She kissed him on the forehead. “I have to go to rehearsal.”
Chapter Eleven
Eleanor had to count to fifty before she gathered the courage to open the studio door. She was quite early; only Don was in before her. He was leaning against the top of the upright, writing on sheet music. He glanced up, then continued his notation. “Where’d you get off to last night?”
Afraid someone might come in and hear them, she approached. Don did not ruffle at her presence. Eleanor had been expecting a lecture. She whispered, “I wanted some fresh air.”
He spoke at a normal volume. “You arrived home safe?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He sat down at the piano and played. Eleanor waited for him to finish and continue the conversation, but he played almost to the end of the overture, stopped, went back six measures, and began to reconsider the final modulation. Eleanor took a seat across the room.
She spent the morning against the studio wall, memorizing lines. Harry did not believe in letting his cast members have days off—there was always something to be learned by watching—so even though he was choreographing the second-act men’s number, she had to attend. It was slow work, with Harry often spending ten minutes moving people around the room, standing back, then doing it again.
While Harry talked, Don leaned against the upright piano, making notes on a score, his hair unkempt and mussed on his forehead. Had she misread everything and made a grave mistake? She had a ready excuse: too much champagne. But Eleanor recognized that she had been his date to the party, even if he hadn’t said so outright. And he had complimented her; no one had ever said things like that to her, least of all a man. Remembering him in her bathroom, his hands in her hair, made her stomach go quick. That meant something, even if he had held back. Don’s reservation made her want him more; his fame and talent put him in a position of power and Eleanor respected him for not using it.
As Don played, Eleanor recalled the photograph of him that hung in her childhood bedroom, grinning openmouthed. That Don hadn’t escorted her at the party, but he was there when he played. Eleanor watched him in rehearsal, searching for glimpses of this freer man.
When they broke for lunch, Eleanor hung back. After the moment between them at the party, she was afraid he would no longer include her in those long talks about the show. Eleanor wondered if she could smooth it over, perhaps by asking more questions about his writing process. She was drawn to his insights. The reality of the night before, and the choice she’d made with Tommy, was large in her mind. Yet somehow, it seemed that with Don it could be different. Taking such a risk with Tommy would be foolish. That same risk didn’t carry the same weight against the chance of getting closer to Don.
But before she could approach Don, Harry snapped his fingers and beckoned her.
“Len wants to meet you and Charles. We have lunch at Sardi’s.”
“Len Price?” He was the show’s lead producer and had been at her audition for Charades. Harry looked at her like she was an idiot and didn’t respond.
She retrieved her coat and pocketbook and met Harry and Charles by the elevator. Don joined, nodding at Eleanor. She was devising what to say to him when Harry pinched her arm.
“Easy on the snacks, doll. Those canapés at parties aren’t made of air, you know.”
At once, she was furious.
“We can’t have an ingénue with a big fanny.” Then Harry turned and began speaking to Don.
“Don’t let it worry you,” Charles whispered. “He’s being a bully. The only man who scares Harry is Len Price. At least we have each other at this thing.”
They walked over to the restaurant, Don and Harry half a block ahead.
“I think it’s nice that they are including us,” Eleanor said to Charles. “We’re just actors, they certainly don’t have to.”
“And don’t think for a second it’s for your benefit. Don’t be dense.”
Eleanor turned to him. “I’m not.”
“Haven’t you noticed no one making the decisions around here looks anything like me? And there aren’t any ladies either.”
Eleanor felt hot and uncomfortable. After their first day at the Met, Charles had thus far avoided discussing subjects like this, and she’d been grateful. She remembered her blunder in the park, about race’s not mattering, and how foolish she’d felt.
She drew herself up. “I think we’re quite fortunate to be working on a show such as this. Think of it—a woman star, a Negro, kissing.”
“Don’t kid yourself into thinking it would happen unless those two thought it would be profitable. People like scandal.”
“Obviously things aren’t quite as good as they could be,” Eleanor said. “But the theater is far more accepting than other fields.” She thought about the party, how few women had been there, and how Charles hadn’t even been welcome. She pushed it away. “Why, in Wisconsin I’d never even met a Negro, and here you are, a star on Broadway!”
“Have you ever heard of a black director? A lady director?”
Eleanor had no words; her feelings were stirred up and unpleasant. She was so lucky to be in the show—she didn’t want to think about everything else she might do, if the world were fairer. In all her life she had never imagined a woman composer, a woman director, a woman version of Don Mannheim, and doing so made her feel frantic, like she wasn’t doing enough.
Eleanor felt trapped, like anything she said would be wrong. This whole time in New York, she hadn’t felt so rural. It made her feel small and stupid; why was Charles pushing her?
“I think we’re so much better off in the theater than other professions.”
“I’m so behind that ‘better off’ doesn’t even get me a seat at the table.”
So the alliance was over now? “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Charles sighed. “I don’t, either, Eleanor. I guess I’m just a little scared.”
She looked at him. “Stage fright? You’re so talented.”
“Eleanor.” He gave her an odd look. “What do you think will happen when America finds out I’m spending my evenings kissing a white woman?”
“It’s fiction,” she said.
“Maybe that’s what you need to tell yourself. But I know you’re scared of the same thing. Your daddy can’t be happy with what we’re doing onstage. But the fact is, we are really kissing. You asked if Gwen was jealous—she’s not. But she’s afraid.”
Eleanor didn’t mention that not only had she not yet had the strength yet to tell her parents what the show was about, she had stopped calling them altogether. Caught up in the excitement of it all, she hadn’t thought much about the reaction of the audience. She didn’t want anything to spoil her enchantment.
They’d reached a streetlight. Don and Harry were now an entire block ahead. Eleanor watched the two men, wool overcoats hitting their knees, a sheen of power hanging around them even in their relaxed state. She longed to join them, with a deep ache, and leave Charles to his brooding talk. Odd ones out—there was nothing she wanted less than being left out. There was so much to do with the show, so much to learn and focus on to make it better. But none of it would get done if all the focus was on sulky things like who got what and why. Eleanor wasn’t interested in that. She had what she wanted.
They finally reached the restaurant. “Well, we have a seat at the table today, Charles.”
* * *
Harry ordered for Eleanor, allowing her three shrimps from the cocktail and a Cobb salad. At least she got some protein. Len Price was an enormous man in gray plaid who ordered a steak and a martini. Don ordered water, grilled chicken, and broccoli.
After telling a few rehearsal stories, Len zeroed in on Charles.
“You ever been here before, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you look at that. The boy’s done four Br
oadway shows and never been inside Sardi’s.” He leaned an elbow on the table and winked at Harry, who laughed. He was sitting straight, and Eleanor remembered what Charles had said about his fear. “What spring chickens the two of you are. Skin like babies, milk and chocolate.”
Eleanor stirred her iced tea. It clinked against the glass. Harry caught her eye, and she stopped.
Charles surprised her the most. Despite his talk beforehand, he clearly knew how to work a situation like this. He was courteous and urbane; he’d spread his napkin across his lap as soon as he sat down. He laughed at Len’s coarse humor and listened to his stories as though they were fascinating. Len asked Eleanor just one question—how did she feel about the party the night before, had she been comfortable? Eleanor was surprised that he cared until he added that he needed a star who could sell the show as well as she could sing it. The meeting was clearly between Harry and Len—Don wasn’t really a businessman and was content to eat in silence. All Charles and Eleanor had to do was smile and look young.
When the waitress arrived with their food, she leaned across the table to set a plate in front of Charles. But she stumbled, sending cooked spinach straight into his lap. Bolting straight up, she looked behind her, hand going to her backside. Eleanor caught Len’s smirk, his hand headed back to the table. She looked away in shame. The waitress reached out to Charles with a napkin. “Oh my goodness—I’m so sorry. Please, let me clean this up.”
“Don’t you worry about it, darling,” Len said, and winked at Charles, who picked the greens off his lap without looking up. “See? He’s fine. Hell of a first impression, son, am I right? Sardi’s—not the same anymore. Oh, toots, don’t beat yourself up. He won’t even know the difference.”
The waitress looked at him, still unsure, then glanced at Eleanor. She knew that look, had exchanged it herself with women who went up against men in public. Is this a joke? Or should I be scared? Eleanor looked away.
Len pulled a twenty from his wallet and tucked it into the waistband of the waitress’s skirt. She stiffened. “I don’t want to hear any more about it,” Len said to the rest of the table, brandishing his fork like a trident. “Let’s eat.”
The conversation went back to the three older men. She and Charles ate as neatly as possible. When the waitress brought the check, Len tucked in his business card along with a bill.
“Keep it,” he said, tapping a finger on the leather book. “And give me a call sometime. I’ll get you in front of some directors. You’ve got a great face.”
In a short moment, Eleanor was furious; the waitress was pretty, far prettier than Eleanor. It made her want to toss another plate, this time at Len Price. So that was all it took? A great face?
On their way out, Eleanor refused to meet Charles’s eye. She was afraid of seeing him in case he was going to gloat over having foreseen the other men’s boorishness. So upset, she couldn’t even look at Harry or Don, lest she risk them thinking that she was bothersome enough to get emotional after such a small incident. But when he walked away, ahead of the group, Charles didn’t look smug at all, just tired.
* * *
That night Eleanor stopped to buy a bottle of wine and a box of chocolate cookies. She was due for her monthly in a day or two. Hang Harry and his observations about her weight. Hang Len and his pretty waitress. Hang Don for being infuriating. Why did Charles even have to bring all of this unpleasantness up to her? She didn’t want to find fault with the experience. With her purchases under her arm, she trudged up the stairs.
When she turned to ascend the last flight, she raised her eyes and saw a pair of red pumps and slender legs.
She nearly dropped the cookies. “Rosie Hughes!”
Her friend raced down the stairs as Eleanor went up, and they threw their arms around each other. Eleanor had to grip the rail so they didn’t topple over. Rosie’s smell was lovely and familiar and it made Eleanor hold her tighter.
“What are you doing here?”
“You must think I’m nutty!”
“You have no idea how much I missed you.”
“You missed me? I was stuck in Wisconsin. I thought I would die.”
Words still pouring from them, they went the rest of the way up to Eleanor’s apartment.
“I had to wait outside an hour before your neighbor let me inside the building,” Rosie explained. “She thought I was a streetwalker!” Rosie erupted into giggles, and warmth flooded Eleanor’s body.
“I have cookies,” she said. “And wine.”
Rosie patted Eleanor’s cheek. “A better dinner there never was.”
There was so much to catch up on that they attacked each topic at once, sentence by sentence, in a round-robin. Finally, Eleanor slapped her hands on the table. “I can’t keep up. First, what are you doing here?”
Rosie dropped her face in her hands. “John proposed.”
“Plutz?” In truth, Eleanor wasn’t all that surprised. “And you said no?”
“I feel like I’m forty in that town, not twenty-two, that’s how few options I had. But I couldn’t do it. He knelt and I almost got sick right there. He went on and on with some canned speech and it was all I could do not to laugh.”
Eleanor touched her shoulder. “Rosie, I’m proud of you.”
She shrugged. “What now? Remind me to send my parents a postcard tomorrow letting them know my throat hasn’t been slit yet.”
“What will you do?”
“Is your tailor looking for a girl?” Rosie smiled, looking so distraught that Eleanor reached out and took her hand. Rosie’s eyes were wet, but then a smile broke out onto her face. “You know, Eleanor, when I first came here, I loved it so much. But I thought it wasn’t for me.” She squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “But you know what? I don’t need to be an actress to love New York. It’s like you said, not every girl in the city wants to be on Broadway. I can work in a shop and meet a fella and do everything I was going to do back in Wisconsin, except now it will be my choice.”
Eleanor’s words back then had served to comfort herself and make the competition seem less fierce. But she realized now it was true. Girls lived normal lives in New York, and Rosie could, too.
“I realize I haven’t even asked if I could stay. I don’t have any money yet but I’m sure I’ll find work soon.”
“Where else would you stay?” Eleanor said. “It will be like old times, except better. It’ll be the life we never even thought to dream of.”
So much had changed since they’d last seen each other. How could Eleanor explain the show, the rigor of rehearsals, Don, the kiss and his restraint, Tommy? Now that the conversation could happen in person instead of over a clipped long-distance call, Eleanor realized how badly she wanted to share all of this with Rosie. They stayed up half the night talking, until her voice was hoarse. Rosie wanted to know about the show: what the girls wore, how well they were paid, and if Eleanor really kissed her costar—“like mouth to mouth?!” Once they hit the topic of Charles, Rosie did not budge. Eleanor endured endless questions about the man, where he lived, whether he was kind, and what on earth they talked about.
“What does he kiss like?”
“Like a person,” Eleanor said.
“Have you talked about it at all?” Rosie asked. “Him being black and you being white?”
“Rosie, I don’t know what the big deal is.”
Of course this was a lie. But with Rosie here, she felt the gaze of Wisconsin on her back. Eleanor needed Rosie to see how New York had changed her. “He’s just a man.”
Rosie did not accept that answer. With each of her probing questions, Eleanor thought about what Charles had said earlier that day about being odd ones out. Were they? The very thought that she was more like Charles than Don upset her. Even with these ungenerous thoughts, Charles was her friend, and Rosie’s questions picked him apart like he was a concept instead of a man. Her
words got under Eleanor’s skin.
“We have plenty of time to catch up,” she said. “Let’s go to bed now, shall we?”
* * *
When she finally made it to rehearsal, Eleanor learned that Len Price had secured a theater for their Boston run of A Tender Thing, which would open in January. Eleanor pictured the program, her name on the posters outside the theater, maybe even in lights. They were to leave a week after Christmas, in about a month. The entire cast and creative team would live in a hotel for eight weeks. As a principal, she would get her own room. She flicked her eyes to Don. Perhaps some time in a hotel would foster intimacy between them? Surely there would be late nights, cocktails? Either way, they would be spending even more time together, and she would have a chance to prove that she wasn’t just any actress. He would see her in a different light.
“We’re running the first act today,” Harry informed them, “straight through.”
Running the first half of the show without stopping was challenging, but she was ready, itching to go without interruption. The show opened with a group number showing off the dancers and introducing the neighborhood, and she didn’t appear for twenty minutes. It gave her time to watch the other players, feel the rhythm of the show for the first time. True to his word, Harry did not interrupt them. Even when they made mistakes, he didn’t flinch, but stared forward. Eleanor could guess at the fury behind his held muscles.
When it was time for her entrance, she felt excitement in her fingers. In this first song, Molly wanted to get out of her parents’ house and find something more in her life. It was too real; Molly even worked in a tailor shop. She thought about what Molly wanted, internalized it, stepped into the middle of the studio, and sang the song. Everyone was watching her, and this helped: the thrill of the attention allowed her to step outside of herself, push to show Molly’s internal thoughts, intimate desires.
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