“We’ll raise the girl—she’ll be your cousin, and that’s all there is to it.”
My father stood, still staring at the fire. “This is a disgrace,” he said, turning to glare at my mother and then at me. “You’re a disgrace to this family,” he said quietly, and he walked out of the room.
That night I lay in bed devastated, sobbing, biting the sheets so no one would hear. My own child was miraculously back in my life, but I was too much of a failure to be a mother to her. They were right, there was no way I could give her a good life—a single woman working in a nightclub. She wouldn’t have a fighting chance. What was I thinking? It was heartbreaking to lose her all over again. How I wished I could turn back the clocks and start over.
The next morning, I picked up the small knitted doll sitting on the windowsill and held it to my cheek. Then I left before the sun came up and caught the train back to New York City, alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My first night back at the club I put on a show. One of the perks of the 300 was that we could change course at a moment’s notice. I could tell Bones, the pianist, what I wanted to sing, and he could improvise on just about anything.
“I don’t know about you, Bones, but I’m feeling a little blue tonight,” I said as I walked onstage and the applause subsided. He played a few notes, as if the piano itself were responding to me.
“I sure do hope that getting up here and singing a few songs with this beautiful crowd will help cheer me up.” He played another melody and then paused for me to sing the first few lines of “It Had to Be You” before he joined in. From there I went on to sing a few belters, where I really let the patrons hear my pipes. In the Follies we rarely had the chance to sing with such abandon, everything was so choreographed and rehearsed, done with restraint. Looking back, I might have even called it tame. The Midnight Frolic was where I’d really come to life, the place where I was allowed to be myself. But even then there was a limitation: Ziegfeld’s eyes were always on us. Here at the 300 Club, as long as patrons were buying drinks, Texas let me sing what I was in the mood for, and tonight I was in the mood for the blues. I ended with Bessie Smith’s latest—“Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.” I sang it slow and soulful, sitting on the stool, with just Bones accompanying me. I forgot the audience was even there. I was singing for myself.
I took a bow and told them I’d be back. I sidled up to the bar and let some stranger buy me a drink, then another and another. I hadn’t had a drink since I’d moved into Saint Agnes, so it hit me hard and burned my throat as it went down. I performed another set, all slow, solemn blues this time, and then I ended up at the bar again, letting someone buy me another drink. I didn’t know if it was the same guy or a different one. It didn’t matter.
“I’m unfit,” I told him. I could hear myself slurring, but I didn’t care. “That’s what they say, unfit to be anything, really. A daughter, a sister, a mother.” I said it as if it were a bad word. “I’m unfit to be a mother,” I said it again.
“I think you’re the berries,” the young guy next to me said cheerfully. “A beauty, and that voice of yours, you could be anything you want to be.”
“I used to believe that,” I said. He kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was staring into my glass. They were right, of course. Who leaves a baby with strangers to find other strangers to look after her? She was days old. I should have known that my aunt would go back for her; she had a heart. I was a shell of a woman. Selfish, so focused on getting to New York and getting my chance on that big stage that I almost managed to force that whole part of my life out of my head. I charged on ahead with my days, not even trying to locate her. Not even having regrets, not really, not until I met Archie and everything changed.
Archie.
“I’ll take another,” I said to the barkeep. He wiped down the bar and leaned on it, toward me.
“You okay there, Olive?”
“Good.” I gave him two thumbs-up. “Another round, please,” I said.
“Maybe it’s best you call it a night,” he said in a low voice. “Texas won’t like to see you hanging around too long like this.”
“I’ve got some good stuff back at my place,” the fella next to me offered enthusiastically. “Scotch from Scotland, smooth as a whistle.”
“Well, off we go, then,” I said, standing and almost knocking over my barstool.
At that moment I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, I just wanted the hooch to bring on that numbing feeling. I was close, I could feel it, but I wasn’t there yet.
“You should stay, head backstage for a bit,” the barkeep said. I knew him by name, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was.
“Thanks for the tip, Fred, or Billy or Jimmy, or Joe.” I rolled my eyes. “Come on.…” I linked my arm through the arm of the gent next to me. “What’s your name, anyway?” He told me, but I immediately let myself forget it. “Lead the way.”
* * *
I woke up on top of the covers, fully dressed in my fringe dress, my sequin headband pushing my left eye shut. I could hear the openmouthed breathing of a man next to me, but I didn’t look his way. Instead I groaned as I rolled over and put my feet on the floor. I still had on my T-straps. With no recollection of what transpired after we’d left the club and no interest in finding out, I tiptoed to the door and left without so much as a glance in his direction. What did it matter who he was or what went on? I had to get out of there.
On the street in the bright sunlight my eyes burned, and I realized, when people were staring at my attire, that I’d left my fake nursing outfit back at the club. I couldn’t very well show up at the boardinghouse dressed like this. I hailed a taxi and banged on the back door at the 300, praying that someone would be there. Eddie, the doorman, let me in. He looked as though he’d been fast asleep, and I wondered if maybe he slept there during the day.
“Thanks, Eddie, I left some things in the dressing room. Can I go back there and get them?”
He stood aside and let me pass. “Five minutes,” he grunted.
* * *
I tried to keep my head down as I walked up the front stairs and into Saint Agnes. Sister Theresa was in the lobby dusting, humming cheerfully.
“Good morning, Olive,” she said. “Long shift?”
I nodded.
“Goodness,” Sister Theresa said. “You look terribly tired.” She looked concerned, trying to get a better look at me. I’d hastily washed my face in the dressing room but was sure there were remnants of last night around my eyes.
“Better get some rest,” she said. “Oh, and you received a telegram.” She rushed to the office, came back and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
The telegram was from Alberto.
OLIVE BELLA STOP
MEET ME AT DINTY MOORES 8 PM STOP
46TH AND BROADWAY STOP
* * *
He was sitting at a table in the back when I arrived that night. I liked the place because they didn’t give two hoots about Prohibition laws, and the bourbon they served was a heck of a lot more appealing than the corned beef and baked potatoes they were known best for.
“Olive,” he said, standing and kissing me on both cheeks.
“I’m so happy to see you, Alberto.” I meant it, too, since I hadn’t been expecting to see him again until the spring. But I would’ve been happier if I’d had a chance to recover from the previous evening. I’d tossed and turned all day, barely able to sleep it off, and my head was still pounding.
“I’m starving, bella, I ordered the food already, are you hungry?”
I shook my head and Alberto waved down the waiter. “A drink for the lady,” he said, “and maybe something piccolo? Something small for the lady?”
“Just a bourbon, please, on the rocks.” I handed the menu to the waiter. “What brings you back to New York so soon?”
“My friend Chester, do you remember?”
“Of course.”
“He’s coming to Italy to visit me and I come first to travel with him. He has never been outside of the New York. Anyway, sorry I meet you so late in the day.”
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t have to be at the club until eleven,” I said.
Alberto shook his head. “I heard this, you are at the Three Hundred Club now. I no like it. It’s molto bad for you, for your career.”
My career. What a joke.
“You are my biggest fan, Alberto.” I tried to remain cheerful around him, since he didn’t deserve my terrible mood. “But Ziegfeld didn’t want me back, the Three Hundred Club was all I could get, and the pay is decent. All the shows are already cast. Maybe I’ll have better luck next season, but right now I need to make some money. Things are different for me now.”
“I know.” He shook his head. “Did you see him, Archie, again?” he asked. “He was very in love, and you also last time when I see you, before the wedding. What happened?”
The wedding. Planning it seemed a lifetime ago. So much had changed since then, and the thought of explaining left me weak.
“It’s a sad story, Alberto. Thank you for asking. But it’s a long one and I might end up in tears.” I managed a wobbly smile. “And I have to put on a show tonight,” I added as brightly as I could. “I can’t show up red faced and puffy!”
“Okay,” he said sadly, patting my hand. “Capisco.”
The waiter delivered a mound of corned beef, carrots and cabbage for Alberto and he dug in heartily. I smiled at the sight of him devouring it.
He was such a kind man. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to tell him about Addie, but when I looked into his expectant eyes, I knew I’d only start to cry. What would I tell him? That I was an unfit mother—spending last night with a man I couldn’t remember now? While Addie, left motherless in my aunt’s house, was going to be brought back to a completely strange house in Brooklyn, where she’d be raised by two people who would take on this “burden” only because it was the right thing to do. Two people who were actually her grandparents but would never acknowledge that fact. They’d found me a burden, hadn’t they? And yet who was I to pass judgment? I hadn’t made it easy for them. If I’d done the right thing two years earlier, Addie wouldn’t be in this situation now. And I would never have met Archie—let alone left and humiliated him days before we were supposed to walk down the aisle.
I knocked back my bourbon, and the waiter brought another round.
“You don’t want to eat, Olive? Share with me, please?”
I shook my head.
“I get to the point, Olive.” He grinned excitedly, rubbing his hands together as if he were about to let me in on a big secret. “I have a holiday show starting middle of November. We will travel Europe, and after there is buono chance we go to Russia. Chester will accompany me. I want for you to come with me, Olive. We will perform a section of duets together. We will introduce Olive to Europe and Europe to Olive. Che ne dici?”
I stared at him, speechless, and when I met his eyes, I realized he was excited, anticipating my response, a little puzzled even when I didn’t reply right away.
I should’ve been ecstatic, jumping up and down for joy. After the recent turn of events in my life, the offer should have been something I’d be thrilled by, and yet my legs felt like lead, my feet were stuck to the ground. I couldn’t feel anything.
Alberto hurried on, thinking I hadn’t understood. “All the travel, the hotels, the everything, it will be arranged for you, Olive. Your only concern is to get yourself on the ship to Southampton, five days of luxury travel, and don’t forget to bring your beautiful voice.”
“I don’t understand. You said everything was booked up. That I’d meet your booker in the spring.”
“It is booked. It was. But I think of an opportunity, for you, because I don’t like to hear about you in these nightclubs, it is, how do you say”—he placed his hand toward the floor, looked into my eyes and spoke very seriously—“sotto di te. Low, too low. And there, Olive, the money is very good, better than you ever see here. Because you perform with me, and in Europe I have the big name already.”
Touring Europe with Alberto Ricci was an opportunity I could have only dreamed about a few years earlier. It could put my career on a whole new path. If I was well received, I could be taken seriously, seen not just as an aging show girl but as someone who could really sing. It was an opportunity anyone would grasp with both hands and never let go, but other thoughts were drowning me, blocking the possibility from entering my head.
I was thinking of Addie, here in New York; she’d be living in the same city as me. I didn’t know if my father would ever let me in the house again, but I’d be closer to her, and somehow I had to find a way to be part of her life.
And then there was Archie, who had never really left me despite his absence. I knew it was over, I knew he’d moved back to Cincinnati, and he was engaged again to the other woman. But leaving? Leaving felt impossible. Leaving felt final.
“Olive?” said Alberto. “You don’t say something? This is molto, molto bene,” he said, using his hands. “We sing like we sing on the lake. You say yes.”
“Thank you so much, Alberto. What an incredible opportunity,” I said, forcing a smile. “You are so kind, so generous. This is just the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“You say yes?” he asked again.
“Yes,” I said.
A chill took over my whole body, and I had the immediate thought to take back my acceptance of his offer. Regret and remorse were seeping into every inch of my being. Don’t be a fool, I told myself, you need this money to survive. Do you really think they’re going to let you be part of Addie’s life after you’ve already made such a mess of things? I was beating myself down with questions, torment running through my veins as Alberto sat across from me. They’ll disown you, I continued to tell myself. You’re unfit. You’re unfit to be a mother. Leaving is the best thing you can do for the child.
Alberto drank down the rest of his bourbon and finished off the last of his corned beef, looking pleased, satisfied.
“Bene,” he said finally, wiping his mouth with his napkin and setting it on the table. “It’s October. You come pronto. We have to rehearse. We have to do molto, molto work. The tour starts in one month. I leave tomorrow with Chester. We send you your ticket, but to where?”
“Probably best to send it to the club,” I said, thinking the less explaining I had to do to the nuns the better.
“And you come pronto. Capisci?”
“Capisco.” I nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
We crammed into Ruthie’s living room a week and a half later. I’d already taken a few nips from my flask on the way over, reluctant to show my face, knowing that Pauline, Lara, Gladys and Lillian would be there along with a few others from the Follies. I couldn’t avoid them forever, I knew that, but I still wasn’t ready to be bombarded by all their questions about Archie.
Ruthie’s baby was lying quietly in the bassinet, and I tried to make a fuss over him, but it only seemed to make me feel worse. Ruthie picked him up, a natural already, leaning in and kissing his cheek.
“Do you want to hold him?” she asked. “He’s a real snuggler.”
“He seems so calm with you, I don’t want to upset him,” I said.
“Oh no, he’s such a happy baby.” She handed him to me, carefully transferring him into my arms, making sure I was supporting his head, and I sat down on the sofa. He felt so delicate—the warmth and weight of him were surprising. He wriggled slightly, getting comfortable in my arms, and I felt overwhelmed to feel the life in him, overcome with longing.
“Ruthie,” I said after a few moments in an urgent whisper, “take him, please. I had a drink on the way over, I shouldn’t—”
“All right,” she said calmly, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “You’re fine, Olive, he likes you.” Then she
slowly took him from me.
I wanted to curl up and disappear. I didn’t trust myself even to hold a baby. But, truthfully, no one really seemed as eager to hold the baby as they were to crowd around Ruthie. At first, they were fascinated by her appearance—she was beaming as she laid him down again in the bassinet—and the way her waist had nearly returned to its former glory. They marveled at her delicate cheekbones. Next, they peppered her with questions about giving birth, as if she were the first woman to do such a thing. Hearing Ruthie speak of her delivery brought the drama of Addie’s back in force, but while Ruthie’s sounded celebratory, mine felt wrapped in shame.
I hurried off to the kitchen to regain my composure but didn’t have a chance—it was my turn to be swarmed and interrogated.
“What the heck happened?” Pauline asked, following after me.
“What do you mean?” I asked, stalling, realizing too late that I should have prepared a response about the halted wedding, something to say to shut them all up. But I barely seemed able to put one foot in front of the other lately, much less think through what they might want to know and make up a story. Several girls were around us by now.
“With Archie,” she said.
“I wasn’t in love with him,” I said coldly. “And he wasn’t in love with me.”
“Really?” Gladys said. “That’s what you’re going to tell us? Come on, something must have happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Nah, I don’t believe it. It was that night after your grand finale. Something was up with you that night, your nerves were on edge, and you were getting up real close with a fella or two. What’d you do? Go home with one of ’em, and Archie found out?”
“No,” I insisted. “I did not, Gladys, so stop meddling.”
She put her hands up and backed off a little.
“But what are you going to do now?” Pauline asked. “I mean, are you coming back to the theater?”
The Show Girl Page 27