There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  “Yes.”

  “You know he’s not just jerking off.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then at least talk to him.”

  “Okay.”

  I talked with Richie Pickering. He was a sensational dancer and everyone knew it. About thirty, he’d had featured dance roles in Brigadoon and Finian’s Rainbow, and though I suspected he might be gay, his dancing never showed it. His dancing was masculine, very butch. And the rumor was that he’d done a lot of choreography in other shows only never got credit for it. He didn’t try to high-pressure me. He wanted me because I was fair and Florrie was dark and we complemented each other. He’d pay us during rehearsals, and, if I liked, we could begin rehearsals without my having to quit Guys and Dolls. It would mean about twenty minutes sleep a night, but if it didn’t work out I’d still be with Guys and Dolls and would’ve lost nothing but a little sleep.

  I couldn’t find anything wrong with what he said so I agreed to give it a try. We rehearsed a couple hours every day, two separate routines: a wild jazz number to “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and a sophisticated kind of Caribbean interpretation of “Sweet Georgia Brown.” And if there was a music I was good at, it was Carra-bee-an, bay-bee.

  As usual, I picked up very fast. Lucas Harrison arranged our music, gratis. We could pay him later, if and when. Charles Strouse played rehearsal piano for us while his partner, Lee Adams, leaned on the water cooler and told us how great we were. (A few years later they would clobber Broadway with Bye-Bye, Birdie.) Everybody was very supportive and the act was pulling together. It was très chic—mostly jazz dancing, modern, but with enough ballet peppered in to give it a wildly distinctive style.

  After two weeks, some agents from William Morris ambled by to catch the act. One guy was named Lenny and the other was named Bernie, or vice versa. If you’re in show business long enough, you learn that all agents are named Lenny and Bernie and call you “kid” and tell you that “you’ve got the goods”—and, to prove it, they set up auditions for important people who have nothing better to do with their time and want to feel that they’re really being swell so they come. For us they set up an audition with Noah Sobel, producer of The Joey Magnuson Show, a weekly Saturday night TV show starring (you guessed it) Joey Magnuson. It always got such high ratings that the other networks seldom put on anything against it but puppet shows, wrestling and test patterns.

  We gave it a go, showing up wordlessly terrified in a rehearsal hall just opposite the City Center because that’s where Sobel had his headquarters and that’s where he was at the time because that’s where he was all the time.

  Joey Magnuson wasn’t there, which came as a relief because we’d heard that he was a perfectionist and we were far from perfect. But Noah Sobel was there and he was the man we’d have to convince. Also present, eating hero sandwiches because it was lunch hour, were all the writers, among whom was Florrie’s boyfriend, Monty Rivers. They were all mad and funny and helpful, making it so easy for us to be good that, when we finished up our two separate four-minute routines, sweaty as we were, we went around hugging everyone as if we’d been hired, like boxers trying to convince the judges that the decision was in the bag. We hugged Charles at the piano and Lee at the water cooler. We even hugged Lenny and Bernie, soiling their white-on-white shirts.

  We didn’t hug Noah Sobel because that would have been a little much. Once we got started, I never looked at him, and only when we’d finished did I dare look to see if he was there. He was, as silent and unmoving as he was when we first came in, as though he hadn’t seen anything and was waiting for us to begin. It threw me and I felt my stomach go queasy. Could it be that we hadn’t auditioned yet?

  Then Monty, laying aside a hero sandwich he said had died a coward’s death, hopped onto his chair, whistling and applauding and yelling things like “Velez and Yolande look out!” and “All the good Jewish dancers are not dead!” Then, sticking a big cigar in his mouth, he sidled over to Noah Sobel and said, loud, so that everyone would hear, “Noah, boychik, these kids are going to the tippy-top. Akron, Duluth, Ecuador. There’ll be no stopping them. If you don’t sign them, Ziegfeld will, because, as you know, no one has a better eye for young talent than Sid Ziegfeld. Don’t be a schmuck, Noah. Don’t lose ’em like you lost Hitler. Hitler was a great tap-dancer. If you’d of signed him like I suggested, millions of lives would have been saved. But no, you told him he had no talent and that he should grow a mustache and comb his hair funny and—whacko—he declares war. Noah, if you don’t want to be responsible for World War III, sign ’em. Sign the Richie Hitler Trio. And if you do, for comic relief, I’ll throw in Herm, Fats Göring and the Panzers.”

  Noah Sobel allowed a smile to push up his ears and he stood up and left the room, motioning for Lenny and Bernie to follow him. They did, as if they were carrying his train. We felt that something good was going to happen.

  And it did. We were given a spot on The Joey Magnuson Show. Of course, the fact that Florrie was going with Monty didn’t hurt. Monty had assured her that, if Richie could put a really good act together, he, Monty, would guarantee that Noah Sobel would buy it because (The Gospel according to Monty) Monty was blackmailing Noah at the time, being the sole possessor of information and photographs (and catchy tunes) that linked Noah Sobel with the Raisinets smuggling trade in the Catskills and with that infamous eccentric dancer of the French Revolution, George “Taps” Richelieu, who also went by the name Lanny Ross. Madness unchained—that’s the way it was with Monty Rivers. Still is.

  We rehearsed and rehearsed and the act got better and better, and Lenny and Bernie wanted us to sign with William and Morris but Richie didn’t want to sign with anyone just yet, which pissed off all four of those gentlemen. It troubled me a little because Lenny and Bernie had gone to all that trouble and had every right to assume that we’d sign with them, but I didn’t know Richie well enough to question his decision. The Morris office did, however, get the commission on that booking, and, afraid to alienate Richie in case the trio really took off, they chose instead to hang around with offers to help out—no charge—wherever they could. Richie had a good thing going.

  Monty lent us some money to have composites made up, photographs and flattering biographies which he himself had written. I was very impressed with what I read about myself:

  GINNIE MAITLAND—long, lean and lovely, is a graduate of the Orsen Sather Ballet Company of Seattle. A native of the Big Tree Country, the lissome beauty came east only at the insistence of the respected choreographer, Annice Chatterton. Once in New York, the blonde beauty captured the eye of the prominent producer, Noah Sobel, and has fascinated such choreographers as George Ballanchine and Richie Pickering, the latter prevailing upon the blue-eyed ballerina to leave her featured role in Guys and Dolls and join him as one-third of his new and provocative Pickering Trio. After a group of dance concerts with the trio, Ginnie may opt to go to the Soviet Union, at the invitation of that government, to work with the Bolshoi in hopes of demonstrating to Russian audiences her distinctive American style.

  Just above all the lies was a dramatic photo of me on point, looking as though I had just completed a twenty-nine-foot leap and landed on the big toenail of my right foot, holding that position while the Boston Symphony played the entire overture to Swan Lake. The truth is, I have never been able to stay on point for longer than a blink, and the photo was actually of Maria Tallchief but with my head and ponytail pasted on. Still, it was all so terribly impressive that I actually found myself looking forward to my trip to Russia and to the adoration of its dance-knowledgeable public.

  Florrie’s biography was no less unbelievable, except that she was French, a half-sister of Zizi Jeanmaire, and a heroine of the French Underground who danced for Charles de Gaulle during the most despairing moments of the German Occupation. No matter, we were going to be on The Joey Magnuson Show and if that wasn’t exactly caviar, neither was it borscht.

  We were rehearsing like mad because now it was for r
eal. And when we had it down so pat that we could do it in our sleep, we moved over to the studio at NBC where we would soon be rehearsing with a full orchestra. Everything was “live” then. No film, no tape. You went on and you did it. You got one crack at it and, if you fell on your ass, the whole world saw it. But, being a featured act backed by a huge orchestra was worth the risk. Besides, all of Russia would be seeing me soon and I needed the experience.

  Florrie and I gave proper notice to the Guys and Dolls management, who, on hearing the news, yawned. They replaced us with two other nameless girls who would be around for the closing party and could cry and feel a part of some great theatrical tradition.

  Richie Pickering made a pass at me but I think it was only to establish his position as boss, the result of his somehow equating heterosexuality with authority. It was a feeble attempt, sadly half-hearted, in which he whispered in my ear that he’d like to make it with me. Diplomatically I remarked that I liked him very much but that I was about to be married and what would the neighbors think.

  He let the matter drop—only to come on stronger two days later. I didn’t know what to think. How do you say no to a man who seems to be saying “fuck me or you’re fired”? It hadn’t come to that as yet but it was getting there. So I asked Florrie her opinion.

  “He’s straight,” she said, chewing her nails nervously.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” I said, chewing mine.

  “But it’s bad business. If you ball him and he gets tired of you, you’re out. But if you don’t ball him he’ll get pissed off because he’ll think that you think he’s a fag. And you’re out just the same as if you did ball him. So—” she was thinking it through, “if it was me, I’d just as soon be hung for a chicken as for a turkey.”

  “What?”

  “I’d ball him.”

  “But—”

  “No. Wait a minute. Check that. There’s a middle ground. Tell him you’re a dyke and that your girlfriend’ll beat the shit out of you, and, while you’re at it, tell him I’m your girlfriend because he’s been coming on with me, too, and I can do without Monty coming over and cutting Bobby’s balls off with a machete.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Tell him you’ve got the clap.”

  “Think it’ll stop him?”

  “Well, let’s just say it’ll put a crimp in him.”

  “Gee, I don’t know.”

  “Tell him you have syphilis. If that doesn’t stop him, nothing will and you might as well ball him. I don’t know what else to tell you, kid. He seems to have his hard-on set on balling one of us and it ain’t gonna be me. So, I guess it’s every man for himself.”

  “Why couldn’t he be a faggot like everyone else?”

  Florrie shrugged. “You can’t have everything.”

  “Why don’t I tell him that as a child I was raped by Chinese guerrillas and that, as a result, I can’t fuck anyone?”

  “That’d stop Monty.”

  “It would?”

  “Yeah. He’d die laughing.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Grow a cock.”

  “Yes. A good idea. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We weren’t scheduled for The Joey Magnuson Show for a couple weeks. Noah Sobel, about as smart as they come, knew it was our first time and he didn’t want to rush us into it. We kept rehearsing, getting better and better, cutting fifteen seconds from our first number and twenty-three from our second. I don’t mean in steps, I mean in time. We were whizzing through some very tricky routines, which made them look better, smoother. I thought all that speed was risky because it increased our chances of goofing. But Richie disagreed, feeling that the faster we went the less we’d think with our heads and the more we’d think with our bodies. He wanted our dancing to be as involuntary as our breathing. He wanted us to go out there and do it by reflex because that’s what all the great dancers did.

  I came home from rehearsal after first stocking up at the A & P, and when I had finished climbing my five flights of stairs, I saw this soldier sitting against my door. He looked up at me and I looked down at him and all my bundles just slipped through my arms as if greased—eggs, milk, juice, splat, glop. “Jesus Christ!” I said.

  “No. Ben. Ginnie?”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Really? You don’t look like any of your pictures.” He got to his feet.

  And I ran into his arms. “Oh, Ben!” And came all apart. “Oh, Ben—I don’t believe it! I don’t! Is it really you?”

  “I’m pretty sure. Wait—I’ll check my dogtags.”

  But I wasn’t of a mind to take my arms away from his neck. I just hugged him and hugged him, nothing in my head but hugs. Nothing in my arms but Ben. Of course, I cried.

  He was very consoling. “Don’t cry. I’ll buy you more groceries.”

  “You’re home. Jesus Christ, you’re home.”

  “Yeah. Sorry the resurrection took so long. It was my first time and—”

  “You’re home. Oh, Ben, I thought you’d never get here.”

  “I had a few doubts myself.”

  I stepped back to look at him and he was beautiful. Even through my tears I could see how beautiful he was. Taller than me by at least five inches (thank God) and strong and straight and Ben. I pulled myself together before he’d think me a perfect nut and run. “You waiting long?” I asked, digging through my mammoth rehearsal bag for my key while wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  “An hour. Somebody changed the lock.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. My old key doesn’t fit.”

  “I’ve got a new one for you inside. I made two.” I found my key, opened the door, and we went in.

  “Anyone home?” he called, then turned to me and smiled. “From your letter and phone calls I expected to find a few bodies strewn about.”

  “That’s why I changed the lock. You still in the Army?”

  “Nope. Out.”

  “You’re still in uniform.”

  “None of my civilian clothes fit.”

  “Gee, that’s a shame. You have such nice things. When you said you were coming home I had all your clothes cleaned. Jackets, slacks, shirts, socks. You favor blue. You seem to have a lot of blue clothes.”

  “Not my underwear.”

  “Couple of your BVD’s are plaid.”

  “How many?”

  “Three. Three are plaid. Four striped. Two torn. And the rest white.”

  “How many white?”

  “Nine.”

  “How many—pairs of socks?”

  “Twelve. All blue.” I saluted.

  “Shoes?”

  “Four pair. Plus some sneakers, slippers, and something that looked like a pair of loafers which I had resoled.” I saluted all through that speech.

  “I got it!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “You’re a customs official!”

  “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

  “How many rooms do I have? Quick! Quick!”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I showed him his room and he liked the way I had kept it. “Gee,” he said, “just the way it was the day I died.” He dropped his duffel bag on his bed and it bounced. He took off his Ike jacket and he looked beautiful in brown. Brown was not a bad color for Ben. No color was a bad color for Ben.

  “Want to see my room?” I asked, like a kid wanting to show her latest toy.

  “You mean—? There’s a nursery?”

  I showed him my room and he was very complimentary. I had thought to take Maggie’s portrait off the wall and had shoved it into the closet. I just didn’t think he’d be impressed with a girl who kept a portrait of her mother over her bed—especially when we got to making love.

  “You’ve really fixed it up nicely. The whole place looks a lot better than when just Don and I lived here.”

  “Just Don and you?” I asked facetiously.

  “And Alice and Susan and Jessica, several of w
hom I believe you’ve met.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Don? Have you heard from him?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No.” And he looked concerned.

  “I hope he’s okay. He was pretty low. Nothing was breaking for him.”

  “He must’ve been feeling lousy to just up and leave the whole city.”

  “What happens now? I mean to you?”

  “Well, today’s Tuesday. I go back to work after the weekend.”

  “The 20th?”

  “Yep.”

  “Five days.”

  “What?”

  “You have five whole days before you report for duty.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Any plans?”

  “Nope. I just wanted to get home. Beyond that, nothing else was on my mind.”

  “I’m solvent again.”

  “Guys and Dolls?”

  “Better. I’ll tell you over dinner. Unless, I mean, have you made any plans for dinner?”

  “I thought I’d eat.”

  “Can I take you to dinner?”

  “You mean pay?”

  “Well, I think I’ve got more money than you.”

  “I’m sure you do. Let’s go to Le Pavillon.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Horn & Hardart.”

  “I need a shower.”

  “I need a bath.”

  “Flip you who goes first.”

  “You go first. I take too long.”

  He took a shower and I saw him when he came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist, its folds moving with him as he walked, his body tight, a conspiracy of 300 smooth muscles playing about his navel—so classic, so marble-carved, so badly did I want him it was a wonder I didn’t just open my big mouth and say so—“Hey, Ben, give it here. Give us a try, big boy, ten cents a whatever.”

  Instead I took a bath, lying in the tub, my entire life playing against the far tile, a bad movie on a cracked screen. Mommy, Daddy, Mary Ann, Walter, their faces hoisted up out of ancient archives, slapped against the bath mists and allowed to caper before my eyes like some kind of hung jury—I knew why they were there. They were there to tickle my conscience, to prick it—so to speak—because that’s what was on my mind and on my agenda, to be pricked, verb form of the masculine anatomy. To be laid, finally and irrevocably; fucked by the prick of one’s own choice; the long-awaited moment a confrontation to rattle the rafters and test the bed-springs. Come one, come all—wrestling on Mount Olympus, bringing together, at long last, two popular crowd-pleasers: Ben Webber, the Fort Devens Kid, pitted against that up-and-coming virgin of the Connecticut back country, Ginnie Maitland, current holder of New York’s diamond-studded chastity belt. Fifteen rounds or to a conclusion, with nobody losing but conformity, hypocrisy and the Stokely School for Girls.