The Tall Boy

by Jess Gregg

  The storm resumed in early evening, and walking about became hazardous—every time you put your foot down, the deck wasn’t where it had been a moment before. Hoping to sleep through the worst of it, I got in my bunk early, and buckled on the harness which would keep me from being pitched onto the floor. The liner rolled so violently to one side that the drawers started rushing out of the bureau; a moment later, as we practically capsized on the other side, I would hear them slide back into place. The shuddering groans of the ship grew more ominous, suggesting that the liner was indeed breaking up. Around midnight, the steward knocked at my door, saying in French and English that all passengers were requested to report to the Cabin Class salon. It was no more than a drill, he assured, but life belts were to be worn.

  I found that ropes had been strung about the salon to help passengers maneuver across the tilting deck. The piano had been strapped in place, and chairs were ingeniously buckled to the floor. I sat down next to Simon, noting that he was not wearing his life belt, but had it slung over his shoulder, cavalier style. Everyone was showing that reflex friendliness that seems to accompany this degree of uncertainty. Yet as the stress began to wear on them, characteristics became apparent that are often attributed to nationality and class. There was a certain amount of huddling together, some fumbling with rosaries, even some open despair. The Brits, however, gave that practiced appearance of calm, the men puffing at their tobacco, the women concentrating on their knitting. The Americans, conversely, made a joke of everything. Some young men from Purdue sang Nearer My God to Thee, mockingly off-key. Two girls from a New York fashion house hilariously modeled their life jackets with all the posturing of an haute couture runway. However, as the storm intensified and the laboring of the ship grew more evident, everyone seemed to retreat inside himself, and wait there for whatever would happen next.

  Sitting and waiting, unable to alter our course, was the same ordeal I had had to endure in England. When the play opened out of town, the reviews had been tepid, and rightly so. Good acting, they said, but no action. Yet the dynamics were right there, spelled out in the script: thirty minutes along, it should have been clear to the audience that the young girl had unwittingly fallen in love with her brother. None of the clues I had furnished had been staged, however, and consequently, her infatuation only became apparent late in the play, when she openly threw herself at him. Nightly, I had to stand in the back of the theatre, watching people sit up in astonishment, wholly unprepared for this action.

  Fortunately, there was still time to fix it. Having worked on a number of Broadway productions, and seen two versions of this play tried out in other cities, I was ready with remedies; but they were not heard. I could never get the director to sit down and discuss them with me. We seemed to be heading for a complete wreck.

  The phrase, figurative on our two-month tour of the provinces, appeared to be reality on the high seas. I glimpsed my hand gripping the arm of my chair, and my knuckles were white. Simon was buckling on his life preserver. “Odd,” he said. “I had the idea I didn’t care about living anymore.”

  Not odd, but eerie. I had been thinking the same thing myself.

  Our thoughts coincided again, half an hour later, when tension in the salon seemed ready to snap. He leaned closer, speaking almost directly into my ear. “Do you ever—y’know—pray?”

  I was praying, and his question made me self-conscious: men who can be frank about everything else, find it difficult to mention faith today. Yet all the barriers, so evident when we had met the night before, were tumbling now, and I admitted that, in these last few months, I had had to turn to prayer every day, though none of it was ever answered.

  He had questions to ask about prayer, some that seemed almost naïve to me. His father had been Jewish, his mother Protestant, he explained, so both had avoided discussing religion in the home. “—almost as if it were bad form,” he said. “I grew up not having the foggiest notion about all that. But there are times when one needs—I don’t even know what! More than childish outcry.”

  A hymn by one of the Longfellows came to my mind—not the music, just some of the words, and I spoke them half-aloud. “‘Thy hand in all things I behold. And all things in Thy hand—’”

  “Go on,” he urged. “Play the whole set!”

  I did, not even sure what the words meant anymore; but the sound of them was comforting. Simon braced his elbow against mine, and after that, even when hope wavered, this point of human contact remained, reassuring to both of us, like prayer understood.

  By three in the morning, the storm had pretty much spent itself, and around four, Simon and I were zig-zagging through the corridor, back to our cabins. Both of us were exhausted, and at the same time, too keyed up to sleep. “I say, you couldn’t do with a drink, could you?” he said, at his door. “I’ve got rather a nice bottle of Moet in my suitcase. Bon Voyage, or some such.”

  We drank the champagne out of tooth glasses, sitting perched on the edge of the lower bunk. “Thought you rode the weather rather neatly, old Simon,” I told him. He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. “Really nothing to it, after the ups and downs of textiles,” he said. We did not get roaring drunk, but almost. When the bottle was empty, and I was too relaxed to move, he tossed me a blanket, then climbed up into the other bunk.

  I awoke in the morning with a headache, and Simon wedged in the lower bunk beside me, both of us buck naked. He sat up suddenly. “Good Lord!” he said, half under his breath. His eyes turned to me. “Did anything—?”

  “—happen? Everything, I think. Don’t you remember?”

  He sighed and nodded. “But I was hoping you didn’t.”

  His self-consciousness began to vanish as we dressed. The sky beyond the porthole was gloomy, but at least the sea was stable again. We had been due to dock in New York at noon, but the steward said the storm had blown the liner so far off course, we would not arrive until nightfall.

  We made another stab at deck tennis after breakfast, and, in the afternoon, resumed our game of catch in the empty gym. When our eyes met, it was with some kind of humor, ironic and unspoken. It occurred to me suddenly that I was able to concentrate on something besides my failure in England. Circling the deck, we discussed dogs we had owned, books, elections, and good restaurants. We met again for drinks at five. Twilight came early, showing up the high-rise glitter of New York in the distance. He and I joined the other passengers outside on the deck to watch the always affecting entry into the harbor, with its muted tug-boat horns and great green Liberty. When the Landing Authority boat drew up to board us, always a sign that the voyage was over, I felt a pang of goodbye go through me, and a throb of welcome home. Simon’s gloved hand patted my overcoat sleeve. “Cheer up,” he comforted. “You’ll get over all that disappointment.”

  It was an hour since I had even thought of it, and I wondered if somehow I wasn’t already free. “I hope so,” I said

  “I know so,” he insisted. “If I could come to terms with that Meggie business, you should be able to do as well.”

  “You’re over Meggie then?” I asked.

  “Practically,” he said. “Probably a result of that bloody weather. It seemed to paraphrase everything I was feeling, only bigger and louder. Must have blown it right out of my system.” He laughed. “Say what you will, that ruddy storm was a life preserver.”

  A steward passed by, urgently giving directions in French and English. The crowd on deck began to push toward the salons where passports would be processed. Simon and I exchanged cards and shook hands, then he strode away, glancing back as he reached the hatch, trim, even jaunty, with his faultless tweeds and improbable Casbah eyes. “I’ll give you a buzz in a few days,” he called. “We’ll meet for a drink.”

  Of course we never did.

  18

  JUST THE THREE OF US

  I hadn’t planned to stop in Paris, but it was August again, an anniversary of sorts, and her postcard mentioned she would be there all week. I left a
message at her hotel when I arrived, suggesting we meet the following noon at the usual place. There is something impertinent about calling the garden at the Palais Royal “usual,” but the three of us had been there unforgettably once, and several times since to commemorate the first visit.

  The garden, at least, seemed not to have changed, the pigeons strutting along the broad walks, the children shrilly at play. I paid a few francs for the use of a wire chair, and sat down by the fountain to wait. Would she and I mention him this time, I wondered? Last time, we had not. Generally, he came along anyway, invited or not. We had never found a way to ignore him for long. Despite his cool eyes and air of privacy, he seemed to pack a spotlight with him wherever he went.

  Even as a child, this had been so. Gar, as I called him then, was so fair-haired, he photographed as if the camera had leaked light. At his third birthday party, he stood radiantly alone, with us other children sitting on the lawn around him in comparative darkness. He and I were frequent companions, according to a shoebox of snapshots in my attic—dressed up as clowns for Halloween, toasting marshmallows at the beach, or showing off our first long pants. His family and mine had had a tradition of friendship for four generations, so it was natural to assume that we too would be friends. And yet we were not. The fact was, I had a crush on him, something he sensed and wanted none of.

  It didn’t help that, as we grew up, he effortlessly took over all the things I had marked for myself. He was handsome, for instance. He was straight. He had an air of quiet authority, and the kids at high school called him The Prince. Then, to make it really difficult, he won a cup for ballroom dancing at the beach club. Next thing I heard, he and his girl were being featured as a teen dance team at a smart supper club. I would have hated him if I hadn’t adored him.

  While I was away at college, I read he was trying his luck on Broadway. However, the summer we were twenty-two, the war brought us both back to Los Angeles. One night, pulling up to a boulevard stop, I spied him in the car next to mine. He saw me too, but without surprise. “Want to race?” he called. We spun our tires and thrust ahead, recklessly cutting in on each other all the way to Wilshire. A police siren sounded, so we ducked into a bar. He never could handle liquor, but being competitive, ordered scotch anyway, if only to play with the ice. “Been away?” he asked.

  I didn’t mean to be antagonistic, but it was a way of hiding the wild hammering of my heart. “Yale,” I said crisply. “Did some post-grad work there.”

  “Hey, did you! I played New Haven last fall.”

  “I know,” I said, mercilessly. “I saw.”

  He and his dance partner had opened there in the pre-Broadway trial of a big musical starring Jessie Mathews. From overture on, it was a disaster, and totaled as Gar whirled the English star around in an adagio so steamy that her costume stained her armpits green.

  Our goodbyes outside the bar were cool. He was getting ready to go into the Coast Guard, and I was waiting to be drafted. We said what everyone was saying then, “See you after the war,” and yet as I drove away, an intuition that may have been just wishful thinking assured me we would meet again much sooner. Sure enough, we ran into each other at a concert, a few nights later. “I knew I’d see you here!” he said. “How could you possibly know?” I demanded. He shrugged and turned away, offended. It was typical of the way we always missed each other’s beat.

  When the war was over and my probation had been served, I set off for New York and a new life. My mother wrote that Gar was also in New York, holed up in a hotel with stomach problems. She urged me to go see him, and with mixed feelings, I did. His glance was critical: my hair was too long, my faded jeans too tight. I retaliated by praising a current MGM musical, Metro being an especially sore point with him just then. The studio had signed him, and then used him so embarrassingly in Till the Clouds Roll By that he had demanded to be released from his contract. Louis B. Mayer allowed him to buy it back. “Took every damn cent I had,” he said, with quiet rage.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Go back to the supper clubs, soon as I can train a new partner.”

  “Got anyone in mind?”

  He nodded. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

  He didn’t actually invite me to stay, and I didn’t consciously wait. Suddenly a key ground in the lock, and she let herself in, small and blonde, with large brown eyes, and that air of independence that separates the dancer from the showgirl. She was hugging a bag of groceries, and seemed perfectly at home—chattered engagingly while she scrambled eggs in a saucer-sized electric skillet. Gar introduced her as Marjorie Belle, and said she was playing in Beggars Holiday; but I had already recognized her. Back when I was at Beverly High, some of my classmates had taken ballroom dancing from her father, Ernest Belcher, and she was his teen assistant. Her picture had been in the paper on a Rose Parade float, and she had modeled for the first full-length feature at the Disney Studio. Even now, I could see the artless grace of Snow White in her.

  She served Gar his supper in bed, and put mine on the telephone table. There were only two plates, so she ate from the skillet, and when she had washed the dishes, asked if I wanted to walk her to the theatre. She was so lighthearted as we strolled down Broadway that I wondered if she had any depth at all; but this too appeared as she began to talk about Gar, his health, his talent, his future. She kept enunciating his name so precisely, I had to laugh. “You sound like someone plugging a new breakfast food.”

  Marge and Gower

  “Well, the way you say his name drives me up the wall,” she said. “You make it sound like grrr! It has two syllables, okay? Gow-er. Gower. Gower Champion.” She said this last as if trying it on for size.

  After I delivered her to the stage door, I went around to the box office and bought a balcony seat. The show was not great, despite a Duke Ellington score, but Marjorie, in her little role, was funny, touching, and sexy. We had coffee together afterwards, and she told me about Gower’s discovery. Low-rent apartments were still hard to come by, and rehearsal space impossible; but he had found both, and together. “Actually, it’s the loft of an old church down near the Bowery,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe it!”

  I joined her there on Sunday evening, and true enough, I didn’t believe it. The church had long since been abandoned by its congregation, and was now owned by a Mr. Wu. Four flights of stairs led us up into a series of cavernous chambers, paneled, vaulted, and grimy. Gower had tried to scrub them down before he got sick, and now Marjorie was continuing the labor in her spare time. Soon, I began dropping by regularly to help. The inevitable side effect was an exchange of confidences. For protective coloration, I invented a girlfriend; but only once. It wasn’t necessary with Marjorie. She seemed to like me anyway.

  And I liked her. Enormously. I liked her much more than him, even with a crush on him. I was almost sorry when he got well and rejoined us. And yet, somehow, the fun didn’t cease. Marjorie seemed to add the balance that had always been needed for some kind of rapport between him and me. It was tentative at first, and suffered regular reversals, but he and I finally began to enjoy each other’s company. The fact that I was capable of a little basic carpentry further fused us into friendship. When our cleaning and repairing would stop for the night, the three of us would relax over a vast spread of cheese-nips and artichoke hearts. Sometimes we kicked opinions around, but just as often sat there in comfortable reverie, satisfied with the company and our own thoughts. One night, spontaneously, Gower and Margie began to dance together. There was no music, no sound even, for Houston Street below was empty, and snow had sealed the leaded casements. They whirled, whirled, whirled, light as their own shadows, and it was me who got dizzy.

  Gower’s concept for their act had a difference. Most other dance teams of the time presented a smooth series of breathtaking lifts, to the strains of honeyed schlock such as Moonlight Madonna. What Gower had in mind, however, used dialogue as well as movement—equal parts musical comedy, dance
theatre, and romance. This last was inevitable, for they were so clearly in love, it communicated even when they stood still.

  A great hotel in Montreal had booked them, and their opening was getting near. Marjorie left Beggars Holiday to give her entire focus to the act, even though her salary would have been useful just then. Orchestrations had consumed all Gower could borrow, and her costumes had yet to be made. We spent Sundays strolling among the pushcarts on Orchard Street, fingering the fine remnants, and haggling. Margie sewed up two bouffant gowns, and in the evening, the three of us sat around and glued sequins on the lace appliques.

  On the day of their departure, Marjorie showed up at Grand Central with her hair styled a new way, and drabbed down to a conservative ash blonde. She was in high spirits, but Gower was tense. He turned to me suddenly, and lowered his voice. “Have you got any money?” I seldom did, but just this once, was carrying enough to get me through the week. He took all forty dollars. “This’ll help get us there,” he said. “God knows how we’ll get back.”

  Three days later, I got an unsigned telegram from Montreal. The message was just one word. “Smash!” Suddenly, the rush was on. Offers came tumbling in. Boston, Washington DC, Chicago. The big hotels they played provided them with suites which usually included a couch I could adapt to. The invitation was open, and even when I couldn’t really afford to, I joined them for a day or two. “Here we are again,” Margie would cry. And Gower and I would add, “Just the three of us!” The remark became worn with usage, but it always convulsed us.