by Vanda Writer
Virginia and I had met a lot at Schrafft’s for lunch, the way ladies do, but she seemed much too elegant for me to invite to my home. Max had had her over to his part of the house a few times. I mean our place wasn’t exactly a dump—living on Fourth Avenue just below Park, wasn’t so bad—but I couldn’t picture me having Virginia over to my upstairs apartment. She used to live in a mansion with servants. She was the most elegant person I knew. In a fussy sort of way. Then, a picture: I saw her standing ankle-deep in garbage, her hair a tangled mess. How do I put the two pictures together?
“Such a lovely room,” Virginia said, standing near the window with the filmy yellow curtains. Nice paneling. Very colonial.”
“Oh, yeah, colonial was all the rage a couple years ago. Don’t know about now. Why don’t you sit.”
“Oh? Should I? Here? On this fluffy chair?”
“Yeah. There.” I was sure the green flowers sewn on that chair were all wrong. What do I do with her? Talk furniture? I don’t know anything about that. Why did Max get me into this? I looked at my watch. Much too early to go to bed.
“Oh, look,” she said, “you have a nice window right next to this chair. Isn’t that nice?
You can see outside at the buildings.”
“Yes. Nice.” Now, we both sounded like two weirdos. We smiled stupidly at each other. Talk, Al, I told myself. Say something fascinating, interesting. Say anything. Those ugly pictures ran through my brain and . . . “Food!” I blurted out.
“What?” Virginia said, almost falling out of her seat.
“You must be starved.”
“Oh, don’t fuss.”
Fuss? Fuss? I didn’t have one damn thing in my Shelvadore. I never ate at home. No
time. My Shelvadore was always empty. “Chinese takeout!” I shouted for no reason. “You want that?” I wished I could take it back. Virginia eating Chinese takeout really didn’t seem—
“What is it?” she asked.
“Chinese takeout? You mean you’ve never . . . Oh, you wouldn’t like it.”
“How do you know? Tell me.”
“Recently some Chinese restaurants in the city have been putting their food into white cardboard boxes so you can eat at home.”
“How nice of them. And convenient. Such an adventure. Let’s do that.”
“An adventure? Really? Only . . . I’ll have to go out and get it. It won’t take long, but will you mind being here alone?”
“Not at all. Can I watch your television set?”
“Sure. But when I first got a TV you said you’d never want one because you’d rather listen to your concert records. I don’t have any concert records. Just some hot jazz and a few of the new rock and roll songs.”
“Well . . .” she whispered, “I bought a TV a few years ago.”
“You did?”
“Yes!” She giggled. “I keep it in my bedroom. I rather like it. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Just let me get you the television menu. Then I’ll put it on for you.”
“Television menu?”
“That’s what they call the menu for the takeout food.” I kneeled on the rug to rummage through the end table drawer by the couch. “I guess because they expect you to watch your TV while you’re eating it. Here it is.” I held it out for her. “See if anything looks good to you.”
When I got back with my arms filled with Chinese food, I stopped short in the doorway, frozen. Not wanting to leave Virginia alone too long, I had run all the way to the restaurant. I yelled at poor Woo Chong for going too slow, then, ran back to my apartment. It all had been totally unnecessary. I stood in the entrance of my living room, luxuriating in the sounds of Juliana singing “O Mio Babbino.” Virginia had found my 78 rpm copy of the record Max and Shirl had produced before the war and she was playing it on my hi-fi. It had been such a long time since I heard Juliana sing that. I remembered how Armand at the party in Paris had said it was up to me to find a way for Juliana to sing opera to the public. Only singing opera for the public would make her complete. I walked over to the hi fi and lifted the arm off the record. Suddenly, it felt too personal to be playing it now.
“Do you mind that I listened to it?” Virginia asked.
“No. But we don’t want our food getting cold.” I put the record back in its brown sleeve and laid it on top of the other records piled near the TV. “I need to change my clothes. I’ll be back.”
“Yes, of course, be comfortable.”
I ran to my room to let the tears run while I threw on a red-and-white striped knit top and a pair of navy pedal pushers. I slid my feet into a pair of penny loafers. What a relief to be rid of the girdle and heels.
Chapter Five
“Did she say if she got my flowers?” Richard asked as I sipped my cold coffee at Hector’s Cafeteria. I hadn’t gotten much sleep. With Virginia there to remind me, the nightmares came swooping down. I kept being awakened by blood and flying body parts. Those dreams hadn’t disturbed me in five years since the time when it all happened. I looked over at Virginia sleeping quietly on her back in the extra bed. I wondered if beyond the quiet wall of her skin and skull, there was a terror raging within there.
I held a pile of newspapers on my lap. A tray of silverware clanged to the floor, and I nearly jumped out of my skin as a counterman rushed to pick it up. My nerves were a frazzled mess. I hadn’t heard from Max in four days. “I hate thinking of her sitting alone in that dressing room,” Richard went on, “with no flowers, but who does she know in Philadelphia?”
“She got them, Richard. She said they were beautiful.”
“She told you that?” Richard asked like a smitten school boy.
“Yes, she did. But I doubt she was alone in her dressing room. Juliana has a way of attracting people to herself. I’m sure if she were alone in the middle of the Sahara Desert some sheik would show up on his camel.”
Richard laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” Then his face turned sour. “What sheik? Do you know something?”
“Relax.” I was in no mood for coddling him.
He poured more syrup onto his pancakes. “I wish I’d been there with her; she told me to stay here. I had a couple of business meetings, but I could’ve gotten out of them. She told me not to bother myself, as if she could ever be a bother to me. I’m her husband for Pete’s sake. I’d do anything for her.”
“Including not going to Philly for the tryout because it would make her more nervous than she already was.”
“Yes. Even that.” He sighed. “She always pretends not to be nervous, but I know. You don’t stay married to a woman for seventeen and a half years and not know all the little details she tries to hide. Did, uh, Max go to the show?”
“I don’t know. He was thinking about it. But he had a lot to do with the clubs so there’s a good chance he didn’t.”
“Oh. He might’ve gone, but your not sure. Don’t you usually know his schedule?”
“Not down to the minute. Is something wrong?
“No. Are you sure you won’t have something to eat? Eggs? Pancakes? These pancakes are delicious.”
“No, I can’t eat now. I’m getting ready to read the reviews.”
“I wish I were like that. Lately, every time I get anxious I start eating. I think it’s beginning to show. This morning I had to hook my belt into the first hole. Pretty soon I’m going to need a whole new belt.”
He did look a little wider, even from when I saw him in Paris. And there seemed to be more gray on the sides of his head too. He was developing into an older, doughier version of his younger self, with fat cheeks. He looked like a man who would someday make a happy grandpa, but he was married to the wrong woman for that to ever happen.
“What do they say?” he asked.
“Well, Billboard says Queen for a Day has the top Nielson ratings of any TV show on the air. And it’s only been on for a month. Do you know that show?”
“Only from radio,” he said. “My mother used to listen to it. I never p
aid much attention.”
“Well, each week they have five women compete with each other by telling their sad stories into a microphone, and the one whose life is the most miserable gets a new Westinghouse washing machine or toaster or something. There’s something disturbing about that, don’t you think?”
“How do they decide whose life is the worst?”
“Applause meters. The audience claps for the one with the most pathetic life.”
Richard shook his head. “Yes, that is disturbing. Why would anyone want to go on TV to announce to the whole world that their life is worse than anyone else’s?”
“For the washing machine, I suppose.”
“Small consolation. We should get back to Juliana. What do the reviews say? Have you read any of them yet?’
“No. They’re here.” I pulled the newspapers up from my lap and dumped them on our table. “Ready?”
“Not really.” He put more pancake in his mouth.
I turned to the theater section of the Philadelphia Inquirer. “Heaven is Up There Somewhere is One Heavenly Disaster,” the headline read.
“Oh, no,” Richard and I said at the same time.
I quickly skimmed the words, but I could hardly take in their meaning. “An incomprehensible book, tunes with no melody, the second lead’s legs got twisted up in each other, off-key chorus . . .” It went on and on. I literally thought I was going to be sick, until . . . “The true heavenly moments of the evening (and thank God, quite literally, they were legion) were delivered by Juliana, a relative newcomer to the stage, but a veteran singer. I looked up. “Richard, listen to this. ‘She made this reviewer glad he donned his tuxedo to brave the snow and sit through that heavenly mess. For whenever Miss Juliana was on stage, be it singing, dancing, talking, or merely observing the others, the auditorium was on fire with her electricity. She made it all worthwhile. Now I know what all that Copacabana fuss has been about. May the gods above soon grant Miss Juliana a property worthy of her gifts.”
“Wow.” I looked up at Richard.
“Yes, wow,” he agreed.
The two of us scrambled to read the other papers. Some of the actors who’d been maligned in the Inquirer fared better in these, but not one reviewer had anything but praise and adoration for Juliana.
I hit the metal table. “Oh, yes!”
“Our girl is on her way. Isn’t she, Al?”
Our girl? This was getting weirder and weirder. I took a deep breath and said softly, “Yes, Richard, our girl is on her way.”
Chapter Six
“How’d she do?” Max asked, bounding into my office and onto the chair next to my desk.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking all over—”
“Don’t curse; it’s not ladylike. So, tell me how things went with Juliana.”
“Do you know that Virginia is now living with me on the top floor?”
“Oh, no, that’s not good. She can’t stay there. Send her home.”
“I can’t. I found her living in the most appalling squalor.” I was doing it. Telling Max what Virginia didn’t want me to tell him. But what else could I do?
“Squalor? Virginia? Impossible. Why?”
“She needs someone to look after her. She’s never lived completely alone before. She’s always at least had servants. You know, people. Virginia has money. Hire someone. Only . . .”
“What?”
“That may not be enough. She may need some kind of doctor—a doctor for her head.”
“What on earth for? Virginia has always been a levelheaded girl.”
“Everyone is going to psychoanalysts these days. She might like it. Having someone to listen to her. She feels lonely. And well, even you said she was acting crazy.”
“I didn’t mean that literally. She just kept calling me and—”
“Interrupting you? And how is Scott?”
“Fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very. I have warm feelings for Virginia.”
“Well, you’re going to have to take those warm feelings and get her out of my rooms and into her own home. I’m not used to roommates. And maybe a doctor.”
“Well, I know some gentlemen who might know some doctors like that.”
“Gentlemen, huh? What kind?”
“Gentlemen. What’s the matter with you?”
“Just be sure you appreciate Scott. You won’t get better than him.”
“Tell me about Juliana and Philly.”
“Get a load of these.” I jumped up and lifted the papers from the top of my file cabinet and flung them down onto my desk.
“Good?” he asked, picking up the Inquirer.
“No. Great.”
He quickly thumbed to the theater section and read the review; his face glowed with pride. He picked up the Philadelphia Daily News and read. “This is wonderful. I hope by the time they bring the show to New York they’ve got a cast that can properly support her.”
“Harry Fielding will take care of that, but Max, you need to keep an eye on Schuyler. Make sure he doesn’t try any funny business.”
“Oh, he won’t do anything now that he’s got these reviews. That’s all he ever wanted. To reclaim his reputation. As long as he produces the show in New York better than he did in Philly, it won’t be to his advantage to mess with Juliana.”
“You’re sure?”
“Have a little faith.” He moved on to read another review.
“It’s hard working with Lucille.”
“Why?” He put the paper back in the pile. “Do you think she’s the one who’s working with Schuyler?”
“She might be. I’m suspicious of everything she does. If she brings me a newspaper article, which is her job, I wonder why she chose that particular time to bring it to me. If she calls me on my dictograph, which is the only way she has of contacting me from her office, I get afraid she’s taping the call.”
“Oh, come on, how could she do that?”
“There are those special dictograph telephones that the police use to spy on criminals. Maybe—”
“Do you really think Lucille could install that type of equipment on her own, in your office, with no one noticing? Come on. You’re getting carried away.”
“She could’ve done it while I was in Paris. You weren’t here every day.”
“I was here a lot. Training her.”
“See!”
“What?”
“She has all the inside information to—”
“What inside information? Nothing’s been taken from the safe.”
“You didn’t give her the combination?”
“Of course not. She doesn’t know anything about that part of the business. I would never share that with her. Lucille is a sweet, harmless girl who is a little bit goofy, and you’re letting Schuyler unbalance you. You need to be calm under these circumstances.”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
“I always am.”
“But—don’t you think Lucille is a little too sweet?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You see, you see, sometimes I think I’m going nuts with all this. Every strange sound I hear through the phone wires, especially when I’m talking to Juliana, makes me jump. Juliana and I never talk, uh . . . well, you know, intimately on the phone, but I still imagine someone might . . . Through the whole call I worry I might have left the privacy button off, even though I’m staring at it and can see that I didn’t. Then, there’s Bertha. She’s always wanting to do things for me.”
“And that’s not a good thing?” Max asked.
“No. She’s not to supposed to be here in the afternoon, but there she is. The first person I see whenever I arrive. I can hardly bear saying hello to her, but I force myself so she doesn’t catch on that I suspect her. Recently, I suggested she not arrive at the club until evening, but she said she enjoyed being near me. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“No. I think it sound
s like she’s hot for you.”
“Nonsense. She’s straight. She keeps telling me she ‘understands me,’ a woman in my position. I want her to stop understanding me. Immediately.”
Max burst into unrestrained laughter.
“Oh, you’re no help at all.”
Chapter Seven
March 1956
After I got off the subway at Forty-Second, I sloshed through the piles of snow toward the Henry Miller Theater on Forty-Third, where Juliana was rehearsing. For two days, we’d had a steady blanketing of snow so that now the streets and the rooftops were covered with lumpy white mountains. The snow on the sidewalks was beginning to turn gray and brown from dog walkers and their dogs. A few cars were still buried under a heavy weight of ice that their owners hadn’t managed to dig out yet. I pulled my serviceable wool coat tighter around me to block out the cold.
Back from Philly, Juliana was rehearsing for the show’s opening that was only a week away. They now had a whole new script and a new musical director and choreographer. Plus, Marvin Van Ville had been hired to replace the male lead. This was quite a coup for Juliana, because Van Ville was a popular Broadway matinee idol, adored by the press as well as his fans.
I’d heard it said that it took Marvin hours to leave the theater after a show because on the other side of the stage door were hordes of women screaming his name and shaking autograph books at him. Unlike some Broadway stars, Marvin didn’t try to escape. He genuinely enjoyed their attention and generously gave to these women. Variety quoted him as saying, “It’s part of the job, a duty.”
Tommie also was called in at the last moment, to replace the second lead. Special, special Tommie flying through the Stage Door Canteen with me during the war. I hadn’t seen him since the month before I left for Paris, and I hadn’t seen Juliana since mid-February, so I was excited to get to this rehearsal.
I stomped my way into the lobby, slipping on the slick black-and-white marble floor and waving my arms around to keep me from falling over. Apple, the assistant stage manager, ran over and grabbed me. “Hey!” He set me upright. “You okay?”