Heaven Is to Your Left

by Vanda Writer

  “Sure, Max.” He called to Josh and Mark, “Wanna lend a hand?”

  They came running over. “I’m sorry, Max,” Marty cried out, wiggling in his arms. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  Tommie gathered up the various items of Marty’s clothes and took him out of Max’s arms. Josh, Mark, and Tommie walked him toward the door, his shirt and undershirt riding up, revealing his stomach and back.

  “Go hail a cab,” Tommie said. “Mark and I’ll bring him out.”

  “Sure. You got any dough?” Josh asked.

  “Don’t you?”

  “You know writers are the last to get paid.”

  “Okay, okay. I got it,” Tommie said.

  Josh ran out, while Tommie and Mark hoisted Marty into their arms. As they passed Juliana and Schuyler, Marty cried out, “Juliana you were terrific. Terra-fic! I’m sorry for this.”

  “Just feel better,” Juliana graciously said.

  “Well,” Max said approaching Juliana, “our brilliant star has finally arrived.” He began to clap, and we all stood and joined in.

  Chapter Twelve

  June 1956

  I ran all the way to Child’s on Forty-Second, hugging my briefcase to my chest. I loved my briefcase just then. I pushed myself in and around the rush hour commuters who cluttered on my sidewalk—and that day the sidewalk was mine. They were all hurrying to catch buses and trains; I was hurrying for so much more. The crowds didn’t bother me; I’d knock them out of my way if I had to. No, I would flap my arms and fly over them.

  “Jule! Jule!” I shouted as I skidded into Child’s. Then remembering that young ladies did not enter a room skidding and yelling, I— Oh, who cares? I jumped up and down in the center of the place, wishing I knew how to do cartwheels, so I could cartwheel over to her, skirt and all. Today was not the day to care about such things. No. Today was the greatest, bestest day of my whole entire life! Jule sat at a table near a half open window. The lacy curtain hanging from it fluttered in the May breeze. I stood at her table.

  “Not so exuberant,” Juliana whispered. “You never know who—”

  “I can’t be calm today. Not about this. Not possible. Nope. Not at all possible. Because I have right here in my briefcase, little lady, the elixir of happiness.” I slid into the seat opposite her. “It is the bestest, most wonderfulest thing in this whole wide ridiculous, amazing world.”

  “You want something to eat?” Jule asked. “I haven’t ordered yet.”

  “Eat? Eat? Who can eat at a moment like this?”

  “Me. I’ve been rehearsing the new Copa show all afternoon.” She signaled to the waitress. “I’m starved.” She looked up at the waitress. “I’ll have the spinach omelet.”

  “And to drink?” the waitress asked.

  “A hot tea.”

  “A cup of tea for me too. That’s all I want.” The waitress nodded and left our table. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what I have in this briefcase?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweet—” She stopped, looking a little unnerved. We never called each other those kinds of names in public. Too much fear had ripped through our lives. “I’m just exhausted. I’ve been up since five with all my lessons and my exercise class and then the rehearsal and tonight it’s the show. Just reciting my schedule puts me in a stupor. Don’t look so downcast. I’m sure whatever is in your briefcase is just wonderful.”

  “It is! It is!” I put my briefcase on the table and opened it slowly to create suspense. In this briefcase I have . . .” I peered inside to tease her.

  Her sleepy expression showed she wasn’t interested in my growing suspense. I took out the book and laid it on the table in front of her. She read the cover aloud without picking it up. “Untitled?”

  “Oh, they haven’t given it a title yet. It’s the libretto to a new opera they’re putting up on Broadway next year. The one you’re going to sing.”

  There was no way to describe the expression on Jule’s face. At first, she looked confused. Her confusion turned to what might have been joy, but it was mixed with shock. Then she seemed to go inside herself and her face went blank, yet there was still an aliveness there. What other reaction could I expect when her lifelong dream was about to be fulfilled?

  “But—I’m in a show,” she said, too terrified to be happy. She still hadn’t touched the book.

  “This won’t open for a year, give or take. Heaven will be closed by then. Look at the big hit Peter Pan was in ’54. Still, they only kept it open for five months. They need the space for the new stuff coming in. You will have to audition. I’m sorry about that. I tried to get them to take you based on the work they’ve seen. The producers are big fans of yours, they love you in Heaven, but they’ve never heard you sing opera so . . . It’s nothing for you to worry about, though. You’re a shoo-in. It’s got an English libretto and a New York City story line with a mystical quality similar to The Saint of Bleecker Street.”

  “Oh, I liked that opera. Earthy. But, Al—”

  “Since that was such a hit last season, they’ve decided to try another opera. They like that you’re coming from musical theater. It makes you more accessible to the average theater goer. Better for PR. Be happy, Jule, please, be happy. You’re finally going to do what you were born to do.”

  “But Al, these producers . . . They won’t hire . . .” She looked over at the counter. There were only a few people sitting on stools with their backs to us. “. . . a queer,” she whispered.

  “Don’t call yourself that. But probably half the people who make Broadway are that.”

  “The public doesn’t know. If it got out about me, it would close the show, or it would never open. Not to mention what it would do to my career. No producer is going to take a chance like that.”

  “They won’t know.”

  “Schuyler? Have you cleared this with him?”

  “Dammit, he doesn’t own you. You’re doing his darn musical. That’s what you signed up for. He’s making piles of money off you. What more does he want?”

  “Remember opening night? I came late to Sardis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t want to upset you after such a wonderful opening, and we’ve both been so happy. Doing the show has made me happy. I’m in a hit on Broadway. But it is a mixed blessing.”

  “It’s because of you it’s a hit.”

  “Well . . . Thank you. But about the opening night party. I put it in the back of my mind; there was no reason to tell you. To make you unhappy, but . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “He made it quite clear that he expected me to do his next project, and his next, and . . . You get the idea.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “Yes, he can. You know he can. He and I argued, but what was the point of going on arguing with him when he held all the cards. He reminded me he was providing me with career-building work and I should be grateful. I doubt singing opera is on his agenda for me. An opera is unlikely to bring him the kind of money—and power—he wants. The only reason I’m still ‘allowed’ to do the Copa is that it brings in larger audiences for Heaven. Good PR. Highbrow stuff, as he calls it, won’t get him anywhere and, as he reminded me, ‘I’m too old for that crap anyway.’”

  “Not for this.” I pounded my fingers on the book. “I won’t let him take this away from you, from us. I won’t, Jule. This is your part.”

  “Don’t speak so loudly. As soon as the show closes he wants me to go on the road with Heaven.”

  “No! He can’t do this. I won’t let him.”

  “Shh, you’re attracting attention.”

  The waitress placed Juliana’s omelet in front of her. “I’ll be right back with your tea ladies,” she said, giving me a disapproving cluck before she left.

  “If he takes you over so completely, it means Schuyler will be your manager.”

  “I guess. I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Our cockamamie arrangement of Richard being your manage
r in name, but I’m the

  one . . . Schuyler knows it’s been me all along.”

  “Well, maybe that’s the answer. If there’s a contract, something you signed with Richard, something written that supersedes Schuyler maybe—”

  “We never signed a contract. Max told me to get one signed way back when we first started, but . . . A contract with you? I just . . . Oh, Jule. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Oh. Well, I guess that’s it,” she said softly, containing her disappointment. “Unless . . . There’s no chance that Max might have some idea?” She put a bit of omelet in her mouth and swallowed. “Do you think he might have some plan to stop Schuyler? Has he ever said anything to you?”

  Bartholomew M. Honeywell IV strutted in, whisking the door out of his way with his arm. It slammed behind him. Guaranteed to get everyone to notice that he had arrived. He looked as handsome as ever in his expensive three-piece suit and skinny black tie. He whisked off his fedora to reveal his blonde hair swept back off his forehead in an ivy league cut—new; a few wisps of hair fell onto his brow in a carefully planned casualness. He put a coin into the juke box and the Four Aces’ “Heart and Soul” played. His eyes roamed over the tables and chairs in the center of the room. Perhaps he was looking for someone or simply wanted to be seen, or maybe he was hoping to catch the eye of that Carl Perkins look-a-like sitting alone.

  I know mobsters. This time I didn’t chase away the thought. If Max wouldn’t . . . —Or couldn’t . . . “Schuyler is not going to take this away from you, Jule. I won’t let him. I set up an audition for you. The twentieth. They’ll send over the music to your place tomorrow evening. All the details are on the card inside that book. Be there. I’ll take care of the rest. All you have to do is give the best damn audition you’ve ever given. I’ll be right back. A friend of mine came in.”

  I moved toward Bart, slowly recalling his threat after I fired him.

  “Hi there, Al.” He turned toward me with a bright smile and took my one hand in his two. “Good to see you. Jeeze, I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. Care to join me?”

  “It’s good to see you too, Bart. Uh, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Always glad to lend a hand to one of my ladies. I was just going to have a cocktail at the counter. Come sit with me.” With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he guided me to the counter. He tried to lift me up onto the stool, but I lightly pushed him away. “What can I get you?” he asked as he mounted his own stool.

  “Uh, nothing. Juliana’s waiting for me. I just had a question.”

  “You want to know how I got to be so good-looking.” He winked at me.

  “Huh? No. I mean . . .” I forced a laugh. “Oh. That was a joke? Funny.”

  “Your question?”

  “You were friendly with Moose Mantelli, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Poor guy.”

  “Poor guy?”

  “He got it in the head. You must’ve read it in the papers. Nice fella.”

  “Oh, yeah. Poor guy.” I almost choked on the words.

  “I didn’t know you and Moose were friends.”

  “We weren’t. Well, maybe—a little. I was wondering if you knew. . . other gentlemen like him. In the same profession, who . . .”

  “Al, you know lots of mob guys. They’re always at the club. Why are you asking me?”

  “Yeah. I do. But I don’t know how . . . how . . . I’d like to have a serious talk with one who can be trusted.”

  “I’m beginning to get your drift.” He lit a Salem. “You have a job you want one of my ‘friends’ to do. You’d like me to set up an 'appointment’? Sure, I can arrange it.”

  When I heard it come out of his mouth, my breath got stuck in my lungs. What was I asking? Oh, God, no. I slid off the stool. “No. No. I don’t want that. I just . . . Forget it. Okay?”

  He swiveled on his stool and faced me. “You sure you don’t want me to send someone around to your office?”

  “No! Don’t. Please. Just fooling. It was a joke. Ha, ha. You won’t, will ya?”

  “I didn’t get the impression you were joking. That’s not the kind of thing to joke about, you know?”

  “You’re right. And I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never do it again. But don’t send anyone. Please.”

  Bart blew out a stream of smoke. “You sure are a funny girl, but be careful. You could get yourself in serious trouble.” He swiveled back around on his stool. “Hey!” He snapped his fingers at the waitress. “Give me the Child’s Special, will ya?”

  My heart banged like I’d swallowed twenty kettle drums. I backed up. I had to get away from him and the thought that I almost . . . I sat across from Juliana and drank down my hot tea that was now cold.

  “This libretto,” Juliana said, holding the book in her two hands. “It’s beautiful. Just gorgeous. I can’t wait to see the music that goes with it. Do you really think there’s a way I can do this?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I paced in my office the door locked, the lights off. Dark had fallen outside my window and it would be hours before anyone showed up for the ten o’clock show. Not even the waiters were out there yet. Quiet. Death surrounding me. No one must see me locked up in here. My tomb. What had I just done?

  What if Bart sent . . . He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t send one of his “friends” to my office to talk about . . . About what? What? What was I thinking? I paced faster between my desk and the coat rack. I put my hands in my skirt pocket, took them out again.

  That night . . . Virginia . . . that night . . . I heard the moaning . . . It came from the dressing room in back of the stage. I thought—a cat. I was calm going there. I didn’t suspect . . . Going back there was something I’d done for years, but this time . . . I opened the door. Slowly, I think. Did some part of me expect—? No. Impossible. The room dim, only one light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Virginia’s head shoved between his legs. Moose gripping her hair, pushing, pushing . . . The gun against her cheek. I froze. Dammit! I froze. I should’ve . . . What? What!

  Don’t think about it. I mustn’t think about it. Not ever. Keep walking.

  The coat rack shook; my coat fell to the floor. I jumped. “No!” Dark. No light. I thrust my hand onto my desk, felt for the letter opener, grabbed it. I stood ready to protect myself from the vile attacker. What vile attacker? The coatrack? And with a letter opener? I dropped the letter opener back onto my desk. The only sound, the wind rushing through the curtain. I rehung my coat and stood by the open window, feeling the damp air blow over me. I pushed aside the fluttering curtain and slid my hand against the wooden pane until it met the sill, then pulled down the shade.

  Now the room was completely without light, not even a pinch of it, no street light beams.

  No shadows. I quite literally couldn’t see my hand before my eyes. No one would guess I was in here. No one would come in here to talk of horrible things. Horrible things that I . . . they live in me. The horrible things. They’re in me. I couldn’t have had the thought if those things weren’t already living in me. A gun shot. I jumped, heart banging. No. That gun didn’t go off. It was just there. He held it against her face. It never went off. It was the hacksaw, the bloody saw and the sound of cutting flesh and bone and screams and . . .

  A knock at my door. I jumped, stared, frozen; stopped breathing. My heart banged against my chest. I stared at the door—locked. Quiet. I must be quiet. They mustn’t suspect I’m in here. I backed up flush against the opposite wall. They pulled at the door knob. What do I do? They turned the knob left, then right. They knew I was in here. They were trying to get in. I tiptoed to my desk, felt for the letter opener. It wasn’t there. Easy, Al, don’t panic. I reached my hand into the center drawer, quiet, so quiet. My heart throbbing in my throat, I listened. Nothing. I heard nothing. They weren’t trying to open the door, but they were still out there. I felt for the scissors.

  A series of firm knocks. “Go away! Go away!” I shouted, holding the
scissors over my head the way I’d seen Indians do in cowboy pictures.

  “Are you all right?” Marty called in.

  “Marty!” Breathing again, I hurried to unlock the door and—

  “I saw you rush in here and . . . Why are you pointing those scissors at me?”

  “I thought you were . . . Nothing.” I tossed the scissors onto my desk and threw myself into his arms. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “Who were you expecting? Al Capone?”

  “Well . . .” I pulled myself away from him.

  “Kiddo, you’re shaking.” He studied my hands. “What’s going on?” He took me back

  into his arms and held my head against his chest.

  “Marty, something — something so bad . . . Max’ll fix it.” I pulled away to pace.

  “He will, he will. He’ll know what to do. I did something awful.”

  “You? Impossible. Now, tell Uncle Marty all about it.” He sat in the chair next to my desk. “What awful thing do you think you did?”

  There was something comforting about seeing him sitting there in his rumpled white shirt and too-big corduroy pants. Like me with my five or six dark jackets and skirts hanging in my closet, I pictured his closet with his own five or six “uniforms” hanging in there.

  “I thought you were in Hollywood,” I said. “When did you get back?”

  “Last night. We finished filming. It’s in the can as they say. I’m on a short R&R before I

  start a nationwide promotional tour with the rest of the cast. I thought they were only sending the “stars,” but it looks like all the principles have to go. Now you’re caught up with my life, what in the world is going on with you?”

  “Oh, uh . . . It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? Al, you greeted me at the door with a pair of scissors pointed at my heart.

  What’s going on?”

  “I can trust you. Can’t I?”

  “I’d hope so after all these years.”