[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  “Lots of people are going there now with Broadway prices becoming outrageous. And Pennies from Heaven is a musical. Off-Broadway is experimenting, they’re … oh, what’s the use?” I was tired of defending the Off-Broadway movement. I didn’t have an Off-Broadway part for him anyway. “What about Arthur? Isn’t he your agent these days? He’s the one who’s supposed to get you auditions. I’m only advisory.”

  “He won’t talk to me either.”

  “I’m not not talking to you. I’m over my head.”

  “You know those reviews weren’t my fault. Dame Margaret kept tripping me up, throwing me lines that weren’t in the script, playing to the audience. Unprofessional. Then she gets the accolades—that damn English accent makes everyone think she’s brilliant—while I get pies in the face.”

  “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  “What does that have to do with the price of eggs in China?”

  “I knew it. I told you not to, but you did it anyway. Some of this is your fault. For not listening to me.”

  “Terrific. Make me feel worse.”

  “That’s what she does. She tries to get her leading man to sleep with her. She finds desperate gay guys especially enticing.”

  “I’m not desperate.”

  “Sleeping with her lets her know she can make you do anything for your career, and she hates you for it. She tells you she wants to guide your career, but then leads you in the wrong direction during rehearsals. Oh, but she is oh-so-forgiving when you trip up. When the director gets furious with you, she comes to your defense. Privately, she tells you how to ‘handle’ the bullying director. How close am I?”

  “Right on the mark.” He sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “She finds little ways to alienate the cast from you, subtle, so you and they never notice she’s pulling the strings. When the rest of the cast gets quietly sore at you for being her favorite and starts isolating you, like going out for drinks without inviting you, you begin to feel alone with a very big part. She tells you they’re jealous of your brilliance. You start to depend on her. Yes?”

  He flopped back into the chair. “Oh, man.”

  “And then when you really trust her, she goes after you. Opening night, you feel like you’ve walked into a different show. The lines she feeds you have changed, the blocking is different. A preset knife you expect to be there isn’t when you go for it.”

  “It was a gun. And the phone rang when it wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t know what to do. It kept ringing and I’m standing there like an idiot. Then she says, ‘answer the telephone.’ So I did, but of course no one was there because it wasn’t supposed to ring. I didn’t know what to do!”

  “Why didn’t you say, ‘It’s for you’? Put it back on her.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I never thought of it.”

  “Of course you didn’t. She had your adrenaline working against you.”

  “I fell into every one of her traps.” He leaned way back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?”

  “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  “She seemed so nice.”

  “And you weren’t sure I knew what I was talking about. Maybe you’ll trust me in the future.”

  “I trust you, Al. I want this so bad. I love developing a part—really becoming another person. If I can’t do it anymore I don’t know what—”

  “Now you sound like someone who belongs on Off-Broadway, where the real theater is happening. I know you’re going through a hard time now, but if you wait it out, Broadway tends to have a short memory. In time, I can—”

  “I don’t have time! I’m going to be kicked out of my apartment in two weeks. I can’t live with my mother. She moved into a one-bedroom last month. What am I going to do?” He jumped up to pace.

  “Well … I do have something. It could help you through this crisis.”

  “What? Anything. Is it a part? It’s not sweeping up the city, is it?”

  “No. It’s a part. You’d get to meet an important Broadway producer, and it pays well.”

  “Fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me about this before? What’s the part?”

  I picked up a notepaper lying on my desk and took a deep breath. “It’s, uh … the Easter Bunny.”

  “The Easter Bunny? Broadway’s doing an Easter show during the Christmas season? That’s odd.”

  “Well, … it’s not Broadway. But it’s for Harry Brooks, and he’s big. You’d be working for him.”

  “And he’s putting up an Easter show now? Jeez, a Jewish Easter Bunny? Where?”

  “It could be a real opportunity for you. Harry Brooks is known to be a generous man.”

  “Where’s it being done?”

  “In his backyard.”

  “What?”

  “In Long Island. The Hamptons. Lots of money’d people there. He wants someone to play the Easter Bunny for—his kid’s party.”

  “A kid’s party? You gotta be kidding.”

  I couldn’t look at him, but I tried to sound hopeful. “His kid’s afraid of Santa Claus, but she likes rabbits. It pays really well, and if he likes your, uh, well, performance, you could get other jobs.”

  “As the Easter Bunny.”

  “He knows a lot of rich people with kids who’d hire you. And he is Harry Brooks, so who knows …?”

  “Does this means wearing the outfit?

  “Uh, huh.”

  “The ears?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The—the—tail?”

  “I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t want—”

  He snatched the paper from my hand and ran from the office, letting the door slam behind him.

  Chapter 72

  AT LAST, IT was done. The lawyers made it happen, and the week after Christmas, Scott was to be released from that piece of hell. I buzzed into the club on my way to the hospital to pick him up. I had to check my mail, mostly for a letter from Pierre Louis Guerin, the director of the Lido in Paris. I threw the garment bag with Scott’s clothes over the back of my chair and proceeded to attack my mail. Lucille had it piled so high on my desk, when I reached for it, pieces tumbled to the floor. I worked my letter opener like a knife, slicing through the white and brown envelopes, searching for an onion-skin airmail. Time was ticking, and I pictured poor Mattie pacing in our living room, waiting for me to bring her grandson to her.

  As I finished chopping through the first layer of mail, I saw a book lying on my desk. One I had not put there. One I did not own. Female Homosexuality. It might as well have been a ticking bomb. I sank down into my chair. I didn’t want to touch it. Who could have put that there? Shaking, I stuffed it into my drawer and picked up my phone. I flipped the switch on my dictograph. “Lucille, could you come here, please.”

  “Lucille,” I said, as she came through the door. “Was anyone besides you in my office during the last few days?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m the only one besides you and Max who has a key. Aren’t I? Oh and the cleaners. And Mr. Buck Martin sometimes comes by—I guess you gave him a key—but I haven’t seen him in awhile.”

  “And I never got my key back from Virginia and ... My God, everyone has a key to my office!

  “Has something happened?”

  “No. Everything’s fine. I’m heading to the hospital. Scott’s coming home.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that. Give him my love.”

  She left and I opened my drawer again. I almost expected it not to be there, but there it was staring up at me. Female Homosexuality by Frank S. Caprio, M.D., subtitled, “A Psychodynamic Study of Lesbianism.”

  There was an embroidered bookmark in the book, with the words: “Sugar and spice and everything nice.” I took a deep breath and opened the book to the page. One paragraph was underlined in red pencil.

  “Crime is … associated with female sexual inversion. Many crimes committed by women … reveal the women were either confirmed lesbians who killed becaus
e of jealousy or were latent homosexuals with a strong aggressive masculine drive. Some lesbians manifest pronounced sadistic and psychopathic trends.”

  Who could’ve left this in my office? Lucille? But why? To tell me she was like me. But how could she know I’m …? I’m very careful. Bertha? She’s always snooping around, cleaning things that don’t need cleaning. And Lucille thinks there’s something up with her too so… No! Bart! Of course! Could he get into my office? Would Lucille let him… Damn! I jumped out of my seat. I never got my key back from him. In my mind, I saw Bart sauntering from my office, filing his nails, singing, “There’ll come a time when you’ll regret it.” My heart thundered. His revenge.

  I heaved the book back into my drawer. I’d throw it out after I got Scott out of the “looney bin.” I marched to the door, ready to storm out, but—stopped. I looked back at my desk. No, that book has nothing to teach me, I thought. I opened the door about to … I shut it and ran back to my desk; I lifted the book out of the drawer. What am I going to do with this thing? I dropped it on my desk; opened it and began to read: “A lesbian is the victim of a defective emotional development …”

  Chapter 73

  “I’M SCARED TO see everybody,” Scott said on our way up in the elevator. He’d lost a lot of weight and looked haggard with dark circles under his eyes. The blue sports jacket and blue tie Max had me bring him helped some.

  “Everybody loves you, Scott.”

  “I’m so—ashamed,” he whispered.

  I looked over at Archibald, our elevator operator. He faced the door. He always faced the door. We never exchanged more than the briefest pleasantries. Yet, he was doing work my father might have done. When had I begun to take living like this for granted, forgetting it took people like Archibald to make it possible?

  Standing behind him, I could see he wasn’t very tall, and his maroon uniform with the gold epaulets was a little big for him. He was balding in the back. I never noticed that before. I wondered if he had a wife, kids. He was one of the very few Negro elevator operators in the city. What was it like for him to be such a credit to his race? Who was he when he wasn’t our elevator operator?

  “Archibald, how was your Christmas?” I asked.

  “Fine, Ma’am,” he answered without turning around.

  “Good,” I said to the back of his head. He only answered me because he had to. It was his job to be polite to me.

  We reached our floor, and Archibald pulled the rod to open the elevator door; he stepped aside so we could get out. Scott and I moved past him. I turned back toward him wanting to say … something … He’d already stepped back into the elevator, and the door was closing.

  Scott took tiny steps away from the elevator. I put my key in the door. Mattie and Max stood near the Christmas tree waiting for us. Scott stood in the foyer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Mattie poked Max. “Well? Get yerself over there.”

  Max, hands in his pockets too—something he never did—approached Scott. He looked like a schoolboy on his first date. “Hi, Scott.”

  “Hi, Max. Are you mad at me?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Max said, tears sliding down his face. He grabbed the two sides of Scott’s head and kissed him on the lips.

  They fell into each other arms, crying and holding each other.

  “Now, Scott’s goin’ to play for ya’ll,” Mattie announced.

  “Grandma,” Scott whined.

  “You get yerself over there, and sit yer rump down and play. It’s the only dang thing’s gonna keep you outta the looney bin. Play one of them bouncy ones I like.”

  Scott sat on the piano bench. “I don’t feel right doing this, Grandma.”

  “But killin’ yerself do feel right, heh? Play. How you can think God would give ya the gift of music and then expect ya to not use is beyond me. Play.”

  Scott played a passionate piece by Beethoven.

  “He’s good, ain’t he?” Mattie whispered to me.

  “Very good,” I said.

  “And he can play show tunes and jazz too. Don’t ya think ya can use him in that Paris show yer puttin’ together?”

  Chapter 74

  July 1955

  “LUCILLE,” I SAID into the phone from the rehearsal studio. “You know how you keep telling me almost every day you would love to meet Juliana? Yes. Today’s the day. Now, calm down. All I want you to do is bring me the sheet music I left on my desk. Then, you have to go. It’s a private rehearsal, but I’ll try to fit in an introduction if Juliana is up to it. Don’t hurt yourself running over here, but get here fast.”

  I hung up the phone, laughing to myself. I remembered the goofy, wide-eyed kid I used to be. My heart would practically thump out of my chest whenever I saw Juliana. With the right look, or the right touch, Juliana could still get a good thump going in me.

  Juliana sat on the edge of the low stage, her white and green kimono thrown over her rehearsal leotards and tights, talking to Billy Preston. The overhead fans whirred through the humidity. Billy was the new director I’d hired for her. He was only twenty-five, but he’d had a few big hits in LA and Chicago, and he was being wined and dined by Broadway producers who wanted young talent to revitalize their shows. I wanted him to pull together a powerful show for Juliana to bring to Paris. Le Lido was to be her first engagement anywhere since the Broadway flop. This show had to be magnificent, but Juliana was tense. She wasn’t satisfied with some of the songs Billy had chosen. She wanted most to be in French. Billy wanted most to be in English.

  “Juliana. I’ve sent for three songs we had translated. They’ll be here soon,” I told her.

  “Who’s the translator?” She asked, jumping off the stage to pace back and forth. “The translation must be impeccable. You’re an American. What do you know about the delicacy of the French language? I will not be made a fool of in my own country.”

  “I thought the US was your country?” I said, a little insulted.

  “Of course, but you know what I mean. The French are much more particular about their language than Americans are about English. It must be precise.”

  Billy crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you should only sing in English. You’re a goddamn American. What are you doing singing in someone else’s language?”

  “See? See? What does this child know about what those people suffered?” Juliana said to me.

  “Suffered? They let Hitler waltz in and take their country. Am I supposed to bow down to these gutless frogs who needed the Yanks to save them?”

  “Get him out of here, Al. Or I swear I’ll—”

  “Billy, I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.”

  “Sure,” he said, walking away.

  “I can’t work with this boy who has no respect for—”

  “It’s going to be okay, Jule. He’s getting a good reputation around Broadway. Working with him will help your career.”

  “I hope something helps it.”

  “Look, in a few minutes I’m going to introduce you to someone, and I want you to be nice.”

  “Not today. I can’t be nice today. I feel like killing someone. Him.”

  “Be nice for a few minutes. She’s bringing your music, and she’s a big admirer of yours. All you have to do is smile and say something nice.”

  “I can’t. I’m too upset. I’m sure I’ll say something mean and scar your friend for life, like I did you.”

  The middle-aged, chubby wardrobe mistress, Madame Herbert, charged into the room. “Madame Juliana,” she called, “please to take off zat—zat—how do you call—zat zing? Off, off. Zee coat.” She pointed to the dress coat she held in her arms. “I must …”

  Juliana slipped out of her kimono, revealing her leotard. “No, no, zat will not do,” Madame Herbert squeeled. “Zee blow, zee blowse. How you call?”

  Julliana said something to her in French. I had no idea what it was, but the sound of those words floating from her mouth into my ears made my knees melt.

  “No! English alone,�
� Madame Herbert returned. “I have new English boyfriend.” She blushed like a teenager.

  I brought Juliana the tuxedo shirt and she put it on. Madame Herbert helped her into the dresscoat. She tugged at the sleeves and under the arms, pushing Juliana around like a rag doll. She pulled at the tails, then stepped back to thread a needle. As she was about to push the needle into the coat sleeve, Lucille ran through the door, letting it bang shut. “I got here as fast as I could,” she announced, breathless.

  Madame Herbert turned toward her, venom in her eyes. “Who iz zis noisy people!” she bellowed.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Lucille whispered, tiptoeing toward me with the sheet music in her hand. Her eyes were totally focused on Juliana, who could not have looked sexier in her stockings, tuxedo shirt and dress coat.

  “Oui,” Madame Hubert sighed, turning back to Juliana, “Madame Juliana, you—what is zat American expression? —will knock zee shoes in zee air!” She hummed as she sewed something near the edge of the sleeve. She finished her sewing and stood back from her creation. “Voila! C’est magnifique! Paree will kiss your feet, Madame Juliana. Off. Off. I take. Off.” She skipped from the room, jacket in hand.

  “Al,” Juliana whispered. “Your friend is staring at me. You know I don’t like that.”

  “You didn’t mind when I used to do it,” I whispered.

  “Because I wanted to get you into my bed. I don’t want her in my bed.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Uh, here, Al,” Lucille said, extending the sheet music toward me, but still staring at Juliana.

  “Thanks.” I turned to Juliana. “Juliana, I’d like you to meet my assistant, Lucille Wadwacker.”

  “Oh, Miss Juliana,” Lucille gushed, holding her hand to her chest as if checking to see she were still breathing. “I … I … I …”

  Juliana stuck a smile on her face and looked over at me. Her eyes seemed to be asking, ‘Do I really have to do this?’ I nodded my ‘yes’ at her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Wad …?”

  “Wadwacker,” I put in.