[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  “Richard told me you approved it. I thought you were too busy to call me.”

  “Listen to me carefully. I am never too busy to talk to you about your career. No. Correct that. I am never too busy to talk you about anything. Ever. Do you hear me?”

  “Is this a bad thing? A mistake? Oh, no, Al.”

  “It’s okay.” Now that I’d completely botched this up and made her into a wreck, I had to convince her everything was fine. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry.”

  When I hung up I knew she was worried. Richard and she would fight tonight, and I couldn’t be there to calm her because he’d be there. The ever-present Richard. My hands shook as I hung up the receiver.

  Max poked his head into my office. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, you’ve got a whole line of girls waiting out here to audition for you. Don’t you think you better get started?”

  “Oh?” I said, my mind completely filled with worry over Juliana. “Why are you telling me instead of Bart?”

  “I didn’t see Bart anywhere. Is he in charge of this?”

  I grunted and marched into a room of female hopefuls. I was looking to replace a couple of Harlington Honeys who had moved on to bigger and better. Bart was supposed to be running it. He was supposed to pick the most promising girls and set up appointments for them with Sadie, our musical director. But as usual, he was nowhere to be found.

  All through the auditions, I couldn’t focus on anything other than getting Juliana out of that contract. Then, I’d wondered if maybe I was holding her back. It’d been easy to move Lili on. Why hadn’t I done that for Jule? Was it some fear of losing her? Lili was easy to put into ingénue roles. Jule’s age was against her. There’d been producers who would’ve put her in those ingénue roles to use her name, but I had to protect her from piranhas like that. At thirty-six, she should be doing leading-lady parts in musical theatre, but she didn’t have the experience.

  I was down to the last singer; a slender, twenty-year-old blonde. Cute, in a twinkly sort of way, but twinkly singers didn’t bring in big spenders. The kid wore a simple, pale-green day dress that buttoned down the front.

  She told me her name, which I promptly forgot, because my mind was stuck on getting done with the audition and back to getting Juliana out of that contract. After two hours of listening to girl singers from Kansas, and Nebraska, or wherever the hell they came from, I was growing deaf. This kid would have to be some kind of special for me to notice her.

  She introduced me to her accompanist, Lucille Wadwacker. Now, that’s a name you didn’t forget. Lucille was about the same age as the singer, but not as attractive. She wore thick glasses that made her eyes look like they were popping out of her head. And that nose. It was long, thin, and pointed. Something like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz, but that’s where the comparison ended. Lucille’s body wasn’t anything like a skinny witch. Lucille had curves that she didn’t mind showing off. She wore a dress—two or three sizes too small—splashed with flowers of many types and colors. A daisy spread out over her rear when she bent to pick up some sheet music that slipped out of her arms. Her bodice dipped down low, leaving no doubt that while nature may have cheated her in some areas, it had amply made up for it in others.

  The place was empty except for the singer, Lucille, and me. I was steaming about Bart. Some assistant. The tables were in disarray, and the waiters and the cooks hadn’t come in yet. Lucille sat her daisy-clad rear on the piano seat and spread out her music, ready to play. The singer stood close to the piano and announced that she would sing, “Someone to Watch Over Me.” I quietly sighed, here we go again. It must’ve been the twentieth time I’d heard it that day. I slumped down in my chair and squinted at my watch. I’d give her two minutes to thrill me.

  She sang with a pleasant voice, but nothing exciting. Like lots of girls I saw, she had possibilities, but no spark. I was about to say, “Thank you, Miss, we’ll let you know,” when she nodded at Lucille. Lucille jumped into a marimba rhythm, wiggling those treacherous hips while she played “Sway.” I sat up straight. The singer opened the bottom buttons of her dress, poked her legs out at me, and sang. I could see where her nylons hooked to her garter belt. She gyrated her hips in time to the music, boring her eyes into mine. This definitely wasn’t the way Dean Martin did that song. This girl was all sex.

  She stepped down from the stage, gliding toward me, smiling like she wanted to devour me. There was something intimidating, yet alluring about this girl who now definitely had my attention. With hips shaking, she turned her rear toward me and bent to pick up a steak knife a careless waiter had left on the carpet. She waved the knife in the air, swirling around to dance behind me, before beating out the rhythm with the handle on the top of an uncovered wooden table.

  I twisted my body around in my chair so I could keep watching. She wasn’t wearing any underpants, just that garter belt, and oh yes, this gal was having a memorable affect on me. Not the kind that would land her a job at The Haven, though.

  She ran her hands up her body, over her stomach and to her breasts, all the while swaying to the music. When she jabbed at the air with the knife, I started to feel like I should get the hell out of there, but … I was mesmerized. As the song came to an end, she spun around to face me and slammed her spiked heel between my legs. If I hadn’t been wearing a skirt to catch the spike, I would’ve been speared in a very awkward place.

  Lucille had stopped playing and left the room. I was alone with this odd, possibly dangerous kid. She slid her foot down my leg and unbuttoned her top dress buttons. She pulled the two sides of the dress apart. I should’ve stopped her, but as she pulled the dress down to her waist—held on only by a belt—it became clear she wasn’t wearing anything other than the garter belt, nylons, and heels. My breath got caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

  She undid the belt and let the dress fall in a heap around her shoes. She leaned over me, her hands gripping the arms of my chair, her breasts only inches from my mouth. “Make love to me, Al.”

  “Uh, someone …” I ridiculously coughed out. I wasn’t handling this at all well.

  “Don’t worry, Al. Lucille won’t let anyone in.”

  “Lucille?”

  “She’s outside standing guard.”

  She opened a couple of buttons on my blouse and slipped her hand inside my bra as she kissed my lips.

  I wanted this girl just then. I wanted to grab her, and touch her, and roll around on the disgustingly unvacuumed carpet with her, but Lucille is standing guard? Was all this for a job, or was it some elaborate trap? A picture of me being carted out of the club in handcuffs by the cops shot through my mind. I saw my name in the Times and the Herald, and even The Staten Island Advocate, “Alice Huffman, Manager of Max Harlington’s The Haven Arrested in Lesbian Tryst.” I saw some government official ripping up my cabaret and liquor licenses, all my clients quitting me, Max firing me, Juliana turning away in shame. I saw myself living on the street, eating out of garbage pails.

  “No!” I shouted, yanking her hand out of my bra. “You need to go home now.” I stood up and picked up her dress. “Put this on. This is no way to break into show business.” I put it in her hands.

  She let the dress slip from her fingers. “You think this is for a job? I love you.”

  She tried to kiss me. I backed away. “You can’t love me. You don’t know me.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of loving from afar? I’ve watched you with Juliana, with Max. You’re magnificent. I heard you liked girls—”

  “Put this on.” I handed her the dress again. “I’m not that way.” I backed up more.

  She threw the dress over a chair. “Yes, you are.” She took a few steps toward me. “But it’s all right. So am I.”

  My body wanted this girl, standing only a few feet away from me, naked except for her heels, garter belt,
and stockings. I wanted to forget all good sense and join my parts with her parts, but terror won out. “Go home.”

  “You don’t mean that.” She tried to get her hand down the waistband of my skirt.

  I grabbed her wrist. “Get dressed. I’m going into my office now. Don’t be here when I come back out. I don’t want to have to call the cops.” I flicked her wrist away from me and marched toward my office.

  As I swung open my door to go inside and slam it behind me for effect, she said, “You’ll be sorry you treated me this way.”

  I stood, watching her slip into her dress and throw on her coat. She headed toward the exit, but stopped and glared at me. I thought she was going to make another threat, but she merely stormed out of the club.

  I leaned on my open office door, breathing heavily, but not with passion. Who was that kid?

  I was about to disappear behind my office door when I saw Bertha standing there. “You were wonderful.”

  “Bertha! What are you doing here? We don’t open for hours.”

  “I fell asleep in the kitchen. I do that sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “I was sleepy. You were so noble tonight, Miss Huffman. Truly. That girl was a tart. I don’t know where on earth she got the idea that you were sick like that, but I know you’re not.”

  “That’s right, I’m not.”

  “I know. You’re not one of those mental cases. You’re a career woman. That’s why you’re not married. There’s nothing wrong with being a career woman. Nothing ‘funny’ about it.”

  “No, there isn’t. You should go now. The waiters will be in soon to set the tables. You wouldn’t want to get underfoot.”

  Chapter 59

  MY FOURTH PHONE call that night uncovered an important secret investor in Summer Dandelions—Shirl. Leaving Bart—who finally showed up—in charge, I was about to dash out the door when I saw the paper on top of the pile; The New York Times had a review of Hey There, I’m Here, Marty’s new play.

  Marty had left messages for me during previews, but I hadn’t had time to get back to him because of trying to get Juliana out of that contract. I’d missed opening night too.

  The review extolled the talent of Dame Margaret Dunton. It spoke of the stupendous training English actors and actresses receive compared to our clumsy American actors who stomp mindlessly across the stage. “And speaking of mindless stomping, we have Buck Martin.” Oh, no. The reviewer felt sorry for the brilliant Dame Margaret suffering through the wooden, squeaky-voiced antics of such a leading man.

  I quickly scanned through the rest of the papers, trying to find one good phrase; they all said something similar or worse. Marty must be absolutely prostrate. I knew I should call him, but … Juliana, that contract … I reached for the phone, but then—I’ll call him tomorrow morning. I pulled on my coat and ran out.

  “Wait,” Bertha said, leaving her booth and trotting after me. “You can’t go out like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s cold out. Let me button you up.”

  I yanked myself away from her and ran out the door.

  I arrived at Shirl’s house at eleven that night. My hair hung raggedly in front of my eyes. I pushed it back under my hat before ringing Shirl’s bell. I couldn’t discuss business with Shirl looking like the wreck of the Hesperus.

  Shirl came to the door in her striped nightshirt and slippers. “Thanks for seeing me. I know this is unorthodox, coming to your home to discuss business, and at this hour, but like I told you on the phone, it’s important.”

  “Come in. Mercy’s put on a pot of coffee. You know, I’m usually in bed by nine-thirty.”

  “I know. And I know this is a big sacrifice for you, but once you hear—”

  “Hi there, Al,” Mercy said, tightening her yellow and green flowered robe around her slight frame. “Coffee’ll be ready soon. Oh, you prefer tea, don’t you?”

  “Don’t fuss. Coffee’ll be fine.”

  “No fuss. Now, you be nice to Al, Shirl. She wouldn’t be here at this hour if it weren’t urgent.” Shirl lit a cigar.

  It hit me. I could’ve waited till tomorrow. I was here now because I hoped to sleep tonight; I hadn’t given one thought to Shirl’s sleep. With her strict rules for business, I may have blown this for Juliana. I told myself to stay humble, respectful, but not mealy-mouthed.

  “I’ll get that coffee and tea,” Mercy said, dashing toward the kitchen. “And put out that filthy cigar.” She stopped to open a window.

  “What’s so urgent that you roused me to talk business?” Shirl seated herself in her chair.

  “Uh …” I couldn’t turn into a recalcitrant child. “Juliana. Did you know they cast her in the lead of Summer Dandelions, opening in the fall?”

  “There’s no music.”

  “I know.”

  “Why have you come to me with this?”

  I took a deep breath, then coughed because of Shirl’s cigar.

  “You really ought to take care of that cough,” Shirl said, taking another puff of her cigar.

  “I called in some favors and found out you’re heavily invested in this show.”

  “That’s a secret. You’ve really turned into quite the spy. You don’t think Juliana can handle it?”

  “Do you?”

  “She can be surprising.”

  I sat on the couch. “In time. After a few acting classes, but now? She’s almost on top as a singer. If she failed at this … You know Juliana. And you know New York critics. Other entertainers might ride it out, but Juliana?”

  “How did this happen?

  “Richard, of course, and Ben. Without talking to me. I could kill them.”

  “Richard means well.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Watch your mouth. You were always a sweet girl. You need to keep some of that even as a businesswoman. What do you want me to do?”

  Mercy put the coffee and tea on the coffee table. “Don’t you two boys stay up too late. Bad for your health. I’m going to bed. Nice seeing you, Al.”

  “You too, Mercy. Good night.”

  “Would you consider withdrawing your investment?”

  “That would close the show.”

  “I know.”

  “I invested in this show to help a gay boy I met at one of the bars. Maybe I could speak to the producer and threaten to leave if Juliana does it.”

  “That might work.”

  “Talking behind Juliana’s back? I’d only do it because you think it’s best. You understand?”

  I took a sip of my tea. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you’re not going through all this to make Richard look bad in Juliana’s eyes?”

  Chapter 60

  “AL! AL!” I vaguely heard Max’s voice piercing through my sleep.

  “Huh?” I squinted at the rain smacking my window and hid my head under my pillow. I’d worked till four—an hour ago—so waking up wasn’t so easy to do.

  “You can’t sleep,” Max called louder.

  I squinted up at him standing over me in his red and black-checkered bathrobe. “What?”

  “Get up. He’s upset. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who’s upset?”

  “Scott. He came home with me tonight.”

  “That’s nice. Have fun.” I pulled the covers over my head and fell back to sleep.

  “No!” Max wailed. “Pay attention. He’s not talking, not moving. I did something to him.” He paced back and forth at the bottom of my bed, his leather slippers flapping at his feet.

  I forced myself to sit up. “What’d you do to him?”

  “I thought I was making love to him, but suddenly he crawled off the bed. He’s shaking in the corner of the room. You’ve gotta help him. I don’t know what to do.”

  “And I do?”

  “I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt him.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Do something.”

  I put on the light and shook my head,
trying to bring full consciousness back. I slid out of the covers and walked zombie-like toward my bathroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To brush my teeth.”

  “There’s no time for that. You have to go to him now.”

  “You go to him now. That’s who he needs. I don’t talk to anyone without clean teeth. I’ll be right there.”

  I brushed my teeth in between pulling off my nightgown and pulling on a pair of underpants and some trousers. I ran back to my room to scramble into an old sweater. I didn’t bother with a bra. I dashed down the stairs and met Max pacing outside his bedroom door on the other side of the apartment.

  “How is he?”

  “Just stares. Come in. Oh, he’s naked. You’ve seen naked men before.”

  “It’s something I try not to do, but I suppose I can manage for a friend.”

  Max walked into the room and sat on the corner of his unmade double bed knitting his fingers together. Scott sat on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall between the closet door and Max’s roll-top desk. His knees were pushed against his chest, and his arms covered his head as if he were sheltering himself from enemy fire.

  “You see?” Max said. “He stays like that. I haven’t been able to get him to talk. He won’t get up. What did I do to this poor man?”

  “Shh,” I said, as I sat on the floor next to Scott.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to him.

  “Obviously, he’s not.” Max jumped up. “Why are you asking him stupid questions?”

  “Because I don’t know what I’m doing. Go in the living room. Make yourself a drink. I need to think.”

  “A drink. That’s a good idea. A drink.” He walked out.

  As soon as he was out of the room, Scott looked up at me. “Thanks, Al.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him. He’s such a good man. But I can’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “I can’t … The sex. He needs that. And I can’t.”

  “But you have before, haven’t you?”