* * *
Having sat in humiliation for what felt like hours while waiting on the letters, I returned, exhausted, to the residence and was at last allowed a room. I tried to stay in bed. A week would not have been long enough. But the nuns knocked on everyone’s doors early for breakfast. They wanted doors open, they wanted to peek inside and be sure there were no visitors of the opposite sex, no funny business going on. Most of the women were secretaries and were up and off to work early. Lying in bed with the sheets over your head was not encouraged, so on the third day I dressed and went to the parlor room, where I wrote out a telegram, then walked to the post office to deliver it.
DEAR ALBERTO STOP
I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOUR EUROPEAN BOOKER STOP
I NEED TO FIND WORK AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND CAN TRAVEL STOP
I AM STAYING AT THE SAINT AGNES RESIDENCE IN NEW YORK STOP
YOUR FRIEND STOP
OLIVE
The next day, a messenger boy delivered a telegram to the residence.
MIA CARA OLIVE STOP
MY BOOKER HAS YOUR NAME BUT SHOWS ARE BOOKED A YEAR IN ADVANCE STOP
I WOULD LIKE HE MEET YOU IN THE SPRING IN NEW YORK STOP
WE MEET TOGETHER STOP
PRENDITI CURA DI TE STOP
ALBERTO
After that, I had to force myself to get out of bed. I knew I needed to find work so I could pay my way, but my head felt so heavy, I wanted to close my eyes any chance I could get. All day, every day, I was pining for Archie and kept wondering what he was doing, if he was still at the camp, if he had gone back to Cincinnati, if he was in Manhattan. I briefly considered asking at the Plaza if he was in residence, but what was the point? They wouldn’t reveal that information for one thing, and even if he was there, then what? I couldn’t go back now. Nothing had changed. I’d still lied to him, backed him into a corner without his even knowing, and on top of that, I’d publicly humiliated him. I’d called off the wedding and then I’d left him with the dirty work of letting the guests know that it was over, that they should cancel their travel plans. I imagined there were some he couldn’t reach, some already en route whom he had to face and possibly even host. Before all this I’d been riddled with guilt and anxiety, but this feeling that I’d hurt him, abandoned him without warning and then made him be the one to face the burden and humiliation of announcing it publicly, it was horrible. I’d forced him to despise me, and I’d sealed my fate.
I wanted it to go away, all of it, the way I felt, the light through the curtains, the noises of other people speaking. I couldn’t stand any of it. I wanted to be numb. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to never wake up.
The worst of it was that I didn’t really understand what I had done or why I had done it.
But those nuns kept knocking.
“Breakfast!” one of them bellowed as she knocked and then opened the door a few inches. “Breakfast,” I heard her say again as she moved on to the next door. If I wasn’t up and dressed and down for breakfast, she’d be back to throw the door wide open. “This is no place for lollygaggers,” she’d said the previous day. So I got up, went down for breakfast—or coffee, since it was all I could stomach—and then walked around the block a few times until the secretaries had scurried off to work and I could return to my room, where they’d leave me alone for a while. I walked slowly, the collar of my mink turned up and pulled around my face. The coat was far too wintry for a crisp day in early September, but I didn’t care. I wanted to hide.
A newsboy at the corner was waving a paper as I approached. “Stocks recoup as bulls again rule market!” he shouted, calling out the headline far too loudly. “Read all about it. Sensational gains!”
I thought back to the conversation with Alberto on the train when he’d read out Roger Babson’s warning that an economic crash was coming, and he’d said that no one would go to the theater if that happened. Babson had obviously been wrong, and so had Alberto. Archie had said it was all horsefeathers and he was right. The thought of him made my stomach twist. It was hard to swallow; just thinking of him made my eyes tear up.
“Five hundred bottles of liquor seized on Bay State Veterans train!”
I looked at him and saw the look of desperation in his eyes. “Two cents, miss, read all about it. The New York Times, just two cents.”
When he saw me feeling around in my pocket for change, he tried diligently to make the sale with whatever other news he could recall. “Typhoid outbreak under control,” he said. “Water shortages loom.”
I handed him two cents, and he gave me the paper and immediately began selling to other passersby, clearly not wanting to miss a second of selling time.
Back in my room, I sat on the bed and mindlessly turned the pages of the paper.
78-YEAR-OLD MICHIGAN GRANDMOTHER CHARGED WITH BOOTLEGGING IS KILLED TRYING TO FLEE JAIL. Absurd, I thought, then went to the next one. And that’s when I saw it, a small article on page thirty-one.
HE LIKES CINCINNATI, SHE LIKES MANHATTAN; CARMICHAEL AND SHINE PART WAYS
The wedding is off for businessman Archibald Carmichael and chorus girl Olive Shine after a blowup at his summer house, the Pines, in the Adirondacks.
Sister-in-law Edna Carmichael, who spent time with them at their camp this summer, said she had an opportunity to observe Miss Shine’s “unusual way of doing things. Most of the guests she invited were broke,” said Carmichael. “She had a penchant for high-class bohemians whom she fed and clothed, and she acted as if she already ruled the place. She spent money like an empress, drank excessively and used outrageous language even in the presence of guests.” She added, “It’s no surprise that my brother-in-law eventually saw that they were not suited.”
Mr. Carmichael is said to be returning to his hometown of Cincinnati, where he will reside, and plans to reunite with former fiancée, Louise Moyer.
I stared at the small rectangle in horror. I read it over and over again, fixating on that last sentence. This was horrible. I couldn’t believe how much hurt and insult could come from one tiny three-inch column. How could this happen so fast? How could he go back to someone he didn’t even love? My heart was beating fast, and I could barely breathe. I crumpled the page into a ball and threw it across the room, then fell onto the bed, sobbing into my ink-stained hands, realizing for the first time the magnitude of what I’d done and how permanent it was.
There was a knock at my door. I put the pillow over my head. Another knock, louder now.
“Miss Shine?”
I checked the clock—it was two P.M. Another knock.
I threw the covers back and stomped to the door. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, I’ve had breakfast, I don’t want lunch,” I shouted. “I don’t have a job to go to. I’m not a secretary. What do you want me to do, go and sit on a park bench until the others come back? Can’t you leave me alone?”
It was the young one this time, Sister Theresa, slight and mousy, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. She stood there looking shocked, and I felt terrible all over again. I hadn’t expected it to be her. I’d seen her around the house, talking to the other residents, and she had seemed to be quite sweet. Not that I’d spoken to her, but she’d always seemed accommodating, cheerful. I’d even wondered if she envied those girls in their day dresses heading out into the city.
“You have a visitor in the parlor,” she said quietly.
For a second my heart jumped. What if it was Archie? And then it sank. Why would it be? I took one look at myself in the mirror. I looked gaunt, my skin was grey, my hair looked as if it had been glued to my head. I had dark shadows under my eyes. I didn’t care. I put on a cardigan and walked downstairs.
Ruthie was leaning back in an armchair. She looked uncomfortably large.
“Olive,” she said sympathetically as soon as she caught sight of me. I could have kept on walking. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to see anyone, but I forced myself to go in.
“Hi, Ruthie,” I said.
“How
are you?”
“As well as can be expected. Aren’t you supposed to be having that baby soon?”
“Two more weeks, apparently,” she said, looking drained. “Listen, Olive, I’ve come to apologize. I feel terrible, I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard the news. I gave you bad advice and I feel awful, just awful about it.” The tears welled up in her eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at me, distraught. “This is all my fault, I told you to tell him”—she cupped one hand around her mouth and whispered—“about the baby. And now you’re here,” she continued, “at a boardinghouse, alone. I’m so sorry, it’s the pregnancy, it’s making me not think straight.”
I waved my hands. “Oh, God, Ruthie, stop, stop, stop.” This was all so exhausting—everything I did created problems I didn’t anticipate for people I loved. “None of this is your fault.”
“Of course it is.”
“I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him about the baby, and I didn’t tell him I can’t have any more children.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t do it,” I said. “I knew how his whole family back home was desperate for him to become a father, to carry on the family name. I knew that was what he wanted too, so there was no point. He might have asked me to stay, but he would have regretted it later. I would have ruined his life, crushed his hopes and dreams. If we’d married, I would have been a constant disappointment to him, a letdown, and I don’t want to be that to anyone. I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life than know that I was one big disappointment. It’s bad enough being that to my family.”
Ruthie sat back and seemed to take it all in, to understand, but then she shook her head. “But he wouldn’t have to know, Olive. Some people can’t have children. And he could accept that if he had you. He wouldn’t need to know about the cause.”
“But I would! I would know. And our life together would rest on a lie. You’re right, he might feel sorry for me if he didn’t know the truth, even sad for me, but I wouldn’t deserve his sympathy. You said yourself I had to tell him! That’s the trap I’m in. Even if I did tell him, he might think he could accept that, but he’d regret it, and I can’t knowingly cause him anything but happiness.”
She knew me, and she was watching me, her eyes wide with regret, knowing I couldn’t live like that.
“I think about that poor baby now,” I went on. “All the time I think of her, where she is, who took her in, what she looks like. She’d be two. I just think, What was it all for? For me to end up sitting here, alone, back with the nuns?”
“Oh, Olive. What are you going to do now?”
“Ziegfeld doesn’t want me, so go back to that agent Moses Sherman, I suppose, see if he can find me some work. But nothing’s going to pay the way Ziegfeld did. I guess I should try to get used to living here because I don’t know how I’m ever going to afford anything else.”
Ruthie shook her head and sighed. “We were on top of the world, you and me, not too long ago.”
“You still are,” I said. “I’m the only one who’s made a mess of things. You never wanted to stay in the show, you always dreamed of this.”
She nodded and smiled. “We’re going to look at buying a house in Westport after the baby’s born—you know, have a little more space.”
“You’re going to make a real good mother, Ruthie,” I said, feeling a pang of loss at the thought of her moving away, even if it was just outside the city, with a husband and baby and a house. Everything I never thought I wanted suddenly looked quite beautiful.
“I’m sure Moses will find a new show for you,” she said. “Or you could talk to Texas.”
“The nightclub hostess?”
“Yes, Texas Guinan, have you heard about her new place? Eadie went on to make a heck of a lot of money with her at the El Fey before it shut down. Your father isn’t going to like it, so don’t go inviting him to a late night show.” She laughed halfheartedly. “But it’d get you back on your feet.”
I nodded. “It’s not a terrible idea, I suppose.”
“You’ll work it out somehow, Olive, you always do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The following evening, I forced myself to get out of bed, put on a face and pay a visit to Texas at her spot, the 300 Club. I’d squandered almost every penny I’d made in the Follies and the Frolic, and I had only a handful of years left before I’d be too old for the show girl roles anyway. But while Ziegfeld’s girls were getting younger and younger, and prettier, too, the nightclubs were a different story—they generally loved to have former Follies girls onstage. Texas welcomed me into the club as if I were a longtime friend.
“Come on in, my little,” she said. Her voice was gruff, and she was known for having the rudest mouth in town, but somehow she seemed maternal.
She walked me through the club, where long rose-colored chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls were draped with green-and-gold tapestries, and the floor was carpeted with plush red velvet. We passed through the crowded room and back to her office and dressing room, which was also decadently set up. In the lights, I could see now that the years hadn’t been all that kind to Texas—her hair was a brittle blond, her makeup heavy and her skin seasoned, presumably from all the late nights—but she was still striking in her own way. I didn’t know if it was the way she spoke or the way she looked, but she commanded your attention, and it was no surprise she’d been so successful as the queen of the nightclubs.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said. “I don’t know if you recall, but I met you a few times with Archibald Carmichael, when your club was the El Fey.”
“Oh, I recall. I don’t forget a pretty face on the arm of a big butter-and-egg man.”
“A what?”
“A rich fella—” She laughed a hacking laugh. “One of my patrons was handing out fifty-dollar bills to my girls as if they were nothin’. I asked him what business he was in, that he could throw around so much cash, and he said dairy produce, so I been calling ’em butter-and-egg men ever since.”
I laughed, thinking that $50 could go a long way for me right about now.
“You were hot stuff in them Ziegfeld shows, people been talking about you for some time. So what’d you do? Smash some eggs? I’m guessin’ if you’re coming here to see me, things didn’t work out with Ziegfeld.”
“Yes. I, w-well…,” I stammered.
“I don’t care about the particulars.” She picked up a coffee mug and took a slurp. “Want a coffee?”
“Got anything stronger?”
“You’re going to have to get some Fred to buy you that, darlin’, unless you want to hand over thirty-five big ones for a bottle of ‘champagne,’” she said, suggesting some concoction that they passed off as the real thing.
My God, that would’ve paid rent at the boardinghouse for a whole month. “Coffee’s fine, thanks.”
She stood up, went to the door and yelled out, “Leon, two hot coffees and two oranges.” Almost immediately a boy not more than seventeen brought us exactly that, and Texas began peeling her orange and eating it right there.
“Go on, then, tell me, what brings you?”
“I left Ziegfeld’s shows, I just had my finale and thought I was going to be done with all this, but my circumstances changed, and I’d like to be back onstage, making some money.”
“You made a good name for yourself, better than I ever did on the stage. I was a show girl too, you know, then I went off to Hollywood and made some westerns. I was Hollywood’s first cowgirl, you know, the whole world would have known it, too, if it hadn’t been for that damn, good-for-nothin’ war interfering with the release date.”
“I’ve seen some of your films, you’re very good.”
“Better at this, though,” she said. “I like getting people to do things, and getting them as inebriated as possible makes it easier for them to do things like part with their money.” She laughed wholeheartedly and clasped her hands. �
�So, we all love a Ziegfeld girl and we’d love to have you. But I like a specialty act, what are your best tricks?”
“Singing is what I do best,” I said. But I didn’t feel like myself; my confidence was in the gutter, and for the first time since I could remember, I didn’t even want to sing.
“Well, we sure would love that, but unlike the theater, which is civilized, we got hustlers and mobsters and writers and mayors coming through this joint. We got millionaires and senators all spending big for Moët. They don’t want just a pretty girl singing a pretty song, they want a touch of scandal and skin, so make sure you show ’em what you’ve got, doll.”
I nodded.
“But we ain’t no bordello, either. You can go to Polly’s for that, and hey, if you’re hard up you certainly could—I don’t ask questions, but there’s none of that going on under my roof. That’s not how I make money off my girlies, you got that?”
“Of course,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was even having this conversation. Only a few weeks ago I was set to become Mrs. Archibald Carmichael, yet here I was being warned not to become a lady of the night.
“Don’t look so stirred up, doll face. I have to say it. Some girls come in here looking for the wrong type of business, I just have to set things straight. I might be a foulmouthed broad, but I ain’t no madam.”
“I understand.”
“Come back in the morning, and we’ll get you set up with a costume and music. You just think about what you want to sing—something cute, something sassy. It’s going to be grand, girly, don’t worry, we’ll get you back on top in no time.”
* * *
The 300 Club was one of the most expensive clubs in town, tinged with far more illicit activity than Ziegfeld’s Frolic. Publicly, Texas announced that she had only setups for drinks and that if people brought their own flasks of hooch, that was their business—but that was a lie. The bottles were stored in the house next door and passed to the barkeep through a hole in the wall. Raids and arrests were frequent—and Texas herself had spent a night or two in the slammer. I’d seen her picture in the paper as she was let out, with a quotation that read, “I liked their cute little jail.… I don’t know any other time when my jewels felt so safe.”
The Show Girl Page 24