A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald

by Natasha Lester

  ‘Yes!’

  Evie rolled the ball again and Mary picked it up, threw it, and let it fall on her head. The same laugh followed – twice in an afternoon. Evie beamed.

  All too soon, dusk fell and it was time to leave. As they walked away from the park, Mary pointed to the puffs of steam rising from the tops of the buildings, like the ghosts of those who’d tried New York and failed. She pointed to a bird flying, a leaf plucked off a tree by the wind and tossed up, up, up and away. Departing things always caught Mary’s attention.

  ‘I’ll come again in a few days,’ Evie said as they got closer to the Foundling.

  Mary’s mouth opened, but closed again before she made a sound.

  Evie bobbed down so they were at eye level. ‘What is it?’

  Silence followed, then at last a tiny sound: ‘Park?’

  ‘Of course we can go to the park again.’ Evie stayed crouching before Mary and pulled something from her bag. ‘I wanted to show you this. You can’t keep it because the sisters won’t let you, but I’ll keep it safe until …’ She stopped. That sentence had no easy ending. ‘It’s a bonnet. I think your father gave it to you when you were born.’

  Mary put the bonnet on her head. It was too small, but she pulled on the ribbons and it slid down a little, leaving a bunch of golden curls to gather like buttercups next to her cheeks. As she tugged again, one of the ribbons broke away, and Evie gasped. A look of fear replaced the smile on Mary’s face.

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ Evie said quickly. ‘I can sew the ribbon back on. I made that sound because you look …’ She paused. ‘So pretty,’ she said, instead of what she really thought, which was: I’ve seen a picture of you somewhere before, in a white bonnet surrounded by curls.

  She reached out and hugged Mary, even though she’d been told not to by the Foundling sisters, and the child wilted against her chest. Passers-by were forced to step around them, and one woman said, ‘What a pretty tableau you and your daughter make.’

  Evie shook her head at the very thought of having a daughter.

  Mary took the bonnet off her head and handed it back. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. Let’s wipe your eyes.’

  Mary reached into her pocket and took out a hanky. Before she touched it to her face, she showed it to Evie.

  ‘You’ve still got the hanky!’ Evie exclaimed, noting the crooked M in the corner that she had embroidered for Mary’s second birthday.

  Mary nodded.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Evie took Mary’s hand and they walked as briskly as they could across to Lexington Avenue and the Foundling, where a line of sisters greeted them at the door.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Sister Mary said.

  ‘So I can see,’ replied Evie.

  ‘Sister Margaret, take the child inside.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mary,’ said Evie.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Mary said, staring up at her with the eyes Evie could never forget.

  Evie turned to leave but Sister Mary stopped her. ‘You can’t see Mary again.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t send her away until she was six.’

  ‘She’s not being sent away.’

  ‘Then why can’t I see her?’ Evie demanded.

  ‘It isn’t good for Mary.’

  ‘Being taken outside to play isn’t good for a child?’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘I won’t take her to the park again. We’ll stay inside.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference. It’s been decided that Mary can’t continue her visits with you,’ Sister Mary said firmly.

  The frustrations of the day seethed inside Evie. How she wanted to yell at Sister Mary the way she’d yelled at Dr Kingsley. But she knew it would be as fruitless as it had been at the hospital, and would likely cause her just as much trouble. She tried to put forward a reasoned argument. ‘I’m the only person who visits her. Surely every child deserves a little fun and companionship from time to time? It’s not as if I’m here all day every day getting in the way.’

  ‘Mary has the companionship of the sisters and the other children.’

  Evie cast around in her mind for a possible explanation. Surely the sisters didn’t know about her job at the Follies? No, if that were the case Sister Mary would have simply shut the door in her face. She remembered Sister Mary’s words: it’s been decided that … ‘Who decided I couldn’t see Mary? You’ve let me see her until now. Why would you change your mind?’

  Sister Mary pressed her lips together and Evie knew she was getting closer to the truth. But who else in the city knew that Evie visited Mary, much less cared? ‘Who decided?’ she asked again.

  ‘It recently came to the attention of someone who has an interest in Mary that you’d been visiting her. We’ve been asked not to allow any more visits.’

  ‘Who has an interest in Mary besides me? Nobody visits her. How can someone make a decision like that if they never see her?’

  Sister Mary didn’t reply.

  ‘Now’s a fine time to invoke the vow of silence!’ Evie said in exasperation. The conversation had done at least two laps of the track and she didn’t intend for it to take another. Sometimes it was easier to retreat and wait for the next race. She’d come back with a stronger argument once she’d had time to think about it. ‘Mary will miss me,’ she said as her parting shot. ‘And you’ll have to deal with that.’

  And I’ll miss her, Evie thought as she walked along Sixty-Eighth to Fifth. This little girl she had watched grow from a baby into a tiny person who trusted Evie, who would not understand why Evie had abandoned her yet again, just as she had that day at the river. She would see Mary again, and soon. And she’d find out who’d said she couldn’t visit.

  She strode on past the cream stone facades of the homes of industrialists and bankers who liked the number and height of their windows to proclaim their wealth as well as any Times Square billboard ever could. Stables were scattered here and there, many with horses in them, because now that motorcars were de rigueur, the novelty and expense of maintaining a set of redundant horses was a more effective way to show how rich one was. All that money wasted on horses nobody rode when it could be spent caring for a child. Evie knew, because Sister Margaret had told her, that the mysterious person involved with Mary occasionally sent money, but the little girl needed more than that; she needed someone to look after her. She certainly didn’t need someone who took away Evie, the only thing Mary had to look forward to.

  Chapter Twelve

  Above the New Amsterdam Theatre, sparkling like Fourth of July crackers, were neon signs announcing to all that inside the doors were the Ziegfeld Follies, with New Stars! and New Girls! The Follies attracted the rich and wealthy: bankers took their clients there, bored husbands acquired mistresses there, and for a few hours a night inside the theatre, bare legs could be paraded, midriffs exposed and necklines lowered. In the morning, those same theatre patrons would put on their suits and look down their noses at the flappers, who they said were corrupting the morals of the city.

  Evie put a finger to her lips as Bob, the stage manager, noted her tardiness with a pointed stare at his watch.

  ‘I’ll be ready on time,’ she called, fixing on her showgirl smile. ‘Don’t tell Flo.’

  The smile worked. Bob nodded. ‘Do it again and I will though.’ Evie knew that was her first and final warning. It must be the day for it.

  Backstage, she passed by Louise Brooks’s dressing room – Louise was happily lost in the pages of Ulysses, from which no one expected her to emerge alive – and made her way over to a pretty redhead who was sitting before a mirror and blackening her lashes. Evie bent down to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Evie!’ Bea said. ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it.’

  ‘You and Bob both.’ Evie slipped off her clothes, donned the pink silk kimono that had been a gift from Bea on her last birthday and sat down in front of a mirror. ‘I was uptown.’

  ‘At leas
t you’ll save time on rouge tonight with those ruby-red cheeks.’

  Evie looked in the mirror and saw that her face was flushed from the exercise. She hoped Bea was right and that the powder wouldn’t dilute the effect too much.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Bea asked.

  ‘Visiting Mary,’ Evie replied.

  ‘Honestly, Evie, you’ve got the bleeding heart of Jesus sometimes. Looking after stray kids, birthing babies – I don’t see how you ever get any sleep.’

  ‘I get enough,’ Evie said.

  ‘Well, you’re still young enough to burn the candle at both ends. Not like me. Everyone says twenty-five is when you start looking like a face stretcher.’

  Evie laughed. ‘You’re a long way off needing to worry about looking anything other than gorgeous.’ But the truth was that some of the girls backstage were as young as sixteen. Ziegfeld, and Manhattan, liked their girls barely ripe.

  ‘For that, honey, I’ll do your hair while you fix your face. Then you won’t be late for curtain-up. Now, flour up.’ Bea passed Evie the powder.

  Evie smiled at her friend. They’d met on Evie’s first day of rehearsals when she’d made her way through the backstage area for the first time, mouth hanging open at the sight of more spangles and cosmetics than she’d ever seen. A woman who was tall, thin and long-limbed caught Evie’s eye. Her makeup was a thick layer of marzipan and she was wearing nothing but a brassiere and knickers. She strolled over to Evie. ‘I thought Ziegfeld wanted you for your class, not like us Midwestern hoofers. Close your mouth before he reconsiders.’

  Evie snapped it shut.

  ‘So, you aiming for the moving pictures or do you want to marry a rich man who thinks it’s a triumph to have a Ziegfeld Girl at his table and not just in his boudoir?’

  Evie shook her head. ‘Neither. I need to pay my college fees. I’ve got a place in medical school.’

  The woman began to laugh. ‘Goddamnit, Ziegfeld was right. You sure are different. But seeing as we won’t be competing for the same prize, I’ll show you around. I’m Bea, by the way.’

  Bea took her to Ziegfeld’s office and pointed to a painting above the desk. It showed a woman with her head tipped back, one hand holding a red rose close to her red lips. Her mouth was parted to show a glimpse of white teeth. The woman was wearing a black silk gown that had slid down her shoulders and opened across her chest so that both of her breasts and their vivid red nipples were fully exposed. The woman was holding one of her breasts in her other hand; her fingernails were painted red to match her lips, and the expression on her face suggested that sensual satisfaction was only an exhalation away.

  ‘That’s Olive Thomas,’ Bea said, nodding at the painting. ‘She’s a real Ziegfeld Girl. If you get my meaning.’

  Evie thought she did. ‘We don’t have to do that, do we?’

  ‘No. But you have to make every man in the audience think you might,’ Bea replied.

  By following Bea’s advice, Evie had survived at the Follies for almost as long as she needed to. And now, after two and a half years, the end was in sight. ‘Do you think Flo will give me a week off in a couple of months’ time?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I’ll fly an airplane to China before that happens. Why?’ Bea said.

  ‘For my final examinations. I just need a bit more money and a bit more time and then I can be a doctor and nothing else.’

  ‘You slay me, Evie. You’re the only one who wants to be a doctor over all of this.’ Bea waved her arm around to indicate the jostle and bustle of a hundred girls wearing more fur and feathers than could ever be found in a zoo. She stood behind Evie and combed her hair, wetting down the curls and adding starch and powder with the flair of seven years’ practice at being a Ziegfeld Girl.

  ‘Evie?’ Dottie, another chorus girl, appeared at Evie’s side. ‘I need help.’

  Evie knew instantly what Dottie meant. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘You don’t have time,’ said Bea. ‘Dottie can wait. You need lipstick.’

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ said Evie as she led Dottie behind a screen to a disused corner of the dressing room that had been nicknamed The Confessional because anything that happened there was a zipper-tight secret.

  ‘I’m peeing broken glass,’ said Dottie.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Dottie nodded, and Evie was relieved it was something so easy to fix. That wasn’t always the case with the ills that the Ziegfeld Girls brought to her. ‘I’ve got something in my bag that’ll fix it,’ she said. ‘No sex for a few nights will help.’

  ‘I can’t take more than a night off.’

  Evie squeezed Dottie’s hand. She understood what Dottie was saying – that her patron and his cash would move on to some other girl if Dottie couldn’t give him what he wanted. She gave Dottie the medicine. ‘Let me know if this doesn’t fix it.’

  Then it was time to go on stage and sing and dance and flirt until interval, when there was no time to rest because costumes had to be changed, faces re-made and hair fixed. Evie was just darkening her lashes again when Mr Florenz Ziegfeld himself strode into the room. The silence was instantaneous.

  ‘I need a blonde,’ he announced.

  ‘I’m blonde.’ Evie leapt up not knowing what Flo wanted a blonde for but hoping it’d be worth her while. Anything to earn a few extra dollars.

  Ziegfeld ran his eyes up and down her body in the manner of a housewife selecting the best cut of meat. He turned to Bob. ‘She’s skinnier than Kitty. Get Zalia to pin the costume.’ He said to Evie, ‘You’re on the moon. You know the song?’

  Evie hummed the intro and sang the first verse, clear and loud and not needing the piano to key her in as some of the girls still did.

  ‘Get her fitted,’ Ziegfeld said to Bob. Before he left, he pointed his finger at Evie. ‘Raise the roof.’

  ‘I always do,’ Evie called.

  Bob filled the girls in. ‘Kitty’s gone home. She’s got the grippe.’

  One of the girls sniggered. ‘Grippe? Or recovering from a visit to Madame Bonny? Hope her crochet hook was clean.’

  Most of the girls laughed. Not Evie. ‘I told Kitty to come and see me at the hospital,’ she whispered to Bea. ‘Or go to the place off Canal.’

  ‘He charges twice what Madame Bonny does,’ said Bea. ‘And Kitty knows there’s only so much you can do at the hospital.’

  ‘The fellow at Canal sterilises his instruments. Madame Bonny wouldn’t be able to find the word in the dictionary.’

  Bea shrugged. ‘You can’t save everyone. There’s only so much you and your Confessional can fix.’

  ‘I hope she survives it.’ Evie looked over her shoulder to her makeshift treatment room; there she did more than she was ever allowed to at the hospital, but some problems, like unwanted babies, couldn’t be solved in a back room of the theatre.

  ‘Get a move on.’ Bob prodded Evie in the direction of Zalia, their Russian wardrobe mistress, who had her usual mouthful of pins and a pencil tucked behind each ear like horns on a miniature bull.

  Zalia selected a white leotard covered in red and blue stars and helped Evie into it. She swore in Russian. ‘You need to eat more. I cannot sew this in five minutes.’ She muttered as she stitched. Then she passed Evie the headdress, an elaborate wire construction of several circles, each studded with silver stars. The circles grew outward, ever larger, so that the final circle was wider than Evie’s shoulders. The headdress was pinned into her hair, and the finishing touch, a single silver star affixed to a hidden headband, was arranged to drop from the centre part of her hairline to sit in the middle of her forehead. Evie smiled. Even she had to admit she looked like the Queen of the Night she was supposed to be.

  Bea squealed. ‘Pos-i-lute-ly perfect! But if you forget a line, Ziegfeld’ll land your ass in the middle of Forty-Second Street with a one-way ticket to Minnesota.’

  ‘Believe me, I know,’ Evie said as she bent down to check her face in the mirror one last time.

  �
�Then I’ll dye my hair blonde and be Queen of the Night tomorrow,’ said Bea, and Evie knew that, in spite of their friendship, she was only partly joking; Bea would love the chance to take a lead role too. But then Bea delved into her purse. ‘Wear this for luck,’ and she slipped her four-leaf clover ring onto Evie’s finger.

  ‘Thanks, Bea.’ Evie embraced her friend.

  She took her place in the wings. The music began and the chorus of girls hoofed it onto the stage wearing gold-sequined leotards that raised their busts higher than any of them were ever likely to reach. Five men were comets, their ‘tails’ lit up with phosphorus, which Bob was convinced was going to catch fire one night. Evie knew she had a couple of minutes before the papier-mâché moon would drift up and out, into the sky of the theatre, so she took her seat on it, leaned her head against the crescent and closed her eyes. She was particularly tired tonight. The rush of minutes always sweeping past too quickly paused while she rested.

  But why was she moving? Was she on the El? Her ears registered music and singing. She was on the damned moon and she’d fallen asleep and now she was suspended above the stage. The girls below had formed their clusters and the piano had paused briefly; it was her cue. Evie could see through the tiny slit she’d made with one eye that Ziegfeld, sitting in one of the balconies, looked as mad as Dr Kingsley had earlier that day. What the hell was wrong with her? Everywhere she turned, she made the man in charge furious with her.

  Evie thought quickly. She was the Queen of the Night. She could make it a part of the show, pretend to be waking from the day’s slumber. What man wouldn’t be titillated at the thought of watching a beautiful young woman wake from her sleep right in front of him? Now to get the right mix of innocent awakening and the suggestion that, whatever she’d been doing before she slept, it had left her rumpled and flushed.

  She opened one eye further and peeked out theatrically. Then she opened the other eye and faked a big, round, startled ‘Oh’ with her mouth. She raised one arm, stretching, arching her back, allowing her chest to lift to full advantage. Then the other arm, up, up, up. There wasn’t a sound in the theatre. The piano was still waiting, as were the girls on stage. And the crowd – well, they were staring mesmerised at Evie. It was time to sing.