by Vanda Writer
“What does Bertha have to do with anything?”
“You know. Bertha told me everything. The girl just can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“She can’t?”
“You should hear the scandalous things she says about you. More lethal than Frank Sinatra’s barbs about your chin.”
“I do so have a chin!” she barked, holding back tears.
“Of course, you do. A lovely one, but Bertha just goes on and on about you in a most unpleasant way and doesn’t care who she says those things to.”
Dorothy lightly touched her chin.
“I guess she can’t help being a sneak,” I went on. “The girl’s a dyke, you know, immoral to the bone. I guess that’s why she lies. Just can’t help herself. Sad. Very sad.”
Dorothy had a look horror. “Worse than Frank Sinatra?”
“Are there problems with the Haven?” Virginia asked.
“No, of course not,” I assured Virginia. “Yes, worse than Frank Sinatra.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Virginia asked. “Do you know what they’re talking about, Mercy?”
Mercy looked down at her lap and mumbled, “I knew we didn’t belong here.”
“Dorothy just made a mistake, Virginia, and this week she’s going to correct it. Isn’t that right, Dorothy?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, Al, she made me look foolish and I’m in the social register. I’m not allowed to look foolish.” Virginia knotted her handkerchief around her knuckles as she sat in a chair in the middle of my office. The tears fell. I stood facing her, my rear pressed against my desk “I never said I—I . . .” she whispered, “went to bed with him. You were there. Did I say anything like that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you questioning your own memory?”
“Well . . .” She got up and walked over to the window. “Lately, I get confused. I say things . . . And Dorothy couldn’t have made a mistake, so I must have.”
“You didn’t, Virginia. She led you to talk about your doctor in a certain way, but anyone who was at that table would know that wasn’t what you meant. It’ll blow over.”
“I have to quit my analysis.”
“No. Don’t do that because of one of Dorothy’s little barbs that most people won’t be able to figure out anyway. The analysis is helping you. I think.”
“How can I face him now? He’ll think . . . oh, the horror of it.” She hid her face in her hands.
“He probably doesn’t even read her column. A man of science reading a gossip column? Come on, Virginia.”
She slowly turned to face me, a small smile growing. “I never thought of that. You might be right.” Then the smile came crashing down. “Oh, but my friends. They do read Dorothy’s column. Religiously. As religiously as the society page. They call each other up to guess who the code words stand for. Oh, Al. They’ll know it’s me! I’ve already fallen out of favor with them because I’m living with Shirl and Mercy. They think they’re low-class women.”
“Well, you can tell those snobs—sorry, Virginia—that Shirl has more money than all of them put together and anyone who could find any fault with Mercy, a woman with the biggest heart in the world, should hide their faces in shame. And I bet once those busybodies read Dorothy’s column, if they figure out it’s you, they’ll be jealous.”
“Jealous of me?”
“Yeah! Having a secret alliance with a handsome professional man. What woman wouldn’t be envious of that?”
Virginia giggled. “You make it sound so intriguing. You don’t think it makes me sound cheap, like Betty Anderson?
“Who?”
“Oh, Al, you must know Betty Anderson. She’s the bad girl in that bestseller, Peyton Place. Everybody’s talking about it. It’s scandalous.”
“I guess I work around Max and the club too much. But no. No one will think of you as a Betty Anderson.”
In the same column with Virginia, Dorothy wrote a cute bit about how well the Haven was doing. We needed that. It was a shame we had to get it at Virginia’s expense, but I knew that was the trade-off. “So how are things really going with your analysis? Is it helping?”
She sat back down in the chair. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s supposed to do. I talk and I talk. And he listens and he listens. He’s very good at that. Sometimes I think I’m just talking a lot of nonsense, but Dr. Monroe has assured me that it isn’t nonsense, it’s free association. It’s his pathway into my unconscious mind. I find the idea of that scary, but kind of exciting too. I do like Dr. Monroe a lot. He’s handsome and dignified and . . .” She stopped and looked down at her hands. “I may really be a little in love with him. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t. Have you, uh, told him about what, uh, well, you know . . . Moose . . . What he did?”
“Heavens no! What would he think of me?”
Chapter Ten
I was so nervous you’d think it was me who’d be going up on that stage in a few hours. I had tossed all night. Finally, I gave up on sleep and threw my legs over the side of my bed. I reached under the lampshade to turn on the light on the end table. The city sparkled though my window as it pierced the dark on the other side of my room. I slid the drawer out of the end table and there it was. Like always. I could see it through the saran wrap. That forever to remain unsigned program. I knew that program would never be signed, but that didn’t make it any less special. I had carried it with me from The Christian Ladies of Hope House to my apartment in Milligan Place to this huge place with Max on Park and Twenty-Fourth.
I picked it up and carefully peeled the saran wrap away from the front cover so I could see the listing of all the performers that had performed that night. Juliana’s name was on the bottom after everyone else’s. The day I got that program was the first time I met Juliana in person. Gosh, I missed her. We hardly ever got to be alone anymore, not since Paris. I ran my hand over it. I owned so many lovely things, but nothing was quite so precious as that program. My mind drifted back, back . . . I had held the program out toward her. “Did you want me to sign that,” she’d asked as she passed by me in a silk robe. Orange, I think, or was it green? I do remember she was delightfully almost naked in that room with me, and it made me shiver. “Did you want me to sign that?” she’d asked. “Yes,” I’d said. The arm that held it out to her shook. “Oh, yes, please. Would you?”
“No.” I think I stopped breathing about then. I wanted to run from the room for even thinking I had a right to ask her. But then she went on, with the most amazing smile on her face, flirtatious, but warm. What did I know about flirting back then, especially with a woman? She winked and something I didn’t understand happened between my legs, and then she said, “I have a feeling you and I are going to know each other for a very long time. I’ll sign that when we know each other better. When it will mean something.” She’d predicted our whole lives like a fortune teller!
Oh, and how I had waited for that day when she would finally sign my program, when we finally knew each other well enough for that. And that day did come, her first ever opening at the Copa. She held the program in her hand and . . . and—held it and held it and stared at it and stared at it for what seemed like an unending amount of time. Then, she looked at me and sighed, “I can’t.” She couldn’t express the deep feelings she had. Feelings were hard for her. I knew that. So, I put the program back in its saran wrap to always be safe. I would keep it forever—forever unsigned. But I knew in her heart she really had signed it.
I put the program back into its saran wrap and returned it to the drawer to be looked at another day.
I walked down the staircase to our living room. I stood looking out of the glass doors onto the patio and beyond to the sparkling lights of New York—forever awake.
Max and Scott were behind their closed bedroom door sleeping through the night. Things weren’t right with them, though. A certain coldness had crept into their closeness.
I noticed it from the moment Scott got home from Paris. Max was distant. I longed to be back in Paris, for Juliana and me to lie in our bed together looking out the French windows, making love and talking deep into the afternoon. I longed to not feel like every step I took was being watched. At least now I knew who’d been doing the watching. Not comforting, though, to know I had to keep her around.
I made myself a brandy and soda and allowed its tingle to embrace my face. I heard the milkman outside the door jangling the bottles. A few rays of sun were trying to push themselves into the sky. I knew I should try to get a bit of sleep before leaving for the club, but . . .
I ran back up the steps to my apartment and got dressed. When I got out of the IRT station, Swing Street was in full swing. The bright lights of the neon signs announced clubs like Jimmy Ryan’s “21.” The El Morocco blotted out the pale blues and yellows of a faint sunrise that was silently creeping onto the street.
I stopped a moment. I couldn’t see the sun, but I knew it was there. I wished I could see it. I needed some physical assurance that somehow, we’d emerge out of all of this. But even this grand street wasn’t the same. Many of the old jazz clubs were closed down. The Onyx and the Club Samoa were strip clubs now. Times were changing, all right. The club scene was changing. The country was tired from fighting two wars and now everyone was staying home raising babies and watching TV. Dan Schuyler had been right about that, but the thought of him being right about anything made me want to choke him with my bare hands. What if the show was a hit, but Schuyler still didn’t leave us alone? Max said he would. Jule only had to give him his hit and it would be over. Only? He wouldn’t have any need of her anymore. The contract would end and she—and I—would be free. But what if it wasn’t a hit? What would Schuyler—? You worry too much, Max always tells me. I know mobsters. I can’t have that thought, but . . . I don’t know them as well as Max does—he never talks about things like that with me. But I do know them. And the ones I know, the regulars at the club, are pretty nice to me, always asking me if there is anything they can do for me. Anything they can . . . No, I will not have that thought.
I hurried to the newsstand up ahead. “Hey, Bill,” I said to the guy behind the stand. I’d known Bill for years. Ever since we opened the Haven. The government only licensed newsstands to vets and the blind so there was something safe and comfortable about shooting the breeze with Bill. “Give me the usual,” I told him. Bill had been a sergeant in the war, the big one, like Max.
“You bet.” He piled up my newspapers. “Here ya go, Al.” He tightened his tie. “So, how’s the husband hunting comin’?”
“Not so hot.” I took the newspapers into my arms.
“I jus’ can’ unders’and how no smart fella hasn’t snipped ya off the vine yet.” He leaned his elbow against the shelf where he had the muscle magazines and lit a Marlboro. “I think ya gotta be more encouragin’. Some guys tawk a good game, but underneat’ dey’re shy. Dey might be scared off by a girl who runs a nigh’club. What kinda job is dat for a sweet t’ing like yerself? Working round a bunch a lowlifes like comes ‘round dis street. Its time ya found yerself a nice fella to settle down wit’. Let him get ya one dem li’l houses they got out on Long Island. You have de babies and let him do de work.”
I usually cut Bill off long before he got to the “happy” ending, but that morning it felt rather comforting to hear him go on about such a mundane topic that really had nothing to do with me. “I’ll be thirty-three in May, Bill. I think I’m getting too old to find a fella.”
“Well, that’s just plain nuts. A seasoned woman like yerself has lots more to offer a man than those silly beatnik rock ‘n rollers. I’d marry you myself, but I think the missus might mind.” He laughed, and I joined him.
It was good to be laughing with Bill.
Inside the Haven it was deathly quiet. The cooks and the waiters and the musicians were gone. Dim sunlight poked in through the high up windows. None of the lights were turned on yet; shadows crept across the walls. It would be hours before Lucille arrived. I usually enjoyed the quiet of the Haven after everyone was gone. Generally, I was the last to go, not the first to arrive. The quiet this morning was more quiet than usual. I know mobsters. I tried to squeeze out a cup of coffee from the coffee urn in Lucille’s office. I poured out a thick cup of brown ooze. Oh, well, I wasn’t a big fan of coffee anyway. Later, I’d have Lucille make me a cup of tea. It was good not to suspect her anymore, but I wasn’t looking forward to Bertha coming through the door that afternoon. I left the ooze in the cup for Lucille to wash and went back to my office.
I didn’t turn on the light. I wanted to hold onto the soft gray of morning as long as I could. I laid the papers on my desk and stared at my phone. I wanted so much to pick it up and call Juliana. But if she were managing to get any sleep at all that would be good. She had a huge night coming up. Much too early to disturb her.
Gradually, the daylight coming through my window grew stronger as I tried to focus mindlessly on the morning papers’ theater and cabaret sections. Now with Schuyler in charge of Juliana’s career, there were no last-minute preparations for me to do. All I had to do was worry.
Throughout the day, I came so close to picking up my office phone and . . . I couldn’t. It would be best that we didn’t talk in case someone was watching. This time I wouldn’t even be backstage helping her breathe and bringing in cups of tea. I just hoped Schuyler wouldn’t be backstage either.
“How’s she doing?” I asked Richard through the phone. It was early afternoon.
“Good. I guess. She’s hard to read today. You’ll be backstage with her tonight, won’t you?”
“Well, uh, I can’t.”
“Why? You’re always there. She needs you.”
“I’m, uh, going to be busy. She has you.” I tried to sound cheerful.
“She won’t let me back there with her. You know that. You have to be there. I couldn’t stand it if I thought she’d be facing this audience alone. A Broadway audience. Broadway critics. After what happened last time. You’ll be there. You’re just kidding, aren’t you?”
“I have this crazy schedule and—”
“That never stopped you before.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“This night is the biggest night of her life. The biggest, Al. You, she, and I have been heading here for years. You have to be there to help her through it.”
“I know. I’ll, uh, yes, of course. Before she leaves for the theater remind her to breathe, but don’t say it in a hysterical way. Say it as if you’re calm. Like ‘Brea—the.’ Now you do it.”
He tried it.
“Yes, that’s right. Now, you have to do that with her before you leave the house. It loosens up her throat and lungs.”
“But you’ll be backstage to—”
“Of course, of course, but you start her off.”
“Certainly. If that’s what you want. But no one can calm her like you. You have to be there. Max won’t be backstage with her, will he?”
“No. Of course not. What made you think that? Look, things are starting to hop around here. I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.”
Bertha walked by my open door. I watched her go, slammed my door shut, and picked up the phone.
Chapter Eleven
Car horns blared. Taxis snaked in and around shiny patent leather limos as Scott, Virginia, Max, and I—in our own rented limo—inched down Forty-Third Street, passing The Selwyn, The Lyric and George M. Cohan Theaters. Neon lights shut out the dark and announced the latest play, musical, or star, along with ads for Admiral Television, the Hit Parade, and Canadian Club.
Crowds of people crossed the street in front of us, making our progress slow. The driver finally squeaked past a few couples heading for the sidewalk and pulled our limo to the curb. We scrambled out of the car to join other theatergoers: men dressed in tuxedos, women in long gowns that flared around their legs, their bare shoulders covered in furs.
&nb
sp; There was a damp April nip in the air and a slight smell of rain. I thought we might be in for an April shower before the night was out.
Before entering the Henry Miller, I looked up at the marquee. Just below the title, Heaven is Up There Somewhere, blazed in pink neon: Juliana. For a moment, I felt a surge of pride; my work had put her there. Then the next moment—deflation. A poisoned sourness seeped into my stomach. I didn’t do it. Schuyler did.
“You look lovely tonight,” Scott said as he took my arm. I wore a lacy blue gown that, of course, had been chosen by Max, but it didn’t make me feel “lovely.” I wanted to tear it off and run screaming into the congestion of noisy traffic, which would’ve, of course, blocked any intention I might’ve had of ending it all that night. I figured I was going have to find some way to live through this, so I let Scott take my arm and we followed Virginia and Max into the theater lobby.
Virginia, as always, did look lovely in her kelly-green velvet gown and white fox stole with matching gloves. We waited a moment on the sidewalk. There was a bottleneck of well-dressed people all trying to get into the theater at the same time. Virginia stood beside Max, but they weren’t talking.
Besides, I was choking with fear about how Juliana would do. What if she failed? What if no one laughed or they laughed in the wrong places? What if they didn’t applaud? What if, instead, they whispered amongst themselves and got up and walked out before the first act was even over like they did last time? Where was Schuyler? I hoped he didn’t go to her dressing room before she went on. She needed to keep her mind clear, not filled with dung. My heartbeat sped up.
Virginia smiled at me and I smiled back. Then we squeezed ourselves into the lobby of the theater. Friends, acquaintances, and business contacts instantly surrounded us. As usual, Max was posing for as many photos as he could, and it wasn’t difficult. All the photographers loved him. He seemed to grow more handsome with each passing year. His almost completely gray hair speckled with black made him look distinguished and even more like Clark Gable than before. Journalists frequently sought his opinion as they did now, wanting to know what he expected from this show and from Juliana. He was appropriately diplomatic. “Well, I didn’t see the show in Philly, but I’ve heard they’ve done some terrific rewrites and, of course, Juliana—I would come to the theater just to hear her sing the telephone book.” He and his listeners chuckled the way strangers do when the joke isn’t really funny.