“And how do I hold up to your high standards?”
“Quite nicely. You’ve got the face for it.” He looked down, and while I was wearing a robe he allowed his eyes to follow the length of my legs from the ankle up to my thigh as if he could see right through the fabric. “The proportions are perfection, and if you could sing on Broadway the way you sang on that stage tonight, then you’d be just fine as one of my ponies.”
I gave him a cockeyed look—what the heck was a pony? I was an opera singer. I laughed and started to turn away.
“You must come and visit me next time you’re in New York City,” he said. “The New Amsterdam Theatre on Forty-second Street. You can’t miss it, it’s got my name in white lights out front.”
* * *
We played in San Jose for one more night and then went to San Francisco, Sacramento, and then Hollywood for the final show. It was a matinee: apparently everyone in Hollywood was more interested in going to the movie show in the evenings than in watching a live opera. But that was all right with me, because that evening the producers took our whole troupe to the Brown Derby for dinner. It was a rounded brown dome of a restaurant made to look like a derby hat right on Wilshire Boulevard. They ordered for the table—chopped chicken livers, spaghetti and a Derby plate of crabs’ legs, celery, avocado and Thousand Island dressing. Afterwards some of the girls ordered ice cream and sherbets and made their way back to the hotel, but I was dying to see a little more of the Hollywood I’d heard so much about. After we said good night and went back to our rooms, I sneaked out and walked across the street to where I’d seen a big sign that read, “Ambassador Hotel—Cocoanut Grove,” and underneath, “Ray West and his Cocoanut Grove Orchestra.”
I approached the heavy glass doors with as much confidence as I could muster and smiled at the doorman.
“I’m meeting my friends inside,” I said, not stopping as he tipped his hat and opened the door for me. Thrilled by my subterfuge, I sailed past him. The minute I stepped inside, the music hit me, swirling around a room full of tables dressed in white linen, a frenzied dance floor and actual full-size palm trees grazing the ceiling. The atmosphere was electrifying, and I tingled with excitement. Looking around, taking it all in, I noticed an empty seat at the bar, where I might be able to linger without my being alone getting too much notice.
“A Coca-Cola, please,” I said to the barkeep. “And a straw.”
“How about I put it in a glass for you, so you can sip it like a lady?” He laughed.
“That would be great.” I took the glass of Coca-Cola and turned around to face the orchestra. It was wildly fun, and I wished more than anything I could get up there on the dance floor.
“You’re not here alone, are you?”
It was the gentleman sitting to my left. I hadn’t even noticed him when I sat down. He was at least twenty-five years older than me, maybe more, but slightly handsome in a slick kind of way, hair greased back, his tie loosened a little at the neck.
“Me? Oh no, I’m not alone, I’m here with a whole group of people.” I looked around as if I’d lost them in the crowd.
“What kind of people?”
“We’re a traveling opera company, and we’ve been performing along the West Coast. Today was our last show, actually—we head home early in the morning.”
“Opera, huh?”
“Singing, dancing, performing, you name it,” I said with a laugh.
“Do you act?” he asked. “I only ask because I’m a studio executive and, well, you certainly look the part.”
I looked down at my Coca-Cola, trying not to beam at him. A studio executive? What exactly did they do? It had to be good, and what were the chances that I’d meet one, in real life, my last night in Hollywood? When I had myself under control, I looked up at him coyly and smiled. “You really think I look the part?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve got any talent, but you’ve got a famous face, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, I’ve got talent,” I said, and he laughed.
“Good, I like a girl with some charisma. If you’ve got that you’re halfway there.” He looked at my drink. “How’s that Coca-Cola treating you?”
“It’s delicious,” I said.
“Want me to spruce it up for you?” He raised an eyebrow, then took a silver flask out of his jacket pocket and poured a good amount of something into my drink and then into his. “Fill me up, will you, Joey,” he said to the barkeep, who looked around, then quickly took the flask along with some bills. I watched him go to the other end of the bar, turn his back to the crowd and refill it from an unlabeled brown bottle. A few moments later he came back and returned the flask under a napkin.
The man poured some more into our glasses, then raised his glass and looked at me expectantly. “What do you think?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I said, trying to buy myself some time. I’d had a sip of my father’s whiskey before, which tasted like fire mixed with a mouthful of dirt, and I’d sipped my mother’s gin fizz, which was decidedly more palatable, but I didn’t even know what this was, and I was worried I’d take one sip and spit it back out again.
“Richard,” he said. “But you can call me Ricky.”
It was rum, and as it turned out I liked rum with Coca-Cola more than I would have expected. After I finished the first one, Ricky bought me another soda and topped it up just the same. It was getting warm in that room, but the drink was making me feel energized, as if I couldn’t wait another minute before I got on that dance floor, so when Ricky asked me to dance I just about lunged at him.
He slipped his hands around my waist and danced with me, pulling me too close, but I let him do it anyway. I was in Hollywood for only a few more hours and then it would be back to regular old St. Cloud. I was dancing at the Cocoanut Grove in Hollywood with a studio executive—life didn’t get much more exciting than this.
“Hey, have you seen the view from the top of the hotel?” he said into my ear over the music.
“No,” I called out.
“Oh, you should, you can see the HOLLYWOODLAND sign from the balcony. I’m staying on the top floor, it’s the only way you can get a glimpse—if you’re staying here. Want to take a peek?”
I was reluctant to leave the dance floor behind, but I did want to see as much of Los Angeles as I could before I had to leave, so I let him grab my hand, navigate us off the frenzied dance floor, weave me through the tables and lead us out into the lobby of the hotel. The rum had hit me, and I felt wobbly on my feet. Everything seemed amazing: I couldn’t take my eyes off the long sparkling chandeliers, the artwork on the walls and the fabulously dressed women. I grabbed hold of Ricky’s arm so I could take it all in without falling over, and he whisked me into a shiny golden elevator.
“Have you ever thought about being in the pictures?” he asked.
“I’ve always dreamed of being on the stage,” I said. “I’m going to be a Ziegfeld girl, you know.”
“Really?” He seemed to think it was a coincidence. “I know people who know Florenz Ziegfeld.”
“You know him?” I squealed.
“Sure thing, babe,” he said, cool and calm as he brushed a piece of hair out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. “I told you, I’m a Hollywood man. I know a lot of people.”
“I just met him in San Jose; he said he might put me in his show. My father is waiting to get a seat on the New York Produce Exchange, and then we’re going to move to New York, though he’s been saying that for years. I have to get there.”
“Oh, you’d make a real pretty Ziegfeld girl,” he said, placing his hands around my waist, then sliding them down to my rear and pulling me in toward him. Even in my tipsy state, I knew he was getting way too familiar, and I didn’t like it. He could have been my father’s age, and the only other boy who’d got up close with me like that was Henry Dickerson at my final school dance—this was far more presumptuous.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, pulling away,
flushed and a bit dizzy.
But he went on as if he hadn’t heard me.
“You want me to give Ziegfeld a call, tell him I think you’d be perfect for the show?”
“You’d do that?” When I spoke, my voice didn’t sound like my own.
“Of course—better than that, I’m going to tell him he’s a fool to wait for you to show up, that he needs to get you a train ticket and a place to stay lined up immediately, along with a generous contract, or you’re going to get snapped up by the Shuberts.”
“You’d really tell him that?” I said, gasping, then reaching out to the wall to steady myself. This was the most exciting news I’d heard in my whole life.
“I’d do anything for that pretty little face of yours,” he said, leaning in and kissing me on the lips. I cringed at the feel of his moist mouth on mine; it was uninvited and unwanted. I tried to pull away, but he held my face tight in his hands. I held my breath. He’d said something about being in the pictures. I imagined being in front of the camera. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, pulling back, holding my face a little too firmly in his hands. “Anything at all, if you’d do something for me.”
I never did see the HOLLYWOODLAND sign. I just stared up at the white, swirling ceiling in his hotel room, then squeezed my eyes tightly shut and forced myself to think about my first night onstage at the New Amsterdam Theatre.
* * *
When I got back home to St. Cloud, Pa felt guilty as hell for slapping me across the face, I could tell. He didn’t mention it, but he was sugary sweet for a few days. I continued with voice lessons and my part-time job as salesgirl at the local women’s clothing store, but I was repulsed with myself. I couldn’t believe I’d let myself get drunk off that man’s hooch and that I’d let him do what he did. It was a blur, the rest of the night; I didn’t even remember how I got back to my hotel room. I vowed to never let myself think of that night again.
Over the next few weeks, I read up on Mr. Ziegfeld in magazines and looked for auditions for every play and traveling performing group that could end up as an excuse to get me to New York City, where I could pay him a visit on Broadway. But nothing came up to send me east.
And then, a little over a month after returning home, after my father had been traveling for business, my parents sat down with me and my brothers George and Junior and told us we were moving. Erwin, the oldest, was already out of the house by then. They’d bought a Victorian house in Flatbush, Brooklyn, and just as they’d hoped, Pa was going to leave his job in banking to be a grain and stock broker in Manhattan. He’d been waiting for the opportunity, and it had finally presented itself.
I couldn’t believe it. My brothers complained like hell, but I could barely contain myself. I didn’t have to lie, cheat or run away to make it happen. I kept quiet, shocked by my unbelievably good luck, since I didn’t think any of us had ever thought it would happen.
Keeping my excitement at bay, I obediently organized my things and helped my mother pack up the house with such determination that my father held me up as an example to my brothers. If only they could be more like me, he told them for the first time in my life, helpful and cooperative instead of sitting out on the front porch sulking. As far as I was concerned, the faster we packed up our old life into boxes, the faster I could start my new life in New York City.
* * *
One morning, while my mother and I carefully wrapped the china in newspaper, our hands blackened with ink, a wave of nausea came over me.
“Ugh,” I said, setting down a stack of teacups and rubbing my stomach.
“What is it, honey?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know, the smell of this ink. Or maybe I’m hungry.”
“Do you want me to fix you something? I just got eggs at the market today, I could fix you fried eggs with the runny yolks the way you like them.”
The very thought of runny yolks made my stomach lurch toward my throat. I stood up and ran to the bathroom, making it just in time.
The same thing happened every day for a week, the same time, right around breakfast, and my mother thought the stress of moving was making me ill. I assured her it couldn’t possibly be that, because I was quite looking forward to the change of scenery—a slight understatement if ever there was one—but she insisted that we see a doctor. And that’s when we got the news.
“Pregnant!” my mother’s voice screeched as she stared at me in disbelief.
I stared right back at her, speechless, then she marched out of the office and slammed the door behind her. The shock of what he’d told me didn’t sink in until the door made me jump.
“I don’t understand,” I said, staring dumbfounded at the doctor, who tidied up his instruments and scribbled something onto his notepad.
“Really?” he said harshly. “I think you do.” And he walked out, too, leaving me there on the cold metal examination table, seeing my hopes and dreams shatter around me.
Outside, my mother was pacing.
“How could you do this to us, Olive? How could you do this to your father? We’ve given you everything, everything you’ve ever asked for, and this is how you repay us? Good God, what have you done?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to sob.
“Oh, save your tears and pull yourself together, there’s no time for this. Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, Olive, what does that mean? Tell me the truth.”
I’d never seen my mother so angry.
“I honestly don’t know. His name was Ricky, I met him in California. He said he worked at a cinema studio in Hollywood. I don’t know anything else about him. He gave me a lot of rum and said he’d help me get into show business.”
“You stupid, stupid, selfish girl. You could have had the world. But not anymore. And this poor child, this poor bastard child.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, trying to hold back the tears. “I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean to.”
She pulled at the roots of her hair so hard, I thought a clump might come out in her hands. “You can’t go to New York in this condition, you’ll ruin your father’s reputation before he’s even gotten a start. He’ll disown you if he finds out.”
“I have to go to New York,” I said.
“You can’t.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I cried, tears now rolling down my cheeks. “Stay here in Minnesota?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what you’ll do.”
“No!” I cried.
My mother looked off into the distance and rubbed her temples. “You’ll stay here and have the baby, and I don’t know what will happen next for you, I really don’t.”
“Mama, please,” I cried frantically. I couldn’t have a baby, I couldn’t even fathom it, and I certainly couldn’t do it without my mother. I still needed her, I still felt like a child myself.
This was a curse—that man had cursed me, and I had no one to blame but myself for letting it happen.
But over the next week, my mother made the necessary arrangements. I would stay with her widowed sister, my aunt May, in Rockville, a few hours southwest of St. Cloud. There was a place she’d heard of not too far from where Aunt May lived, Birdhouse Lodge, where unwed women went to give birth and put their babies up for adoption. She told my father that Aunt May had taken ill and that someone needed to stay behind and take care of her until she was better. She told my father that she would have to do it, knowing full well that he needed her to set up the new house in Brooklyn and get the boys settled. So she let it be his idea that the only person who could stay behind and care for her sister was me.
* * *
I hadn’t seen much of Aunt May after her husband, Henry, died overseas in the war eight years earlier. She’d become something of a recluse since he’d passed, and at first the thought of staying with someone like that for the next seven months made me incredibly uneasy. As a young child, I’d loved her. A few years
younger than my mother, she’d been fun and caring and always made the effort to spend time with me away from my brothers, which I’d thoroughly enjoyed. But after Henry died my mother said she’d changed, and it worried her and frightened me. Her lively, chatty and fun-loving demeanor had been extinguished and what was left was a quiet, dreary and inattentive woman whom no one could recognize.
“Let’s get you settled, then,” she said when I arrived. Her house was simple and a little cluttered with newspapers and magazines. “Yours is the little room at the top of the stairs; we’ll bring your luggage up later. Now I haven’t had many guests over the years so you’ll have to let me know if you need anything.” She looked a little uncomfortable herself, and I longed for my own mother to be there with me, even though in the past few weeks she’d barely been able to stay in the same room as me for more than five minutes.
While I didn’t know anyone in Rockville, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and couldn’t risk anyone seeing me in my swollen state, in case news got back to my father. So I stayed home mostly, as Aunt May did, with the exception of her early morning walks to the store and her afternoon gardening. We played cards and I read magazines that she picked up at the store for me, and when she was outside gardening I practiced my scales and all the songs I knew from my previous performances.
She was thirty-eight or so, and she had a pretty face, if only she’d tame her wild hair. In a picture she kept on the mantel of Henry and her on their wedding day, she was breathtaking. She told me they’d met at a dance at the church hall and that he’d come calling the next day and every day after for a week. At the end of the week he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said yes. I smiled at the thought of her, young and giddy with all the possibilities of love waiting for her.
“Thank you,” I said quietly one afternoon as we were having a cup of tea in the living room. “For letting me stay.” I looked down at my slightly protruding belly and sighed. “I got myself into a real mess, Aunt May.”
The Show Girl Page 2