[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  I placed the phone back in its cradle and returned to the parlor, my mind on Bertha. Something in the back of my head told me I should fire her, but on what grounds? Doing too much work? Helping me too much? I should’ve fired Bart ages ago, and I didn’t do that. I just can’t do that to anybody.

  “Everything all right?” Juliana asked from the couch.

  “Sure.” I pushed Bertha out of my head. “I’m going to collapse on your bed for a few minutes.” I walked back into the room and flopped onto the bed.

  Juliana suddenly stood in the doorway. “Do you want to go to sleep, or do you want me to relax you?”

  “You relax me?”

  Without speaking she walked into the room, smoothing out her slacks as she sat beside me. I watched her unbutton each of one of my blouse buttons.

  She spread apart the two sides of my blouse and stared a moment at my blue bra with the lace on top. She slid one of her hands around to my back and unclasped the bra. She bent my arm to remove the blouse; I sat up to help, but she whispered, “Let me do it. Go limp in my arms.”

  I never would’ve been able to do it, I would’ve laughed if it hadn’t been for the seriousness in her eyes, and her gentle care as she held me. I let go of myself, and her arm supported me around my back as she removed my blouse. I was fascinated with how intent she was about completing this task. She gently laid me back on the bed and pulled the bra straps down my arms. I felt a shiver of excitement. She held the bra in her hand and looked closely at the heart-shaped locket I’d pinned inside—the gift she’d given me for my birthday—and smiled.

  “Sweet,” she said looking at my breasts.

  “Too small.”

  “Shh. Don’t do that,” she whispered; then ever so lightly she brushed her fingertips over one of my nipples.

  I gasped. “Uh, Jule, I don’t think this is going to relax me.”

  “Breathe deeply.”

  I did as she instructed. “That’s making it worse.” I laughed.

  “Breathe deeper,” she said, as she ran her fingertips over the nipple of the second breast. “Get past the excited feelings to something else, something deeper inside yourself.” She put her hand on my stomach and pressed down lightly. I was aware that three of her fingers rested under the waistband of my skirt. “Breathe right into my hand.”

  A rising crescendo of excitement.

  “Keep breathing,” she whispered; I did, and gradually a kind of peace came over me, a safety, like there was a communion between us, unspoken. As my mind faded into a haze of sleep, I thought—to lay open in front of another person, tits bare, while she’s fully clothed, and still feel safe. To feel mildly sexual and do nothing about it, but enjoy the pleasant drifting of it down your body. To no longer be ashamed. This must be it. Love.

  When my eyes opened again, a warm breeze from the window above the bed drifted over me. I laid there dressed only in my blue underpants and a thin sheet she must’ve put over me. The door was ajar, and I could hear her playing and singing Ave Maria. I had no idea what the words meant, but the love she put into it made me shiver. When she finished the song, everything went silent. I continued to lay in drowsy comfort, the breeze light against my skin as I drifted off again.

  The next time I awoke, the sunlight in the room was duller and the breezes cooler. The smell of spaghetti sauce drifted in through the door. I stretched, feeling deliciously rested. I looked over at the alarm clock perched on the end table next to the bed. “Six o’clock!” I sprang up. I’d slept through the whole afternoon. I bounced off the bed and grabbed the toothbrush I kept stored under the floorboard covered by the rug. I showered before I made my reappearance.

  I stood on the threshold of her bedroom in one of her robes. Juliana sat on the couch, studying her script. “Well hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You look rested now.”

  I came into the room and noticed an open magazine on the coffee table. I picked it up. The title of the article was “Women Who Fall for Lesbians.”

  One sentence was underlined: “Many young women, however, are not so lucky as to escape the designs of female sex deviates.”

  “Why’s this out?” I asked.

  “Did I trap you? Force you into something you didn’t want all those many years ago?”

  “Of course not. You think you made me into a ‘deviate?’”

  “You were very young.”

  “So were you.”

  I was born older than you. I’d been sleeping with girls since I was eleven.”

  “Eleven?”

  “I was precocious. So, did I turn you into a …”

  “Well, you certainly did ruin me for all men.”

  “I knew it. Why don’t you hate me?”

  “Juliana, stop. The first time you kissed me—how do I find words to … a feeling I’d never known before shot through my whole body. I didn’t know it was possible for your whole body to feel a kiss. That never happened with Danny. And then the first time you touched me you-know-where, and the first time I saw your breasts—whoa, I have to stop. I’m getting myself worked up. Jule, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. Stop reading this crap. I’m going to throw it in the garbage.”

  I walked into the kitchen, tore the article out—why do they have to keep writing this stuff—ripped it up, and threw the whole mess into the trashcan. I leaned against the doorsill. “Can I come to the Easter service when you sing?”

  “Richard’ll be coming, but I’m sure he won’t mind if you join us. It’ll be very Catholic. Latin mumbo jumbo and all.”

  “I’m sorry I said that. I want to come.”

  “Then, you’ll come. About the play. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 63

  April, 1954

  “THANKS FOR SEEING me, Miss Huffman.” Lucille Wadwacker sat in the chair next to my desk. She was dressed more demurely this time. No big flower across her rear, only a simple gray pencil skirt. Her breasts were still sticking out like two lethal points, but the blouse was plain white with a Peter Pan collar. The rose-colored cardigan over her shoulders was almost demure. Her box-style handbag sat atop a large, brown envelope lying on her lap.

  I shouldn’t be sitting opposite her after what she and her friend pulled. My heart knocked against my chest, but the way she sounded on the phone—desperate, apologetic, I don’t know. Something made me say yes, she could come to my office. Maybe I wanted to prove what she and her friend thought of me wasn’t true. I had a business to run; I couldn’t have a rumor like that running around town.

  “When I saw your ad in the paper,” she began. “I knew I had to try. I wanted to impress on you—I didn’t know what Ethel had planned till it was over and she told me.”

  “Ethel. That’s the young woman who demonstrated her ‘wares’ here a few weeks ago, accompanied by your piano.”

  “Yes, but I had no idea she was going to do that. When she asked me to accompany her while she auditioned for you, I couldn’t say no. Well, I suppose I could’ve, but I wanted to audition for you too.”

  “But you left. Standing guard, she said, to make sure no one entered.”

  “Isn’t that ridiculous? During our rehearsal, she told me I should leave because she wanted to talk to you alone. She didn’t tell me she was going to do a striptease. She was so mad you kicked her out. What did she expect you to do? I had no part in this plan.”

  “Miss Wadwacker—am I pronouncing that correctly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for coming in. I appreciate your taking the time to apologize.” I extended my hand toward her, but she didn’t take it.

  “Miss Huffman, I’ve come about the job.” She opened her handbag and took out the newspaper clipping.

  “Oh. Well, you must know I’d have doubts about hiring you.”

  “I’m hoping you won’t let my misjudgment of Ethel ruin my whole life.”

  “You’re young. Ther
e are lots of other jobs.” I stood, ready to end the interview.

  Not moving, tears rolling down her cheeks, Miss Wadwacker said, “I want to work with you. I know the kind of work you do. I’ve watched you build your clients’ careers. I’ve read about you in the magazines. Juliana is the most wonderful singer I’ve ever heard in my life, and Lili Donovan is doing good. Peter McQuill and Patsy LaRue are coming along too. But I do think Patsy would do better if she changed her name. Forgive me, but that name makes her sound like she’s a stripper.”

  I laughed and sat down again. “Maybe you can convince her. I haven’t succeeded yet.”

  “I’d love to try. I’m an excellent typist. I take short hand. I graduated from Katherine Gibbs at the top of my class. Here. My references. They’re very good.”

  She handed me the envelope. “My resumé is in there too. I also studied piano privately. Besides the secretarial tasks, I could also play rehearsal piano, and you’ll only have to pay one person. Please, Miss Huffman, all I want to do is learn how to be a good talent manager like you.”

  “We didn’t get started on the best foot.”

  “How can I make it up to you? I’ll do anything.”

  “Young women need to be careful about saying that in this business.”

  “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. Couldn’t you check my references? If they’re not as good as I say, then you needn’t see me again. But if they are, my number is at the top of my resumé.”

  Chapter 64

  “OH, THIS IS funny,” Max said as we finished our morning coffee in the breakfast nook. “Juliana hot to sing at St. Patricks because Cardinal Spellman, the old queen, asked her?”

  “Come on, Max, show a little respect.” I said, “The cardinal’s not gay.” I took a sip of my coffee.

  “Sweetheart, he’s as queer as the proverbial three-dollar bill.”

  “Don’t use that word. It’s the straights’ word for us,” I said.

  “I would never use it—except for someone like him. On Sundays, he prances around in holy robes, spouting pronouncements from the altar damning homosexuals to hell, while on Saturday night, he’s bent over and taking it up the ass like a good little Catholic boy.”

  “Max!” Scott admonished. “Don’t talk like that in front of Al. She’s a lady.”

  “Yeah!” I said. “Am I?”

  “I’m sorry, Al, but if you don’t believe me, ask Tommie when he gets back from L.A. Or better yet, call him.”

  “Are you certifiable? You know what that would cost?”

  “You can afford it now. Remember? The way Tommie tells it—His ‘Eminence’ used to send around a car to pick him up during the war. Tommie said the cardinal had ‘special skills’ in the mouth department.”

  “Max!” Scott admonished again.

  “What? I cleaned it up for her.”

  “Oh, yeah, real clean.”

  “It’s okay, Scott. I can handle it. Juliana would die if she knew this.”

  “Juliana does know it. She just doesn’t let herself know it. I wouldn’t suggest bringing it up unless you want to be permanently barred from her home. Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Go ahead. Tell her all about how the dear cardinal used to get on his knees and suck Tommie off.”

  “Max!” Scott scowled.

  “Juliana’d love that story,” Max said. “Tell her.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “Max, have you ever heard of Lucille Wadwacker?”

  “My God, what kind of name is that?”

  “So, you haven’t heard anything about her? I’m thinking about hiring her as my secretary.”

  “Aren’t you getting fancy?”

  “I can hardly keep up with the paperwork, and—”

  “Hire her if you think she’ll do the job.”

  “She’s got great references. Her resumé is stellar.”

  “So why the hesitation?”

  “No reason, I guess.”

  Chapter 65

  RICHARD AND I made our way to the front steps of the Cathedral. We’d dropped Juliana off at the back door. Getting through the hundreds of Easter paraders strolling down Fifth Avenue showing off their expensive new hats wasn’t easy.

  We had to wait in line to get past the heavy doors. With tourists treating themselves to a church service at St. Patrick’s, it was even more crowded than usual. Richard and I filed into the sanctuary with its cavernous dome and ivory statues lining the walls. Stained glass scenes from Jesus’s last days blocked out the morning light.

  Richard genuflected in the aisle while I stood waiting near a pew. All around me, people genuflected while I stood there feeling awkward. Still, I couldn’t follow them, even though I thought it looked rather comforting, like doing that would make you belong to something bigger than your small self. Throughout my childhood, my father had told me Catholics were bad because of the phony-baloney rigmarole in their religion, so …

  Richard guided me into a pew and knelt on the padded kneeler. Again, I sat watching, out of place. I didn’t feel an urge to make fun of it, though. Not the way I had back home in Huntington. I remembered Thanksgiving when I’d pretend to be a priest speaking Latin by saying the words, “Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah and a brawla, brawla sooit” from “The Hut-Sut Song.” Everyone would laugh. Then Mrs. Wright, my friend Aggie’s mother, would hold up the turkey’s rear end and say, “Look, the pope’s nose.” I didn’t want to make fun of Juliana’s feelings anymore.

  Richard rose from his knees and sat down. “You know she’s upset about this,” he whispered. “She had her vocal coach working with her all week.”

  “She did?” I hated Richard knowing things about her I didn’t.

  “She had him come over to the house. I had to listen to that same song over and over, hour after hour.” He smiled. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

  I smiled back at his little joke even though I didn’t want to.

  Surrounded by the sound of chanting and incense, a quietness overtook me. I wanted to kneel with the rest of them. But I couldn’t.

  Cardinal Spellman, in red robes, prayed and spoke in Latin. Then he sat down on his throne, and Juliana, looking holy in a white choir robe, walked gracefully up the steps to stand on the platform with the choir.

  Juliana nodded at the organist, and the introductory notes played as she stepped forward and sang. She sang with all the love she had inside her, all the love she had for “The Holy Mother.” Her love lifted and soared over and through us. She was no longer a plain, ordinary human being. She had become someone from another world, holy. When she finished singing, the serenity of the song lingered in the air, caressing us in a wordless love.

  Chapter 66

  November 1954

  “MAX, SHE WON’T even come out of the house. Because of these.” I put my hand on top of the pile of reviews from Summer Dandelions that lay on my desk. “The damn thing only lasted four lousy days. Doesn’t seem like something so short should have this much impact.”

  “Can’t you book her somewhere? One bad play shouldn’t sink a whole career. She was going great guns before this.”

  “It’s not the clubs; they’re a little hesitant, but I think I can get them past that in a few weeks when these reviews are ancient history. The biggest problem is her. She’s convinced no one will show up if I book her. She feels humiliated; she doesn’t want to face the public. Some of these critics were pretty brutal. There’s no excuse for that. Did you read Kerr in The Herald?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Bronx Chronicle gave the fairest depiction of her performance.”

  “The Bronx what?”

  I picked up the phone and pushed down a key switch on the dictograph box, then I pressed the ring switch. “Lucille, could you bring me that copy of the Bronx Chronicle I gave you to file this morning.”

  “You hired her—Wadwhistle.”

  “Wadwacker. She’s doing a terrific job. So efficient. I don’t know how I managed—”

  Luc
ille knocked on the door, and I opened it to receive my paper.

  “You see, Max?” I said as I closed the door. “She’s completely stupendous, magnificent—”

  “She brought you a newspaper, not the combination to Ft. Knox. That’s what secretaries do.”

  I thumbed through the pages till I got to the review. “I’ll read you my favorite part. ‘Miss Juliana showed a real theatrical spark, and as a newcomer to the boards, this is no small thing given the dullards who often grace our stage nowadays. This critic hopes to see more of Miss Juliana, both on Broadway and in the nightclubs where she got her start.’”

  “Al …” Max tried to cut in.

  I continued to read, “In time she might—”

  “Al! Stop reading. It’s The Bronx Something or Other. Nobody cares what they think.”

  “Don’t you see a problem with that? These other papers were prejudiced. Because Juliana is a nightclub singer, they think she can’t or shouldn’t act. It was that damn script.”

  “I agree. She didn’t have enough experience to pull a bad script out of the sewer, but moaning over the unjustness of the New York Theater is not going to get you anywhere. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to pull Juliana back up.”

  “At least Shirl loves me. I saved her a bundle. You know, I asked her how she could’ve wanted to invest in such a bad play, and she said she’d never read the script. Can you imagine that?”

  “Yes. I don’t have time to read the script of every show I invest in. Often, I don’t even have time to go to Philly or Boston to see it before they bring it to Broadway. My decision is based mostly on the summary of the story, and the reputations and track records of the people putting it together.”

  “That’s what Shirl said, too. What do I have to do to save Juliana’s career?”

  “Send her to Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “She knows people there, good friends, family; that’ll make her comfortable. The French will love knowing she lived there with her mother as a child and is completely fluent in their 'beloved' language. Most of them will be unlikely to know about this four-day fiasco. You can set her up to sing in a few big nightclubs, one in Paris and the others in the provinces. She’ll get good reviews from the French critics. Americans love that. Everyone thinks the French know more about art and culture than anyone else, so whatever they say, everyone here will believe. She may have to take a small pay cut when she comes back. Americans also think they’re best at everything, especially since the war, but you’ll have a fistful of great reviews for building your PR campaign. It won’t be long till she’s back on top again. That’s what Hildegarde did in the thirties when she was a nobody, and look where she is now, the most sought-after supper club singer in the world. While Juliana’s away, people will forget that silly play, and she’ll come back with confidence.”