by Rona Jaffe
That night she had a cup of tea and studied her lines in her room. She’d been working with the choreographer for a couple of weeks now, and the play made more sense than the first time she’d seen it. She thought the songs were square, but she’d only heard them played on a piano and croaked out by the two ancients who wrote them, so that was no way to judge. She wished she had someone to discuss things with. She couldn’t go to Mr. Libra; she was afraid of him. She couldn’t go to Mr. Budapest; she was afraid of him, too. She was more afraid of Dick than of anybody. It was ridiculous—here she was, a star, and she had nobody to ask about anything. On impulse she dialed Gerry at home.
Gerry was out, and her roommate Bonnie, who sounded like a scared mouse who’d just been awakened, said she’d give her the message if she saw her. The world seemed deserted.
Silky took a bath and went to bed at nine o’clock. Her muscles hurt from the dance routines—it seemed as if they had always hurt now and would hurt for the rest of her life. Was this what dancers did for a living? They must be insane. Who wanted to be in pain all the time?
The phone rang at midnight and woke her up. It was Hatcher Wilson, in town for a few days. Silky was unaccountably glad to hear from him. He seemed like an old friend. See, just when you thought you had nobody in the world, someone always turned up …
“I’ve got so much to tell you,” Silky said.
“Me, too.”
“You first.”
“I’m getting married, baby! How do you like that?”
Married? Him? She couldn’t believe it. She tried to keep the surprise and disappointment out of her voice. “Hey, that’s groovy. Who is she?”
“A chick I met on the road. We’re getting married this weekend in Connecticut. She’s a dancer and a singer. We’re going to do a single together. I wrote it myself for us. You want to come to the recording session on Friday?”
“I have to rehearse. I’m going to star in a Broadway musical.”
“I read about it. How’s it going?”
“Fine,” she lied. “It’s exciting and fun. A lot of work, but you know …”
“Everything’s work, baby. You don’t get anything for nothing in this business.”
“I know. Well, I’m sorry I won’t be able to go to your recording session … and I’d like to have met your fiancée.”
“You’ll meet her. How about you? You still going with that director or whatever he is?”
“He’s directing my show.”
“Mmm hmm.” He gave a dirty grunt.
“We’re just friends. I haven’t time for any of that now.”
“When did you ever?” Hatcher said, and laughed.
“Well,” Silky said. “It was nice talking to you. I have to go to sleep now; I get up very early.”
“Okay. Catch you later.” He hung up. She realized she hadn’t asked him where he was staying, and he hadn’t volunteered the information. The girl probably wouldn’t understand that they’d always been just friends.
Friends … had they even been friends? Now she realized they had been, and that all these months when she was eating her heart out for Dick she should have taken time to look at Hatcher and see that he wasn’t just a bum, that even he could fall in love and get married. Maybe she could have married him, if things had been different. But would she have wanted to? Now she would never know. He was the only guy she really knew, except for Dick, and now he was in love and getting married and lost forever. Well, lost for the first year, anyway. She’d never paid one bit of attention to Hatcher Wilson, but now she felt rejected. Time went by so fast and she did nothing. She’d be an old maid for sure, and being a famous old maid wouldn’t help at night when she was all alone in a hotel like somebody who didn’t belong anywhere … like somebody’s old suitcase … transient … ready to go at a moment’s notice … where?
She slept badly, had a piece of gum for breakfast, and was at rehearsal early. She hoped she’d have a chance to see Dick alone, but he arrived when the rest of the cast was already there. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before and needed a shave.
The weeks blended into one another, work and panic. They got into the theater and started blocking the show. Now Dick yelled at her when she did something wrong, screamed as if offended that she’d once been his girl and now was only someone stupid who kept doing things wrong. Gerry came to a couple of rehearsals and told her she was marvelous.
“Dick doesn’t think so,” Silky said.
“He does so. He told me. The only reason he yells at you is this is his first Broadway show and he’s more scared than you are. You’re going to be wonderful.”
“What do you think of the show?” The show was now called (temporarily) Movin’ On.
“I think it’s pretty good. The songs are good. I can see three right now that are going to be hits. I hate the title, but they’ll change that.”
“Do you really think I’m okay?”
“You’re more than okay.”
“Well, I just wish I knew for sure.”
“You’ve been working awfully hard,” Gerry said, looking her up and down. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Eight hours every night, sometimes more.”
“You look kind of skinny. Do you eat?”
“Sure,” Silky lied.
“Well, maybe you should take vitamins or something.”
“I do.” That was true, anyway.
“You really look skinny,” Gerry said. “How much do you weigh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe you should drink Tiger’s Milk or Gorilla Milk or something. If you get run down you’ll catch a cold, God forbid, and that’s the worst thing that can happen in rehearsal because you never get rid of it. Eat steak. That gives you energy. Tartar steak, if you can stand it. I don’t want to sound like your mother, but if Mr. Libra sees you looking like this he’ll yell and scream worse than Dick ever did, and you know it.”
“Okay,” Silky said. That night after rehearsal she went to Alexander’s, which was open late, and bought a padded bra, a padded panty girdle, and a lumpy-looking wool sweater and a thick tweed skirt. They made her look like she’d gained ten pounds.
She wore them to rehearsal the next day, which was a lucky thing because Mr. Libra showed up. He didn’t seem to notice anything and he told her that she was coming along fine and if she needed anything to come to him. That was a laugh. She just needed a new heart, one with courage, that didn’t have a crack in it that couldn’t seem to heal.
Dick had acquired an assortment of interchangeable girls who came to rehearsals at night to pick him up. They all had long hair, big busts, and tight dresses that showed a lot of superior leg. They also had false eyelashes and the same face: vapid, self-consciously pretty, and smug. Since she never did see the same one twice, Silky knew that smug look didn’t last for long. This was a funny new scene for Dick—he used to stay with one girl for a while, but now he had turned into Mr. One-Night Stand, like he wanted to make it with every girl in the world. She wondered why.
One evening Gerry came to rehearsal and brought her roommate, Bonnie Parker. Bonnie was a beautiful girl but Dick paid no attention to her after giving her a falsely hearty greeting, and Silky wondered why. She would have thought Bonnie would be just the sort of girl Dick would want to go to bed with. Maybe he already had, and was through with her, just like with that long string of rehearsal girls. Bonnie certainly didn’t seem to mind; she looked perfectly pleased with herself and flirted outrageously with the stage manager.
A new girl picked Dick up after rehearsal and Silky went home alone. She was exhausted and she had to get her clothes together to decide what to take to Boston next week when they opened there. It seemed as if she was so exhausted lately that she could hardly move by five o’clock, much less the late hours they finished torturing her. She was tired at night and tired when she got up in the morning. She had missed her period, more than a month ago, and she couldn’t understand wh
y, because she hadn’t been near a man in months. It was probably nerves. She felt more nervous than anyone on earth.
In her room she took off her clothes and padded underwear and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a Halloween skeleton! She was drenched in sweat from wearing those hot clothes in the hot theater, and she felt faint. It was September and still hot, and those layers of clothes she padded herself with were just like a sweat suit. She took a cold shower and forced herself to put on a clean cotton dress and sandals so she could go downstairs and eat something. There was a coffee shop on the corner and she went in and ordered a bowl of soup because it was the only thing she thought she could get down. As usual, she had two spoonfuls and felt her throat close. She was hungry, but she couldn’t eat. I’m going to die, she thought in terror. I’m going to die before we even open.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the counter and saw only eyes and mouth, like a caricature. Her cheekbones stuck out like little knives. She must have lost thirty pounds. Could you lose ten pounds a month? Why not? And it had been more than three months since Dick had dumped her; it had been forever. Forever … she was drying up, disappearing … vanishing. She ordered a Coke, drank a third of it, and paid the check.
Silky liked Boston because it was a change from New York and she’d gotten to miss traveling now that she and the girls didn’t go on the road any more. She was sorry she didn’t have more time to walk around and look at the city, but they were working day and night. The show was now called Mavis! again. There wouldn’t be any more big script changes until after the Boston opening, just some cuts. The first time she played to a real audience, at the first run-through, she was surprised that she had only one moment of panic; then suddenly the audience seemed just like the people in her night-club audience (except she was wearing a body mike) and she could see the faces in the front row just as if she were playing a club. When she sang, as always she forgot the people were even there. Their applause rose up to her like waves of love. It was real! She was real!
Then, the night of the next-to-last run-through, during her second song, she felt herself blacking out. She was freezing cold and sweat was pouring down her face; she saw black and green lights in front of her eyes, there was a buzzing in her ears, and she couldn’t feel the stage under her feet. When she came to, she was lying on the cot in her dressing room and everyone was shouting.
Dick was leaning over her, his face pale and very concerned. Behind him, she saw Mr. Libra, who had come down to Boston for the week, and who was now fading away and coming back right in front of her eyes like a surrealistic movie. She tried to get up.
“I have to go back there … what happened?”
“Lie down, you little fool,” Dick snapped. He pushed her down on the cot. “The show’s over.”
Suddenly, Mr. Libra was there, shoving Dick away, suddenly nice, a different Mr. Libra than she had ever known. “You really are a horse’s ass,” he said to Dick. He put his hand on Silky’s forehead. “You don’t have any temperature,” he said, mildly. “Were you scared?”
“No,” she said.
“Maybe you ate a bad clam. I told you not to eat tourist food.”
“She doesn’t eat anything,” the wardrobe mistress said self-righteously. “I told her. She’s killing herself.”
“What do you mean, ‘the show’s over’?” Silky said. She started to cry.
“Just for tonight,” Mr. Libra said. “You’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ve sent for Ingrid, the Lady Doctor, she’s flying down. She’ll be here in less than an hour. Shell fix you right up. Don’t you worry, we’re not going to lose our star, or our show either.”
“Look … I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Dick said.
She held out her hand for a Kleenex and Mr. Libra gave her the box.
“Do you think you can make it to a cab now, or should I get an ambulance?”
“No ambulance!” She blew her nose. “What did you do with all the people?”
“They went home,” said Mr. Libra, “where they’re probably screwing for the first time in years. I will hold you personally responsible for the population explosion in this town. Here, put your arm around Dick’s shoulders; he’s stronger than he looks.”
Dick was carrying her in his arms, she had her head on his shoulder just as if she was a little girl again and he was her papa. She hadn’t thought the name “Papa” in years. It was always: her father, as if he were somebody abstract. Dick even had a bony shoulder like her papa. His arms were strong and gentle. She had loved him once, so much, so long ago … Dick … but this wasn’t Dick, it was just somebody named Dick, who was directing her show. He was holding her at last, the way she’d dreamed for so long, and he wasn’t the man Dick she’d loved, he was just something kind and strong and gentle she needed. She was more afraid of being sick or maybe dying than she was of losing Dick. She came first. She had to get well. They had sent those people away who had come to see her show and maybe they would come back and try again, or maybe other people would come, and she had to be ready for them. They were waiting to try to love her and she had to make them love her. Imagine—they had sent all those people away! Just because she was sick, they had sent away a whole theater full of people! Oh, how she loved those people … how she loved Dick’s arms around her … strong arms she knew at last she was strong enough to go on without.
They took her back to her hotel, which was a block from the theater, and put her to bed. They left one lamp on, on the dresser, and the door open a crack, while Dick and Mr. Libra waited in the living room for Ingrid.
“… house doctor,” Dick was saying. “I don’t see why we can’t send for the hotel physician, who is perfectly capable …”
They were trying to talk softly, but she could hear them. She heard someone pacing the floor: Mr. Libra? Dick?
“I don’t want someone perfectly capable, I want the best,” Libra said angrily. “You’re a son of a bitch lately, do you know that? I knew you whored around, but this is getting ridiculous. And you’re a grouch. I think I’m going to have Ingrid give you a shot, too, give everyone a shot. God knows, I need another one. Jesus, did anybody remember to call Lizzie?”
“I thought you’d remember that,” Dick said.
“I need Gerry,” Libra said. “Where the hell is Gerry? I can’t get along without Gerry.”
The doorbell rang.
“Thank God, Room Service,” Dick said.
“I need Ingrid, not Room Service,” said Libra.
The door closed.
“Have some Scotch,” Dick said. “You’ll feel better.”
“Watch Nero tipple while Rome burns.”
“Christ, they brought the wrong kind of gin.”
“I hope you don’t think Silky’s paying for that booze,” Libra said. “I hope you had the decency to charge it to your room.”
“Of course I did.” Dick sounded insulted.
The doorbell rang.
“Dear Sam! I came as fast as I could.”
“Ingrid, thank God. The kid collapsed on stage. She’s asleep now, I think. In there.”
“I just wash my hands first, please.”
A large woman in a black coat came clumping into the room on her way to the bathroom. Silky pretended to be asleep. The woman put a black doctor’s bag on the chair and went into the bathroom and shut the door. The doorbell rang again.
“Gerry!” Libra cried.
“I registered us both for the night,” Gerry said. “I thought you might need me, too.”
“I don’t need you, but as long as you’re here I’m glad to see you,” Libra said calmly.
“Hello, Dick,” Gerry said. Her voice was very cool.
“Hello, Gerry.”
“I thought you two were over that foolishness,” Libra said.
“It’s nothing personal,” Gerry said. “I just don’t like seeing this selfish, egotistical, insecure, hostile turd driving a friend of mine to suicide.”
“What sui
cide?” Libra said.
“Silky,” said Gerry. “I saw it coming, I should have done something, but I didn’t know what to do. It’s my fault too. The poor kid was so scared and miserable she tried to starve herself to death.”
“Suicide?”—Libra, unbelieving.
“I don’t know what else you’d call it.”—Gerry, cold.
“What suicide?”—Libra. “Spades don’t commit suicide. Statistics show they have the lowest suicide rate in the country.”
Silence.
“All right.”—Libra, conciliatory. “If you want to think Silky tried to starve herself to death, I guess you know more about young girls than I do.”
“I just don’t understand how you could sit there and let her do it, Dick.”—Gerry. “I watched you in rehearsals. You drove that girl up the wall. She’s still in love with you. You could have gone easier on her. She took everything you said personally.”
“Would it have been better if I had told her she was wonderful and then let her wake up to lousy reviews?”—Dick. “I did it for her—I wanted her to be a success. Maybe I did it the wrong way, but it’s the only way I know how.”
“What do you think, Dick? Seriously.”—Libra, dead earnest.
“I think she’s going to be a smash. I think she’s going to be a star. I didn’t think so at first, but I knew she had a chance if she worked her ass off. Now I know it.”—Dick. Oh, Dick, Dick said it! And it was clear he meant it. He knew she was going to be a smash, a star!
The woman, Ingrid, came out of the bathroom, wearing a white nylon nurse’s uniform and snapped on the overhead light.
“Wake up, my dear.”
Silky pretended to wake up, and Gerry and Mr. Libra came peering around the doorway. Gerry smiled hello, and Silky smiled back. She was really glad to see Gerry. Ingrid took a small glass vial out of the doctor’s bag, and then a paper strip of disposable hypodermic needles. Silky didn’t like the look of the bottle or the needles.