“I can understand.”
“Such a strange thing to do to oneself,” she said. “I was so much one way, and then I turned myself into the complete opposite. It’s as if I broke something. Or more like a machine, and you just take out one little wheel and lose it, and it doesn’t work any more.”
“We believe we’re so very very stabilized and functional,” he said, “until something happens and we find out that the whole mechanism was in a very precarious state of balance all the time. I thought I could always work, no matter what. I could do the hack jobs, rough carpentry on scripts. Thank God I’d been reasonably bright about money and taxes. After Joyce died, I’d put paper in the machine and I couldn’t even write, ‘I see the cat.’ I’d look at the paper and my stomach would knot up and my vision would blur. I tried a hundred little tricks. I copied whole books. I copied old stuff I’d written. But I couldn’t make up a new sentence. I couldn’t even write letters to friends. One year and four months it went on. I cashed in everything I’d put aside. I lost my reputation for reliability. Then one day it started again. A little bit on the slow side. But it started.”
“What started it?”
“Bonny. I could tell her bedtime stories. I could make them up. She loved one, about an Easter bunny who hated eggs. She made me tell it over and over. One night I made myself write it down. In longhand. The sweat poured off me. The next morning I could hardly read that scrawl, but I copied it on the typewriter and made some small improvements, sweating as before. The following day I was all right. But it shook me. It gave me a dose of humility. I learned that it could happen. Ever since, I run just a little bit scared. Because, after all, it’s the only work I know.”
The hotel lobby was empty. He walked her to the elevator, took her hand. She said it had been a wonderful evening, and could not quite meet his eyes. She got in and it started up. Suddenly he remembered the key. Just the one lift was operating at that hour. He hurried to the stairway and went up the stairs, two at a time, to the third floor. He met her coming along the corridor. She gave a start of surprise. He held up her room key.
“How silly,” she said. “I didn’t even know I didn’t have it.”
He walked to her room and unlocked the door for her and swung it open. She turned toward him in the doorway of the dark room, and he gave her the key. She looked at him and he took her in his arms. Her mouth was soft and warm and responsive, as once before on that first rainy night. She tried momentarily to break away, but he held her close. He ran his hand up the flat strength of her back to the silken nape of her neck. He worked her back into the darkness of the room, caught the edge of the door with his elbow and swung it shut. She began to pant, and her breath made a soft rasping sound in her throat.
“Don’t let me,” she whispered. “Oh, please, don’t let me. Don’t.”
But there were the kissings and the touchings, furnace breath and the slow and fumbling and entwined passage back to the dark bed. And she, in whines and sobs, in beggings and broken protestings, alternated her expressions and acts of hunger that grew ever more insistent, with constraints and escapes and evasions which dwindled in force and frequency. She half helped and half hindered him as he fumbled her clothing off, gasping and shuddering, but when all of it was gone and he lay with her, and kicked the half-packed suitcase off to thud onto the floor, she was then beyond reserve or restraint. She was then a long strong heated woman, full of the restless sighing movements of her need, firm of breast, soft and muscular in belly and hips, greedy with lips and hands, moaning her love words, writhing in a slow deep luxury of her need, calling his name over and over.
It was very fierce and quick, and there was a resting time, soothing and murmurous, entwined and safe, and then there was a longer time for them, lasting and steady and very complete, bringing the sleep upon them quickly. He awoke when the room was gray with the first light. They were under the covers, and she was at the far edge of the bed, her back toward him, her shoulder bare, her pale hair clotted and tousled. At first he thought she was making some strange smothered sound in her sleep, and soon he realized she was weeping.
He reached and put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Darling?”
She shrugged his hand off violently. “Go mark your score card,” she said in a constricted voice.
“What are you talking about?”
She turned and sat up, holding the covers against her breast, staring down at him with an angry, tear-stained face. “You did fine, didn’t you? You made out. Go tell them you took the necessary therapeutic measures, you bastard!”
“Now wait a minute, darling.”
“I’m not your darling, Mr. Brown. Were you following Jenny’s suggestion? Go and smirk and wink at them all. Mission accomplished. You polished off the stone butterfly.”
“Now, hold it!”
“You suckered me with old materials. Candlelight, wine and sweet words. Soft music, even. Was it violins? I didn’t notice.”
“Lois, you don’t …”
“That little trick with the room key was particularly good. I congratulate you. You’re a very careful and clever planner, Jason.”
He sat up and faced her. “You’re sick,” he said.
“Really? You know, I don’t feel the least bit sick. Do you know how I feel? How I really and truly feel? I feel dirty!”
With remote and objective awe he saw his arm swing up and saw his palm crack across her cheek. The tears burst out of her. She scrambled out of her side of the bed. She stumbled on the suitcase. She ran around the end of the bed and ran to the bathroom, her strong and beautiful figure luminous in the dawn light. They really shouldn’t run, he thought. They shouldn’t ever run unclad. She banged the door behind her and locked it.
In a little while, after looking wonderingly at the palm of his hand, he got up and trudged to the bathroom door. He heard her sobbing in there. He tapped on the door.
“Go away!” she wailed.
He picked up her clothing and placed it neatly on the chaise. He got dressed. He put on his topcoat. He put his hat on the back of his head. He stared around the room. He went over to her typewriter, uncovered it and rolled a clean sheet of paper into it. There was just enough light to see the words. He wrote a few complex things of protestation, clarification, explanation—all conditional phrases. He tore them out and crumpled them and shoved them, one by one, into his topcoat pocket. And finally he called on what he thought he knew of women, and what little he could guess of what was wrong with her, and what he felt toward her.
If the four words could do nothing, then there was nothing which could be done. I DO LOVE YOU, he wrote, in capitals, and rolled it up a few spaces and left it in the machine. He walked to his hotel, damning all varieties of neurosis, had a hot tub and slept deeply until noon.
During the late afternoon turmoil prior to the opening, he saw Lois for a few brief moments when she brought some papers to George Kogan’s room. She gave him a fleeting gray glance, murmured a muted greeting. Her eyes were dark smudged and downcast. She had the limpid gravity of a madonna, and moved as though something very fragile were balanced on her head. She closed the door behind her without a sound.
“Everything seems to be all right?” Jason asked heartily.
“If we can get the damned ticket thing straightened …”
“I mean with Lois.”
“With Lois? Oh, sure. Everything is fine. Just fine.”
“That’s nice.”
Jason Brown walked out onto the stage of the Palladium. The big band was in rehearsal clothes. George Kogan was at the standing microphone. They were adjusting the lights on him. The band hit a loud driving beat. “I saw you there, one wonderful day …” George sang, snapping his fingers, tapping his feet to the rhythm. He made a face at Jason. An electrician brought him the walk-around mike. George moved over toward Jason, singing, “That’s why I asked the Lord in Heaven above, what is this thing—called love.” He turned and advanced to the footlights and condu
cted with waving arms the last few driving bars of the number, singing, “Love! Love! Love! Love! Love!”
George grinned and made a thumb and finger circle and called down to Larry, “You’ve done it again, Larry.”
Behind Jason, the theater manager came to the wings and said, “She’s leaving the hotel.”
“Jolly good,” George said.
“You’ve got fifty-five minutes, gentlemen,” Larry said to the orchestra.
George handed the mike to the electrician and walked slowly toward the wings with Jason. “How is she?” Jason asked.
George shrugged. “Like always. Wound up tight. Babbling around. You know. All of a sudden London is her favorite town. Her lucky town. Dear warm people. She could settle down here.”
“With the doctor?”
“That’s what Ida said. And added one of her sayings. If at first you don’t succeed, don’t try again. It saves wear and tear. Jenny wasn’t impressed.”
“She’s never taken that kind of advice.”
“Any advice, pal.”
In the dressing room corridor a telegraph boy came up to them and asked which one was Mr. Kogan. He handed the wire to George. Jason saw that it was addressed to Jenny. George thumbed it open. He was walking slowly. He stopped as though he had run into a wall. “Oh brother!” he said.
“What’s the matter?”
George handed him the wire. It was signed David Donne. It was a very polite and proper message. It wished her success on her opening night. It said a medical emergency had come up. It expressed regrets. Jason handed it back and George put it in his pocket.
“She just might not go on.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“She’s been bracing herself for a special audience, and if it isn’t there it’s like no audience at all. I think I better save this until after. Come on, let’s get some air.”
“It’s raining out there, George.”
“With a little luck, maybe we can drown.”
They went out the stage door and down the alley to the street. It was not too wet close to the building. The front of the theater was brightly lighted. Heavy traffic was inching along the street. Crowds were milling around the outer lobby waiting to be admitted to the reserved seats, moving around the huge cutout photograph of Jenny and around the placards announcing HOUSE FULL. Down the alley on the other side hundreds of people waited in line, four abreast, waiting for gallery seats, and being entertained by a group of buskers singing comedy songs and wearing strange bonnets. It was a festival scene, full of excitement and anticipation.
“The world of Jenny Bowman,” George said, raising his voice over the hubbub.
“Isn’t that the car?”
“Where? Yes. If they can get through. A jam like this will pick her up good.”
Jason could see them in the car as the policemen cleared a path so the car could turn into the lane to the stage door. Jenny was smiling out at the crowd through the rain-streaked window with the surprising innocence of a delighted child. Ida sat beside her. Gabe, the hairdresser, and Lois were on the jump seats.
Jason followed George back to the stage door. The stage door keeper came out with an umbrella and opened it.
Jenny stepped out and said, “What are they giving away in there? Did you see them out front, George?”
“Mounted policemen. You can’t rate any higher.”
“Hello, Charlie. Sorry to bring you out on such a bad night.”
“No trouble at all, Miss Bowman.”
She started toward the door, stopped and said, “George, are you sure you …”
“I am sure I left two prime tickets at the box office plainly and unmistakably marked, just like I told you the last …”
“Wuff wuff,” she said and winked and went in.
Lois and the hairdresser and Ida followed along. The theater manager was greeting Jenny as Jason followed George in. “Good evening, Miss Bowman! Good evening! A rainy night but a wonderful audience.”
They could hear the distant murmurous sounds of the audience entering the theater.
The manager escorted Jenny along the corridor to the dressing room. Gabe and Lois followed along. Lois had given Jason another of those muted glances, a look he could not read. It did not seem angry or hurt or even inquisitive. It seemed more speculative. A measuring. She carried a bulky dispatch case. As Ida started to follow them, Jason saw George draw her aside and show her the wire. Ida swallowed hard and made a soundless whistle. George murmured something to her and she nodded and hurried on to catch up with Jenny.
George beckoned to Jason. “Come join the happy throng, pal.”
“Is there room for us and the flowers too?”
“There’s always room.”
They passed the manager heading away from the dressing room, smiling and rubbing his hands together. George rapped once and opened the door. The room was banked with flowers. Ida was carrying Jenny’s glittering gown in its Pliofilm wrap into the screened dressing area. Jenny was leaning toward the dressing table mirror, poking gingerly at the corner of her mouth. Lois sat in a corner leafing through the accumulated wires and cables.
“My lucky town, George,” Jenny said. “Rainy old luck-town.”
“They’ll all lucky, Jenny-cat.”
“Cable from Wegler,” Lois said.
“How terribly terribly sweet! He must expect to make money on me somehow.”
“He’s entering you in the fifth at Pimlico,” George said. “Tonight I’d make it by six lengths. I feel GOOD!”
“A cute one from Biddy in New Delhi,” Lois said. “It says: ‘TO ALL YOUR LUCK LOOKS TALENT AND MONEY AND MOSTLY YOUR MONEY DEAREST.’ ”
“Tonight, dears, I have the luck and uncle has the money. George, did David pick up his tickets yet?”
George hesitated. “I’ll check it out.”
“You do that,” she said and went into the dressing area. The hairdresser laid out a few small tools on a table near the dressing table bench. From the dressing area she called, “George, you tell Brownie exactly where those seats are. Brownie, your job is to grab those two and hustle them right back here the moment I have given my all. Use those mounted cops if you have to. But bring them.”
“That I will.”
“Just look for the nicest boy in town, and one of the handsomest men.”
“There’s about ten here you should look at later, I think,” Lois called.
“Thank you, dear.”
“I have to go check the standing room tally,” Lois said to George. “Should I find out about those two tickets for you?”
“Please,” George said cheerfully. As she went out the door, George looked meaningfully at Jason, patted the pocket where the wire was and motioned with his head toward the closing door.
Jason hurried out and caught up with her in the corridor. “Lois!”
She kept walking. “Really, I’m too busy to …”
He caught her by the arm and stopped her. “I have a message from George.”
“Wishing us luck? You’re full of tricks.”
“Shut up a minute. A wire came from the doctor. They aren’t going to make it.”
She looked directly at him, her eyes widening. “Oh, no!”
“So George is going to tell her it came after she was on. I guess he wants a united front. Ida knows.”
“It will break her heart.”
“You did get my message.”
“Please let go of my arm. I have lots to do, Jason.”
“Can’t you say anything?”
She pulled away from him. “What could I possibly say? You made a fool of me. You got what you were after. Let’s leave it at that.”
“I can’t leave it at that.”
“I wouldn’t say you had much choice,” she said and walked away.
He looked at her erect walk, the severe shoulders, the shining head, the constrained sway of her skirt. He resisted the temptation to drive his fist into the wall beside him. He roamed into
the backstage areas, the gloom smelling of dust and insulation. He found a place where he could look diagonally out. The stir and buzz of the throng seemed much louder there. The footlights were on and he could see nothing beyond them. He heard some furtive tweedles, a muted paradiddle on the snare and now the band was in place. In the center of the huge stage Jenny’s microphone stood alone, in a circle of light.
He went back to the dressing room, knocked once in George’s fashion and went in. Jenny was at her dressing table applying her makeup. Gabe was working on her hair. She smiled brilliantly at Jason in the mirror and said, “Am I gorgeous? Am I breathtaking?”
“Fabulous,” Jason said.
“You’re using my word,” George said.
The smile faded and she looked nervously at Jason. She got up and turned toward him like a child inviting inspection. Gabe moved behind her to continue on her hair. “All right really?” she asked anxiously.
He stepped to her and kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “Very much all right, Jenny Bowman.” The anxiety faded.
(In the little suite in the Del Prado he had seen her stare at herself in helpless, unjustified disgust. “So little to go on,” she had said. “I’m a leggy, willowy, hollow-cheeked blonde at heart. Trapped here in this sort of dumpy little broad with a wide little-kid face.” He had tried to convince her she was lovely. And she was. But it was a basic insecurity with her, enmeshed with a lot of other little knots and webs of insecurity. He had begun then to tell her more often how much he loved the way she looked, and he saw it help her in the way he wanted to help her. It made no sense. But it was something she needed.)
“Jenny darling, should we start the overture?” George asked.
“How about those tickets?”
“I don’t know yet. They’re pretty jammed up out there. And traffic is pretty heavy. It’s ten minutes to. A lot of them will be making it at the last …”
“Call the box office again, George.”
Ida cleared her throat. “Like George says, it’s a madhouse out there.”
George opened the door, trying to entice Jenny out. “It’s the price of popularity, darling.”
I Could Go on Singing Page 12