The Show Girl

by Nicola Harrison

  The music stopped and the room filled with applause. The pianist stood and took a small bow, then sat down at the stool, ready to begin again. The dancer wiped the sweat from her brow, took a deep curtsy and fell into the lap of a boy … well, a man, I suppose, not more than twenty-one. She was twice his size and age, and yet he looked at her adoringly, then kissed her with more passion than seemed appropriate in a crowded room, even for the Village.

  I looked around for a face I might recognize from the Pirate’s Den a few days before. I looked around for Archie. It had been a mistake to come all the way downtown, showing up alone at this hour, I thought.

  At the bar I saw Frank, the bookstore owner, but I doubted he’d remember me.

  “Olive?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you made it.” It was Emily, the writer. She led me to the bar. “What can we get you? You remember Frank?” He looked at me as if trying to focus, then as if something registered. “Ah yes, the uptown girl.”

  “I’m actually not an uptown girl,” I said.

  “Here, let’s pull up a chair.” Emily squeezed two stools in between Frank and a couple at the bar, and we sat down.

  “Don’t mind these two.” She motioned to a gentleman with a full beard and a woman with a short black bob. “They just got married, they like to be close. This is Anne-Marie and Willis.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” I said.

  “They were just talking about their utter disgust for bourgeois philistines, so you’d better keep your uptown tales under your hat,” Frank chimed in.

  “I told you I’m not an uptown girl; my family lives in Flatbush, Brooklyn. I’ll take a gin martini if you’re offering,” I said, turning to the others. “Anyway, congratulations on your marriage.”

  “We asked our friends to pay for the marriage license,” Anne-Marie said. “Two pennies each from a hundred friends, we were not going to let the government put a price on our love. Or let society dictate how we celebrate it. Pennies, I tell you, pennies.”

  Emily laughed. “Willis here is a brilliant illustrator and the publisher of the Greenwich Village Saturday Night. He just wants a good publicity stunt to sell his paper.”

  “Hardly,” he said, taking a swig of his drink.

  “Oh, come on, you love to cause a big fuss, both of you. Olive here is a performer, she might sing for us later if we’re lucky. Will you?” she asked excitedly. “I have some new lyrics.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. I always loved a chance to perform, but I was distracted. “Say, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Archie around? I promised him I’d make an appearance.”

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” she said with a shrug. “He travels a lot. But it looks like Frankie’s got his eye on you.” She laughed. “He’s an absolute degenerate, but he’s a lot of fun.”

  I was disappointed. I’d really hoped to see Archie again. I didn’t even know his last name.

  The older dancer approached the bar.

  “I was transfixed by your dancing earlier,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” As I spoke, I still didn’t think I liked her style much, it was just different and so was she.

  “How so?” she said.

  “Your style is so…” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say beautiful. “Quite unusual and breathtaking.”

  “My art is just an effort to express the truth of my being in gesture and movement. It has taken me long years to find even one absolute true movement.” She stared at me for a moment as if asking me to question my own moves.

  I smiled. “I could just imagine my boss, Mr. Ziegfeld, hearing this. He insists our bodies must be still as we descend the staircase onstage with fifteen-or twenty-pound headdresses on our heads.” I laughed. “We have to smile and look alluring, as if it’s the easiest thing we’ve ever done, as if the four-foot-high crystal crown is nothing but whipped air.” Even after performing in two back-to-back shows that night, I was giddy when I described to her my typical night on the stage. But she wasn’t taken with it the way I was.

  “You’re a Ziegfeld girl?” she asked, looking repulsed. “It sounds ghastly.”

  “Not at all, I love every minute.”

  Later that evening, Emily persuaded me to sing a number from the show.

  The pianist accompanied me while I sang one of Eddie Cantor’s songs, “You Don’t Need the Wine to Have a Wonderful Time (While They Still Make Those Wonderful Girls).” This one was always a big hit when people were boozing, and partygoing crowds really loved it. I was having fun, but my eyes kept darting to the door, wondering if Archie might make an appearance. He never did.

  Determined to get home before the sun came up, I looked around for Emily to ask her to pass a message on to Archie, but she was nowhere to be found, so I slipped out the door, and James drove me back to the apartment.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I received a bouquet of white roses in my dressing room one April evening after the show with a card from Ziegfeld inviting me to join him and his wife for dinner that Sunday evening.

  I’d been performing in both shows every night for two months now. I knew Ziegfeld’s wife, Billie, well enough from the Follies, but I’d never received the honor of an invite with the two of them. It seemed promising.

  He picked me up at my apartment and then circled back to collect Billie, who he said needed more time to get dolled up, then we ended up at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. A big fuss was made as we arrived, and we were seated at what seemed to be the best table in the house.

  For most of the evening it was all chatter and laughs, and I had absolutely no idea why I’d been invited. I began to wonder if perhaps there was no motive, that they simply liked me. But as dessert was served, and I knew well enough to decline, Ziegfeld got quickly to the matter at hand.

  “As you may know, Miss Shine, it is very expensive to put on our shows. I insist on only the best for my girls. I simply will not accept cheap fabrics, or costumes,” he said with disgust. “Costumes with faux glamour are for other shows. We offer real beauty. If it glitters, it’s because it’s made with Swarovski crystals. If it shines, it’s because it has gold-leaf embellishment. I simply will not compromise.”

  He looked lovingly at his wife and kissed her. “But the price I pay is high, the price I pay is such that at times, rare times, I must cut back on my performers to pay for the extravagance that I insist on showering on my girls.”

  Was he cutting me out of the show? My heart sank, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was this it for me? I was only twenty-one. I had dreaded the very thought of getting older, my sagging breasts, my wrinkled skin, all the terrible things I’d been warned about leading up to the curse of one’s thirtieth birthday; but this was all happening too soon. I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t found a nice man to settle down with. I’d been too picky or hadn’t stuck around long enough. It was over. My life was over. I might as well shrivel up and die right there. I was so preoccupied with my disastrous thoughts that I barely heard what he was saying.

  “My darling, you’ve gone white as a sheet.” Billie reached over and took my hand. Hers felt soft, like a baby’s hand, and it was dripping with diamonds. “He’s not telling you it’s over, listen to what he has to say.”

  She could read my mind. Of course she could—she too was a performer and knew just as well as the rest of us what would happen when her time in the spotlight was up, except she’d played her cards right with Mr. Z.

  “I’m saying,” he continued, “it’s just for a short spell, the rest of the season. You’ll still be in the Midnight Frolic.”

  “I will?”

  “Of course. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You are one of our star performers in the Frolic. In fact, with your spontaneity and feisty personality, it’s actually where I think you excel. But I assure you, you’ll be back in the Follies in no time. I just have to pay off my debts to keep things running smoothly, and without any changes to our prime reputation as the most lu
xurious, most sophisticated show on Broadway, with the most luxurious, most sophisticated women.”

  I sighed with relief. I hadn’t intended to show how much I needed him, but as the blood finally began to flow again, I jabbered on about how grateful I was and how indebted I was to him and to Billie and to all the girls in the show.

  He paid the tab and escorted us to his awaiting car.

  “I’ll drop Billie off first since we’re closest, then I’ll escort you home,” he said as we climbed in.

  “Oh, you’re too kind, Mr. Ziegfeld, but really there’s no need.”

  “I insist,” he said firmly, and the matter was closed.

  I said good night to Billie, and she patted my hand. “Please don’t worry yourself with this, I’ll make sure he takes care of you,” she said.

  As we drove across town to my apartment, we rode in silence for a while, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say. The evening of laughs and stories over shucked oysters seemed a million miles away now. I’d been put in my place somewhat—it was as if I were back to being the new girl, desperate for approval, willing to do anything to prove myself.

  “You’re a beautiful girl,” Mr. Ziegfeld said, placing his hand on my thigh and rubbing it slowly. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing, do you understand? You’re a star, but I could make you the star.” His hand moved farther up my thigh and he began to squeeze gently. “I want you to know I take care of my girls, in the best possible way.” He moved closer and my heart began to race. I put my hand on his and was about to move it off my leg, but I had a moment of panic—I didn’t want to insult him, I just didn’t want this. Instead my hand rested on his for a moment, almost as if I were encouraging it. He slipped his hand between my thighs and leaned in for a kiss, his lips already wet with anticipation, his mustache softer than the wiry feel I might have expected but foreign and unwanted all the same. He took my hand and moved it to his groin, hot, and hard, and repulsive. This man was at least thirty years my senior. I pulled myself away from him, and without even thinking, I raised my right hand and slapped him across the face.

  “Mr. Ziegfeld!” I said, stunned at myself more than anything.

  He looked at me, shocked, his thick eyebrows raised, as he brought his hand slowly to his face. “Why, Miss Shine, that is most unkind.” He moved away from me toward the window and looked straight ahead. “Most unkind after how generous I have been to you.” We were parked outside my apartment now. The chauffeur silently idled the engine and sat upright as if he weren’t there at all.

  I stared at Ziegfeld, astonished at his behavior but more so at mine. What had I done? But what could I have done? I would never be so deceitful to Billie, even if some of the other girls were, and I would never compromise myself in such a way. And yet I couldn’t fathom what to say or do next. What would become of me now?

  “I, I…,” I stammered, at a total loss.

  “That’s enough now,” he said, still staring at the street ahead. “Go on, off you go.”

  I got out of the car as fast as I could and heard them drive away before I’d even reached my front door. I walked quickly past the doorman and rode the elevator up to my floor, and as soon as the door closed behind me, I burst into tears.

  * * *

  I showed up for rehearsal the next day as usual. I saw Howie, the choreographer, in the corner talking to the percussionist, and I went to the opposite side of the room. The sun was shining in between the gaps of the ragged sheets that’d been draped as makeshift curtains. Even though I knew I’d been cut from my biggest scene in the Follies, I still held out a glimmer of hope that I’d be part of the chorus. We were working on a new dance, the Brazilian samba that had taken off in Paris, so I sat down on the floor and put on my T-straps with the short Cuban heel and rubbed the leather soles into the resin dust left over from the day before. Ruthie had gone in for an early rehearsal, so I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about getting cut, and I sheepishly kept my eyes down, taking my time to get ready so that no one would single me out. But it didn’t work.

  “All right, line up, girls,” Howie said. Some girls were still adjusting and primping in front of the small mirror on the back wall, a few others were hurrying through the door, late. Ruthie winked at me. I stood up and got into formation.

  “Uh, Olive,” Howie said through his teeth, as if that would decrease the odds of the other girls noticing. He nodded for me to follow him away from the others. “Mr. Ziegfeld said he spoke to you about this and that you understood you’d be taking a break. The horse scene was cut, no point in you sticking around for these small bit parts in the chorus, just come back at three for the Frolic.”

  “Oh, okay. I thought, I wondered if I should still learn the samba for when—”

  “He said no, not at the moment.” Howie felt bad for me, I could tell, pity in his eyes. “Don’t worry, it’ll work out, you know how Ziegfeld gets sometimes. He’s very loyal.”

  “Loyal? I thought this was about money,” I said.

  “Yeah, that too.”

  There was nothing I could do. I should have known not to show up in the first place. I tried to exit the room without anyone noticing, but I felt the girls’ eyes on me, probably wondering if they’d be next or relieved that it was me and not them.

  Out on West Forty-second Street, the stench of last night’s debauchery clinging to the sidewalk and coming up from the drains stung my nostrils and caught in the back of my throat. It was only nine thirty in the morning. I brought in good money being in the Frolic, but Ruthie and I had banked on the money from both the Follies and the Frolic to afford our apartment on Fifth Avenue, and we had barely accounted for food or clothes in our budget because that was always taken care of. I started to panic. What was I going to do now that my pay had been cut in half? Ziegfeld said I still had the Frolic, but after that ride home the night before, I didn’t even know if that was still on the table. I felt desperate. It could all be gone just like that, and for what? For refusing his advances? It was confusing. Technically he’d cut me from the Follies at dinner, before he tried to put his tongue down my throat, but he’d also made it seem that I could be back on top, the star, if I went along with what he wanted.

  Maybe my father was right, maybe I’d been a fool to think I could do this, that I’d amount to any more than a biscuit in a frilly dress. I had a sudden urge to go home, to curl up on the couch and let my mother bring me hot milk. I wouldn’t, though; that would mean admitting defeat, and worse than that, it would mean sitting around waiting to be paired off with someone my father thought was suitable. And even those prospects, my father had told me, would be slim after working as a show girl and living away from my own family as a single woman. He didn’t know the half of it.

  * * *

  I found myself on the ladies floor of Lord & Taylor, staring at a heavily beaded Chanel dress in lipstick red.

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” a salesgirl said, appearing at my side. “Would you like to see it on one of our girls, madam?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll try it myself along with some shoes, evening, none of those daytime heels.”

  “Of course.” She seemed excited.

  “I need a new coat, too, white fur collar and cuffs, doeskin gloves and stockings, rose beige.”

  She scurried off, and while I waited, I perused the evening bags, settling on a lizard skin, black with white trim. I might as well spend my money while I had it.

  I asked for everything to be wrapped and boxed. It came to $436.50—a little over what it cost Ruthie and me to furnish our three-bedroom apartment.

  “How would you like to pay?” the salesgirl asked.

  “Put it on my account,” I said. Ruthie and I had splurged a few times since I’d been in the show, though nothing as extravagant as this. She’d bought a pair of brocade T-strap sally pumps that we took turns wearing when we knew we’d be out dancing all night. I’d bought a gold chiffon dress with real metal sequins and a bejeweled cigarette case.r />
  “Of course,” she said.

  Afterwards I went to the tenth floor and had lunch in the Wedgewood Room. It wasn’t so bad, I thought, looking at the various groups of women gathered around me, but then two elderly women at the adjacent table eyed me suspiciously and mumbled about my eating alone. I stared into my salad, and when I looked up again, I noticed a mother and daughter sitting a few tables over. The girl was four or five, so well behaved in such a grown-up setting. I watched them for a while, the little girl picking up her teacup and taking a sip each time her mother did. The mother reached over and touched the girl’s cheek. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, I couldn’t help imagining what my life would have been like if I’d insisted on taking the baby with me. I must have been staring longingly because the mother looked up at me and glared. I didn’t belong here. I didn’t seem to belong anywhere. I paid the check and left as fast as I could.

  As I walked back toward the theater district, the momentary thrill of the pretty bags and boxes that filled my arms had dissipated. The thought of rehearsal going on without me, the girls’ skin pink and beaded with sweat, made me sink again.

  I strode all the way west to the Landmark on West Forty-sixth and went straight up to the unmarked third floor. There was one lonely blotto sitting at the bar. Alberto Ricci was playing on the gramophone, and I breathed in the vibrations of his voice, so alive, so powerful. I’d seen posters and billboards all over town announcing his return to the Metropolitan Opera House that summer. I’d loved listening to his voice for as long as I could remember, ever since my parents took me to see him perform in Minnesota. What I’d do to see him sing again, in person, in New York City. I should have bought myself a ticket two days ago. I’d never be able to afford it now.

  “We’re not open,” the barkeep said, looking me up and down, his eyes resting on my shopping bags.

  “It looks like you have a couple of customers,” I said, nodding toward the gentleman with his chin on the bar, then I pulled up a seat next to him. “I’ll take a bourbon, make it a double.”