Beaches

by Iris R. Dart

  Okay, so there was one little thing bothering her, but nothing she would tell Nathan in a letter, especially a letter Leona would open and devour before Nathan got home from work. It was Bertie and John Perry. She felt like a jerk even thinking about it. It wasn’t that Bertie was doing anything, exactly. Jesus, this was stupid, but it was the way Cee Cee saw them laughing together sometimes, or the way she saw him give Bertie little pats on the ass he never gave anyone else. Maybe it wasn’t Bertie’s part of it so much—but, well, here she was, Cee Cee finally playing a lead, and Perry still not paying any attention to her. Christ, Bertie was a costume girl. That’s all. Bertie wasn’t belting out, “A little brains, a little talent,” until it knocked everyone dead at rehearsals, and Perry still seemed to like her better, anyway. All he ever said to Cee Cee during rehearsals was, “Got your lines down, Cee Cee?”

  Lines down? Even in the sixth-grade play, she’d had her lines down the first day.

  And sometimes, when Cee Cee was trying to rehearse her song with Jay Miller at the piano, Perry would be laughing with Bertie.

  Cee Cee hated herself for thinking even one crummy thought about Bertie, who was spending every day making a wonderful dress from scratch for Lola’s dance number where she teases Joe, “Whatever Lola wants.” Bertie promised the dress would look “really spectacular” (with exclamation points).

  Bertie was so sweet. And she couldn’t really be involved with John Perry. How crazy. Jesus, she was only sixteen and he was in his thirties. That would be nuts. He could get arrested or something. Probably it looked that way because Bertie was such a big flirt. She flirted with everybody. She batted those long, gorgeous eyelashes at every guy. Even that old “faygelah” (Leona’s word) Moro Rollins, who joked when Bertie fitted his pinstripe trousers for Henry Higgins that it was “the best time he’d had in weeks.” Who was he trying to kid?

  Cee Cee drifted off to sleep.

  THE BEACH WAS PEACEFUL early in the morning. And now, in the middle of July, it was hot enough to get a tan by nine o’clock. Cee Cee lay on her stomach on a towel reviewing the lyrics to her songs. Sunday was becoming her favorite day. The theater was dark and everyone was pretty much free to work alone on lines or routines, unless the show was in a crisis, which Damn Yankees wasn’t. Cee Cee knew she should have put some oil on her back, but she also knew if she got oil on her hands she’d end up getting it all over the musical score, and besides, she didn’t feel like it. She felt comfortable and warm and happy. Even the dancers had told her what a great job she was doing. That was a real compliment because Lola was a part a dancer could have played if only the singing wasn’t so hard. But Cee Cee could sing and dance, too. So she got it. The show would open tomorrow night. She couldn’t wait.

  “Hi.”

  Cee Cee looked up. It was Bertie. In a ruffled two-piece suit. Boy, she was pretty. Even though the sun was behind her and Cee Cee couldn’t see all of her features, she still looked pretty.

  “Neetie let me have the car all day,” she said, spreading her towel next to Cee Cee’s.

  “That’s great,” Cee Cee said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Bertie said, plopping down and reaching for Cee Cee’s suntan oil. “She only did it because she feels guilty.” There was a silence as Cee Cee wondered what the tearful Neetie could feel guilty about.

  “We’re leaving on Tuesday morning.”

  Cee Cee felt a terrible pang and turned on her side to face Bertie.

  “No! Why?”

  “Oh, Herbie’s been calling her. He says he misses her and loves her, and didn’t mean to go with that other girl since Neetie’s the only one for him, and lots of other stuff like that. Frankly, I think the other girl probably got tired of him. He’s a creep. Anyway, she’s chomping at the bit to get back to him. She wanted to leave this morning, but I talked her into waiting at least until I saw your show open.”

  “Can’t you stay without her?”

  “Nope. I called my mother this morning and asked her. I told her the other apprentices lived in an apartment near the theater, and I could move in there, and that I really wanted to stay and be with you, and she didn’t care. She said, ‘Roberta, you’re only sixteen, and I still decide what’s best for you, and I want you to come home!’ I’m furious at her.”

  Cee Cee couldn’t speak. She had imagined that she and Bertie would be together all summer. Now it was all ruined.

  “My mother doesn’t trust me,” Bertie said, pouting. “One minute she lets me come here to be Neetie’s nursemaid, and the next she’s making me come home like I was a six-year-old child instead of a sixteen-year-old woman.”

  “What does she think you’ll do?” Cee Cee asked.

  Bertie took a deep breath. “Get laid,” she said.

  It sounded funny, like a punchline to a joke, and Cee Cee laughed. Bertie started to laugh, too, and they laughed harder when their eyes met. Finally, shrieking with laughter, the two of them rose and ran down the beach into the water, splashing and ducking each other, coming up sputtering and squealing. After they ran back up the beach, water-logged, and dried off, Bertie held the music score from Damn Yankees to see if Cee Cee knew the words.

  “Perfect,” Bertie said when Cee Cee finished.

  The sun was getting higher in the sky. Bertie scrunched sand between her toes, let it go, and scrunched it again.

  She was thinking about her mother, who had raised her alone, without a man, for fourteen of her sixteen years, and never once said, “God this is hard,” or, “I envy other women for having husbands.” People said Rosie was “resourceful,” or they would tell Bertie, “Your mother is amazingly strong.” Bertie knew Rosie loved the image of being not only beautiful—which she was, a little like Katharine Hepburn—but also tough like the characters Hepburn played in movies.

  And as far as family, it was almost as if her mother enjoyed not having a husband. Just being the two of them. Not having some man around to boss them or needing to be catered to. Just the two of them to “carry on,” as Rosie would say. But even though her mother didn’t complain to Bertie or to anyone, there were lots of times when Bertie felt sorry for her. Like the time when she was outside shoveling snow from the driveway, so she could pull the car out to get Bertie to school. And up and down the street all the other people who stood in the driveways shoveling were men.

  And those times on Father’s Day when, to make Bertie feel better about not having a father, Rosie would take her out to North Park for a picnic and in honor of the day tell stories about Bertie’s daddy Joseph, and how they met and what a “helluva good guy” he was. God rest him.

  When she told those stories, Bertie could always see the loneliness in Rosie’s eyes.

  There was no doubt that Bertie’s mother made their lives very bright and full and kept her daughter from feeling deprived though fatherless, and probably because she didn’t have a husband to worry about and fuss over, she worried about and fussed too much over Bertie. Certainly protected her too much, in Bertie’s mind. Like the way Rosie hated the thought of Bertie’s working at a theater.

  “If I’d had any idea you’d end up being involved in show business,” she said on the phone, not finishing the sentence—not having to.

  “Show business,” Bertie said aloud. “It’s so strange. I guess my mother’s right in a way. I’ll be better off in Pittsburgh. I’m really a fifth wheel around here.”

  Cee Cee was spreading the damp towel out on the sand again. She’d put oil on now. Her shoulders were starting to sting. She wished the bookie would change his mind and leave Bertie’s Aunt Neetie for good, so Neetie would have to stay in Ship Bottom all summer and cry, and then Bertie could stay around. Or she wished Bertie’s mother would let Bertie stay without Neetie. But, most of all, she wished she could say things she was feeling, instead of keeping them locked inside, because then she could tell Bertie how important their friendship had become to her.

  “Let’s go out to dinner tonight,” Bertie said. “Just the two o
f us. To Dukes. A celebration of the opening of your show and a good-bye dinner for me.”

  Cee Cee smiled. It was a great idea.

  BERTIE COULDN’T BELIEVE THAT in Cee Cee’s whole life she’d never had a shrimp cocktail. She made her have two at Dukes. Both girls wore cotton sundresses, and with her tan Cee Cee felt as if she looked almost as pretty as Bertie.

  Bertie rambled on about all the odds and ends she had to pull together before she left Tuesday morning, as if she were the owner of the theater instead of just an apprentice. She talked excitedly about the opening of Damn Yankees, and Cee Cee felt a rush of excitement at the thought of how she was going to look in the Lola costumes. John Perry would have to love her in them. Oh, yes. John. Had Bertie told him she was leaving?

  Bertie flushed. She had. He said he would be sorry to see her go, and she changed the subject to Neetie or her mother or something.

  “Bertie,” Cee Cee asked as she sipped her coffee, “don’t you think John Perry is really sexy?”

  Bertie looked at her watch. “It’s late, Cee,” she said, “and you need your sleep for tomorrow night.”

  Bertie dropped Cee Cee at the cast house, made her promise she wouldn’t sit in the living room and yak because it was bad for her voice, and drove away.

  Cee Cee walked through the living room. Peggy Longworth was sitting in a chair reading An Actor Prepares by Stanislavsky, and somebody with a pillow on her face was asleep on the sofa.

  “Good night,” Peggy said as Cee Cee walked upstairs.

  SHE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP almost immediately, even though she knew going to sleep too early was a mistake and now her eyes were open and it was, according to Nathan’s luminous dial, two A.M.

  John Perry. Why was he on her mind? Cee Cee turned over on her stomach. Her body ached from all the dance rehearsals. And she ached inside, too. She would miss Bertie. John Perry. Oh, yes. Him. John Perry in those tight white pants; he must own a dozen pairs. And those tight T-shirts. His arms looked so strong. If only she could fall back to sleep. Had Bertie blushed when she asked her if she thought Perry was sexy? Actually, it wasn’t even an original question. It was something she’d heard one of the dancers ask Marilyn Loughlin, who had laughed and said, “I don’t think he’s sexy, honey. I know he is.” What did that mean? Were Loughlin and John Perry lovers? Did they used to be lovers? Lovers. Aunt Neetie and her bookie husband. Bertie’s desperately horny mother. Shit. She was wide awake.

  Slowly and quietly she got up, dropped her pajama top to her feet and stepped out of it, and slipped a caftan on over her baby-doll pajama bottoms. No one stirred. On tiptoe, she made her way to the door at the top of the stairs and opened it. Down the long wooden staircase that led to the living room. It looked odd in the darkness. The old wicker furniture was tattered, and everything smelled of mildew. Above the sofa hung a needlepoint legend. “You ought to go to Hollywood. The walk will do you good.”

  “A walk will do me good,” Cee Cee said to herself, as if she didn’t know where she was going. As if this was just some insomniac’s way of tiring herself out so she could fall asleep after a nice walk on the beach. Marion Avenue. Was it north or south? North. She had passed it one night when she went with Richie Day to the bus to pick up his mother who was coming to visit.

  “Perry’s house,” Richie had said, pointing.

  Cee Cee had turned to look and couldn’t believe what she saw. It was a palace. A mansion maybe. Big and white and colonial. And Perry’s black Lincoln convertible parked right out in front made the house look even more elegant.

  Now the whole place was dark. Totally. Cee Cee had walked the six blocks rehearsing the words, “I hope I didn’t wake you,” and now they seemed silly. Of course she would be waking him. There wasn’t a light on anywhere. Maybe she should go back. Then why did she keep walking toward the house? She held her breath as she passed the black convertible and walked to the front door. The door knocker was heavy in her hand—but she lifted it and then let go. Just once. The sound was loud and Cee Cee closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Now was the time to go. To run. To get back to the cast house before she said or did something really schmucky. This was a good stock job, and she shouldn’t fuck it up with her crazy big mouth that Leona was always telling her about. “Steppin’ all over yourself,” she called it. Leona should talk.

  The door opened about three inches, and a sleepy-faced John Perry looked out.

  Cee Cee was too nervous to talk.

  “Cee Cee? Is that you? Come on in, kiddo.”

  Kiddo. Not even dear. Just goddamned-no-sweet-talk-for-you, Bloom-Kiddo! Well, fuck you, John Perry. Oh, yes. Fuck you.

  She followed Perry into the warmth of a beautifully furnished living room.

  “Y’okay?”

  “N’huh!”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wine?”

  “No.”

  “Sit down?”

  “Okay.”

  Oh, God. Now she’d done it. He was waiting for her to speak. To tell him what it was that got her to walk here at two in the morning in her caftan and wake him up, for God’s sake. How long could she stall?

  “Cee Cee. What is it?” Perry said, stifling a yawn.

  Now he was bored, Cee Cee thought miserably. What was she doing here? Her foot hurt. Maybe she’d gotten glass in it walking barefoot. Why didn’t she run? Not to the cast house. To the bus station.

  “Cee Cee darling.” There, he said it. “What in God’s name do you want from my life at this hour? Hmmm?”

  Cee Cee took a deep breath. This was it.

  “I want to get laid,” she said.

  Why didn’t it sound funny like the other day when Bertie said it, and they laughed so much? Why did it sound like begging? Why had she blurted it out so quickly when she meant to be really seductive and mysterious and just tell him at first she wanted a little nightcap, like people said in movies. And would he want her? Want to go to bed with a virgin who at nineteen was finally giving up “the golden crotch”? (That’s what Marsha Edelman, a girl in Cee Cee’s high school, had called hers, which she finally gave to her doctor fiancé.) Cee Cee realized she was crying.

  Perry still hadn’t said a word, and Cee Cee wished he would speak because the only sound in the room was the sound of her sobs. Outside, the ocean pounded against the beach; she had a subliminal flash of A Star Is Born, where Norman Maine walked out into the water, leaving his robe on the shore while Esther Blodgett/Vicki Lester sang. Maybe Cee Cee would keep her caftan on when she walked into the water instead of leaving it. At night that water probably felt very, very cold.

  Perry moved toward the sofa where Cee Cee had seated herself and sat down beside her.

  “Cee Cee,” he said. “Cee Cee, please stop crying. For now and forever more, if there is one person who doesn’t have to cry, it’s you. Do you hear me?”

  Oh, yes, she heard him and she saw him and she felt him in that white (Norman Maine) terry-cloth robe next to her, with those adorable furry legs and…

  “Yes,” she said. “I hear you.”

  “Cee Cee,” he said. “Cee Cee. If I have stopped myself once from telling you what I am about to tell you, I have stopped myself ten thousand times. I swear to you on everything that is holy. But you’ve pushed me, forced me, and now I will do it—prudence, caution, and good sense be damned.”

  Oh, my God. He loves me, Cee Cee thought. She steeled herself. Could it be? Oh, my God. Of course. Of course. That’s why he ignored me. Afraid he’d be exposed in front of the others. They won’t understand, and we—

  “Cee Cee. You don’t want to go to bed with me. You want my attention, that’s all. And I’ve known it from the first day you got here. But frankly, baby” (oh, yes) “I’m a little afraid of you, and that’s why I’ve held back.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cee Cee. You’re a star. You have the voice of an angel. The timing of Jack Benny. Confidence that any other actor would kill for. Cee Cee, you are
it. I knew it the day I saw you. I told Jay Miller and Marilyn. They knew it, too. You see, my love, although I hate to admit it, you’re wasting time in my stinking little theater. You’re major stuff. Virtuoso. And you’re right. I have ignored you. Deliberately. I haven’t directed you because you don’t need me. You are beyond me. You know intuitively what I could spend years studying and still wouldn’t learn. Do you hear me, Cee Cee? Do you know what I’m saying? I mean, by all means, stay out the season with us…but, sweetheart, you will be, I predict, on Broadway next year. One good vehicle and good-by. Straight to the top.”

  Cee Cee was shocked. Confused. Yes. Yes. She knew that everything he was saying was true. She knew he meant it, too.

  “Straight to the top in the most competitive cutthroat business in the world. Because everyone wants it and dreams about having it—and you’re one of the few who will.”

  “John…I…don’t…”

  “I know you don’t. You don’t know how to deal with it. It’s heady. It’s big. And you’re scared. Well, you should be. Now go back to the cast house and get some rest. You’ll be fine in the morning, and tomorrow night the show will open and you’ll knock ’em dead. Now go on.”

  Cee Cee got up slowly. Her eyes were puffy, but she’d use some Murine and they’d look fine tomorrow. Perry put his arm around her and walked her to the door.

  “Will you be okay getting back?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and gave the caftan a little pat where he guessed her ass would be, and she was out in the night walking back to the cast house.