Oh, to be in Vienna again—
Ben
Don read the letter to me aloud. And when he put it down, he said to me, “Ginnie, my child, the world is on its last legs. It cannot stand up another year.” He said it without hysteria, as a simple statement of fact. I didn’t contest it because I suspected it might be correct. It was awful. I couldn’t help Don. I couldn’t help Ben. I could barely help myself.
The next day, first thing in the morning, Don quit his job at 20th. Just as I had returned from a shopping spree and was coming up the stairs, he told me.
“Well,” I asked, “do you have another job?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that smart?”
“No. But it’s necessary. I’m never going back. It’s a master stroke.”
True to his word, Don never went back.
We opened at The Blue Angel. Smasheroo! Two shows a night and every show sold out. We had a full seven-piece orchestra and lights that swirled oranges and yellows so hot that the front tables got sunburned. Yes, there were real people out there, some of them rude, yes, but, for the most part, they were appreciative. And applause. We had applause. I had never heard it before—and what a glow it gave me. Only a few of the kids had ever danced professionally, and, when we came off following our first number, we were so stratospheric that to the casual observer we had to look like junkies. In any case, I was hooked. I mean, I just loved it. Pow-bam, zocka-wocka-chung!
Reviews? They were great. Almost all of them mentioning “the tall blonde girl in the all-black group.” I was interviewed a couple of times but stuck to my story, maintaining that I was a Negress and proud of it. The reporters didn’t know what to do with that one so they just quoted me and let it go at that. Roland was very helpful in that area, heading off the ratty columnists and steering me only at the good guys.
We were all having a fine time. We worked hard, yes, but you work hard in a turkey, too, only without the praise and the money and the applause. My first professional job and I was a hit. The Variety review praised Annice, of course, because she was nothing short of brilliant. I mean, she took the floor tall, loose-limbed, a brown python so slinky-sexy that every man in the audience had his tongue out so far that it looked like his necktie. But there was also this nice paragraph about me:
…special mention must be made of the one, it would seem, Caucasian in the group. Her name is Ginnie Maitland, and, though she claims to be from the inner regions of the Dominican Republic, she more nearly looks as though she hails from the outer reaches of Sweden. Long-legged, blond and blue-eyed, she dances so convincingly Negro that, five minutes into the lush choreographic jungles of Haiti, her story of being the albino daughter of a black coffee-worker father and a black cotton-picking mother seems almost plausible. In any event, her presence as one of the Annice Chatterton Dancers is no mere concession to publicity—the girl is good, very good. Check that—the girl is marvelous.
We ran for six weeks and could have run forever except that the bookings were piling in from out of town where the clubs were bigger and the money better. And so we all got ready to go on tour—Chicago with Danny Thomas, Cincinnati with Polly Bergen, St. Louis with Martin and Lewis, Pittsburgh, Denver, Los Angeles, San Francisco—supporting the biggest names in the business. And, in some cases, we would be the headliners. We, the Annice Chatterton Dancers, and me, Ginnie the Jungle Girl.
My life opened like a pat straight flush. And money was burning holes in my leotards. I bought fantastic clothes at the three B’s (Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf’s, and Bonwit’s) and people actually knew me when I traipsed down Fifth Avenue like it was my own private street and what were they doing on it? I was not yet eighteen but looked older. Men were sending me flowers but Roland kept me away from them, saying that they only wanted me for the thrill of bagging a black girl.
I liked Don. Very much. I respected his mind, he was so clever. But I was also drawn to him by the sadness that was gathering around him. He was looking for work but was coming up empty. I couldn’t blame him for turning down those so-called great opportunities. They weren’t great at all. They were dead ends; over-the cliff hopes of landing in a pot of honey. Why couldn’t the world see what he had to offer?
He would be up when I got home and, as tired as he was, was always pleasant in our predawn chats. He always had something waiting—coffee, tea, hot chocolate, cookies, crackers and cheese—something, anything. It was all wrong, of course, and we both knew it; but it was our own little platonic world and we enjoyed it to its fullest, especially since we both knew that it was all winding down, coming to some kind of natural end.
I didn’t sleep in Ben’s room anymore but I still allowed that fantasy to fester because I really wanted a lover and Ben was perfect because he couldn’t say no. I would talk to his picture, sleep with it under my pillow, and pray that he would come out of the Army in one piece and soon. It was a little sick, I must admit, and dreadfully juvenile, but so was I. And his letters, more mature than in the beginning, contributed to my belief that he was really with me, in the apartment, in my room, in my bed. And many’s the time I’d fall asleep, hugging the hell out of my pillow, sleeping lengthwise alongside it, pushing it down to my belly, wrapping my legs around it. Sick, sick, sick, but nobody knew but me and God; and one thing about God—he could keep his mouth shut.
Letter from Ben:
Dear Don:
I have no words of wisdom for you. You’re right, you just have to sweat it out. Yes, the travel business sounds good so, yes, you should pursue it. But even then, don’t be too hasty. Don’t go jumping right in.
Winter is showing signs of leaving town, for which I’m grateful. It’s been a bad time for us all. Holdoffer still swaggers but he’s calmed down a little. Methinks we make him nervous (me, Johnny & Tony), so he tries to steer clear of us. Tony still swears he’ll kill him and we all have a fine time devising various perfect crimes.
Met a fine female in Boston, serving coffee at the USO. Very pretty, very charming, very well-educated. Society, I think, but it’s all been surface talk so far. I keep finding myself drawn to her, so I go there whenever I can get off the post.
New York is still too far to go and come back from in just one day and, as the new company commander, Lt. Collings, is a stickler for there being no car accidents because of guys speeding back to camp to make Monday morning roll call, we simply aren’t allowed to go further than a fifty-mile radius. Still, some guys do it, and—if I get desperate, I may just pop in on you.
With winter doing a slow fade, spring is kind of whispering into the picture. It’s strange how spring and autumn are so alike and yet such inversions. You can wake up on a day in either April or October—the air, the temperature, it can all be indentical and yet you know there’s a difference. Spring, I think, is a promise whereas autumn is a threat. One says life and the other points to death. I’m glad it’s April and not October and I hope that, any day now, you’ll be glad, too.
My best to your Ginnie and tell her that I thank her for taking such good care of you and our place.
Let me know the minute something happens,
Ben
My reaction to that letter was twofold. First, come home, Ben! Come to New York! Break the fifty-mile radius line and do it soon, please, before I leave town! And second, Ben, you bastard! How can you be playing with a girl in Boston when you know how very much I love you here in New York?
Sy Fein called and asked if he could come to see me. I took it to be a bad sign. Up till then my checks from the restaurant had been coming in pretty regularly—thirty dollars, forty, thirty-five, thirty-seven. Each week, the extra money I’d put in my new bank. Don was out on an interview somewhere, so when Sy arrived I was alone in the apartment. I hadn’t seen him in months. After the fire and my move uptown, we conducted our business on the phone and through the mail. And when he stepped into the apartment, oying from the climb, I suddenly realized how much I’d missed him, so I gave him a hug to end
all hugs, saying, “Oy, my Jewish mama!”
“Hello, Blondie.” He stepped back, holding my hands in his big paws while looking at me. “It is you, no?”
“Yes! You dope!”
“I couldn’t be sure. From all I’ve been reading I expected maybe a colored girl.”
“I am colored.”
“Thank you. And I’m Cardinal Spellman.” He looked around at the apartment. “Nice place. Big. You live here by yourself?”
“You are my Jewish mother.”
“Just asking. Of course, what do I know from modern living? Maybe you sleep in one room on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and in this other room on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. And look at this—a Sunday room. Some business. Tsk-tsk-tsk.”
“Sy, I don’t live here alone.”
“A boy or girl? Don’t tell me.”
“A boy.”
“I told you not to tell me.”
“His name is Don.”
“Uncle Don, he’s not.”
“He’s very nice. It’s very platonic. We’re sharing expenses.”
“Why tell me? It’s none of my business.”
“Sy, it’s okay. I swear. I promise.”
He smiled. “Good. Mind if I sit?” He sat. “That’s some flight of stairs. A man has to be a human fly.”
“It’s so good to see you again.”
“It won’t be so good the next words you hear.”
“What’s wrong?”
“First, let’s talk about you. I hear great things. You’re a star, yes?”
“Well—”
“Now, let’s get down to business. The restaurant is dying.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Who knows? People stop coming. The quality of the food was never better but suddenly we’re out of vogue. Also, a ridiculous restaurant opens two doors down. Absolutely ridiculous. You ready to hear about it?”
“Ready.”
“Take a guess at what it’s called.”
“Schrafft’s.”
“Close. It’s called The Outside Inn. And right next to it, three doors down, take a guess at what its partner is called.”
“Well—”
“You guessed it. The Inside Out. I give it three weeks. Meantime, to stay alive for those three weeks, Sayonara needs more money—to stand the gaff, as Iri says, whatever that means. You go in business with a Jap and you have to be prepared for strange things to happen to your native tongue.”
“How much do you need?”
“Another five hundred dollars, but I can’t accept it.”
“What?”
“I can’t let you do it. Forget I asked.”
“But you did ask.”
“Make believe I didn’t. I’m going. Good-bye and good luck.”
“Sy, I can give you the money.”
“You must be out of your mind.”
“I’ve always been out of my mind. I’ll write you a check.”
“I can’t accept it.”
“But you came all the way up here.”
He smiled. “To bid an official good-bye to my blondie partner. Also, to give you your last check from the last profits, which was two weeks ago if a day.”
“Oh, Sy—”
“Don’t ‘oh, Sy’ me. It’s no big thing. Here. Three dollars and forty-six cents. Invest it wisely. I hear Coca-Cola is a good thing.”
“But you’re going to let the restaurant close?”
“I already let it. Last week.” He waved at last week as if pushing it out the window. “But it’s not all that bleak. Iri and I got some of our money out of it. Iri’s going back into service, in the kitchens of Mrs. Samuel Pincus, in Scarsdale, where he’ll lay low and make a comeback next time there’s a Pearl Harbor. As for me, guess what? I’m going for number seven, my new lucky number. A candy store on Third Avenue and East Thirty-second Street. A prime location for bankruptcy. If you’re ever in the neighborhood and you need a Raisinet or a Goober, come in and I’ll overcharge you only slightly. Until then, Blondie—Alf Weeder’s son.”
He was at the door, smiling, his huge arms stretching toward me, beckoning for a hug. I ran over and hid there.
He patted my back, as if to burp me. “You’re some Blondie. Ready to give me another five hundred dollars at the drop of a needle. If I was thirty years younger—you wouldn’t even be born yet.” He broke away and went down the stairs. “Keep in touch. And don’t forget, Third Avenue and Thirty-second Street. Guess what it’s called?”
“What?”
“Sy’s Candy Store. Has a good ring to it, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye, Blondie. Let’s have lunch.” And he was gone, oying his way down the five flights of stairs, the top of his red head descending like a Jewish setting sun.
So—I was out of the restaurant business. I felt bad, not for myself because I was swinging, but for Sy. He was so damned unstoppable. I knew they’d never beat him down. If I could have crossed Sy Fein with Don Cook, what a hybrid I’d have had—a brilliant, tireless, verbal, gutsy character that could quote Spenser while spicing it, in meter, with dramatically interspersed oy’s.
I tooted over to The Blue Angel where we’d be closing after that night’s two shows. Annice wanted us all to meet following the last show, at which time she’d give us our itinerary, our tickets, and tell us how we’d be living on the road.
The nine o’clock show was great. But the midnight show was like we had never been before. I mean, the beads flew, the skirts unfurled, and the drums rattled the pots and pans out in the kitchen. Like a jungle telegraph. We were soaring. Annice was inhabited, stepping around in her black glory, and the rest of us got right up in the trees with her. I counted twelve curtain calls before the stage manager decided that enough was enough and left the curtain drawn.
Still in costume, still steaming like race horses, we assembled backstage where Annice applauded us and we applauded her and each other—and then we all collapsed on the floor, laughing and crying and not knowing what the hell we were doing.
Annice made a lovely speech, very courtly, in her precise English just tinged with Jamaican sing-song. It was all filled with gratitude and hope, running over with visions of how far we’d be going, how much of America would see us and love us. Roland gave us our tickets and instructions as to where we were to meet the next day—what time, what train—all that. Then we cheered like Notre Dame and broke up like we’d never see each other again but would always remember our beloved alma mater.
I looked at my ticket and my typewritten instructions and at the little note I almost missed because it was stuffed so far back into the envelope. It was from Annice; would I please come to her dressing room?
Where all the kids shared one barnlike room backstage, Annice, as befit her station, had her own dressing room. I went there fearfully, wondering if the plans hadn’t changed, if maybe I had indulged my “black” image so much that Annice felt I was stealing her thunder. I knocked on the door so softly that not even I could hear.
“It’s open,” Annice called. I went in and sat down. Annice was in her shower. Her dressing room was very Afro-Cuban. Wood sculptures, ebony, and weird and exotic draperies. It was almost as nice as Roland’s. “Ginnie?”
“Yes.”
“Relax. I’ll be right out. Sit down.”
I tried to relax in that one big chair, stuck out in the middle of the room all by itself, as if for the third degree. What an odd place to put a chair.
In a few minutes she stepped out of the shower, a coffee-colored princess, six feet of statuesque majesty, moving lightly, in sections, one pushing the other, like a snake—dreamlike, almost in slow motion. Wow. Nude, she glided over to her red robe, hung on a big brass hat rack. I had never seen her naked before. None of us had. She wrapped herself in the robe, drew it closed, and made a loose knot in the belt to hold it. “Well, Ginnie, what do you think?”
“What do I think?” I was punchy. Her perfume was everywhere, something li
ke Jungle Gardenia.
“About our show. Our future. The fun times ahead.”
“Oh. Well—I think it’s sensational.”
“We’ve got to economize on the road a little bit so we’ll be doubling up, all of us.” She poured some rum into two small glasses and handed one to me. “You’ll be with me. I hope you won’t mind.” She stood there, sipping her rum.
“Mind? I’m flattered.” I took a sip of rum and it flew to my toes. I looked down to see if they hadn’t lit up like Christmas bulbs.
“I’m flattered, too. You’re a very lovely girl. Skin.”
“Pardon?”
“Skin is what it’s all about. The texture of skin. You have beautiful skin, Ginnie.”
“Yeah, well, keeps my bones from falling out.”
She laughed, but I was beginning to get a very bad message, one I hadn’t expected and didn’t want. She moved about like a lioness, so graceful that I had to continually look to see if her feet were truly touching the floor. Even her hair was special, short but rich-looking, silky. I had never been aware of her hair before because she had always been wearing a turban.
She circled the entire room, as if she were stalking me, two times, three, coming closer each time until, finally, she was standing directly in front of me. She reached down with those long fingers and held my face so that it looked up into hers. And she smiled down at me. “Ginnie?”
“Yes?”
“What do you know about me?”
“Well, I know you’re a great dancer and—”
“I mean, what have you heard?”
“Heard?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
“Really?” She was untying her robe and drawing it back like a curtain, and I was suddenly looking at that exquisitely sculpted stomach—flat, muscular, yet classically female. Mocha and marvelous. “Give me your hand, Ginnie.”
Only I wasn’t interested. “Listen—”
“Give me you hand.”
I wriggled free and stood up, knocking the chair over. “Excuse me, but I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”
There Should Have Been Castles Page 16