“What?” Eleanor shook her head at Rosie. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. Tommy and Rosie had more in common anyhow; it made sense. “I think you two would really enjoy each other’s company. You should—”
“Eleanor!” Rosie was horrified. She turned to Tommy. “I’m sorry, Tommy. We don’t want to keep you.”
“Stop being silly,” Eleanor said. “I heard you talking, and you sounded so happy. It’d be neat if the two of you were a couple.”
Tommy shook his head and turned to go. Eleanor hustled after him.
“I promise I mean it in the best way,” she said. “She’s my best friend. This only proves how much I like you.”
Tommy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“What?” she asked.
“Good luck in your play, Eleanor.”
With a wrench, he opened the door and left.
The sound of his footsteps carried down the flights, until Eleanor heard the front door open and close.
Eleanor turned to Rosie, mouth open, and was shocked to see fury on her face.
“Eleanor, I’ve never been so mortified in my life.” Her eyes shone.
“It’s a high compliment to set a man up with your best friend. I want you to be happy.”
“Maybe I don’t want your leftovers!” She looked distraught. “And if I did, how could you embarrass me like that? Make me sound so available, like yesterday’s bread?”
“I thought . . .” Eleanor said.
“If you can’t see why this embarrassed me, can you at least see why that was a cruel thing to do to him? He’s a nice young man.”
Eleanor turned away and got a beer from the fridge. She needed something in her hands.
“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You two were sweethearts. And you passed him off on me like it wouldn’t bother you at all. You can’t treat people that way!”
The words hit her, cold. No retort came.
Rosie looked her in the eye, her voice flat. “I’m going out.”
Eleanor wanted to make Rosie see her side of things. Maybe she’d hurt Tommy’s pride—but when he went out with Rosie and really got to know her, Eleanor knew he’d be head over heels within weeks. Rosie would be, too. But as she watched Rosie gather her purse and coat, her movements clipped and quick, and leave without touching up her makeup, Eleanor knew to hold back.
From the window, she watched Rosie’s little form hurry down the street. She caught up with Tommy at the end of the next block, walking slow, shoulders slumped. She touched his arm, her head moving to the side as she spoke rapid words Eleanor couldn’t hear.
The window was frosted. Eleanor pulled away, then locked the front door behind Rosie. It had been a long time since either of them went to the grocer, so she pulled together a dinner of cheese, crackers, and pickles. Were Rosie and Tommy talking about her? Almost certainly. The apartment was quiet. She drew blankets around herself but couldn’t get warm.
Chapter Thirteen
The advent of musical theater can be traced firmly back to opera.”
They were seated around a table in the department head’s house in New Haven. It was more intimate than Eleanor had expected—just the department head, his wife, a distinguished student who was to receive a scholarship, Don, and herself. When they’d arrived, Dr. and Mrs. Franklin had brought them into a sitting room filled with books and musical scores. Don surprised her by tugging her to join him on a love seat so their legs were pressed together. He had never initiated this sort of closeness before. She was introduced as the star of A Tender Thing, but she wondered whether anyone believed that was her only claim to the invitation. Eleanor was elated—other people’s suspicions about their relationship might not translate to any progress between them in private, but Don was behaving with real affection tonight. When it was time to sit down for dinner, Don had pulled out her chair and smiled in a way that flipped her stomach.
“Opera. Think of The Magic Flute,” Dr. Franklin said. “Mozart used unaccompanied dialogue.”
“An easy mistake to make,” Don said. “Many people believe musicals evolved from opera. Yet the earliest roots of musical theater are found in ancient Greece, and again in the Renaissance, with commedia dell’arte. It has always been its own form.”
He turned to Eleanor.
“Miss O’Hanlon is our newest star, but she’s also something of an aficionado. What do you think?”
Add to this discussion? She made eye contact with George, the student at the table. He looked at her through pulled-together brows, until she was conscious of her party dress and painted lips, and that she was the only person in the room without any sort of degree. If Rosie had been there, they would have poked fun at him as soon as the party was over. Eleanor and Rosie hadn’t spoken since the incident with Tommy. She wished Rosie were there now.
“Who have you studied under?” George asked, before she could speak.
She chose instead to address Dr. Franklin.
“The Black Crook seems to be one of the oldest direct ancestors, I believe. Eighteen sixties? That’s when the form began in earnest.”
“The Black Crook.” Don looked delighted. “I don’t hear that title enough.”
George frowned. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s less a masterpiece than an ancestor,” Eleanor said, her words coming easier now. “But it started something marvelous.”
She could see that Don was still looking at her. She raised her glass for more champagne, then smiled across the table.
Dr. Franklin filled her glass, then raised his own. “It is truly an honor to have you here, Mr. Mannheim. I don’t believe anyone is pushing the bounds of popular music the way you are.”
“Copland has more in him yet.”
“Don’t be modest. You’re bringing real art to the masses. I never thought the sheep would stand for it, but here we are.” He raised his glass. “To Don Mannheim.” He looked at Eleanor. “And to his newest work.”
She caught Don’s eye when she raised her glass to him, and drank.
* * *
Don took her arm when they walked to his car.
“The Black Crook,” Don said after a long time of silence. “You amaze me.”
“I told you, I had nothing to do in Wisconsin but obsess.” Amazed him?
“I’ve never met an actress who knew her history.”
“You must not have been paying attention,” she said, but she took his words with pride. She was different. Maybe everywhere else this was pathetic, but to Don, it was a wonderful thing.
“I think young George was struck rather dumb by you.”
“He thought I was a ninny.”
“At first. But between your knowledge and that dress”—Don nodded at her body, covered with a coat, where she felt the green velvet slipping against her thighs—“I think he had something other than condescension on his mind. Perhaps for the very first time.”
Eleanor laughed. She was glad the sidewalk was icy; it made walking difficult enough to be a distraction, especially in her high heels. It also gave her an excuse to cling to Don’s arm.
“You seemed more at ease tonight than usual,” she said. They reached his car.
“I’m always up for an intellectual debate.”
She wanted to believe it was more, as if her presence had given him confidence.
“I think we make a good team.” It was more of a suggestion than a statement.
He walked around to her side to unlock her door. “Why else do you think I cast you?”
They drove back along the Long Island Sound in near silence. Gold reflections floated on the water as they drove past large-lawned Connecticut homes. Away from the city, Eleanor felt more intimate with Don. The white lines on the road glowed under Don’s headlights, and the exit markers looked the same as all the ones
back in Wisconsin. The wide lanes and rush of the car reminded her of the long drives to Milwaukee. They might have been close to New York, but the highway system felt the same throughout the country. It was, Eleanor realized, a part of her old life that Don also knew. It was so small, she felt embarrassed to treasure it. But seeing Don outside the rush of Manhattan, behind the wheel of a car, comforted her. He existed apart from the city, from musicals. He had favorite foods, places he liked to vacation, knew how to drive. She felt an urge to ask him more things, personal things, but resisted. It was enough to be his guest. Eleanor leaned back against the wide leather seat and stretched out her legs, full of good food and wine, conscious of how her dress rode up on her thighs. Don had said George found her attractive—surely that meant he’d noticed her himself?
“It’s late,” she said.
“No rehearsal for you tomorrow.” He looked across at her, taillights glowing red on his face. “Your reward for being my date.”
“You know I don’t need enticement.”
“But you should ask for it.” His voice became formal. “Eleanor, I know we have something of a friendship, but this is a difficult business.”
“I know.”
“For the girls, the turnover is ruthless. Who’s the prettiest, who can belt the brassiest.”
She watched the scenery outside rush by, feeling outpaced.
“I want good things for you.” He tapped the steering wheel with his palm. “This show won’t run forever. And then you’ll be just another actress in the audition pool. And, please hear this for what it is, but, Eleanor, you’re not the best.”
She felt his words hit her in the middle of her chest. “I’m only starting out.”
“You’re fantastic in this show. But there are girls who can tap-dance, who can do a split and hit a high C while spinning a plate. The point is, you’re here for another reason. You have a unique mind. You need to secure your place in this business, or it will be gone. No artist is safe, Eleanor.”
“Not even you?”
“The winds could change for me, too. At any moment, people might decide to stop buying what I’m selling. We’re all posturing, Eleanor, don’t forget it.”
He made a sound like he was about to explain more, then shook his head.
“You’ve got to look out for yourself.”
Eleanor watched the car eat up the lane dashes below.
“A piece of unsolicited advice,” he said, and the intensity faded from his voice until he sounded casual once more.
Her heart was going quickly, and the ease of the dinner had slipped away.
“I want to spend my life in this business,” she said.
“Then make Eleanor O’Hanlon an indispensable ingredient.”
* * *
An hour later, Don pulled up in front of Eleanor’s apartment. Her lights were dark—Rosie was asleep, or out, and even if she was awake, they would not speak. Eleanor slipped her feet back into her shoes and turned to him.
“Thank you for bringing me.”
“Eleanor, I very much appreciated your company tonight.”
She felt desperate to prolong the evening, not to let the car ride sour the success of the dinner. She invited him up for a drink, hoping her voice didn’t betray her longing.
“Better not,” he said. “It’s late.”
He leaned across the middle and kissed her on the cheek. His whiskers brushed her skin and sent a shiver all the way down her body.
“Good night, Eleanor. Flick your lights when you’re up.”
She tried to think of something more to say but couldn’t, and she opened the door. Once inside her apartment, she flicked the lights and went to the window, where she watched Don’s car reach the end of her block and turn north. Rosie was asleep on the couch, a blanket hiked up around her neck.
Eleanor pulled her suitcase out from under her bed. She folded everything she could think of into it: rehearsal shoes, leotards and tights, all of her makeup, her warmest clothes for a Northeastern winter. At least she had Boston to look forward to.
ACT THREE
The Rehearsal Sequence
Chapter Fourteen
Their first night in Boston, Harry hosted a company dinner at an Italian restaurant. Eleanor had expected Boston to be a smaller version of New York but immediately felt it was different; the waitstaff showed their feelings about the mixed party with heavy sniffs. Charles ignored them with his usual aplomb, but Eleanor saw he was alone in this. The restaurant was split along Harry’s rehearsal lines: the black cast, the white cast, the creative team, Charles and Eleanor. Most of the cast were friendly within their groups, since everyone had been rehearsing together without Eleanor and Charles for months. When the waitress filled up the white cast’s water glasses and left the glasses on the Negro table empty, they began to chatter behind her back.
“Bad run-in with bleach?” a woman named Penelope, who played Luke’s sister, whispered in a voice the waitress was meant to hear. Four of the ensemble women chatted together, eating and laughing. Eleanor watched them. Something about the dinner, and the large communal table, loosened everyone up. She was used to Charles’s being the only black man in the room during rehearsals with Don and Harry. When she saw the ensemble during rehearsals, they were focused on their work. It was different seeing people relax instead of having to be on their best behavior, like she knew Charles was conscious of being. That night, everyone was ready to have a good time, waitstaff be damned.
She and Charles sat alone at their own table, which felt ridiculous. Harry, Don, and Len Price were at a table along with the conductor, Frank Taliercio, who often partnered with Don on his projects. The rest of the cast sat at two long tables laden with pasta, meat, salad, and wine, laughing and telling stories. At their table for two, Eleanor felt like a stuffy old couple. Their conversation often lapsed as they looked at the laughing groups of actors.
Before she’d left New York, Eleanor had had a meeting with Geoffrey Bennett, her agent, where she signed the contract for the run. He’d finagled her a higher salary than any of the other women in the cast. Duncan, who played her father and had a quarter of her scenes, earned twice what Eleanor made. But still, it was a raise. “Easy as cake,” he said. “Cast full of Negroes, it’s hardly worth writing home about.” But she did write home about it. She’d yet to explain the integration of the show to her parents and pushed it farther down the road. Her parents understood a good paycheck. With her raise, she settled the last of her debt. They didn’t acknowledge this, but it made Eleanor feel like she could finally fully appreciate her journey. Up until now, guilt about the bonds had tinged her triumph. Now she sent money home not out of guilt, but because she could.
She was doing a decent job not looking at Don across the room, but she could feel him nearby like the heat of a fire. They hadn’t spent any time together since their dinner at Yale, and she longed to speak with him.
After dinner, Harry gave a speech meant to rouse the cast.
“We’ve made it this far,” he said, “but the work isn’t done. We’ve got to prove ourselves to these chilly Bostonians, or we’ll never be able to tell our story in New York, where it counts. And if we bring this show to New York, we bring it to the world.”
After dinner, Charles insisted on walking Eleanor back to her hotel. The white actors stayed in a different hotel than the black actors, the only bit of segregation not imposed by Harry.
“I think Harry would’ve put us in a room together if he could have,” Eleanor said.
“He tried,” Charles said. When he saw Eleanor’s shocked face, he grinned. “I told him this show is controversial enough.”
“Are you angry you have to stay in a different hotel than the rest of us?”
“That’s like asking a man whose house burned down if he misses his favorite pen.”
As often happened with him, Eleanor reali
zed only after she’d spoken the silliness of her words.
* * *
Inside their hotel, the white actors were celebrating the out-of-town kickoff. Freddie invited her to join them in his room. Harry would be livid, but Freddie only had to ask once; Eleanor hadn’t yet had freedom to socialize with the cast and longed to know what actors were like on their nights off. The rest of the company sprawled on the floor or bed, drinking wine out of paper cups. Eleanor perched on the side of the couch, feeling too young to be invited.
“I can’t get a read on him,” Lucille, who played Molly’s mother, was saying when Eleanor arrived. “He gives me the creeps.”
“He’s just shy. I’ve worked with him before,” Freddie said.
“Are we talking about Harry?” Eleanor asked.
The chatter in the room stopped, and various reactions confirmed her mistake. Lucille laughed.
“No, dear. We’re talking about Don,” Freddie said. “Handsome, broody, strange Don.”
“Don?”
Freddie cocked his head. “Harry? Harry may be an ass, but he’s a genius.”
“So’s Don.”
“Sure,” Duncan, the actor playing Molly’s father, said. “But not in the same way. Harry’s a general, which is good for a director. Don’s a strange man.” He looked around, gathering confirmations from the other actors.
Eleanor tucked her feet up on the couch, something creeping into her stomach. She shouldn’t defend Don so much; it was one thing with Charles, whom she trusted, but this group was still new to her. If she appeared too close to Don, she’d look like she’d slept her way to the part.
“You’re right,” she said. “Harry really whips us into shape.”
“With a barbed lash!”
Eleanor accepted a cup of wine from Freddie. The dancers were all about her age, some younger, but they had begun performing professionally before legal adulthood. For an hour, she listened to their stories of other shows—ridiculous directors, horrific flops, even an actress who wet her pants during the opening number. None of it was plausible, but then again, they were performers, so they carried the stories off. The group lounged together with startling physical intimacy. Even the older actors. Lucille lay with her head in Duncan’s lap while he played with her hair. The dancers, a group of five young men, were all homosexuals. Eleanor knew this—the dancers were jaded and shrewd, and she gathered their unapologetic sexuality was a point of pride. But she’d never seen such unabashed affection before. When Freddie, gripped by a moment of exhilaration, did an impression of a famous actress known for her public drunkenness, his friend Gregory rose to play the suitor and dipped Freddie in a tremendous kiss. Eleanor watched, riveted. The room was relaxed and warm. They laughed at bawdy talk. At one point the conversation traveled to whom in the industry they’d slept with. She listened, but Don’s name wasn’t mentioned. When Freddie asked for her turn, she waved a hand.
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