“The composer who lives upstairs is a friend of mine. He’s queer, too. We all are, here. The landlady has no idea.” It wasn’t raucous and celebratory like Antonio’s, but I could see that the brownstone did for Felix what the Village did for me—gave him a place to be himself.
When I said I’d heard of men like us marrying anyway, just to have a home and children, Felix swore he’d never do that to a woman. “And what if this thing is hereditary? It would be a sin to pass it along to a child. No, Albert, men like us aren’t meant to breed.”
It didn’t make sense, what he was saying. After all, we all were born to normal parents. The very nature of our abnormality prevented most of us from having children of our own, and yet we persisted. I reminded him that Dr. Havelock Ellis had proven conclusively that men like us could be found in every society, all through history. “When you think of Alexander the Great, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Walt Whitman—well, you could almost be proud to be part of it.”
Felix’s mouth turned down as if he’d tasted poison. “I try to accept it, Albert, I do, but it’s nothing to be proud of.” For a Jew, he explained, a man didn’t take pride in his own accomplishments, but in his contributions to their people. Unmarried and childless, a disappointment to his parents, he’d dedicated himself to improving life for the orphans.
We stayed awake until the sky turned pink and the trains started to run again. The Colonel had given me the day off, but Felix was expected at work that morning. “I’ll be okay,” he assured me as we stood by his door. “I often don’t sleep.” He buttoned my collar and straightened my jacket, holding on to the lapels, the weight of his clenched hands tilting me forward until our noses touched. From there it was only a little tilt of my chin until our lips met. For all his talk of sin and shame, his kiss was deep and unrestrained. As frightened as I’d been by his excessive display of emotion, I found myself drawn to the promise of his passion.
The alarm clock rang, breaking our kiss. He ran into the bedroom to switch it off before it woke his neighbor. “Can I come see you, Albert, on Saturday? After sunset, once the Sabbath has ended.” I gave him my address and said I’d be waiting. As I rode the train downtown, I thought how strange it was to think of a new day beginning with the sinking rather than the rising of the sun.
Chapter 17
I came down Friday morning to find Clarence perched on his stool in the lobby, head bent over a book. He blinked at me to refocus his vision. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Helen, I can see it in your face.”
I knew I should have powdered my cheeks. “I didn’t sleep well is all. What about you, studying in this light? You’ll strain your eyes.”
He closed the book and set it aside. “That hardly matters anymore. Today’s my last exam. You’re coming to the party, aren’t you?”
Mr. and Mrs. Weldon had invited all the tenants to celebrate in the courtyard of our building tomorrow evening after the graduation ceremony. “I wouldn’t miss it, you know that. I might invite Mr. Kramer, if you don’t mind. You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Albert Kramer?” Clarence frowned. “He seems nice enough. Better for you than that director, anyway. But I was hoping we’d have a minute to say our own good-byes.”
I leaned against the wall and rested my foot on the rail of his stool. “So you’ve got your orders, then?” For the safety of the troops, the War Department kept the sailings such a secret that we New Yorkers never got the chance to see our soldiers off.
Clarence nodded. “You can’t tell a soul, but there’s a troop ship scheduled for dawn on Sunday. Colonel Hayward got me a berth.” He curled his lip, showing the edge of his teeth. “I’m qualified now to be an officer, but it looks like I’ll have to work my way across the ocean disguised as one of the galley crew.” My baffled look prompted an impatient explanation. “The 369th crossed all together, but on this transport I’d be the only black man in a uniform. The ship’s captain doesn’t want any trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I was thinking of his lectures on rights for Negroes. Surely he wouldn’t drag a soap box on deck and start hectoring the soldiers? But no, I’d gotten it wrong.
“A bit of khaki cloth’s no protection from a thousand white soldiers, Helen, and if there’s one thing there’s plenty of on a ship it’s rope.”
“Oh, Clarence.” My sudden burst of tears surprised us both. “Don’t say such things.”
He gave me his handkerchief. “Never mind, Helen. I’ll be fine, I promise. Don’t act like this in front of my mother, okay?”
“I won’t.” I returned the damp handkerchief. “You know we’ll all be thinking of you every single day until you get home.”
“Promise me you won’t overwork yourself.”
“We’ll promise each other, how’s that?” When we were kids, we used to spit and shake hands to formalize an agreement. For old time’s sake, I blew some spittle into my palm. He did the same, keeping hold of my hand for a long while.
As I made my way to the Olde Playhouse, I tried to imagine how it would feel to be the only member of my race among a thousand black faces. There had been plenty of times I’d found myself the sole woman in masculine company—it sometimes seemed as if the sidewalks of New York were populated exclusively by men. But I’d never been in a classroom or an audience or a Sunday service where I was the only white person in sight. There were neighborhoods in Manhattan where such an experience could easily be had, but even before my illness my world was largely confined to the blocks between my apartment and the theater district. I hadn’t been north of Central Park since Clarence and I had explored the city as kids—but then he’d been by my side, so I wouldn’t have felt alone no matter what neighborhood we ventured into.
Arriving at the Olde Playhouse, it occurred to me how few colored people attended our performances. Did Richard Martin have a policy against them, I wondered, or did they simply have no interest in drama? But that couldn’t be it, I thought. Ira Aldridge had been famous for playing every great dramatic role from Hamlet to Lear. Last summer, when Richard had staged Othello, I’d thought of the Moor’s stage makeup as part of his costume, but now I imagined Clarence’s reaction to seeing a white actor strut across the stage in blackface. It would be as dispiriting as it must have been for the women in the audience when all of Shakespeare’s heroines had been portrayed by boys in frocks. But that had ended centuries ago, I reminded myself, while blackfaced performers could still be seen in every vaudeville act in the city.
I was writing advertising copy for the upcoming play when an insistent knock on the office door interrupted me. Assuming it was Harrison back with some new demand, I took a breath to compose myself before opening it. I was met not with Harrison’s rank odor but with the clean smell of bleached cotton and peppermint. Jacob Ruppert stood there, bowler hat in hand. “I’ve been looking for you, Helen.”
“Colonel Ruppert, come in.” I stepped aside, baffled by his presence. It was a moment before I remembered my manners and offered him my seat.
“Kramer said the office was a disaster when you took over, yet you’ve accomplished all this in just a few days.” His large head swiveled on his short neck. “Impressive. So tell me, Helen, do you like this job? You wouldn’t rather be acting?”
I leaned back, my hands braced on the desk behind me. “I’d still love to act again someday, but I’m not ready yet. My personality hasn’t quite caught up with my physical recovery, if that makes sense.” I wasn’t sure it did. I didn’t even know what I meant, exactly.
“It does, yes. Acting is more than speaking lines. To properly occupy the stage requires a strong presence. You remember watching Ruth hit the other day? It wasn’t just his arms that swung the bat, it was his whole personality. I used to see the same thing with my horses. The winning ones, they had an aura about them. They understood their worth. Out on the track, they shimmered.” Ruppert’s eyes settled on my face. “Do I understand you?”
I nodded, mesmerized. “Perfectl
y. I couldn’t have explained it better myself.”
“Well then,” he said, getting up from the chair. I, too, stood up straight. “Why don’t you give me a tour of this place, as long as I’m here?” He held out his elbow, as if offering to escort me to dinner. I saw no alternative but to take it, though doing so meant we had to edge our way awkwardly through the door.
“Well, this is the lobby.” I had to laugh at the obviousness of my statement. Ruppert, too, smiled. “Let me take you backstage and show you how it all works.”
“Did you know my father once owned an opera house?” Ruppert kept up a running commentary as I took him onto the stage, into the wings, and through the twisting hallways that led to dressing rooms, props, and costumes. Finally, I opened the loading dock door. The flood of sunlight caused us both to blink.
“It’s a larger building than it seems, but it doesn’t take full advantage of its site.” He indicated the narrow service alley that ran alongside the building and out to the street.
“I didn’t know this was part of the property.”
Ruppert tilted his head up, assessing the height of the structure. “There are no upper floors for offices, either.”
I realized what he was getting at. Theatergoers rarely noticed the additional floors above the blinking marquee, but many of the newer venues were built to generate income from rentals. “No, the Olde Playhouse is such an antique. That’s what I love about it, really. It’s so small, even from the back row you can hear every sigh and whisper. It’s wonderful for Shakespeare. Richard—Mr. Martin, I mean—brings in a traveling company every summer. The tourists love it.” Back inside, stagehands were putting the finishing touches on the new set ahead of that evening’s rehearsal, while electricians adjusted lights up in the rigging. I noticed the carpenter attaching wheels to the bed and smiled to myself.
“How are ticket sales?” Ruppert asked, following me into the office.
“There are none yet. I’m still trying to get a handle on how they’re organized, but I guess I’ll muddle through until Richard comes back from Montauk.”
“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. Sit down, Helen.” He closed the door, shutting us into the small space. Ruppert, standing, placed his hat on the desk. “Richard Martin is not coming back.”
“What do you mean, not coming back?” I knew Richard’s health was precarious, but I couldn’t understand how Ruppert would have gotten word of it if he’d taken a turn for the worse.
“Kramer told me the Playhouse was on the brink of disaster, so I had Ruppert Realty look into the situation. Did you know you’ve fallen behind on the taxes? One more missed payment and the city would have started procedures to seize the property.”
I felt my face grow hot. “I had no idea. I saw the notice, but I assumed Richard took care of the taxes before he left.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best, Helen, but this place has been mismanaged for years. Your banker explained how precarious the accounts are. I had one of my bookkeepers go over the records. There seems to be potential for profit from ticket sales, but then the balance drains away during every production.” I didn’t have any background in business, but it did seem strange that the banker who handled the Playhouse’s account would divulge so much information to Ruppert. “Tell me honestly, Helen. Do you think you could make a go of it here? Your mother said you were enjoying the work.”
“But I only stepped in until Richard—is he really not coming back?”
“No, he’s not. I bought him out. I sent a representative from Ruppert Realty to Montauk to make him an offer. He signed the papers yesterday.”
I was speechless. My mind flipped through questions like cards in the drawer of a library catalog. I finally chose one to pull out first. “So, do I work for you now, Colonel Ruppert?”
“That’s what I’m offering, Helen. Would you like to manage the Playhouse and see if you can turn it around? I’ll provide you with a salary, and assign one of my bookkeepers to assist you.”
I tried to speak, but no words formed on my lips. His offer seemed too good to be true, like a trick or a trap. Then I remembered that porcelain doll he’d given me the Christmas after my father died. I hadn’t realized its value when I thoughtlessly gave it away, but I’d recently seen its twin in an advertisement from Schwarz’s Toy Bazaar. It was a Kestner doll; even on sale, it cost ten whole dollars.
Impatient for my answer, he spoke up. “If that isn’t what you see yourself doing, don’t feel obligated. I can easily sell the property to a developer for much more than I paid.”
I placed my hand on his arm. “Wait, you’re saying if I don’t take over management of the Playhouse, you’ll close it down?”
“A developer is more likely to knock it down, but yes, unless you want to take it over. I don’t expect it to generate a profit even under the best management, but if you can prevent me from taking a loss, I’m offering to employ you.”
I looked around the office I had so carefully organized. Would I be betraying Richard to accept? But no, he’d taken Ruppert’s offer without so much as a telephone call to me. I had nothing to regret. The theater had always been what I wanted, and managing the Olde Playhouse would be a more important role than any I could hope to be cast in. It seemed my mother had been right to insist I go to that baseball game. But no, it was Albert who’d mentioned the Olde Playhouse to Ruppert. A week ago, I’d been an unemployed invalid. Now, thanks to Albert Kramer, I was being given the opportunity to manage a theater.
“I appreciate the offer, Colonel Ruppert, I do.” Why was I hesitating? He’d already invested so much in me, what with the hospital bill and the nurse’s salary. But that was just kindness. This was business. “I’m surprised you have that much faith in me.”
“I expect you can do whatever you set your mind to, Helen. Weren’t you a mechanic already when you were only a girl?”
“I can’t believe you remember my daddy calling me his girl mechanic.” I held out my hand. “I accept, Colonel Ruppert. Thank you so much for the chance.”
He grasped my hand in both of his own. “All I expect is that you won’t lose me money. I’ll have Kramer act as liaison, since you two get along so well.”
“We do. In fact, Albert’s coming to the rehearsal tonight. I’ll tell him all about it.”
“Very good.” We walked outside together. He turned to me under the marquee. “Helen, what do you know about Harry Frazee?”
“The producer? Oh, well, everyone on Broadway knows him.”
“But what do you know of him personally?”
“Not much.” I remembered something Rex had said, about Frazee being the owner of the Red Sox, and realized what Ruppert’s motivation must be. “Is this about that player, Babe Ruth?”
“You’ve always been a sharp one, Helen. Anything you can find out about Frazee could be helpful to me. Keep your ear to the ground and let me know if you hear anything.” He sniffed the evening air. “Weather seems good, don’t you think? I’m taking Mother up to Rhinecliff this afternoon to spend the weekend.”
A pang of longing made me sigh. “I wonder what it would be like to see the town again.”
“You’ve never been back?”
“My mother prefers to leave the past behind. I’ve never even visited my father’s grave.” I felt a sudden surge of guilt about doing business with Colonel Ruppert—after all, it had been my father’s eagerness to attract the millionaire’s money that led him to risk his life on that motorcycle.
“Your father was a fine man, Helen. You must miss him very much.”
“I have so few memories of him anymore. I think you might have known him better than I did.”
“I knew Jerry for many years. Before he got into engines, he built sulkies. Do you know what they are?” I had to shake my head no. “They’re the carts we use in harness racing. We’d bring Jerry down to Linwood when we needed an extra driver on the practice track. He was such an eager young man back then. Handsome, too. B
efore long, he was challenging me to races. That’s how they met, your parents. When your mother was a maid at Linwood, she’d come stand at the rail to watch us circle the track.”
“I never knew that,” I said, grateful for this picture of my parents I now had in my mind. I supposed I had nothing to feel guilty about after all. Trotter against trotter, motorcycle against Roadster—the competition between Ruppert and my father dated back to before I was born.
“Jerry Winthrope was my friend, but you were his daughter, Helen. You knew the best of him.” He cleared his throat. “I almost forgot. Richard Martin told my man you hadn’t been paid yet.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew his billfold, and handed me a fifty-dollar Federal Reserve note. I wondered if he always carried that much cash or if he’d brought it for this very purpose. “Consider this a signing bonus. I’ll instruct the bookkeeper that you’re to earn twenty-five dollars a week, plus expenses.”
I took the note from his hand, entranced by that image on the back of a woman rising like a goddess from the waters of the Panama Canal. As a bonus it was generous, but the salary he proposed was less than I’d been making as an actress—when I was working, that is. This would be a steady salary, but I’d have to keep living at home if I ever hoped to pay my mother back. “Thank you, Colonel Ruppert, for everything.”
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