The Show Girl

by Nicola Harrison

  Eugene seemed so proud of them both.

  “Does she have a name?” I asked.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Olive. We asked Mr. Carmichael, but he insisted that you should be the one to name her. He said you’d like that.”

  I felt my eyes go glassy. “That’s sweet,” I said. “But I wouldn’t know what to name her. I don’t have any experience with that kind of thing, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You don’t have to have experience to name a horse.” He laughed. “You just have to look at her and say whatever first comes to your mind when you see her.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “Grace,” I said. “That’s what I think of when I see her.”

  “Well, then, I think we have a name.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Eugene, for taking such good care of them. You’ve done a fine job.”

  Back at the cabin, I downed a shot of whiskey, then lay back on the bed.

  I tried to picture what would happen if I followed Ruthie’s advice and was honest with Archie, what would happen to me if he heard the news and left me. I’d never been afraid of the future before. Unlike some of the girls who’d been terrified of getting too old or finding themselves on the street the minute they turned the dreaded three-oh, I had always believed, maybe naïvely, that everything would work out and I’d be just fine. I hadn’t thrown myself at those stage-door johnnies; sure, I’d let them take me out, but I hadn’t been desperate to get married, I hadn’t been scared that I’d lose my beauty, my figure, my youthful ways. I’d somehow believed that I’d make it, but now I wasn’t quite so sure.

  I thought back to those first days in the Follies dressing rooms and hearing some of the girls talk about getting older, as if they were all going to catch scarlet fever and drop dead on their thirtieth birthdays. It had seemed so far away. One of the principals had turned and caught me eavesdropping. “Just you wait and see,” she’d said. “You may be one of the youngest chicks in the coop now, but it creeps up on you fast. You’ll be staring thirty in the eye before you know it.”

  I’d thought she was wrong. It had seemed like a lifetime from where I was then. If I weren’t getting married and leaving the stage now, how much longer would Ziegfeld even keep me around? I wondered. When he had fresh, new, interesting-looking seventeen-, eighteen-, and nineteen-year-olds knocking down his door just as I had, would he still want me then?

  When I pictured life without Archie, it was bleak and miserable. I’d be alone, heartbroken, regretful, and soon enough I’d be out of work. I’d be broke, an old maid. Childless. What would I be good for? A governess, perhaps—if a family would even take me, a former show girl. It would be a fitting punishment, to take care of someone else’s children. But I couldn’t do what I knew I should, I simply couldn’t tell him.

  I heard the front door open, and Archie walked into the bedroom in his fishing gear. He looked so handsome, his cheeks slightly pink from the sun, his hair tousled.

  “Olive!” he exclaimed, surprised and smiling. “I’m so happy you’re back, I missed you like mad.” He strode over to the bed and hugged me, long and hard, but then he stopped himself. “I should change, I smell like a fisherman. Give me two minutes.”

  I walked to the living room and poured Archie a whiskey, refilled my glass while I was there, then walked out to the porch and sat on the wooden bench, feeling strangely still.

  “Much better,” Archie said a few moments later, coming up to me and taking me in his arms. “God, I missed you.” He squeezed me, gave me a kiss and then took a deep inhale as if breathing me in. I handed him his drink and he sat down next to me. “So how was the grand finale?” he asked.

  “Good.” I nodded. “It was good.”

  “Good? That’s it? Was it not well attended?”

  “No, it was fine, a full house.”

  “Well, that’s better than good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Better than good.”

  “And you got the dress? I see you have something hanging in the bedroom. I’m sure it’s extravagant and very special, and I wouldn’t want anything less.” He smiled. He was so excited, it made me want to cry. “I won’t peek, don’t worry. But when did you get back? You should have had Agnes come and unpack your bags, they’re still sitting by the door.”

  I nodded again. I swallowed hard. “The thing is, Archie, I loved it. I loved being on that stage again. I loved the applause, I need the applause.”

  “Olive…” His smile dropped slightly. “We talked about this, remember?” He tried to laugh a little, but it came out just like breath, a puff of air.

  “I just don’t think I can be happy without it.” I remained stoic, hard, and yet I couldn’t believe what I was hearing myself say. “I won’t be happy if I don’t perform, if I’m not a Ziegfeld girl, or if I’m not on the stage, singing, dancing, entertaining. And the thing is, I know you don’t want a wife of yours to do that.”

  “Olive,” he said, but I kept on, not letting him speak, not letting him talk me out of it.

  “It would ruin your reputation and it would ruin the good name you built for your family, but I need to do this. I have to do it.”

  “What are you saying? Don’t be silly.” He smiled, but I didn’t smile back. “We can talk about this, Olive. Don’t say something you’ll regret. Just think about what you’re doing here, just think before you say another word. Please.”

  He took my hand, but I pulled it away.

  “I don’t think I would make a good wife. I don’t cook, I can barely keep track of my things, let alone run a household.”

  “I don’t care about any of that stuff, you know that. We’ll make it work,” Archie said.

  I clenched my jaw. “I’m sorry, Archie.” I felt light-headed. It was disorienting, as if I were hearing someone else say these words, not me, but I forced myself to go on, coldly. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I can’t marry you. I’m so very sorry.”

  Archie stared at me, stunned, as if I’d punched the air out of him. I didn’t think he could speak, and yet strangely I could—these cold, callous words coming out of me. He sat down on the wooden chair next to the bench, staring out at the lake.

  I watched him to see what he’d do next, to see what I’d do next, and then he stood up again.

  “This is ridiculous, Olive. You can’t do this to me,” he said. He was angrier now. “You can’t call this off just days before the wedding. It’s all planned. Agnes has been preparing for days, the guides have worked nonstop all summer to get this place exactly the way you wanted it. You!”

  I stood there doing nothing. Not even reacting.

  “Some guests are already on their way,” he said, and then the enormity of it all began to fall on him. “Our families, Olive! It will humiliate everyone involved. You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He paced and then looked at me, softer now. “You’ve got cold feet, darling,” he said, as if this possibility had just occurred to him. “This happens to a lot of people, I’ve heard, days before the wedding.”

  “It’s not cold feet. I know what it is.”

  “Well, then, what the hell is it?” he said, louder this time. “Something’s happened, did something happen in Manhattan?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing happened in Manhattan, I just—it was a mistake. This was a mistake.”

  He sat down again, then he dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said to himself. “I just don’t understand.”

  I couldn’t watch. I walked back into the bedroom, picked up my bags and carried them out to the main lodge.

  “I need the rest of my things picked up from my cabin, and I need to go to the Blue Mountain House immediately,” I said, my voice shaking, to whoever might hear. “Now!” I shouted.

  People emerged from the hallway, other rooms, and began to scurry around. The carriage was brought up front, and my bags were packed in the back wit
hin moments. They must have wondered what on earth was going on, but from the look of me and the intensity in my voice, they seemed to know not to ask questions. My world began to spin, and I thought I might faint. In a matter of minutes, I had entirely changed the course of my life and I was in the midst of walking out on the only man I’d ever loved. I had no idea what I was going to do next.

  Archie walked out of the cabin when I was seated in the back of the carriage. He looked devastated, in shock.

  “You’re making a huge mistake, Olive,” he called out. “If you do this it’s over, there’s no turning back.” He walked up to the carriage window. “Don’t do this, Olive, you’re going to regret it.”

  “I know,” I said in a whisper. Then I turned to face forward as the carriage began to pull away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Before I boarded the train to head back to the city, I called my parents from Blue Mountain House. I felt sick with anxiety waiting to connect and was immediately relieved when Junior answered.

  “It’s Olive,” I said, my voice already starting to break. “I have a message that I need you to pass on to the rest of the family.”

  “I’ll get Pa on the line, he’s in the living room.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly, “just tell them, tell them to cancel their plans for the Adirondacks, the wedding is off.”

  “What?” he said louder than I wanted him to. “What do you mean the wedding’s off?”

  “What do you mean the wedding’s off?” It was my mother now, she must have heard Junior and grabbed the receiver from his hand.

  “It’s over, Mother,” I said, the tears running down my cheeks all over again. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Not again, you’re not doing this to us, Olive, you’re not humiliating this family again. What did you do?”

  “I … I…” I suddenly couldn’t speak. What could I possibly say to make her understand? “We can’t marry,” was all I could manage.

  “You have to fix this, you do whatever it takes to fix this. He is a good man, Olive. You go back to him and you make it right, do you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whimpered into the phone. “I’m very sorry,” I said, and I hung up the phone. I took a few deep breaths and then, before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the receiver again. This time I called the New Amsterdam and asked Ziegfeld’s secretary, Mrs. Parham, to pass a message on to the girls. It was a painful and humiliating call to make, but at least this way I’d have to make only one call and the word would get out in time for them to cancel their travel plans.

  On the train, I sat and stared straight ahead at the seat in front of me. My tears had finally run dry and my eyes burned. I was frozen. I couldn’t move. All I could do was try to consider what might happen next. I seemed to be able to think only a few hours ahead; everything else seemed insurmountable. Ruthie and I had given up our apartment months ago, and I couldn’t possibly face going back to my parents’ house in Flatbush—not now, with my tail between my legs, a failure just as my parents had predicted. So I decided to go to the Saint Agnes Residence, one of the boardinghouses for women that I’d heard a few of the theater girls mention. There were other boardinghouses around town, all strict with curfews, simple and affordable, but Saint Agnes was the only address I could recall.

  I took a taxi from the train station and arrived on the steps at 237 West Seventy-fourth Street just before four P.M. I should have known from the name that it was a Catholic house, but the sight of the elderly nun opening the door in her black-and-white habit sent me immediately back to Birdhouse Lodge, and I had a sudden urge to turn and run. I looked down at my trunk, which the taxi driver had left at my feet, and knew I didn’t have any choices.

  “I was hoping you’d have a room available,” I said quietly.

  “Come in, dear,” she said. “I’m Sister Dorothy, come and sit in the parlor and we’ll talk.”

  I did as she instructed and, once I was seated, she sat across from me.

  “Now, dear, it’s thirty-five dollars a month, you get your own room, shared bathrooms, three meals a day and maid service to change your sheets once a week. You can do your washing in the laundry room. This is a women’s-only residence, no men whatsoever. Those who disobey the rules will be asked to leave.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you have your three references for admission and a doctor’s letter showing you’re in good health?”

  “No.” I shook my head, a new dread creeping through me. “I didn’t know I needed any of that.”

  “Oh, yes, dear, we can’t let just anyone in off the street. We have to think about the health and safety of our residents. Would you like to come back tomorrow when you have your letters gathered?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly desperate. It was already late afternoon; where was I going to go if I couldn’t stay here? Ruthie’s house, I supposed, but she was so pregnant and her apartment so cramped, and I could hardly lug this trunk all over town. I was exhausted, physically and mentally. All I wanted to do was be shown to my room and allowed to sleep for a hundred days. I spoke before an idea had fully formed. “If I can get the reference letters, doctor’s note and the money by this evening, could I stay here?”

  “Well, yes, we have a room available, but it’s already quite late.”

  “May I just leave the trunk here until I return? I promise I’ll be back before eight o’clock.”

  Though it was the last place I wanted to go, I hailed a taxi and headed to the New Amsterdam Theatre. I couldn’t bear facing the girls and Ziegfeld himself, all of them now knowing that the wedding had been called off just days before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, but I had no choice.

  I took the elevator up to Ziegfeld’s office and mercifully didn’t see any of the girls on my way in.

  “Miss Shine,” Mrs. Parham said. “What a shock, I mean what a surprise. I was so sorry—”

  “It’s a bit of an emergency,” I said, cutting her off before she could say any more. “Is he in?”

  “Let me check, dear.”

  In my sad new circumstances, I was becoming everyone’s “dear,” and it stung.

  A few moments later, Mr. Ziegfeld opened his office door and nodded for me to come in, but not before six young girls who looked as though they couldn’t have been more than fifteen walked out, all rosy, flushed cheeks and giggles. Surely not, I thought. They’d have to be at least eighteen to be cast.

  “Miss Shine,” he said with those same puppy-dog eyes his secretary had given me. “I was saddened to hear your news,” he said as he closed the door behind me.

  “Yes, thank you.” I nodded, looking down to the floor. I hadn’t prepared myself to speak of what had happened. Just the thought of Archie brought tears to my eyes; I knew I would fall apart if I had to speak his name.

  “But you see, your role has already been recast, Miss Shine,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s what?” I said, looking at him directly for the first time. I hadn’t planned to speak to him about returning to the show either, not yet, anyway. I needed some time to get myself settled, set up a place to live and mentally prepare myself to face an audience and the girls again. But once all of that was straightened out, I had planned to come back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never could have predicted such a change of heart. I had to think of future shows, and we’ve just completed extensive auditions to cast the upcoming season,” he said, returning to his desk chair and resting his elbows on the desk as if to let me know he had work to get on with. “Contracts have been signed.”

  “But I was your star in the Frolic, don’t you want me back for that, at least?”

  He shrugged. “We have a new star.”

  “Who?” I asked rather loudly, shocked that this could all transpire so quickly. But he didn’t dignify my outburst with a response. His face remained expressionless. It took me back to that night in the car—when after ref
using his advances, I’d stared at him, trying to get a glimpse of what would happen next. This time I knew there was nothing I could say or do to change his mind.

  “Well, that is disappointing, but it’s not the reason I came,” I said, eager to mask my vulnerability. “I was hoping you could write me a letter of recommendation for the Saint Agnes Residence. I need it today so I can stay there tonight. I would also like to ask Howie for a letter if he’s here, and I need a doctor’s note, so I was hoping I could ask the stage doctor for a letter.”

  Ziegfeld looked exasperated. “It’s already five o’clock.”

  “If I don’t have these letters, I won’t have a place to sleep tonight,” I said. “And if you could possibly not mention that I was a performer, rather state that I worked at the theater, perhaps as an assistant or secretary, I would appreciate it.” I looked to the ground, the humiliation in asking for this almost too much to take. I wondered how many times he’d seen his biggest stars fall from grace. I wondered if he even cared. To him I was just one of hundreds of women who would pass through this theater.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Parham take care of these letters for you, but it might take a while, you can wait outside her office.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and as I turned to walk out of his office, I felt a wave of desperation come over me, a sudden realization that this might be the last time I’d set foot in the New Amsterdam. I abruptly turned back toward Ziegfeld, who was walking me out of his office, and found myself just inches from him. I placed my hand on his arm and let it run down to his hand, where I stopped and squeezed. “I appreciate your help,” I said, looking up at him. He pulled his arm away, and I suddenly felt sick at what I’d done in a moment of hopelessness. I quickly turned again and hurried out the door, stunned that I could feel even lower than when I had walked in.

  “Oh, and Miss Shine…,” he said.

  “Yes.” I felt wretched but forced myself to perk up slightly. Maybe he’d had a change of heart about the show.

  “Best of luck to you.”