* * *
We walked up to the Plaza arm in arm. “Mr. Carmichael, welcome back,” the doorman said, holding open the glass door to the towering marble palace. I felt like a million bucks walking through those doors with Archie by my side. At the beginning of the summer, I could never have imagined being taken with someone so mature and businesslike and yet so fun and dashing. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for me to take my eyes off the stage for more than a minute for a man, but the funny thing was I was having a grand time onstage and a grand time off. It was as if I were proving everyone wrong. I could have it all.
Archie led us over to the manager at the front desk. “I wanted to let you know I’ll be heading back to Cincinnati tomorrow for a week or so, and Miss Shine will be staying as my guest in my suite.”
“Of course, Mr. Carmichael, I will be sure to let the staff know.”
“Thank you, I’m glad to know she will be well taken care of, and if there’s anything she needs, anything at all, please make sure she is attended to.”
“As you wish, sir.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I sat in the plush grey velvet chair, looking out the window while I sipped my tea. The fall leaves were aflame in the treetops outside. I crossed my legs Indian style and massaged the arches of my feet, painful lately from wearing my dancing shoes for so many hours each day.
Archie had been gone two days but it felt like two weeks, and the Plaza was less magical somehow without someone to share it with. I took the elevator to the lobby and went to the telephone booth to try to reach him, but when I picked up the receiver, I felt a sudden urge to call home.
“Flatbush six-seven-two-seven,” I said to the operator.
With the exception of a few letters that I’d sent home to my mother letting her know my whereabouts, I hadn’t actually seen my parents or my brothers for over a year.
“Mama?” I said when she picked up.
“Olive,” she said with a sigh. “Thank God. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’ve missed you, Mama.” As soon as I said it, my eyes filled with tears, and the sudden rush of emotion surprised me. I’d been busy lately with the nightly performances, rehearsals, a few more commercial sittings and now spending time with Archie every spare minute I could get. I was the happiest I’d been in a very long time—ever, really—yet something about not sharing that with my mother made it all feel less real somehow. It was as if I couldn’t really enjoy this new life I’d built for myself if I couldn’t share it with my family, if I couldn’t have their blessing. It was a thought that lurked around in the back of my head, brushed aside. But now, hearing her voice made me want her approval, and my father’s, more than ever.
“Is everything okay?” my mother asked. “Where are you?”
“Everything’s wonderful. I’m at the Plaza.”
“The Plaza?” She sounded skeptical about this, and I could hear a thousand questions running through her mind.
“Oh Mama, I have to see you, to tell you everything. I know it’s been a long time but can you come here? We could have tea.”
“Of course, Olive. Tell me when and I’ll be there.”
* * *
The following afternoon I got to the Palm Court tearoom early. It was an impressive, airy space with live palm trees reaching up to the glass ceiling, enormous marble columns and mirrored doors. I wore a below-the-knee cream chiffon dress with a dropped waist, white lace gloves, cream cloche hat and the string of pearls that Archie had given me. I sat watching the entrance for her arrival and jumped up when I saw her.
“I’m so relieved to see you.” She took my face in her hands when we were seated. “It’s been far too long. Oh, Olive, your father’s very…” She looked down, almost as if ashamed.
“It’s okay, I know.” I nodded. I wanted to ask her about him, if he’d eased up even just a little, if he might be open to a visit, but apparently the answer was no, not yet. “Isn’t this place magnificent?” I looked up to the domed yellow-and-green skylight.
“It is, but what are you doing here?”
The waiter approached our table.
“We’ll have anchovy canapés and the stuffed celery to start,” I said. “Oh, and Mother, you must try the cassoulet of lobster. Would you like that?”
“Just tea,” she said demurely. “Thank you.”
“The new season just started. The Midnight Frolic is going really well,” I said, but I saw my mother look down as I said it. The word “frolic,” perhaps, was off-putting. “It’s a late night revue, a way for audience members to see more of the show,” I said, gauging to see if this satisfied her. “I’m the star of that show, Mother. I’m not in the Follies anymore, I’ll tell you about that later.…” I trailed off when I realized she wasn’t really listening, or interested, smoothing the tablecloth, looking around the room, slightly uneasy.
“What are you doing here, Olive?” she asked again.
I paused. I couldn’t force her to care about the show. “I have a beau.”
Almost immediately my mother’s face started to light up. “Well, that’s good news. Your father will be thrilled.”
Her response made me tense. Why did it have to be this news that gave her the greatest thrill, not my well-being, not my success? I tried to settle myself and revive the excitement I had just felt in anticipation of telling her about Archie.
“I can’t wait for you to meet him. He runs a gas company in Cincinnati, but this is his New York home.” I spread my arms open as if to suggest he owned the place. “I have my apartment, of course, with Ruthie, as I told you in my letters,” I quickly added, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. “But it’s lovely to come here for lunch or tea now and again. They treat me very well here, even when Archie is away on business.”
She looked around the room as if to see what all the fuss was about. I suddenly felt silly, as if I were showing off, as if I needed to impress her, as if I wanted her to go home and tell my father how well I was doing, that I had made it, without compromises. Was that what I was trying to do?
“How is the apartment, with the girls?” It seemed to pain her to ask—the thought of her only daughter living independently in the big city like a sinner.
“It’s great,” I said, sipping my tea. Ordinarily, my mother would have loved it here at the Palm Court, ornate and luxurious, but she seemed too uneasy to be impressed.
“Is he kind to you, Olive?”
“Oh Mama, the kindest.”
“And does he know about…” She paused, and I tensed, wondering what she might bring up. “You know, your performing?”
“Of course he does! Ugh, Mother, you are starting to sound like Papa.”
“I’m just asking because you know how men can be.”
“He’s not like other men. We met at the theater, he’s cultured, he’s seen the world. He collects art,” I blurted out. “My performance was what drew him to me.”
She nodded. “Don’t get upset, darling, I’m just saying that sometimes what attracts a man to a woman is not always what he wants in a wife.”
I rolled my eyes. She didn’t understand and she wouldn’t until she met him for herself. I was agitated all over again and I didn’t want to be. I wanted her to be happy for me, to trust in my ability to choose a man who wanted me for who I really was. I knew she had reason to doubt my judgment, I’d made mistakes, but I wasn’t the same girl anymore, I’d grown up.
Forgetting myself for a moment, I slipped an Egyptian cigarette out of my jeweled cigarette case, placed it in its ivory holder and held it out for a waiter to light. When I looked up, my mother was staring at me with her mouth open.
“Olive, what are you doing?”
I froze for a second. Never in a million years would I have anticipated lighting a cigarette in front of my mother, but it was too late to pretend that it hadn’t happened, so I chose to go on. “Oh Mother,” I said quietly. “We’re modern women now. It’s okay.”
“It
’s not okay,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s not ladylike, Olive, smoking is a man’s habit.”
“Times have changed,” I said, wondering momentarily if I really believed it.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. As she did so, the waiter approached and I leaned into him, expecting a match to be lit and held out for me. I’d already pulled out the cigarette, I might as well smoke it. But I was mistaken.
“Miss Shine,” he said firmly, “smoking is absolutely not permitted in the Palm Court.”
“Excuse me?” I said, taken aback. “I happen to know for a fact that Mr. Carmichael is free to smoke when and where he wishes.”
“Yes, in the Oak Room with other gentlemen only,” he said.
It took me a minute to comprehend what had just happened and then compose myself. In a matter of seconds, I had not only disgusted my mother but been rebuked by a waiter in front of her.
“My good man,” I said after a moment’s pause, “last I heard this was a free country, and I don’t intend to do anything to change that.”
“Madam…” He began to look stricken. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but this is just not the kind of establishment that encourages such behavior from young women. I can have an ashtray taken up to Mr. Carmichael’s suite if you’d prefer to continue your tea in your room.”
My mother looked from the waiter to me, and I could see the pieces falling into place. I’d been staying here in his room, and she knew it. It felt horrible to let her down, but I wasn’t about to let her see me treated like this, so I looked in my purse and found a book of matches. While the waiter stood glaring at me in horror, and my mother probably did the same, I lit a match and brought it to the tip of the cigarette.
“We’re quite all right where we are, thank you,” I said, trying to enjoy the moment of defiance, but as I brought the cigarette to my lips I saw my hand tremble ever so slightly. Finally, I looked over to my mother, and the disappointment on her face was crushing.
“We can’t have them treat us like that, Mother,” I said after the waiter stormed off. “It’s wrong, we have the vote now, we must stand up for our basic freedoms.”
The waiter appeared at our table again. “Right here, please,” he said, and he instructed two younger waiters to place a Japanese screen around our table, shielding the other diners from our view. “The sight is offending our guests.”
“Now, if you’d said the smell was bothering them, I might have put it out,” I said. “But if they can’t stand to see a young woman exercise her rights, then maybe they need an education in how the modern world works.”
The waiter turned on his heel and left, and my mother began to collect her things. I reached out and put my hand on hers. “Where are you going, Mama? Don’t let them bully us into leaving.”
“It’s not them,” she said softly. “It’s you.” I saw her eyes fill with tears. “Your manners, your lack of etiquette, of decency—living here as an unwed woman with a man you’ve only just met—even your lovely hair…” She reached out and tucked a piece of my cropped hair behind my ear. “It’s all gone.”
She stood, pushed in her chair and gently placed her handbag on her arm. “Olive, you’re forgetting who you are.”
“You’re wrong, Mama,” I said, almost in a whisper. “For the first time in my life I know exactly who I want to be.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We had barely begun the second act of the Frolic when the doors flew open and about twenty policemen burst onto the scene, followed by a handful of men in suits who barked instructions.
“Everyone freeze!” one of them yelled.
The orchestra stopped abruptly, and some girls dashed offstage to grab their clothes while the rest of us onstage froze. We’d heard of raids where men and women were arrested by federal agents—I’d seen them photographed in the paper, publicly shamed for dancing or mingling in an alcohol-serving establishment. The last thing I needed, after my disastrous meeting with my mother, was my picture in the paper in handcuffs, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the vulgarity of it all. One minute there was music and dancing, appreciation and harmless enjoyment, many guests spending their hard-earned money on a late dinner, and the next people were running and cowering and scared. I was scared, too, terrified, actually, with no idea what would happen. What if we got hauled away? Where would we be taken, how long would we be kept there, who would I have to call to get released?
The irony of it was that Ziegfeld hadn’t wanted to sell alcohol in the first place. He would have been quite happy to serve the best food alongside the most desirable dancers and call it a night. Many of his elite regulars, however, asked him to store and serve their private wine collection behind the bar—which technically didn’t violate the rules. And the rest of the guests, well, they insisted that hooch and watching the show went hand in hand, and if they couldn’t have both, they threatened to take their business elsewhere. So reluctantly Ziegfeld appeased them, getting his hands on bottles of champagne for a pretty price. At the first sight of agents, the rumor was that the barkeeps knew to pull a hidden lever that sent an entire row of champagne bottles into a crate in the wall of the bar.
“I’m not selling this!” Ziegfeld shouted at the agents, clearly distraught as they stormed in, not caring to differentiate between what he was selling and what he was storing and serving.
I’d never been in a raid before, but I always thought the goal was to arrest as many patrons as possible for purchasing liquor and fine the owners so much that they’d be forced to shut down or pay off the police. But this raid seemed different. They weren’t making arrests. They weren’t even harassing Ziegfeld. Instead they headed straight for the bar.
“There’s nothing here!” we could hear Ziegfeld yelling at them. “These are private wine collections, collections that they already had in their homes. These are not for sale, I assure you!” But the agents didn’t care, and it was strange to see the all-powerful Mr. Ziegfeld ignored. One agent picked up bottles of vintage red wine, pulled out the cork with his teeth and took a swig. Then they formed an assembly line of sorts, agents behind the bar picking up bottles, some worth as much as my rent, I’d guess, and throwing them over the bar to another agent, who threw them across the room to another, who dumped it all into a large open-topped barrel. Some bottles just clanked in, but others shattered. Wine and bourbon spilled out onto the carpet. Some agents missed—intentionally, it seemed—shattering glass and spilling hooch all over the beautiful space. It was dreadful. Patrons ran for the doors and the agents didn’t try to stop them; they were intent on emptying out Ziegfeld’s entire stock of alcohol.
When they left, we all gathered out on the red and sticky dance floor. I was so relieved that I hadn’t been arrested but devastated at the sight of it all. Ziegfeld surveyed the damage.
“It’s horrible, Mr. Ziegfeld,” one of the girls called out, starting to sob. “It’s awful what they’ve done to this place, they have no right.”
He shook his head and took it all in. “This doesn’t matter,” he said. “This can all get cleaned up. This dance floor will be mopped, the linens will be washed, and the tables and chairs put back in their place. All evidence of this raid will be gone after the cleaning crew comes in and does its job, so don’t worry about that. What matters is that our patrons come to us for an exclusive, luxurious good time. They trust that my staff will treat them with the utmost respect, they will eat the finest food, and they will be treated with dignity. My patrons don’t deserve this. If we cannot operate without this kind of disrespectful intrusion, sending our moneyed clientele out into the streets like criminals, then I don’t even know if we should go on.” He shook his head, and some of the girls gasped. I tried to remain stoic, though inside I knew I was in hot water. I might not be in the Follies anymore, but with Howie’s help I’d become one of the stars of the Frolic. I couldn’t fathom him closing it down. I’d have nothing.
“It’s been a bad night, Flo,” Howie s
aid, stepping in and taking him by the arm. “Let’s not jump to any rash decisions tonight. We can beat this ridiculous Volstead Act, we can prove that those wine bottles belonged to patrons fair and square, and that they weren’t being sold. They didn’t see the champagne—it’s all in the back as planned.” I imagined Howie was also starting to worry and working hard to set Ziegfeld on the right track. “You make money with tickets and dinner. If you can’t sell hooch, people will still come.”
“Sure they will,” one of the girls agreed.
“We almost got taken off to jail,” Lara wailed. We turned and gave her a look—we were trying to keep our jobs here, not make things worse.
“No one’s going to jail,” Ziegfeld said. “I’m going to get all this cleaned up, and I’m going to take some time to think things through,” he added at last. “Ladies,” he said, turning to us and smiling, trying to act as if he weren’t shaken from the experience, “take the next week off, get some rest, let’s meet back here in a week, and I’ll have a plan.”
With that he left, leaving a group of nervous young women behind him, wondering if they’d get paid, wondering how they’d make their rent, worrying about their future.
* * *
“He just got spooked,” I told Archie when I met him at the Plaza that evening. We lay back on his bed after he’d just called down for oysters to be delivered. I didn’t feel like going out after all that, not yet, anyway. “He’s been raided before and the show has gone on. This shouldn’t be any different,” I said. But part of me was scared that the agents had gone too far this time, and he was getting tired of it.
“Can he still make a profit, though?” Archie asked, turning his head toward mine. “Without the alcohol sales? I’m not so sure he can. Between the costumes and the stage design, he seems to pay out a lot to make that place as luxurious and swanky as possible.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without that show, it’s everything to me.”
The Show Girl Page 17