[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  “This is good. No wonder you’re a big success. Paris, wow! I’ve never been there before.”

  “And you won’t be going any time soon.”

  “What?”

  “I need you here. You can arrange everything from your office. You even have a secretary to help you. The telephone is a marvelous invention. So is the telegram. You can’t take off. You have a club to run, clients to manage. Richard is her manager.”

  “In name only.”

  “The way you wanted it. She’s his only client. He’ll take care of everything in Paris. You can be in touch with him from here.”

  “He could screw it up.”

  “That’s a chance you’ll have to take, a chance you’ve been taking all along, but you have work to do here. I have some Paris contacts back in my files at the Mt. Olympus. I’m heading over there now. I’ll call you with the info, and you can get started.”

  He left. I sat back in my chair, seeing Juliana and me in Paris. I thought of the movie An American in Paris. I was Gene Kelly, and Juliana was Leslie Caron. We danced together on the dark bridge that covered the Seine. Of course, I wouldn’t really be able to dance that well. Their dance had some ballet in it. I would’ve tripped over our feet and knocked us both into the water, but hey, it was my fantasy, so I could do whatever I wanted.

  I was graceful as a swan dancing with Juliana, pulling her toward me in grand, sweeping movements until we were chest to chest. I kissed her in the moonlight, and she kissed me back. We kissed in public, like Gene and Leslie, and nobody cared. The music swelled around us. Then I looked. It wasn’t me who was kissing Juliana; it was Richard. Dammit, get out of my fantasy! He danced with her, and he kissed her under the bridge, and the music swelled for them while Parisian lovers walked by, nodding their approval.

  I sat up straight in my chair. It would be the two of them seeing the sights while I stayed home making it possible. Another thought—what sights? They won’t have time for sights. I grabbed my memo pad from the desk drawer. I’m going to book her so solid, they’ll never have time to see a single thing. They’ll never even have time to see each other.

  Chapter 67

  December 1954

  “AL, GET OVER here right away,” Max ordered as I sat in my office, holding the phone to my ear.

  Marty was opening the midnight show with Because of You. After the bad reviews, the only thing I could get him were rare spots opening for our headliners. We had lots of up-and-comers clamoring to be on our stage, and most of them came with their own fans. With business slow, we had to use them on our off nights. Marty didn’t have many fans to come see him, so we couldn’t pay him much, and we couldn’t hire him often. At least it was a little something to keep him going while I talked him up to my own contacts. It was a challenge trying to explain what happened without badmouthing The Dame; that would be career suicide for both of us. I knew tonight he’d be melting a few hearts, so I tried to get Kilgallen to come to the show. As soon as I said the name “Buck Martin,” she chuckled. “Oh, dear, you can’t be serious. I certainly couldn’t subject myself once more to the antics of Buck Martin. I think my review of the play said it all.”

  “Get over here where?” I said into the phone. “I still have another show to get through and Marty feels better when I’m here. He’s been depressed lately.”

  “Let Bart handle it.”

  “You certifiable? Bart causes depression.”

  “I need you here. Now. St. Sebastian Emergency Ward. Scott.”

  “Oh, my God.” I jumped out of my seat. “What happened?”

  “Get here.”

  I rushed toward the door, unthinking. Bertha ran after me, my fox stole thrown over one shoulder. “Wait. It’s cold out.” She put the stole around my shoulders and hooked the fox’s tail into its mouth.

  I was strangely warmed by her gentle gesture. “Thank you. I’m a little rattled. Scott Elkins has been taken to the Emergency Room.”

  “Oh, no.”

  I turned back to Bart’s office to tell him to take care of things, but he wasn’t there. I went to Lucille’s office and found her at her desk feverishly typing. It was long past her hour to go home. “Lucille, have you seen Bart?”

  “Not yet. When does he ever come in on time?”

  “I hate to ask you this, but I have an emergency to attend to. Could you stay till Bart gets here? Scott’s been taken to the emergency room.”

  “Not Mr. Elkins.” she gasped. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I have to get to St. Sebastian now.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing.” She threaded her arm through mine, leading me toward the exit. “I’ll take care of everything until Bart wanders in. Take care of Mr. Elkins, and let me know how he is. And …” she leaned close to me, whispering. “I’ll keep my eye on Bertha. I don’t like being suspicious, but she—there’s something.”

  * * *

  I flexed my ankle in back of the cab, afraid I’d sprained it. This was not a good night to be called out for an emergency. Saturdays, Max wanted me to dress-up. What he really meant was wear something more feminine than my usual suit jacket, skirt and flats. So on Saturdays, I wore a simple black Balenciaga dress and heels. Nothing as high as Juliana's, but high enough to slow me down in an emergency.

  I pulled my stole tighter around my shoulders to keep out the night air. The cab careened down Broadway, swerving around buses, other cabs, and cars. We passed the New York Times zipper as it spelled out the last news of the evening—“The New York Times Wishes You Good Night”—and went black.

  The cab sped around it, and jerked to a stop; we were stuck in a bottleneck of honking traffic. I sat on the edge of my seat as the hack inched the cab forward. “I’m in a hurry,” I told him.

  “Ain’t everybody dese days?” he said, chewing on the end of his Camel.

  “Can’t we get out of this? Go a different way?” I pleaded.

  “We’re jammed in, lady. It’s always like dis on a Saturd’y night. You might as well set yourself back, and enjoy da scenery. By da by, watcha doin’ out here at dis hour all by your lonesome anyways?”

  “I run a club. I have a friend waiting for me.” Why am I explaining myself to this man?

  “A boy friend?” He winked at me through the rearview mirror.

  “Uh … yeah, sure, why not.”

  “He gotta be a real loser if he ain’t pickin’ ya up. Ya shouldn’t be out here in a cab all by your lonesome. Someone could get da wrong idea.”

  “Keep trying to get us out of this mess, okay?”

  “You the type dat likes doin’ in t’ings in cabs? Ya know what I mean? I heard ’bout dem types of goils gettin’ friendly with cabbies, and—”

  “No, and if you say one more word like that, I’m getting out of this cab. Don’t talk to me anymore.”

  “Oh, Miz High and Mighty.” That was the last thing he said. I suppose I should’ve gotten out and stuck him for the fare, but there was no direct subway route to St. Sebastian from Broadway.

  As we inched away from the squealing cars and picked up speed, anxiety rippled through me. I pictured Scott’s body all mangled from a car accident, but Scott doesn’t drive a car. A bus! A bus ran over him, oh God.

  I ran down the sidewalk that led into the St. Sebastian ER. The waiting room was packed with people. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and rubbing alcohol floated through the air. One man I passed held a cloth dripping with blood from his arm.

  “You finally got here.” Max ran up to me, an Old Gold without its holder dangling from his lips, his tie hanging loose. “What took you so long?”

  “I got stuck in traffic. What happened?”

  “I think you’re a little over-dressed for this place.”

  “This wasn’t where I planned on spending the evening. What happened to Scott?”

  Max bit on his cigarette. “Come over here.” He leaned against the wall. “I got a call tonight at the Mt. Olympus. Some guy. Didn’t tell me his name, sounded d
runk, but he said I should get over to this sleazy hotel room uptown around West Ninety-Sixth Street, or he might not make it through the night. I knew right away it was about Scott, so I went.”

  “You went into that dangerous neighborhood by yourself? It could’ve been a trap. Someone who found out you’re … You could’ve been hurt or worse.”

  He waved his cigarette at me. “I thought about that later. In the ambulance.”

  “You’ve got to be careful. There are people who hate us so much they want to—”

  “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been at this a lot longer than you, but nothing happened. Okay? It was Scott. I found him in this rotten hotel room with rats crawling around. The whole room smelled of liquor, and there were empty scotch bottles all over the place. Scott doesn’t drink, so it didn’t make sense. I looked over at the bed and there was Scott, a sheet covering him, his eyes closed like he was sleeping or ... I was scared. I lifted it off him slow, but all I saw was a couple of small cuts on his chest, nothing deep, no blood. He was only wearing undershorts. I found a broken scotch bottle near the bed. I tried to wake him, but he didn’t move.” Max paced. “He didn’t move, Al. Not at all. I called the hospital immediately, and they sent a doctor over, Dr. Rollins, and he called for the ambulance and …”

  Max was shaking. “Come. Sit down.” I took Max’s arm, guiding him into a chair, and sat beside him. “Do you think he did something to himself, or do you think that guy did something?” I asked.

  “What difference does it make? Any way you look at it, Scott did it to himself.” Max ran a hand through his hair. “Even if that guy did it—why was he with a guy like that? Because he hates what he is, and he hates me because I’m that too.”

  “No, listen. He loves you. It’s just, he listens to all that stuff from his religion and thinks he’s doing something evil.”

  “You know, sometimes I think about his grandma who raised him, and I want to go down to West Virginia and kill her. Actually kill her. Can you imagine that? Me wanting to kill some old lady? I’ve actually made up scenes in my head where I’ve got my hands around her scrawny neck, and I’m tightening …” He flexed his two hands. “He’s a good man. Funny sometimes, but mostly too serious. That’s his problem. But he’s a warm kind of guy. You’ve seen that.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s wrong what’s she done to him. There’s where the evil is. That’s the sin. We were doing good, him and me. And you too. The three of us were a little family. Why’d he do this now?”

  Max and I spent hours pacing the floor, kicking cigarette butts out of our way, hoping Dr. Rollins would appear to tell us Scott was fine. No one at reception seemed to know anything, so we’d sit back down, imagining the worst. I couldn’t pray. I stared at Max, slumped over in his chair, and wondered if he could.

  “Max, it’s three. I’m going to go call Bart. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  “That’s a good girl,” Max said, sounding numb with exhaustion and fear.

  “Well, where is he?” I said into the pay phone. “Oh, Lucille, you must be out of your mind with exhaustion. I wish I could tell you to go home, but there’s that special 4 a.m. show and … Will you? You’re such a trouper. You’ll be well-compensated for this.”

  “Bart never showed up,” I told Max as I sat back down. “He called Lucille two hours ago to say he was on his way, and he’s still not there. Of course, we all know, including Lucille, where he is. He makes no secret of it. He’s with a paying customer.”

  “Fire him,” Max said with a yawn.

  “You see, that’s the problem. I can’t. Would you?”

  “Sorry. You’re the boss over there.”

  “But …”

  “Mr. Harlington,” the doctor said, coming up to us, a folder in his hand.

  Max and I jumped up. “Dr. Rollins! How is he?” Max asked.

  “Step over here so we can speak privately.”

  I started to follow them. The doctor stopped. “And you are?”

  “Oh.” Max looked at me, momentary desperation crossing his eyes. “Scott’s wife.”

  “Really?”

  This was where Mrs. Viola Cramden’s acting class had to help me out. “Yes. I’m Mrs. Scott Elkins.”

  Such a strange thing to say, that I should be a Mrs. Anyone.

  “Very good.” The doctor nodded, leading the way to a small alcove off the emergency room, and standing behind a desk.

  “How is he?” Max asked.

  “Mrs. Elkins.” The doctor began directing all his statements to me. “Your husband’s wounds are superficial, a few scratches.”

  “Then what’s the matter with him?” Max demanded. “Why didn’t he wake up when I shook him?”

  “Mrs. Elkins, won’t you please sit down.” He pulled out a chair for me. “This sort of thing is never easy to tell a wife.”

  “Is there some sort of problem, Doctor?” I asked.

  “Mr. Harlington would you please step outside so I can speak to Mrs. Elkins in private?”

  “I will not. Scott Elkins is my friend.”

  “Whatever you have to say to me you can say in front of Mr. Harlington,” I told the doctor.

  “Not this. Please, Mr. Harlington.”

  “Max, maybe you should go, if this is how the doctor wants it.”

  “But … all right. I’ll be right outside, and I expect a full report.” He glared at me and stormed out to the waiting room. Through the milky glass partition, I could see him lighting a cigarette.

  “Please, Mrs. Elkins, have a seat.” He pulled a package of Parliaments from his inside pocket and hit the bottom so a few cigarettes popped up. He extended the package toward me. “Cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He pulled a cigarette from the pack for himself and lit it as he sat on the edge of the desk. “Mrs. Elkins, is your husband a drunkard?”

  “He doesn’t drink at all.”

  “Well, he drank himself unconscious tonight. I have reason to believe Mr. Elkins … This is hard to tell you, but I believe from some things the nurse heard your husband mumble that he is—a homosexual.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Viola Cramden had been right. You had to be prepared to step into any role.

  “I see by your lack of shock you’ve suspected this yourself.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Yes, we find alcoholism is common with homosexuals. Their sickness makes them so miserable they drink to forget. This may have even been a failed suicide attempt, common among homosexuals; it’s easy to understand why they would want to die, but there are cures for this malady. I know you’ll want to save your marriage, so hopefully our psychiatrist can be of help to you. Mrs. Elkins, have you ever considered that this friend, Mr. Harlington, may be your husband’s homosexual lover?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I think there is a very good chance, and if you’re a wise woman you will forbid Mr. Harlington from coming anywhere near your husband. That’s my professional opinion. We’ll let Mr. Elkins sleep here tonight, and in the morning, we’ll transfer him to the psychiatric ward.”

  I jumped up. “You can’t!”

  “Mrs. Elkins, your husband attempted to kill himself. That makes him a danger to himself, and because he is a homosexual he is a possible danger to others. Our psychiatrist will evaluate him and decide if he is well enough to be released.”

  Chapter 68

  “BRING HIM THIS robe,” Max said as he yanked it off the hanger in Scott’s closet. He caressed the collar. “He looks better in the blue one, but he prefers this one. Gray. It’s so dowdy. I can’t imagine why on earth he likes it, but …” His fingers gathered more of the robe into his arms, as if he were pulling Scott close. He sat on the bed, holding the robe. “Why would he want to kill himself? Why can’t I make him better?”

  “Ah, Max.” I sat beside him and put an arm around him.

  “When no one’s around, be sure to tell him I love him. No! Don’t.”

>   He stood up and folded Scott’s robe into the overnight bag he’d laid on the bed. “That might upset him. Bring him these slippers.” He put the slippers into the bag. “Let’s see. Which pajamas?” He lifted a folded pair of red and white striped pajamas from Scott’s chest of drawers. “I don’t want them putting him in one of those shortie hospital gowns with the thin ties in the back. They make you feel vulnerable. He doesn’t need that. These?” He held up the striped pajamas. “What do you think?”

  “Nice.”

  “What do you know? You have no taste.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean that as an insult.” He folded the striped pajamas and put them back into Scott’s drawer. “It’s a simple statement of fact. You’re good with music and singers. Lousy with clothes and decorating. I’m a genius at all four. But we’re both awful at picking mates. Bring him these and …” He put a pair of blue pajamas in the bag. “Why aren’t I enough for him, Al? Why does he need this God too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now, you be sure to see his psychiatrist.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re his wife.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “They think you are, so they’ll talk to you. You’ve got to find out when they plan to release him.”

  “Max?”