A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  He pointed around the corner at a cooler with paper cones. Eleanor warmed the water in her mouth before swallowing so as not to contract the muscles in her throat. Next she gargled, then massaged her throat, face, shoulders. Enunciating silently to warm up her facial muscles, she clenched her fists hard, then let go and touched her toes, breathing as deep as she could. It was amazing how preparation could quiet her mind.

  The music was in her body; she could no more forget the lyrics than forget her own name. The places where she’d stop to breathe or crescendo were ingrained. Eleanor was talented, but moreover, she was prepared.

  Maggie went in when the other girl finished, but Eleanor knew better than to listen. If Maggie was good, all this mental centering could be disrupted. She continued to stretch and think through the song in her head.

  In less than two minutes, Maggie emerged from backstage.

  “That’s it?” Eleanor asked.

  Maggie did not seem upset. “I sang, they asked me about my dancing, then I left.”

  “Who was in there?”

  “Harry Flynn and Len Price,” Maggie said. “A producer.”

  “Don Mannheim wasn’t there?”

  “Guess not. It doesn’t matter. Harry Flynn is the one to impress, if you ask me. He is the director, after all. They say he’s the meanest man in the business.”

  Even Eleanor had heard that. His bitter tongue was so infamous it was mentioned in reviews. She tried not to think about Don’s absence—she’d burned to see him, but if she won the part, she’d see him all the time.

  Maggie flipped her hair. “Break a leg.”

  Eleanor took deep breaths before Lisa emerged next, looking upset. Eleanor didn’t even have time to pretend to be polite before the clipboard man returned.

  “Eleanor?” he asked.

  Eleanor felt something in her throat. She needed more water, but there wasn’t time.

  “Go in, give your music to the accompanist, and stand center.”

  She barreled through the doors and almost missed that she was backstage at a Broadway theater, then stopped. Set pieces were tucked off to the side, and on an ordinary day she would have killed to explore all of them. The smell of sawdust calmed her. It reminded her of Pat’s store and his cardboard inventory boxes. She took in her surroundings for another moment, and then walked out of the wings, onto the stage.

  “Eleanor?”

  The lights were too bright to see. Harry Flynn was in the middle somewhere. Her eyes adjusted enough to spot him in the audience. She recognized his thin face from photographs. He was a long-boned man with a background in ballet. A large gray-haired man sat beside him.

  “Where are you from, Eleanor?”

  Was he supposed to ask these questions?

  “Wisconsin.” Her voice was too soft. She repeated herself and waited for him to ask something else. He didn’t.

  Her feet were sweating; they slid in her pumps, and she knew her walk was funny. The pianist was downstage on the lip, behind an upright.

  She crossed to him and plopped her music down.

  “I’ll be starting with ‘The Man I Love.’” Leaning over the piano, she conducted a tempo, humming along.

  The man paged through her music, passing the Gershwin piece and stopping at the Blitzstein. Was he listening?

  She tried not to sound nervous. “That’s my second choice.”

  He looked up and speared her with a stare. “I know.”

  Eleanor’s body recognized him before her mind. She felt a drop in her stomach, coolness in her hands and feet. The man at the piano was Don Mannheim.

  Behind the piano, he was both smaller and larger than she’d expected. Smaller because the idea of him had swelled enormous in her mind. Larger because Eleanor always imagined intellectual men to be slight and thin wristed; Don had broad shoulders and a burly chest. His jeans and a sweater were so regular they looked wrong on him. Coffee stained his cuff. His hair, almost as dark as it was in the black-and-white photographs, was mussed instead of slicked back, and shadowed his chin and cheeks. There was tightness in his body when he sat, and even though she knew he was a talented piano player, he lacked the ease of a pianist. He looked tense and volatile, his leg jiggling. His demeanor was of anxious impatience, as if he were being scratched by the air around him. This was so noticeable, and so opposite what she had imagined, that Eleanor had to recast him in her mind. Don Mannheim, the genius, was a nervous man.

  He nodded, acknowledging her recognition without any performed kindness, then looked at the music. At once, his awkwardness made sense. He wasn’t timid or jittery; when Don looked at the music, his eyes took on the tight focus of a man with augmented concentration. He flipped through her pages and then looked at her, as if imagining her performing each song. He was so intense that she understood now why his musicals were so good. Don Mannheim was at home in his area of genius.

  “I love Blitzstein.” Black hair crept up the backs of his hands and grew on his knuckles. His nails were cropped short, and he had a bruise under one of them, like he’d slammed a finger in a door. She was glad to know these intimate details and ran her eyes over his body, collecting more to replay in her mind later. His legs were thin. Beneath the neck of his sweater, she saw a furry chest. She watched his irises move back and forth, reading the music like it was a sentence in a book.

  He played the first measures, thrilling her. As soon as he pressed the keys, the tension in his body was directed toward the music. His eyes were intense, but he swayed with the melody. Eleanor felt a flip in her stomach, watching him move.

  He stopped abruptly. “Sing this.”

  “What?”

  “I want to hear you sing this.” His voice was quiet and deep. When he looked up, she was aware of having all of his attention, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “What is your tempo?”

  They were so close, his gaze boring into her, before his eyes flicked away, then down. He was real, and he smelled like soap. It was difficult to move her body, as she was so struck by Don’s presence. She hummed the music. He played a section. “Like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She crossed to center stage.

  “Come forward,” Harry Flynn called from the audience. She stepped downstage. “Good.”

  She looked toward the back of the house, black beyond the lights, and centered herself. For one moment, she tried to forget where she was. The song was about wanting something so much you can’t sleep. She took a breath, took one more step, and Don began to play.

  The first three notes, the sorrowful sound, froze her, and she was sure she would forget the lyrics. But then he kept playing, and she continued, the words coming from her as if her mind had nothing to do with it. She sang, and her breath came full and easy, infusing her voice with depth and power. At her best, she felt her voice resonate in her head, her neck, her stomach, even where her lungs opened up against her ribs in her back. The music came from every inch of her.

  As the music swelled to the bridge, she took a breath and stepped forward, her hands reaching out. Everything vanished except the music and the story she was telling.

  Then Don stopped playing.

  “Thank you,” Harry said.

  Eleanor blinked.

  “That was great,” Harry continued. “Thank you for coming in, Eleanor.”

  Her cut had three more phrases left, but she gathered herself enough to smile, then infused her voice with as much happiness as she could. “Thank you!”

  How did one walk across the stage like a star?

  She took the music from Don’s outstretched hand. He watched her as if he wanted to ask her something but said nothing except, “Thank you.”

  By the time she reached the wings, she had started to cry.

  “You were in there a long time,” Maggie said, v
oice sharpened by jealousy. “You sounded beautiful.”

  Eleanor was already walking to the door. “So did you.”

  * * *

  When she returned to their hotel, Eleanor found Rosie on the bed reading a guidebook.

  She tossed it aside as soon as Eleanor was in the door. “How was it?”

  Eleanor felt like she’d lived an entire lifetime in a few hours but wasn’t ready to speak of any of it yet. “What did you do all day?” she asked instead of answering.

  Rosie barely hesitated before continuing. “I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art! I could have spent all day in the Egyptian wing, but then I found the medieval armor . . . I’ve never seen anything like that. Of course I’ve heard all about knights and such but seeing their suits of armor—to know someone wore that, and died in it—it was another thing altogether.”

  Like auditioning for a Broadway show and meeting one’s idol—another thing altogether.

  Rosie sighed. “I never want to go back home.”

  Eleanor had not let herself think beyond today. She had stopped her thoughts outside the door to the audition, as if her life would hover there in perpetuity.

  “You look like you need to eat,” Rosie said. “Do you want a nap?”

  “No.” She’d given two phone numbers on her résumé: one for the hotel, the other for Pat’s store. She didn’t want her parents to pick up. Her eyes fell on the phone that sat between the narrow hotel beds. “Let’s go.”

  Shopping was out of the question, so they explored the neighborhoods they’d circled on their map. Eleanor was glad Rosie had gone to the Met without her, since wandering galleries seemed like a waste of time when there was so much city to see. They walked until their blisters opened up again. Eleanor made Rosie stand outside the theaters with her at intermission. She’d heard about “second-acting”—sneaking into the theater with the smokers in order to stand in back—but at the last moment, she lost her nerve.

  They ended up at another diner, trying matzo ball soup.

  “You still haven’t told me anything about the audition.”

  Eleanor put down her water glass and shrugged.

  “We came all this way and you won’t even tell me.” Rosie looked perturbed.

  How could she explain it? The experience was neither letdown nor triumph. If Eleanor tried to define it in words, she’d end up on one side of the issue and either get her hopes up or condemn herself.

  “Was Don Mannheim there? Did he hear you sing?”

  In Wisconsin, you couldn’t see outside at night; the windows would turn black. Her mother always pulled the curtains closed so people couldn’t see in, even though no one was ever in their yard but the pigs. In New York, the streetlamps were bright enough that the people were bathed in an orange glow and could be seen from inside the diner. A girl wearing jeans and a turtleneck that didn’t cover her stomach accepted a cigarette from a young man outside. She kissed his cheek, her mouth lingering over a day’s growth of beard.

  “No, he wasn’t there,” Eleanor said, turning back to Rosie. “I don’t think the audition was as important as we thought.”

  Rosie’s expression dimmed. “Really?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “It was a waste of time and money.”

  Rosie straightened her shoulders. “Well, there are two days left, and we won’t let this ruin them.”

  But the trip wasn’t ruined. When they returned to the hotel that night, the front desk presented Eleanor with a written message.

  She was due at the Plymouth Theatre the following day, ten o’clock. Prepare nothing. Wear high heels.

  Chapter Four

  This time there were only ten girls at the Plymouth. Impossible not to compare herself in a crowd this small. Eleanor was, without a doubt, the stockiest one. Three had long legs. One was thin as a rail. Another was Maggie.

  “Hi,” Maggie said, a moment of panic showing on her face before she could mask it with a smile. “Glad to see you here.”

  “You as well.” They were lined up in the hallway. Each of the girls stood like a giraffe in her highest heels. Eleanor had shoved her feet into Rosie’s red size sevens. “What do you think we’re going to do today?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I’ve been off book since I was called in to audition last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “I’ve been in for this role before,” Maggie said. “Made it to the final round last time. I’m sure they’ll have us sing from the show, read some lines. Do you know the music?”

  Eleanor did know it but hadn’t thought about the script. She’d never even read the lines. “Will they give us copies of the script?”

  “You mean sides?”

  Sides? “I mean I’m not memorized.”

  Maggie touched her arm. “I’m sure that’s fine,” she said. “I’m always memorized, but that’s just me. I like to be prepared.”

  “And you auditioned for Charades before?”

  “Sure. I audition for everything.” Maggie checked her lipstick in a compact mirror. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to take my time before I go in there. I don’t want to mess this up.”

  Eleanor should have been doing the same, especially if she didn’t even know the script. Maggie had made it to the final round before—did that mean she stood more of a chance or less? On one hand, they liked her. But she’d lost the part once. Eleanor scooted farther away and closed her eyes, hoping that calm would come over her. It didn’t. She had no music to review, no lines to memorize, nothing to ease her nerves.

  Each girl was called into the theater for a different amount of time, but it was clear the longer, the better. A girl with stunning blond hair emerged after two minutes, in tears. Another did not come out for forty minutes and smiled at everyone, refusing to mention what she’d had to do inside. Eleanor’s adrenaline had prevented her from eating breakfast, and her nerves had a muting effect on her hunger. But by one o’clock, her stomach growled. Maggie had gone in an entire hour earlier.

  When Maggie emerged, she looked exhausted but happy. The first real smile Eleanor had seen shone on her face. There was an innocence hanging over her as she glowed, happy with herself. “I hope we both get in, some way.”

  She meant she hoped Eleanor would be her understudy. “Me, too.”

  Eleanor waited to be called. After five minutes, the door to the stage opened. A man came out and glanced her way without saying anything. It was Harry Flynn. He passed her, slim legs taking him down the hall long before she mustered the courage to speak.

  Eleanor looked around until she saw the young man with the clipboard who had supervised both of the auditions.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “When is it my turn?”

  He looked down at his papers. “Are you Eleanor?”

  “Yes.” Eleanor clenched and unclenched her toes in Rosie’s shoes.

  “I’ll bring you in when they tell me to.”

  “I saw Harry Flynn leave.”

  “Time for lunch.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Eleanor leaned against the wall. Five minutes went by that felt like twenty, and then another five. Then the door to the stage opened.

  “Eleanor?”

  Don Mannheim emerged.

  Her mouth went dry.

  He was wearing a gray sweatshirt. Apart from the audition the previous day, Eleanor had only seen him in photographs from the openings of his musicals, wearing a tuxedo. His body looked warm and masculine, his fingers drumming on his leg. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, but again, he didn’t quite meet her eyes, just examined her face and body. He would notice her hem had been let down.

  “Come on in, Eleanor.”

  “What about Mr. Flynn?”

  “I called you in here myself.” He spoke in a crisp man
ner. When he met her extended gaze, he looked away, calling to mind a child uncomfortable in the company of adults.

  She followed Don inside and he crossed the stage, his shoes making no sound on the floor. She felt goofy in her clacking heels. The house lights were on, so every empty red seat stared back at her. With the spotlights off, she could see down into the orchestra pit. The chairs were empty and haphazard, like the whole orchestra had abruptly stood up and left. The larger instruments had been left behind: a bass leaned on its side, a grand piano with its lid closed, a harp balanced on its stand. She stopped and breathed.

  Don watched her. Eleanor waited for him to reply with something understanding, some appreciation of the empty theater.

  “This is not a callback.” He sat behind the upright piano that had been wheeled onstage.

  The thoughts flooding her head embarrassed her with their eagerness. Don wouldn’t waste time calling her in for no reason. What if he was as captured by her as she was by him? What if he was going to offer her the part, right here, right now?

  “I like your voice,” he said.

  Eleanor crossed the stage as fast as possible until she hovered by his shoulder. Sheet music was spread against the piano, with handwritten notes on the staff.

  “You have an interesting sound. The Blitzstein was a good choice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did your teacher give it to you?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I haven’t had a teacher.”

  “Good. Don’t get one. You have a rough sound. There’s that dangerous warble at the end of your phrases. No teacher could resist smoothing it out. You’d be a good student, too, wouldn’t you?”

  Eleanor had no idea what he was asking.

  “Don’t let them ruin your sound. It’s fascinating.”

  “I do even better on the Gershwin,” she said.

  “No. That’s not a good song for you.” He pointed to the music on the page, hit a chord with both hands. “Here’s the key, Eleanor. You read music?”