“What’d you say your name was?” Don Class asked.
“I didn’t.” Alicia glanced over her shoulder. “It’s Alicia Darr.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Darr. It is a ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, pausing to let the Coke de-fizz before adding a glug more.
Soon, Alicia heard the familiar click-click-click of the projector, followed by the dull murmur from the crowd. The film had finished. Within seconds, people would flood the lobby, and a few minutes after that, George would decamp from his lair.
“So, are you a model?” Don Class asked. “An aspiring starlet?”
The theater doors opened, and the people poured out. Or, rather, they trickled. The crowd was small that day.
“No, I’m only me, Alicia Darr, the girl who sells candy at the theater.”
“Ha! ‘Only you.’ That’s rich. You know, if I’d met you before our tour kicked off, I would’ve asked you to join my troupe. You’d make a fine addition.”
“What troupe?” George said, materializing behind her. “And who are the dames in the khaki dropping ashes on the carpet?”
“They’re the Coast Guard Queens, here to tour the Cape!”
Alicia said this with gusto, an antidote to George’s tendency to doubt.
How can there be multiple queens? he might ask. Who anointed them as such? And what does the Coast Guard need with a queen?
“I’m not joshing,” Mr. Class said. “You would’ve made a great addition to our stable of girls. I could’ve used an extra blonde, especially one with your figure. Your look is very of-the-moment.”
“Thank you,” Alicia said, blushing, batting her eyes. “I appreciate the compliment.”
“Oh, brother,” George griped.
Alicia handed Don Class the soda. As he reached for it, Alicia noticed the chunky gold ring on his pinkie finger.
“Where are you all from?” she asked.
“The girls … I don’t know. Different parts of the country. Pennsylvania or whatever. I’m from California.”
“California?”
Alicia perked up, as if the sun had at last broken through the clouds. George mumbled something, but Alicia didn’t hear him.
“Yep,” Don Class said. “Los Angeles, to be specific. Hollywoodland. I’m a talent scout by trade, escorting these fine candidates as a favor. You know what?”
He reached into his pocket and groped around, his wristwatch jangling.
“Let me give you my card,” he said. “If you ever want to try your luck in Hollywood, I’ll hook you up.”
“Mr. Class, that’s very generous,” Alicia said. “But I can’t pick up and move to Hollywood! That’d be more foolish than fun.”
“Obviously,” George said.
“I’m not prone to flights of fancy,” she added.
“Flights of fancy?” Mr. Class scoffed. “Nah. You only need to know the right people, and you’re looking at one. I’d make it easy for you. I own a house where all my up-and-coming starlets live, rent-free, until they make it on their own.”
“Really? You set them up?”
“Sure, and I’m certain I could get you gigs within minutes of you stepping onto the tarmac at LAX. And, ya know, it’s sunny in California right now. None of this miserable weather.”
He jerked his thumb toward the door.
“It rains in California too,” George said.
“Does it?” Don Class smirked. “You may be right, but it’s so infrequent we can all pretend that it never happens at all.” He returned his attention to Alicia. “I’d pay your way. You’d certainly be worth the investment.”
“This is ridiculous,” George said, and yanked the card from Mr. Class’s chubby fingers. “Since when did wolves start carrying business cards?”
“George!” Alicia squawked. “Why are you being so rude? Mr. Class, I’m sorry. Please excuse his abhorrent behavior. He’s not good with people.”
“It’s fine. Your boyfriend is being protective. I don’t blame him.”
“He is most definitely not my boyfriend.”
Alicia gestured dismissively with her hand.
“I get it,” Mr. Class said. “Some stranger walks into your place of work and invites you to Hollywood. That sounds like the start of a true-crime story. But they can vouch for me.”
He nodded toward the Coast Guard girls, who were still lolling about the lobby, smoking cigarettes and propping themselves up on potted plants and displays, as if they couldn’t be bothered to stand on their own.
“Feel free to perform due diligence on my background,” Mr. Class said. “You’ll find my résumé unassailable. Have you ever heard of Lana Turner?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I got Lana her start. Ava Gardner, too. Hell, Gloria Swanson has a house right here in Hyannis Port. Call her up, and she’ll give you the scoop.”
“Gloria Swanson,” Alicia said dreamily. “How I loved her in Sunset Boulevard.”
“Something tells me you’d have the talent to beat them all.”
“What a load of crap,” George muttered.
Alicia shot him a cutting glare. Then Don Class took her hand, and kissed it gently.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’ll leave you to your work. The girls and I should probably take our seats.”
“You have some time before the next show.…”
He grabbed his Coke, offered Alicia one last wink, then ambled off, whistling as he went.
“George!” Alicia said, and flipped around.
She grabbed both of his shoulders, and gave him a shake.
“Can you believe it?” she said. “A bona fide talent scout wants to fly me to Hollywood!”
“I cannot believe it, as a matter of fact.”
Alicia flicked him with the back of her hand.
“You need to dream a little,” she said. “California! Can you stand it?”
“But you live here.”
“For now! Relinquish the card, bucko,” she said, and extended her palm.
“You can’t go to Hollywood.”
“Yes, I can. That doesn’t mean I will. It’s a long shot and would depend on so many things, but it’s not out of the question. So, I’ll keep Don Class’s information, should I need it in a pinch.”
“What about Jack?”
“What about him? You’re the one who called him … what was it? Oh, right, a ‘shifty, horse-toothed political puppet.’”
“He’s not that bad,” George said, mumbling again. “Sometimes I get too … colorful.”
“What’s that? Jack Kennedy’s charmed even you?” Alicia bumped him with her hip. “He really can do anything.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “You’ve been in the United States eighteen months and you’ve relocated twice. Now you want to go to California? I realize you’re not accustomed to stability.…”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“But has it ever occurred to you to stay longer, to see how things might work out?”
“You would have the luxury of saying that, wouldn’t you?”
Alicia let her arms fall to her side. Was George really not going to return Don’s card? For a second, she had the fleeting thought that he wanted to keep it for himself.
“Sometimes waiting is the worst decision a person can make,” Alicia said. “A million Jews would agree.”
“But Paul finally likes you. He hasn’t mentioned firing you in the last month. And you appear to be in a romantic relationship with Jack. Things are good, and now you want to leave?”
“George.” Alicia exhaled. “I didn’t say I was leaving. But it can’t hurt to talk to the man, can it? Give myself another option? And what’s wrong with being flattered by a talent scout seeing something in me?”
“Of course he does, you’re beautiful.”
“Oh, George.” Alicia gave him a pout. “That’s the nicest beautiful anyone’s ever called me.”
“Here’s your d
umb card,” he said, holding it up.
“I don’t want it,” Alicia said.
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
George crumpled it and tossed it into a bin on the far side of the room.
“I’d better get ready for the next show,” he said, and pivoted on his shiny black shoes. “Can’t disappoint the Coast Guard Queens. Queens. Of all the ideas.”
Alicia waited, listening to the pit-a-pat of George’s feet as he retreated. As soon as she heard the projection room close, Alicia shot across the lobby and rescued Don Class’s card from the trash. She flattened it against her chest, then slid it into the pocket of her uniform.
She’d probably never use the card, or look at it again, but if nothing else, it represented one option, another second chance. When things went south and you had to leave town, it was best to have an escape route in mind.
* * *
That evening, Alicia found a letter waiting for her on Mrs. Neill’s table, the envelope stark and ominous in the dim kitchen light. She approached it cautiously, as her stomach filled with a snowballing dread.
After ripping it open, like ripping a bandage off a knee, Alicia scanned the words and saw that Mother’s letter was short but not sweet, and riddled with complaints about her fellow DPs, and Alicia, too.
What do I need with your American money? she wanted to know. And how did you get so much? What sorts of tricks are you up to?
For several more lines, she further chided Alicia, then concluded with her customary death toll. Three people had met their ends in the last week, though more were “sure to die at any time.”
We can’t all go to America, you know.
Alicia read the letter a second and a third time. Mamusia’s writing had deteriorated in the past year, the shaky penmanship proof that she was not the woman she’d known. This was not the avid reader, or the cinema fiend, or the person who’d steal into Alicia’s room when Father’s parties became too charged.
“Barbara,” she’d whisper, for Alicia was Barbara then. “I’m bored with these government men. Let’s sneak into the cinema. Let’s visit a café.”
How Alicia loved that beautiful, vibrant mom. Of course, they were all better before the war.
“Oh, Mamusia,” Alicia said with a sniffle, then wiped her eyes. “Przepraszam. I’m so sorry. I love you.”
Alicia refolded the letter and placed it in her purse, next to the wrinkled card from Don Class. Well, if her earnings didn’t impress Mother, a career in film surely would. She imagined her mom at the camp, bragging about her movie star daughter, and also boasting about the daughter’s beau, who was handsome and interesting, especially for a “government man.”
DISILLUSIONMENT ON WAY TO STARDOM
New York Close-Up, May 1, 1951
NEW YORK
Alicia’s glass was heavy all night, only a sip or two gone before someone filled it again. Every few minutes, another bottle cracked, and more champagne bubbled down wrists and onto the table.
They were at the Stork Club in New York City, a place Alicia had ogled in the gossip rags. It seemed like a fantasy to be there, and she’d never forget her debut.
When they arrived, a doorman unlatched a solid gold chain and waved them through. Someone handed Alicia a gardenia, and ushered them into a pink-lit, wood-paneled room. As they squeezed into the banquette, Alicia caught her reflection in one of the dozen or so mirrors. She did not recognize this woman with the makeup, the jewels, the wind-tousled hair.
Jack’s friends piled in after them, demanding champagne and caviar before they sat down. Alicia didn’t order, but she refused nothing and soon found herself enchanted by the saltiness of the caviar, and the dry prickle of the champagne.
“You okay?” Torby asked, an hour into the evening.
He’d noticed Alicia’s halfhearted effort at conversation, the way her eyes were drifting about the room.
“Sure, all’s nifty,” Alicia said, using the word for the very first time. “Just letting Jack catch up with his chums.”
She loved Jack’s brain, and admired his head for politics, but could pro-and-con General MacArthur’s retirement speech for only so long before letting her mind wander to other things. The latest dress. A new crocodile handbag. The beaches in L.A.
“You see?” Torby said, and pointed his cigarette in her direction. “This is exactly the sort of thing that makes you a winner in my book. You sit there, pretty as a picture, not demanding an ounce of recognition. Your subtlety gives you more allure.”
“Mmmm,” Alicia said with a smirk she hoped to pass off as a smile.
She never would’ve guessed Torb Macdonald favored modest types, given the large-busted blonde right then pawing at his forearm, unconcerned that her nipples were partially exposed.
“Hey, Billings,” Torb called out to Lem, who sat directly across from them.
The woman cooed and preened.
“Don’t you think Alicia is the top broad Jack’s brought around?” He looked her way. “And that’s quite the accomplishment, since he goes through women like water. Or like the shitty soup he eats, which is basically the same thing, but with salt.”
Lem chuckled, though it seemed forced. Alicia had been with Lem enough to understand that he enjoyed Jack best when there were fewer people along.
“She’s a gem,” he agreed, in a monotone.
Alicia got the sense Lem didn’t care for her, but as he possessed all the charm of a walrus, and with the teeth to match, she didn’t let it bother her too much.
“No airs,” Torb went on. “No pretentiousness. You’re not the least bit of a pain in the ass.”
“Thank you for your very generous comments,” Alicia said. “I’ve always dreamt of not being a pain in the ass.”
Even Lem had to break face for that.
“What are you fuckahs bullshitting about?” asked Dave Powers, who sat to Torb’s right. “And did someone say ‘ass’?”
“We were talking about how much we like Miss Darr,” Torb said, not really answering Dave’s question, either way.
Alicia was starting to grow uncomfortable. She was being sold, but to what end she didn’t know.
“Oh, yeah, she’s a peach,” Dave said with a nod. “Smart. A hot numbah. Plus, she doesn’t try to befriend our wives, which is swell.”
As he cackled, Alicia’s stomach turned over. Dave Powers gave her the willies. He was too slick in public, too crass in places like a VIP room, and, more importantly, this was the first Alicia had heard about any spouses. Until that moment, she’d assumed Jack’s friends were bachelors. The girls with them that night Alicia had taken for girlfriends, not secrets kept from wives.
“Speaking of ass,” Dave said, right on time. “Who’s that piece? The brunette? She’s pretty, but seems a tad uptight. I was thinking that Dr. Powers could give her one of his special injections.”
“Jesus,” Alicia muttered, as Torby let out a guffaw, and Lem reddened.
“Yeah, go offer her one of your legendary injections, Powers,” Torb said. “Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing.’”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s Helen,” Alicia said. “Helen Doyle, Jack’s new secretary.”
“Niiiiiice,” Dave said. “So, does Jack need her services tonight? Or might she be up for some dictation from me?”
He gesticulated toward his groin, and Alicia shuddered. She didn’t like to imagine Dave thinking of Helen in that way, chiefly because she didn’t want to picture Jack taking a similar view.
Alicia preferred secretaries of the thick-ankled, matronly variety but, sadly, Helen Doyle was pretty. And young. She worked out of the Boston office, which did not explain why she was right then in New York. Neither did it explain what Alicia walked into earlier that night.
When she arrived at Jack’s suite at the Waldorf Astoria, exhausted and bedraggled following her train-and-bus odyssey from the Cape, a w
oman answered the door. Alicia peered around her to find Jack sitting on the bed.
There was nothing untoward about the situation. Both parties were fully clothed, though Jack looked rumpled, as he usually was these days. The woman, still nameless at that point, wore a long, black sheath. Her sable hair was drawn into a low chignon and her cheeks were flushed.
“Hiya, kid,” Jack said, his expression brightening though he made no move.
“Hello,” Alicia answered, sneaking a glance at the flawless porcelain figure now stationed at Jack’s desk.
She was delicate, like a child, or an undernourished baby deer.
“Hello there!” Alicia called out. “I don’t believe we’ve met!”
She took five brisk, confident strides to greet her.
“I’m Alicia Darr,” she said, and stuck out a hand.
“Helen Doyle,” the woman replied, with a soft, cold handshake.
“Helen’s my new Boston gal,” Jack said, reading through some memo or speech. “You two should get yourselves acquainted.”
“I think we just did,” Helen said, gathering her things. “Please ring if you need anything. Is the plan to meet in the lobby at nine o’clock?”
“You bet,” Jack said.
“That’s in ten minutes,” Helen said. “Please be prompt. Not even you could lose track of time before then.”
Jack laughed, and Alicia fumed, though everyone had acted perfectly appropriate and polite.
“She’s coming tonight?” Alicia asked, as soon as Helen was out the door.
But Jack had no inclination to talk guest lists right then. He pounced on Alicia like a jackal, ripping off her clothes as if skinning prey. They were both finished and dressed in time to meet Helen downstairs at nine o’clock, on the nose. When they walked up, she inspected them disapprovingly.
“I don’t like her,” Alicia whispered.
“Helen? How come? She’s nice. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure she’s the sharpest tool.”
It was all Alicia needed to hear. Pretty was great, but Jack needed smart, too. Also, he didn’t like brunettes.
Now Dave Powers was leering at the poor girl like she was a twelve-ounce steak. Helen Doyle was out of her element, out of place, and could probably do with some consideration from a well-heeled man.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 18