“Teddy, don’t say that,” my mother cried out, but he had stormed out the kitchen to the backyard and let the door slam behind him.
* * *
That night I lay in bed staring at the darkness. We’d been leading up to this for some time now. My father had never liked me being on the stage. He hadn’t liked the way people looked at me; it made him angry. But what if he knew everything about me? What would he think of me then? It cut me deep inside, knowing that the possibilities for disappointment were endless. I knew he’d think I’d quit, that I’d be too scared to disappoint him. And he’d be right, I was scared. I was scared that I wouldn’t be his little girl anymore, that he’d never forgive me, that our relationship would be forever changed. But I also knew I didn’t want to be like them, married at seventeen, a kid at nineteen, a second at twenty-one, a third at twenty-three, a fourth at twenty-six. To me that sounded like living a prison sentence. I’d known since I was a little girl that this domesticated life didn’t appeal to me. Maybe one day I’d change, but not yet. I still had some living to do.
* * *
The next morning, I got up and went to early morning rehearsal as usual. We had a two-hour session on nothing but the walk. Mr. Ziegfeld had watched from his box the night prior and said that many of the new girls—me included—didn’t have it quite right. The walk was what most of us did ninety percent of the time we were onstage, either while another girl or guy was singing, to walk the staircase (often with a long line of other chorus girls following along behind), or simply to cross the stage. It was an essential part of the show and it had to be perfect. Arms elegantly outstretched to both sides with a slight dip of the elbow and a slow and steady saunter—no hip swaying—in heels and, more often than not, with a very heavy headpiece.
My arms felt as if they were going to drop off my body by the end of rehearsal, and my neck was as stiff as a board. I laid my head down on my dressing room table and closed my eyes.
“Hey there, Olive, what’s the matter with you?” It was Ruthie coming in from her voice lesson. She looked in my mirror and checked her rich red hair, giving herself the lips and turning her head from side to side, admiring her high cheekbones. “You have a rough one last night? I didn’t see you at the club.”
“I just need to soak in a bathtub for a few hours,” I said, thinking of the tub at home. “Say, do you know if there’s any space available at the rooming house where you and Lillian stay?”
“There’s a wait list, but after next week some space will open up. Lillian and I are getting our own apartment uptown. You should come with us. That rooming house is no place for us Ziegfeld girls. There’s going to be a third roommate—someone Lillian knows from the Scandals, but you could sleep in the living room, and then it would be a better price for all of us.”
“Really?”
“Sure, honey, it’d be swell, wouldn’t it? And you should see this place—it’s a stunner, views of the water, a straight line down to Times Square. You want in?”
“Sure, I want in, but I might need someplace to go this week. Do you think I could bunk with you at the boardinghouse for a few nights?”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, you too good for Flatbush all of a sudden?”
“My pop is all sore about the show, wants me to up and quit.”
“Oh, Olive. You shouldn’t have let him see it—what did you think he was going to say?”
“I don’t know, I guess I thought he’d be proud of me or something.”
“Honey, no one brings their fathers. They want to take care of us—all men, fathers, husbands, lovers—if they feel you slipping away, like they can’t take care of you no more, they act up. I’ve seen it here a thousand times. But you can’t quit, honey, you just got here.”
“Oh, I’m not quitting,” I said. “Not now, not ever.”
* * *
I crept around my parents’ house for the next few days, coming home when they were already in bed and trying to be up and out the door before they were awake in the morning. The first few days I left a note on the kitchen table for my mother, letting her know I had an early rehearsal and that I’d be back after the show—no need to wait up. It was exhausting and the girls often found me napping in the dressing room at the Amsterdam when they came in for morning rehearsals.
On Saturday, I tiptoed into the kitchen well past one A.M. and my mother was sitting at the table with a magazine in front of her. She closed it when I walked in.
“It’s late, Olive,” she said.
“I know, we had to stay after, to go over some steps…” I trailed off, then walked to the kitchen cabinet, took a glass down and poured myself some water. I’d had two glasses of champagne at the speak and I hoped she wouldn’t smell it on me.
“Why don’t you sit with me for a minute.”
“All right.” I stood at a distance and gulped down my water, then took the seat opposite her, my hands folded on the table between us. She reached out and took my hands in hers as if she’d been waiting all night to do this. We hadn’t spoken since the blowup with my father, and now there was a softness about her, a kindness.
“I think you’re wrong, Olive,” she said gently. “You’re wrong to be doing all this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Disobeying your father’s wishes. Singing, dancing, going out like this until”—she looked up at the clock on the wall—“all hours of the night.”
I shook my head. She’d been on my side, at least I thought she had been, and now she sounded just like him.
“You said you loved my performance, that you were proud of me,” I said. “You said that less than a week ago.” I’d been holding on to that one small moment from the night they had come to the show. You were a star, she’d said. I’d been keeping that in my mind.
“Well, I’ve come around to his way of thinking. Your father is right, Olive, you can’t be doing this, it’s disreputable for you and for your family. It casts a bad light on all of us. And I’m worried about what will become of you. Look what happened to you last time you were in a show—you got yourself into a disastrous situation,” she said in a low whisper. “What if that happens again? There’d be no fooling anyone a second time.”
I stared at her in shock. How could she not mention my pregnancy or the baby at all since I’d arrived in Brooklyn, not even to ask how I’d fared or if the baby was healthy, and yet choose to bring it up now, to shame me?
“That would never happen again, never, ever.”
“How can you say that? You did it once already. One night out on the town and you ended up getting yourself pregnant,” she said in an angry whisper.
“Mother! He took advantage of me, I didn’t know what was going on, he was older and he was pouring hooch into my drinks.”
“But you drank them down, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know that would happen, I was, he was…” What was the point? I could blame him all I wanted, but it wasn’t going to make a difference. “I would never get myself in that situation again. You have to believe me, Mother, it was awful. I could never go through that again.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about that.
“Well, I’m sorry, Olive, but I have to agree with your father on this,” she said, her face cold. She’d made her mind up on this one.
“Why? You were the one who encouraged me when I was younger, all those singing lessons you took me to.”
“We wanted you to have a hobby. Something you could talk about at social engagements. We never imagined you’d do this with it.” She sighed, exasperated with me. “Don’t you think I’ve looked at my life before and thought, What the heck happened? Don’t you think I might’ve had days where I would have liked to run off with the circus instead of making dinner each night, making sure you kids are clean and fed and have shoes that fit? Making sure your father’s beer is cold for when he gets home from work? Life isn’t always one big party. Life comes with responsibilities, Olive, wh
ether you want them or not.”
I was taken aback. I’d never considered for a moment that the life she had might not be the one she wanted for herself or that she fantasized about something more reckless and freeing.
“But you don’t have to agree with him all the time,” I said, more cautiously this time. “Why would you take his side when you know I have some talent and a chance at a different kind of life?”
She looked at me, miffed. “Because he is my husband. He’s my husband, and that’s what I’m supposed to do, that’s my role as his wife. Honestly,” she said, baffled that I couldn’t grasp this simple fact. “He provides for us, he is the head of this household and we are to respect him and his wishes. Just like you will when you get your head out of the clouds and find yourself a husband of your own.”
“So you’re kicking me out, too?”
“I’m not kicking you out. I’m asking you to stay. I’m asking you to give up the theater and do something more respectable. You’re my daughter, of course I want you to stay, I want what is best for you.”
I glared at her.
“But if you are going to disrespect your father and defy him, go against his will, then yes, I have to support him and stand by his decision.”
I stood up, shocked. Over the past few days, I’d thought somehow that she would help me fix this rift with my father. In the back of my mind I thought that it would blow over.
“I’ll be out by the morning, then,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not leaving. You’re being ridiculous. Where would you even go?”
“I’ll stay with a friend. What does it matter to you where I go?”
“Olive,” she said, grabbing my wrist. “Think clearly, for goodness’ sake, this is your future we’re talking of, your prospects.”
I pulled my arm away and ran upstairs, tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. I dragged out the old suitcase I had stored under my bed, laid it open on the floor and began stuffing the case with clothes.
It wasn’t that I desperately wanted to stay; in fact, the thought of getting an apartment with the girls sounded like a whole heck of a lot of fun and far less tiptoeing around. It was the fact that my parents hated the life that I’d created for myself, the life I’d worked so hard for, the life I loved. Not having their approval felt as though I didn’t have their love, and if I didn’t have their love, then who was I? What did it say about me if they couldn’t even love their own daughter? I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. I’d given a baby girl away to strangers. One day she’d grow up and learn this. She’d feel unloved, too. It felt awful, it would haunt me always. I suppose this was exactly what I deserved.
There was a knock on my door. I quickly wiped my face. Junior walked in and his eyes went straight to the half-packed case.
“Hey there, JJ.”
“Are you moving out?” he asked.
“It’s for the best,” I said. “You know Pops doesn’t like me performing and it’s not worth fighting about it anymore.”
I tried to sound light, breezy, as if this were no big deal, but inside I was seething, angry as hell at the two of them, my mother and my father. And my head was spinning from what my mother had just said. Was there a hint of envy at the life I was living now? A glimpse at a life she’d never had the chance to explore? But she knew what I’d just been through, she knew it was a miracle that I’d managed to get myself cast in the Ziegfeld Follies so soon after everything that happened in Rockville. It was sheer determination and sass that had gotten me that job, and yet here they were booing me from the sidelines. Well, to heck with them. I didn’t need them or their approval. I’d be just fine on my own.
“Where will you go?”
“I’ve got a place lined up with the girls from the show.”
He looked shocked. Where we came from, it was unheard of for a girl to move out of her parents’ house until she was well and truly married off.
“It’s okay, I promise you,” I said, walking over and putting my arm around him. “I know it’s not what we’re all used to, but it’s different here—actresses, singers, dancers, so many of the show girls—they all live together in apartments near the theater, it’s easier to get to and from rehearsals.”
“But Papa will be so angry,” he said, his forehead creasing with concern.
“He’s already angry,” I said. “At least I won’t be under his nose all the time, taunting him by going back and forth to the theater.” I said it as if it were my choice to leave, as if he hadn’t given me an ultimatum to quit or move out of his house.
“But if you go he’ll never forgive you.”
He was right, he probably wouldn’t, but what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to be ruled by him, stifled by his old-fashioned ideas.
“Of course he will, he just needs some time, that’s all. Come on, help me get these down, would you?” I pointed to three hatboxes I had all the way at the top of my closet. Junior may have been the baby of the family, but he was still taller than me by a long shot.
“You’ll come back, though, won’t you, Olive?”
“Of course I’ll come back, Junior. I’ll always be here for you.”
* * *
The apartment was at the far end of Manhattan on West 213th Street in an area called Inwood. And I didn’t know what Ruthie was thinking, because it was no stunner. One window in the living room and one in the kitchen—that was it. The carpet smelled damp and it was on the tenth floor, the elevator was broken, so not only was I sweating like a man by the time I climbed the stairs on those sticky summer days, the apartment heated up hotter than a two-dollar pistol. There were Jewish families living there mostly, and Irish immigrants, and when we walked to and from the train station before or after a show, we were often stared down with looks of disdain. Ruthie said they must’ve thought we were cheap flappers making some money on the side.
“We’re show girls, not prostitutes,” she called out one evening after a few too many drinks and with a face full of makeup, to a couple pushing a baby carriage who were glaring in our direction. “There’s a difference.”
Our building was surrounded by trees and open fields, and during the day there were always children running around the neighborhood, but inside, the apartment was dark and dingy, so I spent as much time at the theater as possible, and in the afternoons, rather than ride the hot, sticky train forty-five minutes from the theater district back up to Inwood, I’d practice my numbers at the rehearsal halls.
* * *
Luckily, we didn’t have to stay in Inwood too long. Within a few months Ruthie was given the extra responsibility of auditioning new dancers for the Follies, because, though he seemed to love every minute of it, Ziegfeld told her he didn’t have time to hand select the girls anymore. There was a constant flow of dancers and singers coming and going, getting married, getting lured to other shows, getting promoted to the chorus or taking the show on the road, so the company had to be replenished often, staying at around one hundred girls altogether, more than any other show on Broadway. Ruthie had her work cut out for her, but her paycheck doubled.
A month later, Ziegfeld called me into his office.
“Do you know why I started the Midnight Frolic, Olive?”
“Sure I do, Mr. Ziegfeld, you wanted to keep the party going.”
“That’s right, and quite a party it has been.”
When I first started he wasn’t shy in telling us that he created the Follies’ sister show, the Midnight Frolic, because he had always hated seeing his audience members walk out of the New Amsterdam Theatre at the end of a Follies show and go spend their money to eat, drink and dance at Rector’s or Delmonico’s, and more recently at the Backstage Club or Casa Blanca. So he built a 680-seat rooftop supper club, serving the highest-quality food you could find at any of the nightclubs in town, and he gave everyone a reason to stay. He built a revolving stage, tables surrounding the dance floor where guests could eat and drink, and a tra
nsparent glass walkway above the audience, with blowers and spotlights shining upwards, where some of the chorus girls gave patrons a new perspective. The performances were far more risqué than the original Follies shows that went on earlier in the evening, and for the extra skin and racy jokes, he charged a higher price for tickets and tables.
“Things are changing, Olive, and we need to change, too,” he said. “We need to give them a new reason to stick around after the show.”
“I’ve heard the food and the hooch you serve is pretty outstanding.”
“I still want to give my patrons a buzz. But that buzz doesn’t always have to be in liquid form—that reason to stay, that could be you.”
I felt a rush of excitement at being chosen for this special distinction. It was certainly more provocative than the Follies and my father would cringe at the thought of me now, but he’d already kicked me out of his house and accused me of being a harlot, so there was no sense in trying to please him anymore.
* * *
On my first night in the Frolic, after dancing all night in the Follies, I came out on the platform in a skin-colored, lace, barely there costume that looked more like an undergarment, covered in balloons. I sauntered down the wide glass stairs and paraded through the audience, encouraging the gentlemen to pop my balloons with their ten-cent cigars. From the stage, Will Rogers sang “Girls of My Dreams,” and as the balloons popped and popped and popped, I was left with nothing but my lacy negligee. Ziegfeld put small wooden mallets on the tables, and when the audience liked an act they didn’t just applaud and hoot and holler—they’d bang their mallets on the table, sending a vibration of approval through our bones.
I was in heaven on that stage. It was everything from the Follies, but more fun, more singing, more flirting, more dancing, and Ziegfeld paid me $75 a week in addition to my Follies pay. I was on top of the world.
The Show Girl Page 6