Then Nat hops down off the stage with the lightness of a fawn, and nods to the rehearsal pianist. I can’t see the fellow, so I can still imagine Fink sitting there, pounding away, accepting of his mediocre status, but playing as well as he can anyhow, because it’s close to what he wanted and close is not nothing.
And then the chords come, and this Anthony young man begins to liltingly sing and soft-shoe around the stage like he weighs nothing, like a piece of fluff on the breeze. I will never get over these amazing people. If I didn’t see scores of them all the time, pouring into New York, I’d refuse to believe so much talent was real. An embarrassment of riches, is what.
It’s not a vocal duet but she doesn’t stand there like a dummy. She flirts and sashays and beams without ever upstaging. She’s terrific, plus she’s got legs for days, which never hurts.
When Anthony finishes up that last refrain, swooping her down in a dip so low her hair brushes the stage, the assembled motley crew out in the seats make as much noise applauding as they can muster, which is more than you’d think.
That might be the best “Love Me, I Guess” I ever did see.
As the noise settles down a bit, I call out, “Bravo! Stupendous!” and everybody whips around to search for me in the dark. They know my voice too, they do. Plus who else says stupendous anymore? They ought to. And boffo, too.
Some wise guy with the spotlight swings it onto me. “Hey, you’re going to blind an old geezer, you putz!” But I’m laughing, though I really am half blind with that light. By the time I’ve blinked the brightness away again, half the cast has rushed up to me, I think.
Nat, whose name I now remember is something like Evan or Kevin, gets to me first and shakes my hand out of my sleeve.
I spend some time telling them all how terrific they are, which they sop up like cats with milk, as well they should.
In a lull, I pull some papers out of my inside jacket pocket. “I got something here I’d like to share with you, but first, is Eleanor around? I’d like her to be here, too.”
The stage manager says, “Oh sure, I just saw her a few minutes ago, I’ll get her.”
Eleanor has a title of some kind or another at Short Productions—at Naomi’s insistence that the family have jobs that sound important—but she’s never in her office and I’m not sure if she ever took her business cards out of the plastic wrap. Instead, she’s over at the theater all the time, getting everybody to teach her everything they know, meanwhile running errands or whatever anyone asks her to do. She runs out for coffee, makes copies, and is in general happier than I’ve seen her during her Columbia days, or with any magazine story. I think she might have a future in casting, personally. She sat in with us during The High Hat revival auditions and she had some smart things to say, including about the comedic second lead who we almost overlooked. That gal learned a lot about people by mostly listening instead of talking so much.
She gave up the book project in the end, and oh did Naomi and Paul ever have a conniption fit about that at first! Naomi was mad she wasted all that time on the “wild goose chase” of Vivian, and was none too pleased about the song credit, either. It took me a fair amount of explaining to finally convince her I was not an addled and manipulated old fart, but sharp enough to finally learn from a batch of sixty-year-old screw-ups and give credit where it’s due.
Paul was peeved, as if he’d done Eleanor this huge favor with the book in the first place, not to mention having to give back the advance they’d already paid. Some favor! He’d manipulated her into it, seems to me, and I told him so, too. I’m still his father and I’ll tell him what’s what. Anyway, they got over it, and this Arnie fella is doing a pretty good job. He was the one Naomi really wanted in the first place, anyhow. Sure, the book makes the point about sharing credit with the late Vivian Adair for my famous song, and sure, I’ve been warned that the publisher will want to make a splash about “the revelation,” but it’s not so bad. Arnie will be great on camera and will do all the talking. I had my say in the book, thankful enough I have my words back that I said all there was about Vivian, and her help with lyrics, and how we were “briefly romantic.” Funny how I’ve only recently thought to wonder how much Bee ever guessed about Vivian and me. She probably guessed plenty; she was no dummy, my lovely Beatrice.
When Eleanor finally appears out of the wings, she’s got dust bunnies trapped in her hair, which she tries to brush out, and she doesn’t get them all. But she just shrugs and shades her eyes to try to look out in the seats. “Grampa Milo? You out there?”
“Here, kid.” I wave at her as I’m about to take a seat at the rehearsal piano. “Have a seat.”
She sits down at the edge of the stage, her legs over the side. One shoe hangs loose, dangling from her toe. It melts my creaky old heart to see her so relaxed she can let her shoe hang off her foot, have dust all over her hair, and not think a thing about it.
I go through a parody of piano playing prep, pretending to crack my knuckles and flapping invisible coattails out of my way. I do toss my necktie over my shoulder in case of it swinging onto the keys.
Before I begin, I remind them all of something. “Naomi said way back when she first brought this up to me, this here revival, that she was even thinking of asking me to write a new song. Then I fell down in the sidewalk and it was all very dramatic and no one asked me again. But I didn’t forget. Not this, I didn’t forget. So. Give a listen.”
I used to pretend I was somebody rich, important and grand
A lord of the manor, a fancy gentleman of consequence
But all of that melted away, when you first took my hand
With you, dear, in my arms, none of that makes any sense
I’m no polo player, no aviator, no explorer of exotic lands
Latin, painting or opera, I’m not one who understands
I’m not good looking, not refined, I don’t have joie de vivre
Here with you, dear, it’s only me
I can’t buy you fancy clothes, houses, an automobile
I can’t buy you diamonds or jewels, anyway, not if they’re real
There’s not much I can give you, nothing unless it’s free
Besides my love, dear, it’s only me
The fact that you love me regardless, simply defies explanation
There’s got to be someone better out there in all creation
Despite my attempts to convince you that all my prospects are vile
Here you are right beside me, bathing me in your smile
I guess I’m okay after all, maybe even better than that
Just as I am, as you’ll have me, with no top hat or shiny spats
Goodbye to that life of pretending, of striving, of trying to be
Darling, I love you, as only me
My voice cracks on the last high note something awful, and at first no one breathes a word and I think, yes, this was a mistake, old man, you haven’t written anything in half a century and even then you were sauced when you finished that last one, and people are nice to an old schmuck but that doesn’t mean—
A piercing whistle starts it, then they all jump in with cheering and stomping and someone slaps my back and damn near knocks my glasses off.
I wave my hands at them, enough already. So they probably don’t think it’s terrible but it’s also not this good.
Nat—no wait, it’s Devon! That’s his name, Devon!—Devon slides onto the bench next to me and looks at the music.
“These lyrics are fabulous! And the melody’s not half bad, either.”
He winks, and he gives me a playful nudge. He’d written it for me weeks ago, in secret, just like I asked him to. I can’t help it; I like surprises. They’re so … theatrical.
I notice Eleanor then squinting at the back of the house, shading her eyes with her hand.
Speaking of theatrical surprises.
Ellie springs so awkwardly off the stage that one of the cast members has to catch her and stand her back upright like
a doll. She walks slowly up the aisle, her face all slack astonishment, until halfway up when she starts to jog.
I’ve got an excellent view from my piano bench of the lanky, loping silhouette of Alex from Michigan. Vivian’s green-eyed grandson.
Eleanor stops short, and just gapes.
“Hey there,” he says.
“What? How?”
He chuckles. His laugh is throaty, deep compared to his speaking voice, and this sends a little chill up my neck. Alex steps forward for a quick friendly hug, before stepping back to answer. “Apparently, your grandfather thought this Arnie guy should interview my mom, and talked this Arnie guy into arranging a little trip.”
“Like he was so hard to talk into it,” I interject. “He practically jumped across my desk to get your phone number.”
Eleanor turns around to stare at me, and her face is glowing with one of her biggest, broadest smiles I’ve yet seen. In these moments, she’s never more beautiful. I would orchestrate a surprise like this every single day if I could, just to get that smile out of her. “Grampa, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ta-da!” I add some jazz hands, to the merriment of the crowd all around.
I knew she and Alex had been talking on the phone. I knew that because her cousins are always eavesdropping, and also because I’m a little nosy, too. And I further knew that she would brighten like a struck match whenever she got a call. She should hide this from me in my house? When I’ve known her since she was born?
Alex and Eleanor walk toward the piano.
“Loved your lyrics, Mr. Short.”
“You can stop with the mister already. And I hope you’ll come to dinner tonight, if that writer doesn’t have you too busy.”
“I’m all yours,” he says, but by this time he’s looked back at Eleanor.
We all can’t stop staring at them, and they can’t stop standing there like mannequins, so finally Devon breaks the spell by announcing dinner break. Someone cuts the stage lights to a reasonable soft glow, and we disperse, all us of acting like we’re not staring.
I take a seat halfway out in the house, spying on them, if I’m being honest. Eleanor and Alex walk to the edge of the stage and sit like she was before…hanging their feet off and leaning back on their hands. Eleanor kicks her feet lightly. Are they talking about the flight? New York? About Mark Bell, who, we found out recently, was after all Millicent’s father? I plan to ask Alex at dinner if the Bell family was welcoming, or aghast. We had to lend him the family lawyer to get their answer, but they might have softened by now.
Now Alex hops down easily from the stage, and he holds out his hand and helps Eleanor down, as well. They walk side by side up the aisle, companionably.
They’re going to pass right by me, and I’m not swift enough to hide, so I rely on my natural old man cuteness to get me out of trouble for spying.
“Hello, Grampa.” Eleanor folds at the waist to kiss my cheek.
“Hi, kids. Boy, we pulled it off, didn’t we, Alex? The surprise. Guess it’s the producer in me, I can’t resist orchestrating the dramatic reveal.”
Eleanor asks him, this time staring out into the soft dark, “How long are you here? Before you have to get back home?”
“Well, the trip for the book interview is officially just a couple days, but I’ve got some time since I quit my job.”
Eleanor mock-slaps his arm. “You didn’t tell me!”
“It just happened. We finally cleaned out and fixed up Estelle’s house, so I’m staying there now until we sell it, while I figure out the next thing.”
I pipe up. “Happy to have you at the townhouse. Loads of room. You and your mom, just you, whatever. Right, Eleanor?”
“Of course.” Eleanor adds, “Hey, let’s get you something to eat. Where’s your mom? I’d love to meet her. Grampa, you want to come?”
I shake my head as Alex answers, “Resting up from the flight.”
“We’ll do something fun today,” Eleanor says. “Nice and touristy. Last time you were here we hardly even let you out.”
“Will you stand over a subway grate in a white dress like Marilyn Monroe?”
“Only if you climb the Empire State like King Kong.”
They say their farewells to me, and I turn to watch them go, shameless spy that I am. I can’t help myself. All the world’s a stage, old Will said, and he’s not wrong.
As they walk up the aisle, Alex drapes his long arm behind her so his hand rests on her shoulder. Eleanor’s arm slides underneath Alex’s black leather coat, around his waist. They pause at the top of the aisle, out by the theater lobby. The doors are propped open, and the daytime light filtering in sets them in silhouette. They turn toward each other, and Eleanor tips her face up to look at him straight on. She takes one step closer, but there’s still a line of daylight shining between them. For several heartbeats they stand there like that, still and close, but separate.
Then they step apart and move out into the lobby, disappearing from view.
Oh well. Not like it’s final curtain, anyhow. We’ve got plenty of time. Well, they do, anyway. Me, I’m eighty-nine, so who knows?
I’m alone in the seats now. Out of habit, I glance around for Vivian. I’ve never seen her again since that last day in my office, and I’m surprised as hell myself but I sorta miss her, this hallucination or whatever she was. I pull out my wallet from my jacket and open it. Vivian’s things are with Millicent, as they should be. But Alex gave me the dried flower. I hadn’t given it to her, and it might not have had anything to do with me. Maybe she just dried it in Gone with the Wind because it’s a big heavy book. But every time I smell roses, now… every time… I open the envelope in which I’d tucked the crumbling bloom and inhale, eyes closed. I think I must be imagining the scent; it couldn’t be this strong, not for something that’s been dead so many years.
At last I put the rose back and tuck the wallet away. It’s time to go home.
I have quite the cast of characters to thank for helping Vivian in Red come to life, seeing as I started this ambitious project about a songwriter without even knowing which Gershwin brother was the lyricist. (It was Ira.)
As ever, thank you to Kristin Nelson and all the fine people at Nelson Literary Agency. I know you’ve got my back, and I appreciate it so very much.
Thank you, again and again, to Jason Pinter at Polis Books, for loving Vivian and Milo as much as I do, and bringing them to the world for me.
Many thanks to intrepid copyeditor Christine LaPorte.
As for my research sources, they did their very best to educate me on everything from expressive aphasia to the Bronx, and whatever mistakes there might be are mine alone. Better yet, consider it poetic license.
Much gratitude to:
The Bowery Boys podcasters—Greg Young and Tom Meyers—for their New York stories sparking my imagination.
Kelly O’Connor McNees, for talking me off the ledge when I thought I wasn’t up to the challenge.
Philip Furia for insight on Tin Pan Alley lyrics and lyricists’ workaday lives.
Alex Disbrow for sharing pictures of his Art Deco Bronx apartment.
Lloyd Ultan for sharing memories of the Bronx of days gone by, told in his wonderful accent.
Dr. Michael Baird for information about DNA testing in 1999.
Dr. Jayne Hodgson for insight into strokes and their effects.
Stephanie Toering for details on speech pathology and recovery for stroke victims who have lost the power of speech.
My friends who tolerated this goy’s annoying questions about Yiddish and kosher and High Holidays. Amy Finkelstein, Marla Garfield, and Arnie Bernstein, you’re all mensches.
Jill Morrow and Elizabeth Graham, for their invaluable feedback and insight on early drafts.
Last, but he could never be least, Ernie Harburg, son of the great Yip Harburg (of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” fame, and more) for talking with me about the life of a lyricist in the Golden Age of song.
Kr
istina Riggle lives and writes in West Michigan. Her debut novel, Real Life & Liars, was a Target “Breakout” pick and a “Great Lakes, Great Reads” selection by the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers Association. The Life You’ve Imagined was honored by independent booksellers as an IndieNext “Notable” book. Things We Didn’t Say was named a Midwest Connections pick of the Midwest Booksellers Association. Her latest novels are Keepsake and The Whole Golden World, which was lauded by Bookreporter.com as “a riveting and thought-provoking page-turner that will appeal to fans of Jodi Picoult and Chris Bohjalian.”
Kristina has published short stories in the Cimarron Review, Literary Mama, Espresso Fiction, and elsewhere, and is a former co-editor for fiction at Literary Mama. Kristina was a full-time newspaper reporter before turning her attention to creative writing. As well as writing, she enjoys reading, yoga, dabbling in (very) amateur musical theatre, and spending lots of time with her husband, two kids and dog. Visit her online at kristinariggle.net or on Twitter at @KrisRiggle.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Kristina Ringstrom
Cover and jacket design by Georgia Morrissey
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN 978-1-943818-38-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016937092
First hardcover publication September 2016 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Kristina Riggle
About Vivian in Red
Dedication
One
Vivian In Red Page 32