A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  “A lady never tells.”

  “Sure, but an actress does.”

  It felt like her moment. “If you must know, I lost my virginity to a randy Irish sailor. I couldn’t walk the next day.”

  She downed her wine and elaborated lies, until Tommy was a captain at sea instead of an admiral’s yeoman. It served her well. By the time she was done, the group had warmed to her. She knew then that, before this, they had all thought her a priss.

  When she excused herself for sleep, the smile was still on her face.

  “Bye-bye, little one.” Freddie kissed her on the cheek. “Honored you could join us.”

  She smiled. “Tomorrow night?”

  “By the time the show opens, we’ll know everything about each other.”

  “You’ll be sick of us,” Lucille said.

  “Never!” Eleanor said, throwing her arm in the air.

  Freddie steered her out the door. “Someone’s had too much wine.”

  * * *

  Eleanor swayed in the hallway. She pressed the elevator button a few too many times, and when it came, she realized she’d pressed up instead of down. The doors opened and she saw Don inside.

  She skipped into the elevator and hugged him.

  He sniffed her. “I see you’ve been breaking Harry’s rules.”

  “Are you going to fire me?” Eleanor thought this was the funniest thing she’d ever said.

  “Where is your room? It won’t do to have our star pass out in a snowbank.”

  Once inside her room, Eleanor hurled herself onto the bed.

  “Drink some water. Protect that voice.”

  Eleanor heaved herself off the bed and went to the bathroom, filled a glass, and drank it in one go. “I’ve only stayed in a hotel once, and it wasn’t nearly this nice.” She took off her shoes and dug her toes into the carpet. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “Meeting with Harry and Len.” He sat in the chair by the window and rubbed his palms on his trousers before crossing the room. Don glanced at her, then away. “I have work to do.”

  Eleanor had seen him uncomfortable, but never so restless. He tugged at his hair until it was mussed and approached the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Do you have any idea how much work it is to put on a musical?”

  She patted the spot next to her on the counterpane. “I can help.”

  “When I need help from a drunken little girl, I’ll know it’s time to retire.”

  “I’m only tipsy,” she said, “not drunk. And be nice to me.”

  He returned to his armchair. “There are protests,” he said. “Outside the theater. Harry and I expected them, but not this early.”

  “Protests? Really?” People were protesting something Eleanor was involved in? “Because we’re integrated?”

  “You and Charles have given New England quite a shock.” Don leaned toward her, elbows on his knees. “Puritan fools. We wanted a bit of noise—but it’s starting too early. Harry’s worried it’ll grow out of hand.”

  “You wanted protesting?”

  “How will anyone know we’re doing something groundbreaking if there aren’t people there to condemn it?”

  Something about his words stirred her in a way she found unpleasant.

  “But you aren’t doing it to make waves,” she said. “It’s because you want to tell the truth. That’s why you always write your musicals.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “You want to be groundbreaking because it’s what’s right, isn’t it? You want to show audiences that a Negro and an Irish girl can fall in love.”

  He smiled at her. “I’m going to call for whiskey. Want anything?”

  “Don!”

  “What?”

  She wasn’t sure; goodness knew Eleanor struggled when it came to Charles and other Negroes. But this felt different, at least to her. Don’s words suggested something more insidious than ignorance.

  “Don, why did you write this show?”

  He sighed, one hand on the phone. He made eye contact so seldom that whenever he did it was arresting. That pale gray gaze had a way of seeing right through her and making her go still, like he was spearing her to the back wall.

  “I wrote it to be on the right side of history.” His body took on the tension she saw when he was in social situations. “Next year, we’re in a new decade. Integration is coming. I can feel it. If you look back, things always move that way, slow as it might be. The guy who writes a requiem for slavery doesn’t end up in any hall of fame. Eleanor, I’m investing in my legacy.”

  Her face was hot, and she wasn’t sure what expression to make.

  “I think everyone will remember you,” she said, “already.”

  When she fell silent, he spoke with the air of a father. “It takes more than a few good reviews to become immortal, Eleanor. The truth is no one truly understands my work, nobody, and they just sense that it’s pushing the boundaries. Most people can’t even put their finger on why my stuff is good. I brought humanity to the theater. I brought conflict, messy endings.”

  “Loneliness.”

  “I am ahead of my time,” Don said, not really hearing her.

  “You’re a genius.” Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I know. Trust me.”

  “Well, everyone else won’t, so I have to spell it out for them. I’m going to give them something no one else would think of, something that pushes the boundaries enough to make even New Yorkers angry. I’m going to be the man with the first truly integrated musical.”

  It was a stunning display; Eleanor was unsure if she even believed him, or if he was trying out some speech on her that he would later deliver to Harry or Len Price. But the entire thing left her cold.

  “And you need protests to prove how good you are?” Eleanor felt like a fool; of course A Tender Thing would be a lightning rod in the press, attracting integrationists and segregationists alike. She had been an idiot to think she wouldn’t be dragged in. Charles had warned her. “How bad could the protests get?”

  “Right now they’re just a few deadbeats out in the snow,” Don said. “Hillbilly fools. Let them freeze their balls off, I don’t care. But if there’s any violence, the producers won’t like it.”

  Eleanor averted her eyes. Violence? “How likely is that?”

  “Who knows. But if actors are getting beat up on our watch, it doesn’t look good.”

  Charles. Gwen, and their baby on the way. “So what are you going to do? To make sure they don’t get violent?”

  “You’ll be fine, Eleanor.”

  “What about Charles?”

  “He’s tough.” He waved his hand. “Been dealing with this shit all his life. Now, big day tomorrow. Time for bed.”

  He crossed the room and kissed her on the forehead, then let himself out. Eleanor knew there was intimacy in the act, but she was too upset to enjoy it.

  * * *

  That night, she woke in the dark, having dreamed of Rosie and Wisconsin, and realized she’d missed Christmas with her parents. She looked out the window at a city she had never seen before. Blue light came through the curtains, and the entire effect carved out the very center of her, until even breathing hurt.

  Months ago, she would have said she didn’t care about anything other than the role, and that was still mostly true. But Eleanor imagined protests—what would those even look like?—and felt the significance of what she was about to do. She was about to cross over into something her parents and Rosie would never understand. If she was afraid, then how did Charles feel? It was one thing to upset her family, to break the bonds of propriety. It was another to be Charles, every day.

  * * *

  Their first rehearsal was on a Tuesday. Eleanor arrived at eight thirty in the morning. It was snowing, and she wrapped her face in a s
carf so the air would not dry out her throat and harm her voice. The ground was slick. She was focused on her steps, or else would have seen the crowd gathered outside the theater. But when she stopped across the street to cross, she heard them.

  Two dozen or so people were gathered outside the theater. A few held signs. One read, SAVE SEGREGATION. She looked behind her; she didn’t recognize anyone near. Don and Harry were eating breakfast in the hotel, and the other actors were probably arriving later. The crowd had a relaxed air to them, like they were early for something and saving their energy for the main event. A man and a woman were speaking to a child holding a tiny American flag.

  Eleanor waited on the corner a long time, heart racing. She didn’t feel ready. Minutes passed, but she could not gather her courage to cross through the crowd and go into the theater. Every time she was about to take a step, she began to fear what might happen. Would they scream at her? Hit her? Beg her to join them? A young woman close to her own age noticed that she was lingering and shouted.

  “Are you one of the actors?”

  Eleanor swore under her breath. Hillbilly fools, Don had called them. They could still hurt her.

  More people began to turn. She looked behind her once more. She was alone.

  “I am.” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

  The protestors perked up; signs that had been held at sides went into the air. But no one screamed or chanted. Were they as afraid as she was? It roused her; they felt comfortable behind their signs but did not have the courage to speak to her face.

  Everyone in the crowd was white. Eleanor had seen the photographs of the white protestors at the school integration in Little Rock just over a year ago. She remembered watching on television as army soldiers walked the students through the doors, the hard creases in the pressed gingham of one of the girls’ dresses, the cool look on her face as she traversed the fury. Then, Eleanor had taken for granted that the girl was brave. Now she wondered at the emotions that must have been storming beneath her level expression.

  Those whites were hicks. On television, they had looked furious and wild. Her father had turned the television off, calling the screaming groups undignified, vulgar. Even in her Wisconsin town, there was a sort of put-together appearance that belied how people really felt. No overalls over naked chests; no chewing tobacco in public, at least not among the men she knew. And what did they care—it wasn’t as though they had to share space with those people. It was just so in Boston. These people were dressed for white-collar work, the children for school. They looked just like Eleanor. But as she approached close enough to see their eyes, a familiar fury burned in them.

  She bent her head down. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to get through the door.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” A woman her mother’s age said this and grimaced.

  “I’m a working actress,” Eleanor said, “in a brilliant new musical. No, I’m not.”

  “Are you the star?” a little girl asked, unable to contain her excitement.

  She wasn’t sure what she should say. “I play Molly,” she said. “One of the lovers.”

  A ripple went through the crowd.

  “What does your daddy think of you?”

  Eleanor whipped her head around. She expected more fury but saw an old man with a face like a basset hound’s. He stepped forward, softened his voice.

  “A pretty girl like you?” He shook his head. “What a shame.”

  “My daddy wouldn’t make trouble like this,” she said. “Like you.”

  “We’re not making trouble,” the woman said. “We’re defending our rights.”

  “Rights? Jim Crow isn’t here,” Eleanor said. The words felt foreign to her, like something she’d read somewhere. She tried to speak like a girl who knew her way around these sorts of interactions.

  “We’re not talking about Jim Crow,” the man said. “Just a basic level of decency. What you’re doing onstage—it’s pornography.”

  “Someone could get hurt here,” she said.

  “If someone gets hurt it’ll be because one of them loses their temper,” the woman said.

  Eleanor tried to walk forward. Again, the crowd closed around her.

  “I’m going to rehearsal now,” she said, making her voice as strong as she could.

  “Where are you from, miss?” Another man shouldered his way through the crowd. When people swarmed them, he held out an arm, urging them back until Eleanor’s breath returned to normal. He was her own age, with brilliant red hair and broad shoulders. He smiled at her, showing off pretty lips and straight, white teeth. “There’s no reason to be afraid.” He leaned in. “They’re just angry. Don’t you take them too seriously.”

  She stood straight, a shiver going down her neck. “I’m from Wisconsin.”

  He grinned again. “A fine place. Beautiful land.”

  “Yes.”

  “You got a fella? A girl like you . . .” He trailed off like he couldn’t complete the sentence.

  She gripped her bag. Nearby protestors gathered to listen, closing in, outnumbering her. “I—I have a boyfriend.”

  “You love him?” His voice dropped. Eleanor couldn’t help it; she returned his smile.

  “Lucky man.” He held out a hand. “My name is Connor Morris.”

  “Eleanor.” His palm was rough, his grip assured. “You should wear gloves in this weather,” she said.

  “I’m all right.” He grinned again, his eyes on her face. She felt conscious of every tiny expression and what he might find in them. “Lifelong Bostonian—our blood runs thick. But you should know that, coming from Wisconsin.

  “Eleanor O’Hanlon, isn’t it? The star? Irish.” He smiled. “My family’s from Cork. My granddad came through Ellis Island forty years ago.”

  “So did mine.”

  “Maybe they shared a cabin on the boat.” He grinned again. She wasn’t sure if he was joking.

  “Look, Eleanor, I gotta ask. What’s your fella think of this?” Connor gestured around him. “I understand where you’re coming from—my sister loves the theater. Big important show, right? Great way to get your name out there. But you say you’ve got a man. Don’t you think this puts him in rather a tough spot?”

  Connor’s eyes tracked her face like he was reading her.

  “No.”

  “Take it from me,” he said, touching his heart. “A spirited girl—there’s nothing better. But while that’s great to catch a man’s eye, how do you think he’s going to feel when his buddies start asking about you? Thinking you’re a certain kind of girl, going to the theater every day and kissing God knows what—”

  “Who.”

  “Pardon?”

  “God knows who.” Eleanor glared at him.

  “Very brave,” Connor said, now with a mocking tone. “You think you can take care of yourself, don’t you? But out there kissing a Negro for everyone to see . . . you’re going to get a reputation.”

  “I’m a Broadway star,” she said.

  “What’s going to happen when one of them gets handsy? You think you can defend yourself?” He stepped close enough that she could smell cigarettes on his breath. “No woman, however spirited, can fight off a grown man.”

  Her heart picked up once more. “Are you threatening me?”

  Connor grinned again. “No. Not me. But I can’t tell you what someone else might do. Someone less polite. If anything happens to you, we’re the people you can count on.” He gestured vaguely at the people around him. “That’s the gist of it—no matter who you spend your time with, you’re one of us. If you get in a tough spot, you have to rely on your own people.”

  “I need to get to rehearsal now.” Something about him set off a warning in her belly. “Let me through.”

  He held out his hand once more. “Connor Morris, remember. If you need
anything, I work at the Herald. Ask for me. What’s my name, now?”

  “Connor Morris.” He worked at the Herald? With calluses like that?

  “Remember, even after all this”—he looked up at the theater, shaking his head—“you’re always welcome with us.”

  Eleanor pushed past them, right through the stage door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eleanor had found rehearsals difficult in New York, but in Boston, they punished. In the rehearsal studio, the show had seemed ephemeral, but it became reality in the theater. Still flustered by the protestors, Eleanor hurried inside, then felt a hush in her body the moment she stepped onto the carpeted aisle. The houselights were on, but the stage was lit, illuminating the partially assembled set. The proscenium was enormous and gold leafed. Eleanor gazed from the back of the house. She would stand at center-right on her entrance; the lights would brighten her face. Charles, who must have come in behind her, approached and, smiling, brought her onto the stage. They stood center, hand in hand, and looked out. Eleanor’s heart pounded. She tried to think of a detail to tell Pat about what it felt like, standing there, but the emotions all rushed by. Her eyes were wet, but she didn’t notice until she reached a hand up to cover her mouth and felt her cheeks.