“Huh? Oh, I sing like I dance. Though I must say I get the steps a lot quicker than most of those chorus girls.” She did a high kick and narrowly missed a lamp. “Now all I need is a boyfriend and I’ll be set.”
“Is there anyone attractive in the show?”
“Are you kidding? A musical is like a sexual desert—unless you’re a fag. Dickie is having a ball with all those chorus boys—it’s like smorgasbord. The leading man is straight—handsome, too—but he has a wife who looks like his mother, and she sits around and watches him every second. The guy who plays opposite Terry King is bald without his rug. The only normal man is the old lech who plays Helen’s father. He’s sixty-five if he’s a day, but he’s always trying to grab a feel. But one of the girls in the chorus has a boyfriend who’s got a friend named Mel Harris. He’s a press agent, and she’s going to arrange for me to double-date with them. I hope something comes out of it. . . . It’d be awful not to have a date on my own opening night. Are you still going to the New York opening with George Bellows?”
“Of course not. I’m . . . well. . . I’m engaged to Allen.”
“Then lemme buy you a pair of seats for the opening. It’ll be my present to you.”
“Don’t you get seats free?”
“Are you kidding? No one does, not even Helen Lawson. But she gets to buy four house seats every night, and someone told me when a show is a hit she sells them to a scalper and makes a fortune.”
“But Neely, I couldn’t let you buy my seats . . . Allen will get them. And Neely, if the Mel thing doesn’t work out, we’ll take you out after your opening.”
Neely had her date with Mel Harris the following week. He was divine, she insisted. He had taken her to Toots Shor’s and told her all about himself. He was twenty-six, had been graduated from New York University, was a press agent but one day hoped to be a producer. He lived in a small midtown hotel and went to Brooklyn every Friday night to have dinner with his family.
“You see, Jewish men are very family conscious,” Neely explained.
“Do you really like him?” Anne asked.
“I love him!”
“Neely, you’ve only had one date. How can you be in love?”
“Look who’s talking. All you had was one lunch with Lyon Burke.”
“Neely! There’s nothing between Lyon Burke and me. I don’t even think about him. In fact, I’m getting quite fond of Allen.”
“Well, I know I love Mel. He’s beautiful. Not beautiful like Lyon, but great.”
“What does he look like?”
Neely shrugged. “Maybe a little like Georgie Jessel, but to me he’s gorgeous. And he didn’t try to get fresh, either. Even when I lied and said I was twenty. I was afraid seventeen would scare him off.”
Neely cocked her head toward the open door. They were sitting in Anne’s room, and the telephone was downstairs in front of Neely’s room. It was both a convenience and a hazard. She was constantly forced to take messages for everyone in the house.
“This time it’s for me,” she shrieked as she heard the tinny ring.
Five minutes later she bounded back, breathlessly triumphant. “It was him! He’s taking me to the Martinique tonight. He handles some singer there.”
“He must do very well,” Anne said.
“No, he only makes a hundred a week. He works for Irving Steiner and Irving handles about twelve big accounts. But soon he’s going out on his own, though he’s trying to get connected with radio. You know, Jewish men make marvelous husbands.”
“So I’ve heard. But how do they feel about Irish girls?”
Neely knit her brows. “Look, I can always tell him I’m part Jewish. That I took the O’Hara as a stage name.”
“Neely, you’d never get away with it.”
“If I had to, I would. I’m going to marry him. You watch.” She hugged herself and danced across the room, singing softly.
“That’s a pretty song. What is it?”
“From the show. Hey Anne, why don’t you take that mink coat Allen’s father offered you and sell me your black coat? I need a black coat.”
“Neely, sing that song again.”
“Why?”
“Just sing it.”
“It’s Terry King’s number. But I think Helen Lawson is planning to take it. She’s already taken one of Terry’s songs. Poor Terry only has two left, this and another. One’s a real torcher—Helen can’t take that from her. Helen’s character can’t sing that number in the show. It’d be against the plot.”
“Sing the song, Neely—the one you were singing.”
“If I do, will you sell me your black coat when you get the mink?”
“I’ll give it to you . . . if I ever take the mink. Sing the song.”
Neely sighed, and like a child forced to recite, stood in the center of the room and sang the ballad. Anne could hardly believe it. Neely had an extraordinary voice, crystal clear. Her low notes were strong and melodious, and her higher range had power and beauty.
“Neely! You can really sing!”
“Oh, anyone can sing,” Neely said, laughing.
“Not like that. I couldn’t carry a tune if my life was at stake.”
“If you grew up in vaudeville you could. I can dance, juggle, even do some sleight of hand. You stand around in the wings, you pick it up.”
“But Neely, you sing well. Really well.”
Neely shrugged. “That and a nickel will get me a cup of coffee.”
Anne became personally involved with Hit the Sky at the end of the second week of rehearsals. Henry called in late one afternoon just as she was about to leave the office.
“Anne, thank God you’re still there. Look, honey, you can save my life. I’m stuck at N.B.C. The Ed Holson show airs tonight at nine and the last twenty minutes has to be rewritten. Ed is a ballbreaker—the writers are ready to quit and he’s thrown out the producer. I can’t leave. And Helen Lawson expects me to drop by with a portfolio of her new stocks. It’s on my desk.”
“Shall I send it by messenger?”
“No, take it to her. But don’t say I’m at N.B.C. Tell her I’m locked in a board-of-directors meeting on that real-estate deal she’s interested in and that I couldn’t get away. As long as she thinks I’m out making a buck for her, she won’t mind. Give it to her personally, and for God’s sake be convincing with the message.”
“I’ll do my best,” Anne promised.
“Take it to the Booth Theatre, backstage entrance. They should be breaking any minute. Tell her I’ll go over everything in detail with her tomorrow.”
She was sorry Henry had caught her. If only she had left earlier. She wasn’t good at things like this. Meeting Helen Lawson face to face was not her idea of a casual everyday encounter.
She was nervous when she reached the theatre and timidly opened the black, rusted stage door. Even the old doorman who sat near the radiator reading the racing form looked formidable.
He looked up. “Well? Whaddaya want?”
She wondered about all those movies where the gay chorus girls called a paternal stage doorman “Dad.” This one was staring at her as if she were in a police lineup.
She explained, pointing to the portfolio as added proof. He jerked his head, said, “In there,” and went back to his paper.
“In there” she bumped into a frantic man holding a script. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered angrily.
She went through the entire explanation again, secretly cursing Henry.
“Well, they’re still rehearsing,” he grumbled. “You can’t stand here in the wings. Go through that door and sit in the audience till we break.”
She groped her way into the dark, empty theatre. Gil Case was sitting on the aisle of the third row, his hat tilted to shade his eyes from the glaring work light on the stage. The chorus girls were sitting in a tired little group against the back wall of the bare stage. Some were whispering quietly among themselves, a few were massaging their calves, one w
as knitting. Neely was sitting erect, her eyes fastened on Helen Lawson. Helen stood in the center of the stage, singing a love song with a tall, handsome man.
She was belting out the lyrics in her famous style. Her smile was bright and merry, and even in the love song she exuded her familiar hale and hearty attitude. Her eyes flashed with grinning humor when the lyrics went into comedy, and her face went serious when the song moved into the inevitable lover’s lament. Her figure was beginning to show signs of middle age—the thickness through the waist, the slight spread in the hips. Recalling Helen’s appearance in the past, Anne felt as if she were gazing at the cruel distortion of a monument. Age settled with more grace on ordinary people, but for celebrities—women stars in particular—age became a hatchet that vandalized a work of art. Helen’s figure had always been her biggest asset. Playing broad comedy in a high-styled wardrobe had been a Helen Lawson trademark. Her face, although never classically beautiful, had been attractive and vivacious with her shock of long black hair.
Helen had not had a Broadway opening for five years. Her last show had enjoyed a two-year run, then a year on tour. She had met her last husband on that tour. There had been a whirlwind courtship in Omaha, Nebraska, then a huge wedding, with Helen telling the press that she intended to settle on his ranch as soon as the show ended its run. There she would play her greatest role, her final role—that of a wife. The big, smiling husband, Red Ingram, also assured the press that Helen’s place was on his ranch. “I never saw this little girl in any of her shows,” he told the world. “Just as well—I mighta nipped her career long ago. She’s for me.”
Helen had settled down—for two years. Then her image once again flashed across the AP and the UP wires as she told the world that “it’s been pure hell on the ranch” and that Broadway was her real home. Henry had quickly gone through the arrangements for a Reno divorce, composers and librettists rushed to Helen with their newest scores, and now Helen was back where she belonged—rehearsing for Hit the Sky.
She couldn’t be the love interest, Anne decided. Not with that padding of flesh on her jawline. It was practically a double chin. Yet she was singing a love song, her eyes still flashed merrily, the old vivacity was still intact, the long shock of curly black hair was still shoulder length. . . . From the lyrics of the song Anne realized Helen was playing a widow, searching for a new love. Well, it probably would work—but why hadn’t Helen taken off about fifteen pounds before she tackled the show? Or didn’t she realize the change the years had brought? Maybe it happened so gradually you never noticed. I haven’t seen her in eight years, Anne thought, so it comes as a shock to me. Maybe Helen still looks the same in her own eyes.
These were the thoughts that rambled through her mind as she watched Helen do the number. At the same time she was conscious that Helen’s magnetism did not rely on her face or figure. There was something that compelled you to watch her, and soon you forgot the wide waistline, the sagging jawline, and felt only her tremendous warmth and rakish good humor.
When she finished the number, Gilbert Case called out, “Wonderful, Helen! Just great!”
She walked to the edge of the stage, looked down at him and said, “It’s a piece of shit!”
His expression never changed. “You’ll get to love it, dear girl. You always feel this way about boy-girl ballads in the beginning.”
“Are you kidding? I loved the one I did with Hugh Miller in Nice Lady. I loved it the second I heard it. And Hugh was tone deaf—I had to carry the slob. At least Bob keeps on key.” She tossed her head to acknowledge the handsome, wooden man at her side. “So don’t tell me I’ll get to like it. It stinks! It doesn’t say anything. And I hate combining comedy with torch. The tune’s okay, but you’d better tell Lou to come up with a better set of lyrics.”
She turned and walked off the stage. The assistant director shouted an eleven o’clock call for the following day and that the names of those with costume fittings were posted on the call board and for God’s sake to get to Brooks in time. There was a general buzzing all around and no one seemed at all concerned with Helen’s attack on the song—including Gilbert Case. He rose slowly from his seat, lit a cigarette and walked to the back of the theatre.
When the stage had cleared, Anne gingerly made her way back. The young man with the script pointed toward the door of Helen’s dressing room.
Anne tapped, and the famous raucous voice yelled, “Come in!”
Helen looked up in surprise. “Who in hell are you?”
“I’m Anne Welles and I—”
“Look, I’m tired and busy. What do you want?”
“I came with this portfolio.” Anne placed it on the makeup table. “Mr. Bellamy sent it.”
“Oh. Well, where in hell is Henry?”
“He’s tied up with some real-estate board meeting. But he said he’ll talk to you tomorrow and explain anything you don’t understand.”
“Okay, okay.” Helen turned back to the mirror and waved her hand in dismissal. Anne started for the door and Helen shouted, “Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you the girl I read about? The one who got Allen Cooper and the ring and all?”
“I’m Anne Welles.”
Helen grinned. “Well, hey . . . glad to meet you. Sit down. I didn’t mean to be nasty, but you should see some of the characters who slip by the stage doorman and get in to see me. All of them with something to sell. Hey, lemme see the ring!” She grabbed Anne’s hand and whistled in appreciation. “Wow, that’s a beaut! I got one twice that size, but I bought it for myself.” She stood up and slid into her mink coat. “I bought this myself, too. No man ever really gave me anything.” She said it plaintively. Then she shrugged. “Well, there’s always tomorrow. Maybe I’ll meet a right guy who’ll shower me with presents and rescue me from this rat race.”
She grinned at Anne’s surprise. “Yeah, that’s what I said. You think it’s fun going through these four stinking weeks of rehearsal, and then the hell that goes on during the out-of-town tryout? And if you come in with a hit, so what? Big deal—you still wind up with the News and Mirror after the show.” She started for the door. “Where are you going? I have a car, I can drop you.”
“Oh, I can walk,” Anne said quickly. “I live right near.”
“So do I, but that’s one thing I get in my contract—the producer pays for the car and chauffeur to pick me up and call for me. During rehearsals and after performances of the New York run. Unless I get lucky and have a date,” she added with a grin.
It was drizzling when they came out of the stage door, so Anne accepted Helen’s lift. “Drop me first,” Helen called to the chauffeur, “then take Miss Welles wherever she wants to go.”
When they stopped before Helen’s apartment building, she took Anne’s hand in an impulsive gesture and said, “Come up and have a drink with me, Anne. I hate to drink alone. It’s only six. You can call your fella from my place. He can pick you up there.”
Anne wanted to go home—it had been a long day—but there was an urgency about the loneliness in Helen’s voice. She followed Helen into the building.
Inside the apartment, Helen’s mood changed as she looked around proudly. “Like it, Anne? I paid a fortune to the faggot who did it. That’s a real Vlaminck over there . . . and that’s a Renoir.”
It was a warm, attractive apartment. Anne stared at the bleak snow scene by Vlaminck with deep admiration. This was a side of Helen she never would have imagined. . . .
“I don’t know my ass from my elbow about art,” Helen went on. “But I like to have the best of everything around me. At this point in my life I can afford it. So I told Henry to pick me some good pictures that would go well with the apartment and be good investments. The Renoir’s not bad, but that snow scene—ugh! But Henry says a Vlaminck will triple in value. Come on in the den. That’s my favorite room . . . the bar’s in there.”
The walls of the den were a pictorial cavalcade of Helen’s theatrical life. Glossy photographs were neatly framed and
mounted with assembly-line precision. There were pictures of Helen in short skirts and the frizzy hair of the twenties, autographing a baseball bat for Babe Ruth. A smiling Helen with a mayor of New York . . . Helen with a famous senator . . . Helen with a well-known songwriter . . . Helen receiving the Best Broadway Star award . . . Helen sailing to Europe with her second husband . . . Helen in affectionate poses with other theatrical luminaries. There were also plaques, framed scrolls, commendations, all proclaiming Helen’s greatness.
There was also a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes—Dickens, Shakespeare, Balzac, De Maupassant, Thackeray, Proust, Nietzsche. Anne surmised that Henry had also been assigned to furnish the bookcases.
Helen noticed her looking at the books. “All the right classic junk, huh? I tell you that Henry knows everything. But you’ll never convince me people actually read that shit I tried a few pages once . . . Christ!”
“Some of them are tough going,” Anne agreed. “Especially Nietzsche.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “You read those books? Know something? I never read a book in my life.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” Anne insisted.
“Nope. When I work in a show, I work hard. After the show, if I’m lucky I have a date. If not, I come home from the show alone. And by the time I take a bath and read the trade papers and the columns, I’m ready to pop off. I sleep till noon, read the afternoon papers, go through my mail, get on the horn with my friends . . . by that time I’m ready for dinner. I never go out for dinner when I’m doing a show and I never have a drink till after the show. But after the show I like to hoot. Oh, yeah . . . I almost read a book during my last marriage. That’s when I knew it was going sour. How do you like your champagne—on the rocks?”
“I’ll take a Coke, if you don’t mind,” Anne said.
“Oh, come on, take some of my bubbly water. It’s the only thing I drink, and if you don’t help me with it, I’ll wind up killing the bottle myself tonight. And let me tell you, the grape adds bloat.” She patted her waistline knowingly. “I’m still trying to get rid of the weight I gained on the ranch.” She handed Anne a glass. “Christ! You ever lived on a ranch?”
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