’s gone. How can that be? So fast?”

  “This is show business. That’s the way this life goes. But, Marty it’s one job. Not your whole life.”

  “I told you, once you’re in, you’re in, and when you’re not ... What happened dammit? I was in.” He dropped down onto the couch.

  “Did you have words with anybody?”

  “No. We were all celebrating in Sal’s office a few nights ago. Champagne, caviar, the whole bit. General Foods was in love with me. Couldn’t wait to get me on the payroll. All that was left to do was sign the contract. Barbara, the secretary, had to get the final paper work done; she told me to come into the office today and she’d have everything ready to sign. Do you have anything to drink?”

  “Wine,” I said, getting up. “Want that?”

  “If you don’t have anything stronger.”

  “I might have a little scotch. Let me look.”

  Marty walked back and forth, running his hands through his hair while I went into the kitchen. I could hear Edward R. Murrow’s deep voice coming from the box, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I knew it was about the new hydrogen bomb they were developing, and it was lots worse than the atomic one. I supposed I should’ve turned it down or off, but I hated missing that show. I poured the last of my scotch into a glass of ice. “Keep talking,” I called. “I can hear you.”

  “This sure is a nice place you got. Must cost a lot of dough.”

  “Not cheap.”

  “I went into Sal’s office this morning. I had daisies for all the girls.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “But when I got there, it was like no one knew me. Like I was a stranger. None of the girls said hello, kept working at their desks like I wasn’t there.”

  I came out with the scotch for him and wine for myself.

  “Barbara, Sa
l’s secretary, wouldn’t look at me.” He sipped his scotch. “We always joked together. I gave her the flowers, and she put them on her desk, no vase, no thank you. She called into Sal. He came out. Didn’t invite me into his office, didn’t pat me on the back like always; then he said—in front of everybody—‘Sorry kid, we decided to go with someone else.’ God, it was like he punched me in the goddamn gut. I managed to say, ‘Why?’ He said the sponsor thought some other guy would be a better fit for the role. I looked at Barbara, but she couldn’t look at me. A few nights ago, she was sitting on my lap, and I was feeding her cheese and crackers. God, Al, I felt so awful. I’d never felt that awful in my life. I left. What else could I do? My stomach … it was on fire, and I thought I was gonna throw up in the elevator. How could I’ve been perfect at the beginning of the week, and three days later, I’m out?”

  He wrapped his forearms around his middle. “My stomach hurts all the time.”

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “Forget doctors!” He yelled. “Why is this happening to me?”

  “Not so loud. We don’t want the world to know.”

  “Al, my career, my whole goddamn career was right there in my hands.” He held out his cupped hands toward me. “And then, in some horrible second, it was whisked away. For no reason. Do you think someone found out I was gay?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Have you been going into the bars or those subway bathrooms?”

  “Of course, I have. I’m a guy. Guys want sex. All the time. Do you think someone followed me? What am I gonna do?” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Easy, we don’t know that’s it, so don’t go losing your head. You must’ve met people you could talk to, find out if that could’ve—”

  “Are you nuts? Nobody talks about that on TV. You gotta be squeaky clean. Oh, God, Al, if that’s it, my career’s cooked.”

  “Maybe it’s not that. Why don’t you call around and see if anyone knows anything? See if any of them have jobs for you.”

  “I did that. Or tried to. I started this afternoon. No one will take my calls.”

  “Maybe they were out. You can be impatient, you know. Give them time and—”

  “I’m scared, Al. I don’t get scared easy, but this is scaring me. If it’s because I’m gay, I won’t be able to work anywhere. My heart’s beating so fast. Al, could you call around? Try to find out something.”

  “I don’t really know TV.”

  “Just try. That’s all I’m asking. I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “Okay,” I sighed, “but I can’t promise anything. I’m not ‘in’ with that crowd yet. I’ll see what I can do. You know, Marty, it could be nothing. Maybe you’re making more of this than it is, being dramatic like you get. I bet someone’ll call you this week with a job offer.”

  The “Star Spangled Banner” boomed from my TV, and Marty jumped up. On the screen, the American flag waved against a background of blue sky like it always did when the station went off the air. Marty stood at attention, saluting. Then, remembering he wasn’t in the service any more, joined me in putting his hand over his heart. We stood side by side like that until the song ended and the test pattern came on.

  * * *

  The next day, in my office, I called Sal, Marty’s “almost” producer. The secretary, Barbara, answered. “Hi, Barbara, this is Al Huffman over at the The Haven. Oh, did you like last season’s show? I always love hearing that. Let me messenger you over a couple of tickets for the opening of our new show. It starts next Saturday.” She was so excited, it sounded like she was jumping up and down in her seat. “Is Sal in?”

  “I’m sorry, Al,” Barbara said. “I don’t like sounding like a busybody, but Sal always needs to know the topic before I put his calls through.”

  “Sure. The topic is Marty Buchman.”

  “Oh? Really?” Her voice became distant. “Uh … you know, Sal stepped out while we were talking. I didn’t know you wanted to speak to him, or I would’ve stopped him.”

  Why did she think I was calling? “When do you expect him to return?”

  “I don’t know,” she said hurriedly, and hung up.

  “Barbara? Barbara?” The phone buzzed in my ear. I replaced the receiver in its cradle. Now I was scared. I made another call, and another, and another, but whenever I said the name “Marty Buchman,” I got some similar response. Was it because someone had found out he was gay, or could it be something else?

  * * *

  The man on the other end of the phone told me to meet him at four at Child’s. He heard I’d been asking questions about Marty Buchman, and he thought he could help. He told me I had to come alone and sit in the second booth from the counter. He’d arrive in a gray trench coat and a fedora; he’d hang the fedora on the coat rack next to the counter, but he wouldn’t remove the coat. I was to wear a red ribbon in my hair. Gosh, I wished he’d come up with a better identifier than that. Me in a ribbon? I ran to Woolworth’s to buy one.

  There I sat, in the second booth from the counter, my eyes scanning the menu for turkey and mushroom croquettes with a la King Sauce and Potatoes. So specific. But that’s what he said to order. Why wasn’t the red ribbon enough? I didn’t know whether to laugh or get the hell out of there. Was I in the middle of a Grade-B detective picture, or was this guy gonna kill me?

  The waitress took my order. Soon after, a man in a gray trench coat and fedora came through the door and hung both the coat and the hat on the rack. That wasn’t right! He wasn’t supposed to hang the coat. He was heading in my direction. Was this a trick?

  A man in the booth behind me called, “Sylvester. Here.” The mystery man walked past me to join his friend.

  I stared at the coat rack. It had been empty when I first entered, but now it had that other man’s hat and coat hanging from it. What if my man could’t fit his coat on the rack? No, no, my man wasn’t going to put his coat on the rack; he was only going to put his hat there. Was that right? Or was it the coat he was gonna hang and not the hat?

  Another man in a trench coat and fedora stepped through Child’s door. But there was a woman with him—in a trench coat, too. Who the hell was she? The man hung his hat on the coat rack and said good-bye to the woman. She slipped out of Child’s door as he approached my table.

  “Is this seat taken?” the man asked, standing at my booth.

  I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t expecting a question.

  “Is this seat taken?” he repeated.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t think so.”

  He bent over and kissed me on the forehead. “Sorry I’m late, darling.” He sat down and signaled for the waitress.

  He ordered coffee with milk and a hamburger, bloody.

  “You look terrified,” he said after the waitress left. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m one of the good guys.” He held out a leather billfold with a badge: “FBI.”

  “What? Oh, gosh,” I whispered.

  “Don’t whisper,” he whispered back. “That’s a sure give-away that we’re up to no good,” he grinned. “How’s the new show coming?”

  “Fine. How did you know we’re working on a new show? We haven’t announced … Oh, you snoop for a living.”

  He smiled, “I loved your Christmas show at The Haven, Miss Huffman. You’re doing a heck of a job over there.”

  “Thanks. What do you know about—you know.”

  “Marty Buchman. You can say his name. We still have that much freedom left in this country. The communists haven’t taken that away. Yet. But if we’re not careful, they’re going to take over our beloved country. Only six years ago, we fought a war against fascism so we could stay free. We won that war, or at least, that’s what most people believe. But there are forces running wild today, Miss Huffman. Forces that are determined to stomp out our freedom.”

  The waitress placed my meal in front of me and brought him the coffee.

  Lifting his coffee cup, he said, “Please, eat, Miss Huffman. Mine will be along shortl
y.”

  “I’m really not hungry. I want to know—”

  “But we need to be cautious. Please eat. Enjoy.”

  I took a bite of food. “Can’t we get to the point? Marty was hired, and a few days later, he was out. What do you know about that?”

  “I know that he may never work in television again, unless he comes clean.”

  “Comes clean? What?”

  Did he mean ‘come clean’ about being gay?

  He looked over at the people eating in the center of the room. Then turned back to me. “How well do you know our subject?”

  “Our subject? You mean Marty? Pretty well.”

  “Then you know he was recently accepted into the Actors Studio, and last year he did an awful lot of unionizing.”

  “Is that suddenly illegal?”

  “Well, under certain circumstances, these activities could be suspect. The sponsor wants to deliver clean television. Television goes right into American homes. Good, decent American families watch it together. Children watch it. There must be nothing politically muddy.”

  “Politically …? Marty’s not a communist, if that’s what you’re getting at.” A flash of memory. Marty asking me, ‘Are you a communist?’ But he didn’t mean that; he meant … Maybe this guy doesn’t mean communist either. Maybe it was code for gay, like they’re doing in DC.

  “You tell Mr. Buchman that when he’s ready to talk, we’ll receive him with open arms.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “He knows.”

  The waitress set the hamburger in front of the man. He opened the top of the bun and drowned the burger with ketchup. “Now, if you’ll allow me to enjoy this good ol’ American hamburger in peace …”

  “What?”

  “You’re being dismissed. It’s all I’m going to say. But be assured that I know things, Miss Huffman. Lots of things. About Buchman. About you. About … well, let’s say it’s my business to know people’s secrets.” He winked, picking up his hamburger; ketchup squished over his fingers. “I suggest you convince Mr. Buchman to talk.”

  * * *

  “Max! Max!” I ran yelling into my Mt. Olympus office, slammed the door, locked it, and paced. Max stood on the other side of the door, knocking on the window. “Well, come in, dammit! Oh!” I hurried to open it. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing. Oh, gosh, Max, oh gosh, gosh.”