All the Beautiful Girls

by Elizabeth J. Church

  Ruby dropped the newspaper, covered her face with her hands. There was her word, the word. Mansfield had been decapitated. It took her breath, made her chest hurt, a crushing pain as if a sledgehammer had struck her breastbone. Ruby could smell hot rubber, gasoline. She could smell blood. She could see Mansfield’s rich mane, the blonde strands wedded to each other with clotted blood; she heard wailing, the cries of shocked children as strangers lifted them from the backseat.

  Ruby opened her eyes, picked up the newspaper, and forced herself to finish the article. There had been several small dogs in the car, too. Some lived; others died. Those poor children, Ruby thought. To lose their pets, too.

  Bereaved. Comfortless. She felt it all again. Time collapsed, disappeared, and she was back on that lonely Kansas highway.

  There was a photo of the car, the top of it sheared off. Ruby could hear glass fracturing, the sharp, brutal sound of metal shearing.

  She hadn’t known it was there—the memory of that night. The sensations, the smells and sounds—they had lain dormant within her for all these years, to be coaxed to the surface by the eerily similar circumstances of a celebrity’s unfathomable death.

  A few days later the newspapers corrected themselves. Mansfield had not been decapitated. Someone had mistaken her abundant hairpiece for her head.

  Three months of failure. Ruby paid for another couple weeks at the Bombay Motor Court. Counting out the cash on the countertop, she felt a ceaseless, dull throbbing at the back of her head. She’d grown bored with the formerly forbidden magic of TV dinners. The thrill of tossing a perfectly good waxed paper cereal box liner into the trash and imagining Aunt Tate’s disapproval had not endured. Ruby was sick of the motel room and the Roger Miller lyrics that flowed pitilessly through her mind, Miller’s litany of no phone, no pool, no pets, and no cigarettes. She was tired of television, bored by the interchangeable families that filled the pool every night. She was disillusioned. She was lonely.

  Ruby got tossed off of the stage at eight more auditions. The Desert Inn, Riviera, Stardust, Tropicana—and more. She stopped trying to talk to the other girls and made eye contact with no one. She thought about Georgia in exuberantly green Colorado, about engagement parties, white satin and taffeta. Dimpled flower girls with rose petals and patent leather shoes.

  She mailed another postcard to the Aviator and told him to hold off sending the things she’d left in his care. She told him she was looking for a more permanent address while she decided which casino to grace with her presence. She finished with Hahahahahahaha!, which she felt transformed the card from obfuscation to honesty.

  She hadn’t yet cashed in the hundred-dollar Dunes chip that Bob Christianson had given her. She’d pull that rip cord when she needed to jump from the burning plane.

  When the phone rang, Ruby was sitting on the end of the bed, desultorily switching the channel dial back and forth between The Dating Game and The Match Game. The fan in her room had first screeched in protest and then broken. The front office had yet to send anyone to fix it, so Ruby was listless with the heat.

  “Did I wake you?” Rose asked.

  “Naw. Just hot.” Ruby wound the phone cord around her bare ankle, pulled it taut.

  “The girls at my apartment complex are having a spur-of-the-moment barbecue tomorrow afternoon. I want you to come.”

  “I—”

  “I know it’s short notice.”

  “It’s not that.” Ruby hadn’t realized how down she was—down to the point of feeling nearly completely antisocial.

  “You’ll have a good time. Margaritas and tequila chicken. Chips and guacamole. They’re a good bunch.”

  “All right.” Ruby knew she sounded less than gracious. Lately, she had to work so hard to make herself do anything at all. She squeezed her big toe between her fingers, realized she’d have to muster the energy to shave her legs and fix her toenail polish.

  “I’ll come get you so you don’t have to take the bus. And there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Please, not a guy,” Ruby pleaded.

  “No, no no. It’s just us girls,” Rose said, managing not to sound defensive.

  “Sorry.”

  “Still no luck, hunh?”

  “Still an abject failure.”

  “Well, be patient. And,” Rose hurried to say, “I know it’s easy for me to say, but I have a feeling about you.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Deal. And Rose?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re a peach.”

  “And you’re a jewel, Ruby. Don’t you forget it.”

  * * *

  —

  VIVID CARRIED A glass pitcher of margaritas richly beaded with moisture. She stopped in front of Ruby and topped off Ruby’s glass. Vivid’s eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses, but a knowing smile broadened her face as she used one hand to capture some of the droplets from the pitcher. She rubbed her wet hand across her collarbones and then, stretching, languorous, she ran that same wet hand up the length of her neck, circling like a secret beneath her shoulder-length, pitch-black hair. “Better.” She sighed.

  Ruby felt her lips part, unbidden, at the sight of Vivid’s ripe, Ava Gardneresque sensuality. She’d never seen a sexier woman. Ruby watched as Vivid threaded her way through the other girls surrounding the tiny, kidney-shaped apartment pool. In her late twenties, Vivid wore tight, toreador pants that zipped up the side and were cut to sit just below her belly button. The material, a mod floral pattern in reds, yellows, and greens on a white background, had a sheen to it. A cropped, tight, sleeveless white T-shirt and no bra revealed the contours of Vivid’s breasts, and her erect nipples were clearly visible beneath the thin cotton. She wore tall wedge sandals, and in her wake Ruby smelled a rich, heavy perfume that reminded her of her mother’s Stargazer lilies.

  Vivid’s outfit made Ruby long for a sewing machine and yardage she could stitch into something just as provocative. At the same time, Vivid’s lean, flat belly made Ruby realize that she really needed to get back to the nightly sit-ups that she’d let go in exchange for wallowing in front of the motel TV. She looked down at her legs in her cutoff shorts, the utilitarian Keds sneakers that needed to take a spin in the washer. She’d let herself go, as the Salina housewives used to say of each other when they were caught out at the grocery store in curlers or a rumpled blouse.

  “Oh, good—you met Vivid,” Rose said, perching on the lounge chair next to Ruby. “Scoot over.” Ruby moved her legs to the side. Rose covered Ruby’s kneecap with her palm in a familiar, friendly gesture. “I’ll get her over here later so you two can have a chat.”

  “She’s stunning,” Ruby said, still stupefied. “Does she work with you at Caesars? And that’s her real name—Vivid? Just Vivid?”

  “Stage name. Her real name’s Vivian O’Shea—pure Irish on both sides. Vivid’s in the Folies Bergere at the Tropicana, but she’s worked almost everywhere. That’s why I want for you two to talk. She can help you. Really help you, Ruby.”

  “She’s a dancer then.”

  “A showgirl. Topless. Yes.”

  Ruby tried to hide her surprise—that Rose would encourage her to strip for money.

  “I’m not as innocent or as pure as you think,” Rose said, accurately reading Ruby’s expression.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You’ve mostly seen me when I’m with my father. And, for obvious reasons, I have to stay on my toes around him.”

  So, it was an act. Not Rose’s generosity—that was genuine—but the good-girl thing, that was a performance for Daddy. Ruby put her hand on top of Rose’s. “You know what? It’s a relief. I mean it—a huge relief. Takes the pressure off. You’re not perfect, after all.”

  “I even say piss and shit and fuck, from time to time.” Rose
grinned.

  “She’s not telling the entire truth,” Vivid said, pulling over a chair and joining them. “When properly inspired, Rose has the mouth of a sailor.”

  “A sailor on fucking shore leave.” Rose laughed.

  Ruby could feel the tequila’s effects. And, maybe it was the company, too. She loaded a chip with guacamole—a taste she could add to her list of new experiences.

  “Rose says Bob Christianson singled you out. At one of your auditions.” Vivid leaned toward Ruby, and Ruby could see midnight-blue highlights in Vivid’s hair. “Is that true?”

  “He slipped me a hundred-dollar chip. And his card.”

  “You say that as if you don’t know what it means.”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “Guaranteed job. Money. Clothes. Jewelry—for starters.”

  “A car,” Rose added.

  “Ha!” Ruby scoffed.

  “Look over there.” Rose pointed past the wrought-iron fence that separated the apartment pool from the parking lot. “That’s Vivid’s convertible.”

  Ruby spotted a 1967 Pontiac GTO two-door coupe painted a deep, almost navy blue with a white retractable top and a generous white interior. “Bob gave you that?” she asked.

  “An admirer gave me that. But your Bob, or Donn Arden or Evan Brashear or Harold Minsky or Jack Entratter—those are the men who can and do put girls in the position where they can receive gifts like that car.”

  Ruby didn’t say what she was thinking—that she wouldn’t sell her body for a car, or the diamond tennis bracelet that clung to Vivid’s wrist, or the emerald ring on Vivid’s right hand.

  “Stand up,” Vivid said, her tone direct. Rose moved aside, and Ruby surprised herself by obeying. Vivid appraised her. “Bob knows his stuff. You’ve got it—I can see that—and you auditioned, Bob saw you dance?”

  “Yeah. But he didn’t hire me.”

  “Not as a troupe dancer. But I gather he told you exactly where you can make money. With that body, your beautiful features. You can make serious money.”

  “And,” Rose said, “you’d get to wear the most incredible costumes.”

  “I thought I’d have to parade across a stage naked,” Ruby said, sounding archly dismissive. She sat back down on the edge of the lounge chair.

  “The vitals are covered—I wear a G-string, pasties. But the rest of the costumes we wear can weigh as much as seventy pounds. It takes strength, grace—talent—to be a showgirl.” Vivid took a sip of her drink and moved her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her eyes were a clear, swimming-pool blue. “We’re on stage to be admired. It’s a long way from prostitution. I sleep with the men I want to sleep with—that’s it. No different from any other woman, except I get far more offers than the average. So, Ruby, what I’d say to you is don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  “At least go see Vivid dance,” Rose chimed in. “You need a job, Ruby. And I don’t mean waitressing or cashier work.”

  Vivid stood, rubbed an unconscious hand across her flat belly. “I have to get out of the sun,” she said. “I can’t afford tan lines.” She started to walk toward an empty spot at a table beneath an umbrella but paused to add, “I’m willing to teach you the ropes, and that’s a generous offer in a competitive environment. Talk to Rose.”

  “Thank you,” Ruby managed.

  “I’m not doing this for you. I don’t know you. This is for Rose,” Vivid said. “I’m offering because Rose asked me.”

  Ruby could hear the defensiveness in Vivid’s voice. She regretted her judgmental attitude but didn’t know how to take it back and so just looked helplessly between Rose and Vivid before noticing that her own fair-skinned legs had begun to turn pink in the sun.

  * * *

  —

  RUBY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on her bed, counting out the remainder of her cash and tallying her projected expenses, including quarters for the dryer, dimes for the washers. She was living on breakfast cereal, canned beans, four-for-a-dollar frozen pot pies, and boxes of powdered macaroni and cheese—the cheapest things she could find in the grocery aisles. She needed deodorant, lotion, and the heels of her tap shoes cried for the attention of a shoe repairman. She calculated that she had about two weeks left before she’d have to cash in the poker chip. After that, she’d be forced to contact the Aviator. But she wouldn’t—she knew it. Her pride would never let her fully confess failure to him. That’s why she said yes when Rose called to say Vivid had complimentary Folies tickets waiting for them at the Tropicana’s front desk.

  The Folies Bergere costumes were beyond anything Dinah Shore could have dreamed of—skyscrapers of feathers, paste-jewels the size of golf balls, chains of bright, multicolored beads dripping in elegant curves from the dancers’ outstretched arms. Perfectly choreographed lines of beautiful women lifting long legs, prancing like finely trained Arabian horses, with eyes that glittered from beneath birdlike swaths of bold color. They were utterly feminine, and the fact that their breasts were bare was practically lost on Ruby, so won over was she by their lavish costumes, the extravagant fans of floating ostrich feathers. The band was excellent, and she counted nine costume changes, including a different pair of sparkly, three-inch heels for each outfit. She watched the women dip, turn. Close-fitting, bejeweled caps obscured their hair and made them all look alike, despite the differences in the curve of a waist, the shape of a breast. She had to look hard to spot Vivid during each dance number, but eventually she recognized the elongated muscles of Vivid’s thighs, her broad smile and heart-shaped face.

  “Over there.” Rose pointed discreetly. “That’s the lead dancer. Patricia La Forge.”

  Ruby watched La Forge, who did seem to possess a greater level of self-assurance than the others. Ruby found herself wondering if the lead dancer was paid more, what perks came with the title.

  The dancers performed a number in which they were chess pieces moving about a giant checkerboard. Another number featured a film projected onto a screen behind the stage so that it looked as though the women were accompanied by a dramatically expanded cast. Ruby saw contortionists and even trapeze artists—a breathtaking display of excess that she never could have imagined. Then, in a new segment of the show, a pair of German magicians draped cheetahs across their shoulders as if the wild beasts were heavy fur stoles. Dramatic, handsome men with high cheekbones and hair combed back from their austere faces, they were named Siegfried and Roy, and Rose said they’d been with the Folies for only a few months.

  Sitting in the dark, watching every turn, every step, Ruby quickly acknowledged the skill it took for a dancer to travel up and down dozens of stairs without looking down, all the while supporting an unwieldy tower of plumage. The numbers were finely choreographed, the floating and revolving formations novel, intricate. In the final number of the show, the girls formed a line and executed perfectly timed high kicks like the Rockettes. Ruby watched with respect as they twirled and yet kept their snow-white tail feathers from crashing into each other.

  All of Ruby’s preconceptions and prejudices fell away that night. She was won over, completely sold. Maybe she could hold onto her dream after all. If she could be hired as a showgirl, she could pay her bills, appear on stage—and dance. At a loss for words when the show was over, she managed only “Good grief!”

  “Told ya.” Rose grinned.

  Back in her room at the Bombay Motor Court, Ruby let her excitement grow and dismissed the voice in her head that said it was shameful, baring her body to gratify men’s greedy eyes. She told herself it was Aunt Tate’s voice, not her own. This route was a reasonable adaptation to her plan, a way forward. It took courage, she told herself, to reassess, to know when stubbornness and drive were productive and when it was time to look at things from another angle. Besides, she quite literally could not afford not to try—not unless she wanted to give up, never be a professional dancer. And
Scallywag was no quitter.

  The Tropicana’s showgirl application was short and sweet. Date, name, address, height and weight. Hair color, eye color, complexion. Measurements, dress size, bathing suit size, hat and shoe sizes. Where it asked for her present occupation, Ruby wrote DANCER, and she added two years to her age. The final few questions required a bit more thought, although the minimal response blanks hardly required an essay. For Ambition, she wrote To dance professionally and bring audiences pleasure through entertainment. In answer to Why did you apply for a Folies Bergere position? she skipped over the financial truth and instead wrote Excitement and Glamour! She thought it showed more enthusiasm to capitalize both words.

  “You decided not to take Bob up on his offer? You’re not going to use that connection?” Vivid asked with evident disbelief.

  “I wanted to work with you,” Ruby said. “To learn from you.” She hoped Vivid could see how humbled she was, how grateful.

  Still, Vivid should have warned her, better prepared her. That was all Ruby could think about as she looked at the long table of six men, some of them wearing wrinkled suits, others with rolled shirtsleeves, cigarette smoke flowing upward in thin streams from ashtrays that sat next to a stack of showgirl application forms. What Vivid should have told her was that the men would look bored by it all.

  The man at the center of the table, apparently the one in charge, had a silver crew cut and hound-dog eyes that drooped, darkly shadowed. When he called Ruby’s name, she quickly chewed and swallowed the remainder of her Certs breath mint. She stood before the line of men, keeping one leg slightly in front of the other, turning at an angle as Vivid had instructed her. “Don’t stand at attention!” Vivid had said, sounding a bit like a drill sergeant. “You’re not in the infantry! This is about beauty, Ruby. It’s about being a girl!”