The Show Girl

by Nicola Harrison

  “I feel … I worry that there’s been some misunderstanding,” I said slowly, sensing that the life we were starting to build together was slipping through my fingers. “I never said I would stop performing. It’s who I am, it’s what makes me happy, it’s my reason to live.”

  “Oh, Olive.” He came toward me and took my hands. “I want you to be happy, I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. All that talk about traveling together, seeing the world, how can we do that if you’re handcuffed to the theater night after night? I have to travel for work, you know that, and when we’re man and wife I want you by my side. I’ll go crazy if I have to leave you for weeks at a time. Isn’t that what all this is about, love and companionship?”

  He made it all sound so important, so lovely, and I wanted it, of course, I did—but I wanted my life, too—the life I’d built for myself. I looked out the window, at a loss for words.

  “And Olive,” he said, bringing me into his embrace, “what if we have a child, two children, heck, even three, a real family—close your eyes and imagine it, Olive.”

  “You said you didn’t want that,” I whispered.

  “I didn’t think I did, but now, with you, it’s all I can think about.”

  I closed my eyes and saw nothing but blackness. It felt as if I were sinking, slipping out of his arms, the floor swallowing me whole. Tears welled up, and I kept my eyes shut so that they wouldn’t escape.

  “I want to give you the world, Olive,” he said, “and I hope you want the same for me.” But all I could hear in my head was, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I had never intended to deceive him. I’d thought there were pieces of my past that were best left untold—what good would it do to bring all that up now? It would send me to pieces, for one thing, and Archie would be horrified. Such things were best left unsaid, and yet now, as he was starting to get strange ideas in his head about a family, children, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. All of a sudden it seemed that deceiving him was exactly what I was doing.

  * * *

  I got back to New York in time to fill in for Jenna in the Follies, who’d been “taken ill.” I learned her numbers and footwork fast, with more determination than I knew I had in me, especially after such a long and arduous train ride. I rehearsed every single day from sunup until sundown. So just as my future husband was telling me I should start thinking about giving it all up, Ziegfeld slotted me back into the Follies—temporarily, he reminded me, until Jenna returned, but we all knew that wasn’t happening. It was thrilling to be in both shows again.

  “I’m so relieved you’re back in the Follies,” Ruthie said when we’d opted for a night in back at the apartment rather than out at the clubs. “How does it feel?”

  “Glorious,” I said. “And exhausting, just the way I like it.”

  “You should listen to me more often. I told you you’d be back on top in no time.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, sprawled on the white sofa, Ruthie lying on her usual spot on the rug. She reached up and grabbed my hand.

  “Let me try it on again,” she said, admiring my ring. “I think Lawrence is going to propose any day.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve been telling him all about your engagement, how romantic it was. I think it’s got him thinking.” She smiled. “He would make such a good husband and a wonderful father.”

  I sat up. “Do you want to have children?”

  “Of course.” She laughed. “I can’t wait.”

  “But what about the shows?”

  “What about them?”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll be out the door so fast.”

  “You’ll just quit?”

  “Olive, can you imagine how nice it would be not to have to work so damn hard, not to have to watch our figures all the time? I’m going to learn how to cook and I’m going to play house all day long and, fingers crossed, it won’t be too long before I’ll have a baby. I’ve been planning for it since I was a little girl.”

  I looked at her, baffled. “I thought you loved show business.”

  “I do. But I’m going to love this so much more.” She took off my ring and looked at it from all angles, then gave it back. “It sure is a beauty.”

  I slipped it back on my finger and felt a pang of envy shoot through me. How nice it must feel to have that kind of certainty and confidence in her womanhood. Outwardly I might come off as independent, appearing to demand respect, but inside I was questioning everything, inside I was starting to crumble.

  * * *

  Two long weeks later, Archie joined me once again in Manhattan. We celebrated our reunion with a night out and he was keen on introducing me to one of his friends in the art world.

  “We should start thinking about our guest list,” Archie said as we walked to the waiting car outside the Plaza, an icy December chill biting our faces.

  “Yes,” I said, although I was sharply aware that in the past two weeks I’d been avoiding the subject of the wedding, in my mind and in conversations with the girls.

  “It doesn’t feel right to start planning a wedding without my mother,” I said, knowing full well that this wasn’t the only thing bothering me.

  “Well, I need to meet your family, Olive. I have to ask for your father’s blessing, for heaven’s sake. We’re doing things terribly out of order. It will certainly make me feel better to have things out in the open, and I’m sure it will make you feel better, too.”

  “I know,” I said. “Of course we’ll tell them. Soon, maybe this weekend.”

  But I knew I’d delay it as long as possible. I knew they’d be happy, no doubt about it, and that was the problem. It would make things better all around. My parents would be thrilled to meet Archie, a handsome, wealthy, responsible businessman who was willing to take on their wild and unruly daughter. This was exactly what they’d hoped for, and now that I was making it a reality, my father would no longer have to worry for me. I’d give in and get off the stage and he’d be getting exactly what he wanted, and he’d probably tell me that.

  Ever since Archie’s announcement at his mother’s house, that he’d like me to stop performing, travel, see the world, I’d grappled with it. I loved Archie, but I didn’t like the idea of throwing in the towel on this life I’d so desperately wanted and worked hard for. And yet I understood what he meant: to be truly man and wife, we’d have to meld our lives together. How could we really do that if I was tied to the stage? I wondered. I knew deep down that I’d have to make changes for our life to work together, but I wasn’t ready to admit to anyone that I’d let it go.

  “Anyway,” I said, changing the subject, “tell me something about your friends we’re going to meet tonight. What do I need to know?”

  “Gertrude is an art collector too, far more invested than me, and she’s a sculptress also, though I haven’t seen her work, so I don’t know if she’s any good.”

  “Is she going to abhor me too, because I’m a show girl?”

  “Good Lord, no! Wait until you see her studio, she has a penchant for the young and unknown artists. She likes to seek them out and bring them to the surface. Her family’s very well-known, so she has the means to bring these struggling artists to the light. It’s really quite admirable.”

  We walked into what I thought was going to be a small dinner party on West Eighth Street and MacDougal and found instead a throbbing soiree in what looked like a combined art studio and gallery.

  “Gertrude,” Archie said after we removed our coats, “thank you so much for having us. This is Olive Shine, my fiancée.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, hugging me tightly. “A Ziegfeld girl in the flesh, and a beauty at that! Come on, you two. Archie, I’ve been so eager to show you the new work.”

  Dressed to the nines in a beads-and-lace dress, she pulled us through the crowd to a room to the left of the action. We walked through dancing an
d music and laughter, and I wondered if everyone was high from the strong fumes of oil paint and turpentine that filled the space.

  Art of all kinds was everywhere—half-finished on easels, on the walls, stacked on the floor. But in the smaller room the paintings were dark and somber—gritty scenes of poverty and desperation in streets and speakeasies that I recognized.

  “Hey, I’ve walked by that place!” I said, pointing to a dingy bar scene with barkeeps tending to patrons. “McSorley’s. I heard the beer is terrible. Basically water.”

  “Ladies don’t drink beer,” Gertrude chided me. “And they wouldn’t let a lady in even if you paid them.”

  “Speaking of,” Archie said, “I’ll be right back with refreshments, and it certainly won’t be beer for you two,” and he went off to find us some juice.

  “It’s a John Sloan piece,” Gertrude went on. “Really captures the ambience, doesn’t he? And I love his figures. I know what’s going on in that barkeep’s head by the slump in his shoulders.”

  It was a bit moody for my taste. I didn’t know much about art, but I preferred things a little more vibrant.

  “Is that a portrait of you?” I asked, pointing across the room to a huge painting of a woman lounging in a green-and-blue pant ensemble on a purple-draped velvet sofa. “It’s fabulous.”

  “Isn’t it just! It’s a Robert Henri. My husband won’t let me hang it at home because he doesn’t want his friends to see his wife ‘in pants’!” she said with a mock gasp. We both laughed. “Really! It’s absurd. So I hung it here, in my haven.”

  Archie and I had a grand time mingling with all of Gertrude’s guests. Archie was fascinated by her artist friends, some of them intent on showing the truth, as they called it: real life, people working, hardship instead of the “elite idealism” that they said other artists portrayed.

  On our way back uptown at God knew what hour, I snuggled into Archie in the back seat of the car. I loved that he wanted to show me every corner of his varied world. It was one of substance: artists, creators, people not afraid to speak their minds. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so lucky to be with a man who was able to talk to me about the arts and didn’t care if we were kicking the sawdust-covered floors at a downtown speakeasy or climbing into bed at the Plaza.

  We made love that night on the soft white sheets, the smell of fresh winter air in his hair and the taste of gin on his lips. And when I was just about to drift off to sleep, he pulled me into him.

  “I have an idea,” he said, brushing the hair off my face, my eyes half-closed. “What if we move back to Cincinnati after we get married?”

  I didn’t bother opening my eyes, just half chuckled and pulled the sheets around me. “You’re hilarious,” I whispered.

  “I’m serious. You saw all that beautiful art tonight, wait until I show you my collection. It’s all in storage at my mother’s house.”

  I pushed myself up on one elbow and stared at him. Surely he was joking.

  “This Plaza arrangement is temporary,” he said. “Once we’re married you won’t need your apartment and I won’t need this. We’ll need a proper place to call home. I’d like to have my art on display, especially since you are so creative yourself. It thrills me that we can enjoy it together.”

  “Bring it to Manhattan,” I said.

  “There aren’t enough walls in New York City.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I said.

  “And besides, the city is no place to raise a family—”

  “Archie,” I quickly cut him off before he had a chance to finish that sentence, “we can live our lives any way we want. That’s what I love about us, we’re not your average couple, we’re unconventional. We dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers, remember?”

  “That was Frank who said that, not me.”

  “Who cares? We march to the beat of our own drum, we don’t have to follow those guidelines about marriage, and all that people think it entails. As long as we’re happy and in love, we can make any arrangement work.”

  I kissed him, hoping it would seal my words, persuade him to believe me.

  “I don’t know, Olive,” he said, sighing and lying back on his pillow. “I—”

  “I’m tired,” I said, suddenly feeling wide-awake. “Let’s just talk about this in the morning.” I turned onto my side and hoped to God that we’d never talk about this again.

  * * *

  One thing was clear: something in Archie had changed. When we’d met he’d said he didn’t want to become a father, I was sure of it, not after what he’d been through with his first wife. I’d specifically taken hold of this information, storing it away, while recalling all too well what the doctor had told me, that my uterus had ruptured, that I couldn’t bear more children. But now small tears were starting to appear in what I thought had been an impenetrable bond, an ideal courtship, two people who thought the love they had for each other was all that mattered, the only thing they needed. Maybe I had been wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Six months later—summer 1929

  “Does everyone have a drink in their hand?” I asked loudly, making sure everyone in the group could hear. It was almost noon and I had dressed in a royal-blue-and-white polka-dotted, dropped waist dress. Who cares that we’re at the camp out here in the middle of the woods? I thought. If I was hosting my family and friends, it was going to be fabulous.

  “Mother?” I called over my shoulder, to be sure she could hear me. She was standing at the back with my father and Junior, while my friends were crowding around the barkeep, who’d set up shop by the firepit as I’d instructed, and George was getting friendly with the girls. “We have mimosas made with fresh-squeezed orange juice and French champagne—thank you, Canada. And for anyone who needs a cocktail while we’re walking, you’ll find bar stations set up along the way.”

  We were once again at full capacity, as we had been every week since summer started. Along with my family, who, as I’d anticipated, were far more cordial with me now that I was almost a married woman, there was Ruthie and Lawrence—Ruthie hadn’t wasted any time, she’d married him in December and was now almost seven months pregnant—Emily and Lou, Willis and Anne-Marie, and Lillian, Gladys, Lara and Pauline. Archie would be joining us that weekend along with a few of his guests, and Alberto was there with his friends Chester and Michael, but they’d been here before and knew their way around just fine. We were already halfway through summer, and I’d made sure that each and every week had been a riotous good time. The wedding was only a month away, and there was still work to be done to get the camp ready, but I supervised that while entertaining our guests—intent on keeping myself busy at all times.

  “I’m going to start the tour so that you’ll know your way around this place and will feel perfectly at home during your stay.” I did this whenever we had a fresh round of guests. I remembered Anne Belmont making us feel so welcome when we arrived, and I intended to carry on her spirit of warm hospitality, while making things a whole lot more fun.

  “There’s so much I’m eager to tell you about, so let’s get started,” I called out, raising my glass in the air. It was noon, but I’d been drinking mimosas for the past hour while getting ready that morning. “We’re going to start at the boathouse, come along.” We stood next to the first cabin and looked down at the boathouse, the perfectly still lake behind it mirroring the sky. “As you can see, the roof of the boathouse is under construction. It had a peaked roof, which was pretty, but I’m having it flattened—can you guess why? It’s going to make an ideal deck for sunbathing, with a perfect view of the lake, don’t you agree?” I looked across to Ruthie, but she was chatting with one of the girls. The deck and the stairs leading up to it would be ready just in time for the wedding weekend. “And there are plenty of rowboats and canoes available anytime you please, just come on down, and take one out for a spin.”

  I continued on, leading them down a trail that passed by the boathouse, and then took a lef
t over a walking bridge we’d built that led to an adorable Japanese teahouse nestled on a tiny island with windowed doors on all four sides, providing the most beautiful panoramic view. It was one of my favorite places to take in some solitude—though, to be honest, that never really happened these days, I was too busy entertaining.

  “Gentlemen, you can fish off this bridge, all fishing gear is at the boathouse.”

  I stumbled just a bit as we crossed back over the bridge. “Whoops,” I said, my heel caught between the boards. I was laughing and grabbed the rail to steady myself. Maybe I should have had some toast before I started in on those mimosas, I thought. Emily’s husband, Lou, stepped forward to help me, but I yanked my shoe free and waved him away. “I’m all right.” We continued up the trail around the back of the main lodge and down to the bowling alley and billiards room.

  “Anytime you want to bowl, simply let the staff know and someone will come down and pick up your pins for you. We have three, or maybe it’s four lanes—so I highly suggest making a party of it, and there’s almost always someone down there serving drinks, so don’t be shy.”

  We went inside and I showed them the bowling alley. George picked up a perfectly smooth, carved ball, rolled it down the left lane and knocked down all the pins. We all cheered. Lillian and Lara gave him a kiss on each cheek at the same time and his face flushed. He was in heaven. The barkeep came around and topped up our glasses. I was feeling warm and happy, just the way I liked it.

  I’d made many changes to the camp that summer. I felt that if people were going to come all this way from the city to spend a week here for relaxation, they shouldn’t have to walk more than a hundred yards for a drink, so I set up bar carts throughout the grounds. We kept walking on the trail that led us to the highest point on the property and allowed us to look out onto all sixteen of the cabins, the lake, and the treetops.

  “By next week, I’ll be watching and waiting for bathtubs to be brought up this very river by tugboat, where they’ll be delivered right onto the lakeshore down there and installed in every one of these cabins. You can’t have a retreat into the Adirondacks without a fabulous bathtub to soak in, don’t you agree?” I wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, I was just performing my routine to this small audience.