by Vanda Writer
Just as Scott was about to hand our tickets to the usher, Marty broke through the line. “Hey! Get to the back of the line,” a few patrons called out. Others only grumbled to themselves.
“I’m just talking to my friend, not going in.”
He had his arm linked with Lucille, sort of. It seemed more like he was dragging her. I thought I’d better have a talk with him soon about the proper etiquette for dating a girl. “Hey, where are you sitting?” Marty asked. “It’d be great if we could all sit together.” He carried his tuxedo jacket under his arm. I straightened his crooked bow tie.
Scott looked at the tickets in his hand. “We’re in Row C Center.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Marty oozed. “We’re back in Q. I guess I waited too long to get our tickets. Sorry, Lucille. You know it’s sold out, so we’re lucky we got tickets at all. But maybe we can get someone to switch.” He turned to Lucille. “Wouldn’t you like to sit closer?”
“I feel lucky to be going to this opening at all, so I don’t mind sitting in Q. It’s still the orchestra. Not the balcony like where I usually sit, and I got a look at what those tickets cost. Q’s terrific.”
“Here, put your jacket on,” I said, pulling him out of line. Scott followed. I slipped his tux jacket from under his arm and started to help him in it. Then I thought . . . “Lucille, could you help Marty with this? He needs someone to dress him.”
“Oh, I’m not that bad,” Marty said as he accepted Lucille’s help.
“Yes, you are.” I grinned at him. “And keep that on for the whole show.”
“I have to, don’t I?”
“Yes!” Lucille and I answered at the same time.
“We’ll see you after the show,” I said to them, getting back in line.
“But maybe we could talk to someone. I’d really like to sit by you. You’re such a wonderful person and friend and—”
“We’ll see you after the show. We’re not going to China.”
“Yeah, sure, but just in case the people next to you don’t show up . . .”
“Not show up for this opening?” Lucille was aghast. “No one would do that.”
“Marty, I’ll see you at Sardi’s,” I said. “Okay?”
“What’s the matter with him?” Scott whispered as he handed our tickets to the usher. “He’s acting like you’re his first-grade teacher who he’s got a crush on.’
“I know. Strange. You think it’s Hollywood? You know what they say about Californians. Too much sand.” We laughed as we followed our usher down the aisle.
As we started toward our seats, Mercy came running up to us, nearly tripping on her heels. She took my hands in hers. “Oh, Al, you’re so beautiful. Let me see.” She twirled me around. “Who’s the designer?”
“Someone Max picked out. But look at you. You’re the beautiful one.” She looked so much like herself in her yellow gown made of some airy material.
Scott turned to the usher. “You can go. We know where our seats are. Old friend talk.”
The usher nodded and hurried back up the aisle to retrieve more patrons.
“Oh, Scott, I didn’t mean to leave you out,” Mercy said. “Aren’t we gals terrible the way we get all silly about clothes. It must be a big bore for you.”
“Oh, no. I love talking about clothes. Max and I talk about them all the time. I don’t know that much about it, but Max is teaching me oodles and oodles.”
“Where’s Shirl?” I asked.
“Oh, she still won’t come to these dress-up affairs. Not since Gladys Bentley put on a dress and got married a few years ago. You know that marriage only lasted a few months. Just long enough to sell magazines and convince the public that all a gay girl had to do to be cured was get married. And what with McCarthy and his tribe practically putting targets on our backs, she simply refuses to wear anything but pants and a suit jacket, which of course means she can’t come to the theater. I’m going to leave too in a few minutes.”
“Leave? But aren’t you staying for the show?
“I wouldn’t leave Shirl alone. I support her in this.”
“But you’re dressed up.”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly come here in a housedress.”
“You mean you weren’t planning to come at all? I am so sorry, Mercy. When I called, I
thought you were going to be here anyway or I never would’ve asked you to—”
“It’s nothing. I don’t mind helping you, and since I couldn’t get you to say you’d go backstage with her, I was glad to be there. But, Al, there’s some time left; won’t you go back there? She needs you. She looks really nervous.”
“Where’s Richard?”
“Out back chewing on his cigarettes. You know he’s no good for her when she’s like this. Why are you asking such a—well, forgive me, but you’re asking a stupid question instead of marching into that dressing room and— Oh, well, it’s not my business, but darn it, whatever happened between you two— Well? Can’t you put it aside for the most important night of her life. What do you think Scott?”
“I agree with you, Mercy. Al should be backstage with Juliana.”
“I want to, Mercy. Really, I do, but . . . You can stay, can’t you? Make sure she gets on okay and then you can watch the play.”
“I can’t watch the play without an escort. I feel naked now standing here talking to you with no escort nearby.”
“Well, Richard could—”
“I have to go, Al. I didn’t buy a ticket. You belong with her. Not me. Nice seeing you, Scott. Talk some sense into Al. Oops, I forgot my purse backstage.” She hurried down the aisle and out through the side door.
“Al? What are you doing? Why aren’t you back there with her like always?”
“Come with me.” I grabbed his thumb and tried to drag him with me.
“To a woman’s dressing room? No.” He pulled his hand back.
I grabbed his forearm and wrapped my arm around it. “She won’t care.” I gave his hand a yank; he still didn’t budge.
“Well I care,” he said. “I can’t go back there.”
“She’ll already be dressed by now. Hurry. We don’t have much time.” He sighed, giving in. I pulled him down the aisle, out the side door, and into a hallway. Ron, the stage manager, was running around rounding up the chorus boys and girls who were laughing, singing, and pushing each other, alive with opening night excitement. Apple, the assistant stage manager, was checking things off a list on his clipboard as he thumbed through a rack of costumes.
“Stay out of my costumes,” the wardrobe mistress yelled, giving Apple a shove.
“Ron!” I ran up to him. “Juliana?”
“Upstairs. Third door in.”
I pulled Scott past the room where the washerwomen were doing the last-minute ironing and dashed up the stairs with him behind me. We jumped out of the way of a group of chorus girls running down the steps singing scales. We found the door with Juliana’s name on it. No star. Yet. I hoped that would change after this night. I banged loud, frenetically, aware of the passing time.
“You go in,” Scott said, pulling away from me. “I’ll wait out here.”
I grabbed his arm back. “No! You gotta go in with me.”
“Why?” Scott whined as Mercy opened the door.
“Oh, good,” I said. “You’re still here.” I dragged Scott inside with me.
“No, I’m not,” Mercy said. “Just getting my purse. Bye.”
She hurried past Scott and me.
We stepped into a tiny room with just a stove, sink, dish drainer, and a couch with holes in the fabric. A silent percolator sat on one of the burners with the grounds stuck to the bottom. In the sink there were a couple of unwashed cups, saucers, and spoons that lay near the drain.
“Jule!” I called.
“In here,” she answered from an attached room. I dragged Scott past the closed door into her dressing room. She lay on the couch in her white terry cloth bathrobe. As soon as she heard me, she shot up.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” I squawked.
“Oh, gosh, no. Gotta go,” Scott mumbled, covering his eyes with his hand.
“You can’t. I need you here.” I pulled him closer to me.
“Why?” he pleaded, his back turned to Juliana.
“You didn’t call,” Juliana said.
“I couldn’t. Why aren’t you dressed? There isn’t much time.”
“I’m dressed. More or less. I just have to throw on the slip and my costume over it.” She threw her robe off just as Scott turned and took his hand away from his eyes.
“No. Please,” he called out, then took off running through the curtain into the other room.
“Scott, don’t go. Please,” I yelled, as the terror of being caught alone with her shot through my whole body.
“I won’t. I’ll just stand out here and keep my hands over my ears.”
“Isn’t he a doll?” I said to Juliana.
“Certainly is. A rag doll.” She stood there, luscious in a long line bra, girdle, and nylons, so I couldn’t say anything nasty back to her.
The door opened, and I just about jumped out of my skin. Probably guilt over what I was feeling as I looked at her.
“I’m back, Miss Juliana,” Mrs. Bromley called. Mrs. Bromley was the Negro maid Juliana hired to help her backstage. Mrs. Bromley often helped her at home. “What’s the likes of you doin’ in a lady’s boudoir?” I heard her say to Scott. “Scat. Out. Out.”
I hurried out the door. “No! He has to stay here. For me. Uh, he’s, he’s, uh, my boyfriend and he’s helping me to, to . . .”
She sniffed. “This boy ain’t helpin’ you do nothin’. That’s what I’m here fer, and if ya thinks yer foolin’ me, Little Miss Missy, well . . .” She looked me up and down and everything inside me went cold. “That boy ain’t no boyfriend of yers.”
She knows. She knows about me. It shows. I couldn’t move.
“Now, I’m goin’ in there to get that girl dressed and ready to sing on stage so’s I cans earns my pay.” Like an army sergeant, she headed toward the curtain. She turned back toward me. “And you can just go entertain your boyfriend.” She chuckled. “Boyfriend, oh yes, boyfriend.” She pushed through the second door and burst into the other room.
“Uh, Mrs. Bromley,” Juliana said. “Why don’t you take a little time off and call your nephew. I’m sure he’d love hear from you.”
“Call that lazy lout?”
I tried not to stare at Mrs. Bromley or Juliana. All I could hear running through my brain was, “That boy ain’t no boyfriend of yers.” She knows, she knows. I grabbed the back of a chair so I didn’t fall over.
“I’m sure he’d love to hear from you,” Juliana continued, “times being the way they are.”
“Good fer nuttin lout,” Mrs. Bromley said. “Yeah, I should give him a call. Ya think they’d let me use the backstage phone booth?”
“I can’t see why not. I’m sure no one’s using it now.”
“I wants my same pay same as us’al.”
“Of course,” Juliana assured her.
Mrs. Bromley marched out of the room.
“Can I go too?” Scott pleaded.
“No!” I yelled to him.”
“Juliana, she knows.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” She flopped onto the settee.
“It’s because I flunked Saturday afternoon charm school.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t flunked Saturday afternoon charm school . . . My mother was always telling me to take tinier steps, but I wouldn’t listen. She said I walked like a truck driver. My mother knew too, didn’t she? That’s why she didn’t like me very much. She didn’t know what she knew, but she knew. It’s me, Jule. I’m the traitor. This mess we’re in is all my fault. Mine! Mine!”
“Calm down. I go on in a few minutes and I need you calm.” She took a few deep
breaths. “It’s probably because of Mrs. Bromley’s grandmother.”
Mrs. Bromley’s grandmother? I looked behind me and whispered, “How would Mrs. Bromley’s grandmother know about me? I never met her.”
“No. Mrs. Bromley’s grandmother was from one of the Caribbean islands. I forget which one. She taught her things. Those spooky, spirit things. That’s probably how she knows. Not because of your Saturday afternoon whatever . . .”
“What are we gonna do?”
“About Mrs. Bromley? Nothing.”
“But she hates me. She could tell.”
“Mrs. Bromley doesn’t hate you. She doesn’t have time to hate you. She has family in Alabama. That nephew I told her to call tonight? His mother, Mrs. Bromley’s sister, is a maid who has to walk a mile to get to her employment because she can’t afford a car. The family is supporting the bus boycott. Mrs. Bromley’s worried her sister will get hurt—or worse—while she’s walking along the road. Violence is what she hates; she has no room left to hate you.
Help me get into this costume.”
I pulled the heavy garment with folds of crinoline and lace into my arms, hanger and all.
“Hey! Don’t touch that dress. I’s right here,” Mrs. Bromley said from the other room. You still here?” She must’ve been talking to Scott. “Scat, scat. The likes a you doesn’t belong in no ladies’ dressing room. Scat.”
“With pleasure,” Scott said.
“I’s gonna he’p you wit’ that.” Mrs. Bromley charged into the room headfirst just as I lifted the dress off its hanger. “Don’t you be touchin’ that dress. That job’s mines.”
She hugged a hunk of dress and pulled it toward her. Together we pulled the monstrous garment into both our arms, because it was going to take two sets of arms to get this on Juliana.
“This is for a peasant?” I asked. “How could a peasant ever move to harvest the potatoes? I grew up around potato farms and used to earn extra money helping the farmers. I never would’ve worn this to do that kind of work.”
“You are sure enough right ‘bout that,” Mrs. Bromley said, laughing. “I have fam’ly down south that works as migrants and none of them would ever wear this fool dress.”
“The two of you are being too literal. This is make-believe.”
“Well, that ain’t no lie; it sure enough is. It’s about as much make-believe as yer gonna get.”
Mrs. Bromley laughed again. “So let’s get ya into this contraption.” She extended her arms to take it out of my arms.
“No. That’s okay. I’ve got it Mrs. Bromley.”
“And it be my job so outta my way.”
We lifted the dress over Juliana’s head, careful not to disturb her hair that was tied into an outrageous wig. The wig made her hair look like it was piled high on top of her head and twisted into a cone shape. I didn’t know how Juliana could move with such poise without that thing knocking her off balance and landing on her rear. I guess that was what they meant by grace under pressure. “What kind of peasant could even afford a dress like this?” I wondered out loud. Mrs. Bromley laughed as she held onto the dress. “Raise your arms, Jule, into these arm holes.”
“I can’t see with this dress on my head. I’m suffocating. Get this thing off me or down me or I’m going to faint.”
Together, Mrs. Bromley and I managed to get the dress around Jule’s body.
“Mrs. Bromley,” Juliana said, “could you bring me some of that special tea of yours. For my nerves.”
“Sure, honey.” She patted Juliana’s cheek. “You rest easy. You’re gonna do jes’ fine.”
She tootled off.
“Let me zip you up,” I said as soon as Mrs. Bromley shut the door.
“You didn’t call.” We could see both of us in the mirror as she touched up her lipstick. “Even for the Philly opening you called. Why didn’t you call? You always call.”
“The phone in my office is a Dictagraph.”
“Why?”
“So, I can communicate with my assistant w
hen she’s in her office and I’m in mine.”
“Fancy. When did walking go out of style?”
“The thing can be used to listen in on other people’s conversations.”
“Really? That’s terrible.”
“Well, I have a privacy button that blocks people from doing that, but under our current conditions, I just didn’t want to risk it. Half the time I feel like I’m being followed. I didn’t even want to take a chance on a pay phone. You know what they’ve been saying about FBI bugging people’s phones. Who knows if Schuyler has those type of connections. And today I had no time to go home, plus private homes are where the big bugging goes on. I think I caught the spy, though. The one in my office. I was going to fire her, but Max says I can’t because she’ll make our lives worse.”
“Our lives have become rather absurd. Haven’t they?”
There was a knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Miss Juliana,” Apple called.
Juliana stared at me, her body stiff. “You can do this, Jule. Take my words onto that stage with you tonight. Hear me saying, ‘You’re magnificent.’”
She nodded.
“I don’t know why we have to stand back here when we have excellent seats down there,” Scott said.
We stood in the back of the last row of orchestra seats, leaning on the railing. “You don’t have to stand here with me.”
The book writer paced up and down on the rug behind us. He wore his red hair in a DA.
Trying to look cool, I supposed. For his last play, the one that landed Juliana into a deep depression swearing never to set foot on the boards again, he’d had a crew cut. Maybe he was hoping the new modern style would make this new play better than the last one. He took off his thick glasses, hastily cleaned them, and put them back on again.