by Vanda Writer
“I can’t leave you here by yourself,” Scott said. “But, you know, Marty did want our
tickets and here we are wasting them.”
“At intermission, he can have my seat and you can sit down there with him.”
“Oh, sure. And you think Marty’s going to be a cad and leave Lucille back in Q? And what will everyone in the audience think if they see two men sitting together?”
“All right, all right, your points are made.”
“Just tell me why we’re standing here.”
“I can’t sit quiet and ladylike while Juliana is up there facing . . . I just can’t, but that’s no reason you have to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine. Nice view from here.”
I patted his hand resting on the railing. Such a kind soul.
The lights slowly went down, and my stomach flip-flopped. The book writer behind us—what was his name again? —groaned, “I think I’m going to be sick.” He ran toward the lobby, crashing into the wall a couple times. I didn’t see him come back. It was too dark to look for his name in my folded program.
The orchestra began with one single note that gradually swelled into a blast of horns and percussion exploding into the air. My chest swelled as it always did at the beginning of an overture. It was like we were about to burst into the very heart and core of life, but of course, this time there was so much more at stake that my joy was dampened. The orchestra went in and out of grand and quiet moods, lilting and bold, until it rose to a flourish, and I knew the curtain was about to . . .
Slowly, the curtain parted in the center and the two pleated red-velvet sides slid to the edge of the stage, revealing small shacks with a grand house painted in the background. The lights grew brighter as chorus boys and girls in colorful peasant costumes wandered onto the stage singing. Gradually, they formed a line. I could hardly breathe. I was overwhelmed with the colors and the sounds of the voices melting into one another. Then the dancers in their own peasant costumes pirouetted over the breadth of the stage, preparing the way for Martin Van Ville. Martin, playing Juliana’s would-be husband, sauntered in as the rich landowner, wearing a dark suit and a shirt with a stiff collar and a top hat on his head. As he entered, all the peasants scattered. He laughed good-naturedly and began to sing, his rich baritone filling the theater. Toward the end of the song he stopped and turned toward the wings, holding an arm out, expecting his love to appear. She didn’t come out. Juliana wasn’t coming out! Scott and I looked at each other in a panic. “Is this planned?” Scott whispered to me.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back.
“Shh,” someone in the row in front of us said.
Martin called for his love again in song. Nothing.
“Come on, Juliana,” I whispered. “Get out there.”
The row in front of us said, “Shh.”
Martin casually ambled over toward the wings singing about how he expected his love. He asked the audience in song, “Where can she be?”
Was he ad-libbing or doing the play?
He sneaked a peak behind the curtain, then ambled off stage. He came back, shrugged his shoulders. The audience laughed.
I took off my navy blue felt hat and crushed it in my fingers. I thought now it was me who was going to be sick.
Then Juliana stepped on the stage with a few delicate steps. She smiled at the audience and winked at Martin. “It must’ve been part of the show,” Scott whispered to me.
The row in front of us said, “Shh.”
“Oh, stick it in your hat!”
Martin and Juliana sang together. Juliana’s spinto soprano blended perfectly with
Martin’s baritone. Juliana flirted with the formal character that Martin played, which wasn’t that different from his real character. A few minutes later, she secretly winked at Tommie, the next-door neighbor. The audience laughed.
Before the first act curtain came down, Juliana sang a haunting solo, standing on the stage alone. It sent shivers up my arms and legs. When she finished, the audience jumped to its feet, cheering and applauding, and the show wasn’t even over yet.
The second act was even better than the first and you could feel the charge running through the audience. They loved her! She got to show off her dancing in the second act. First, she and Martin did a staged version of the Viennese waltz, twirling around and around the stage. Then Martin stepped back, and Juliana danced by herself. The audience went wild.
At curtain call, the audience once again jumped to its feet for Martin and Juliana as they took their bows together. Then Martin stepped back and let Juliana stand in front by herself. She did a deep curtsy to the audience, the huge skirt forming a wide blue circle around her. The audience went mad with clapping.
“She did it!” I said out loud to no one in particular. I turned to Scott, jumping up and
down. “She did it! She did it!”
“She sure did,” Scott said, his voice filled with excitement.
I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. “That should help shut up that mother of hers.”
“Her mother? Is she here? I thought she’d passed on.”
“Long story. Take me to Sardi’s, oh handsome shining knight. We have something to celebrate!”
“We sure do, madame!”
He held out his arm and escorted me out of the theater. We pushed through the crowded lobby toward the exit door, where Max and Virginia stood talking.
Max turned to me. “Well?”
“She was . . . was . . . was . . .”
“Exactly what I thought,” he said, throwing his arms around me and squeezing. “Thank you, thank you.”
I looked into his moist eyes. “You’ve waited a long time for this.”
“Too long,” he said.
“I didn’t really do it, though. Schuyler—”
“Do you think Schuyler would’ve cared one fig about blackmailing her if you hadn’t brought her to the level she is now? He’s an ass, but he’s no fool. You did it, kid. It was you.” He took a puff of his cigarette. “Of course, I was the one who taught you.”
“And we’re free of him now. We are, Max, aren’t we?”
He turned to look at Virginia, and I joined him. Together we asked, “Well?”
“Why are you both looking at me? Am I supposed to fall in love with her now just because she was brilliant tonight?”
Max laughed. “Scott, you’re coming to Sardi’s with us, aren’t you?” I thought that was a strange question to ask. Wasn’t Scott Max’s real date?
“I would like to say my congratulations to Juliana,” Scott said, rather stiffly.
“And you should,” Max said. “Just wait here while I get Virginia into the car.” He guided Virginia through the people who still milled about in the lobby and pushed open the exit door to escort her out into the street. I hurried over to him. “Max, isn’t Virginia coming?”
Virginia was already standing at the curb waiting for the car.
“She isn’t much of a party person,” Max said.
“Yes, but she always liked being with us. Having a drink, talking. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. She’s tired that’s all.” He stepped through the doorway into the damp air just as the car pulled up. I wondered if he’d gotten her that doctor.
Virginia wasn’t coming with us, Scott wasn’t really with Max. What was happening to us—my family?
“Scott,” I said, “I don’t mean to pry, but I care about you and I care about Max. Why are you two talking to each other as if you’re strangers?”
“Maybe we are. I miss him, but . . . I don’t know, Al.” He pulled his overcoat over his tuxedo jacket just as Max came back through the heavy door.
“Ready?” Max asked me.
He and I walked the two blocks to Sardi’s side by side with Scott following behind. It seemed strange for Scott to be behind us, but truthfully there wasn’t room on the skinny sidewalk for three people across to fit. And Max and Scott wou
ld never leave me to walk alone. I had no idea where Marty and Lucille had gotten to.
The street seemed even more crowded than when we had come. The theaters along Forty-Fourth were pouring out their patrons in great masses. Cabbie’s beeped as they moved in short spurts while pedestrians took possession of the streets.
A group of us entered Sardi’s. We left our coats, hats, and things at coat check and were guided toward a backroom by Stanley, the maître d’.
The table was set for dinner. I sat next to Max and Scott near the head of the table. We blocked off the actual head for Juliana and Richard. I loved Sardis dishes with the big red S in the center and the comedy and tragedy masks on either side of it. Against the wall there was a table with all kinds of hors d’oeuvres. In the corner, a young man played cocktail piano.
Marty and Lucille pushed past the door and stood hand in hand in the front of the restaurant. “Al,” Marty called loudly. He dragged Lucille across the room to where I sat. He plopped into the chair next to me leaving Lucille to pretty much fend for herself. “What a show!” he exclaimed. He almost fell into my lap, and I wondered if he’d been drinking. Drinking with Lucille? In a theater seat? That was illegal. Nah, he wouldn’t do that. It didn’t sound like him. “Hey, Al,” he said, “thanks for those great seats. Weren’t they magnificent, Lucy?”
“Oh, yes, Al,” Lucille said, leaning over Marty. “I’ve never sat that close before in my life.”
“Don’t forget Scott,” I said. “One of those seats was his.”
“Yeah,” Marty said softly without looking at Scott. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Scott said, nodding at Marty.
“You’re enjoying yourself, Scott?” Max asked.
“Yeah,” Scott said, lighting a cigarette, not looking at Max.
“Al is the best friend a person could have,” Marty announced to the table. “And I want to drink a toast to her. Oops. I don’t have a drink yet, but once I get one I’m gonna raise a toast to you, Al.”
“Uh, that’s okay, Marty,” I said, feeling enormously uncomfortable. “Juliana is the star.
That’s who we’ll be toasting tonight.”
“She’s even modest. What a gal!” He threw his arm into the air. “Garçon! Your finest champagne for the table. On me.”
“Uh, Marty,” I whispered. I knew he wasn’t making much in Hollywood yet. I held the wine menu on my lap and whispered, “Look.”
“What?”
“The price,” I whispered. “It’s forty dollars!1”
“Forty? Who cares? We only live once. Or so I’ve heard.” He raised his water glass high into the air. “And you, Al, deserve to be toasted with the best. Nothing is too good for you.” He threw his arm around my neck and dragged me into his chest. “My buddy, my pal.”
I pulled myself back into an upright position, smiling, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. Now I knew for sure he’d been drinking. I could smell it on him and his body was flopping all over me. But why? Why would he start drinking before the celebration? Before we even knew how Juliana would do?
“For you anything, Al. Anything.” He squeezed me close to him again.
I pulled myself away again.
The waiter started toward Marty with a bottle of Bordeaux, Chateaux La Féte. Max
pulled on the waiter’s sleeve, stopping him. “Arturo, we’ll have that later. When the star arrives. Put it on my check.”
Arturo left, taking the bottle with him. One of the other waiters came over to take the mixed drink orders. The first of the Heaven is Up There Somewhere actors and crew began arriving. Tommie, in a tux like all the men, entered with his wife, Bobby, on his arm. She looked adorable in her rose-colored dress with the squared off top, her eyes looking up at Tommie in complete adoration. Next there was the book writer, Joshua Newman—his name finally came back to me, but no one ever remembers the book writer’s name after opening night anyway—and his date Sally, a seamstress from the show. The composer, Mark Hatman, and his girlfriend, Gertrude, another seamstress, came in behind Josh and Sally. Josh’s date was his beard, but Mark’s date I think was real.
When Harry, the director, and his wife Mabel entered, everyone applauded. They hurried over to our table. Harry and Max shook hands. “Great show,” Max said.
“Anyone see any reviews yet?” Bobby wanted to know, taking a grape from the side table and popping it into her mouth.
“Much too early, dear,” Tommie told her. “It’ll be hours.”
“I’m trying to find out if you’re going to have a job in the morning; I want to know if I can keep the dress.”
Everyone laughed.
The conversation turned to how good the show had been and what geniuses the book writer and composer were. Josh and Mark both cheerfully agreed. Everyone doted over Tommie, and Tommie loved every minute of it. We all drank too much, but Marty drank a lot more than too much.
Time seemed to slip by without anyone except me noticing it. I kept glancing at my watch, expecting Juliana to come through the door. The show had ended before eleven, and by twelve, Juliana still hadn’t arrived. We drank and talked. Where was she? By twelve thirty everyone began asking the same question.
“Tommie,” I asked, “did you see her before you left?”
“I thought she was right behind me. She was having a talk with Schuyler.”
“Schuyler?” I wasn’t successful in keeping the anxiety out of my voice.
“He is our producer,” Tommie said. “It’s not unusual for the producer and the star to have a talk opening night, is it?”
“No. Of course, not.” Max stepped in. “I’m sure she’ll be along any minute. You know what a worrywart Al can be. Why don’t we order some food so when she gets here you souses won’t be under the table?”
The group laughed and agreed that getting some food was a good idea. While everyone fussed with menus and grabbing the waiter’s attention, Max stood behind me and bent close to my ear. “Order me the London Broil, rare, some kind of vegetables. Whatever they’ve got. I’ll be back.”
“But what—?”
“Don’t worry. You don’t bump off your most valuable property.” He sprinted out the door.
I ordered his steak. Nothing for myself. I couldn’t eat. Where was she? What had Schuyler done to her? I looked at Marty, who was now roaring drunk and pretty much ignoring Lucille. “I love you,” he slurred, laying around my shoulders. “Ya know, Al, ever since that day I saw you at City College in the middle of those cops who were knocking you around I knew I had to take care of you.”
“You don’t need to take care of me, Marty. Pay some attention to Lucille.”
“Ol’ Lucy, she’s gonna be fine. I jush gotta watsh out for my pal. My pal, thash whash ya are.” And he started to cry.
Scott sat sulking next to Max’s empty chair near the head of the table, not talking to anyone, not drinking. He just kept lighting one cigarette off the one he’d just finished, and then lighting another one from that. Marty was still crying and hanging onto me. I wanted to go over and talk to Tommie and Bobby. They were laughing. I wanted to be around people who were laughing so I didn’t worry about Juliana. I loved Marty, but I had to get away from him, to breathe. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. I’d set aside some time for him during the week to find out, but until then . . .
He pulled me toward him again. “Pay attention to Lucille!” I shouted as I got up. The table stopped talking and stared at me. “Sorry,” I said.
The only one at the table who didn’t stop to look at me were Lucille and Apple. They were making googly eyes at each other and Apple was straight, so I figured she didn’t need me worrying about her.
“Don’t you love me anymore?” Marty whispered to me.
“Yeah, I do, Marty, but I need to talk to Scott. You’d better stop drinking.”
“Oh, okay.” And he picked up Lucille’s abandoned martini and drank it down.
I sat in Max’s seat and leaned clo
se to Scott. “What is it, Scott? You look so hangdog.”
He sighed. “I’m no good with big groups. You know that. I was thinking about going.”
“Before Max gets back?”
“He won’t miss me.”
“Of course, he will.”
“You’re sweet,” Scott said, crushing his Lucky into the ashtray and rising from his seat. I watched as he went over to coat check. He retrieved his overcoat and fedora and walked out the door slowly, his shoulders stooped.
“Geez, it’s hot in here,” Marty proclaimed, standing up. He threw off his jacket. “I can’t stand this goddamn monkey suit.”
“Watch your language around the ladies,” Tommie admonished.
Marty whisked his cummerbund off his waist and twirled it around his head. “Freedom! Freedom!”
I jumped up and ran back to him. “Marty, sit down and—”
He flung the cummerbund across the table. Gertrude ducked so it didn’t hit her in the head.
“And this damn shirt is choking the life out of me.” He pulled off the tie as I grabbed him.
“No!” I shouted. “You have to go home and—”.
Tommie ran around the table as Marty was unbuttoning his shirt. Tommie grabbed him.
“Hey buddy, take it easy. You don’t want to get yourself arrested.”
“Off! Off!” Marty squirmed out of Tommie’s arms. “I gotta get this . . .” He pulled the tails of his shirt out of his pants just as Juliana, Max, and Schuyler stepped through the door.
The three stopped before they reached the table, mystified by Marty’s circus routine. All eyes, except Marty’s, turned toward Juliana. Marty squiggled out of Tommie’s arms and tore open his shirt, buttons flying. Max hurried over to Marty and wrapped his arms around him, pinning Marty’s arms against his sides. I heard him whisper firmly, “You’re going home. Now.”
“Which one?” Marty giggled.
“You know which one. You will not ruin this night for her. Tommie, would you get Marty a cab?”