A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  “And that man—seeing his hands on you! I swear your father had a heart attack. If I could forgive you for myself, I’d never forgive you for what you did to him. No father should have to see his daughter with a man like that.”

  Eleanor didn’t have anything she could possibly say; the room was blurred through her tears.

  “We supported you when it was harmless, nice shows, but we won’t have this in our house. So if you came home and gave up all that, he said he could find a way. You’re still our daughter. That’s what he said. Me, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Eleanor had never thought of this. Her parents’ threatening to make her pull out of the show—well, they couldn’t make her do anything.

  “You or the show?” she asked. Her voice cracked midway through.

  Her mother’s breathing was loud in the phone. “Yes.”

  Eleanor thought of her father, sweating outdoors, tiring his body until he didn’t think of her anymore. More than a minute went by with only the sound of her mother’s breathing. Then, once more, she started to cry.

  “Mom—”

  “Don’t call here again.”

  Mrs. O’Hanlon hung up.

  Eleanor sagged on the bed. For months she’d avoided her parents. She couldn’t even claim they were close! Yet now she could not breathe.

  All her life, she had wanted one thing. Every birthday, she had made the same wish; every pearl, eyelash, shooting star, and coin had been dedicated to the cause. Along the way, she had promised that she would do anything for one chance. She had never thought to expect that her dream might come true—or that she would need to make good on her debt.

  * * *

  She was putting on her wig when Don and Harry rushed into her dressing room without knocking. Don’s face was reserved as usual, but his eyes were bright and his step was lighter than she’d seen it in days. He had avoided her since the night at the diner but now looked so enthused that he neglected to be uncomfortable.

  “What’s going on?” She’d spent the rest of the morning crying. She’d had to use extra concealer beneath her eyes to mask the puffiness. When she’d walked to the theater, she’d felt as though she were underwater. Even watching Don and Harry bluster in now was overwhelming.

  She should have known better. Her mother was right; she was selfish. But in her pain, she also felt real anger. If only her parents weren’t so small-minded, if only her town weren’t so pathetic, she wouldn’t have needed to make such a choice.

  “We’ve got forty-five minutes,” Don said, dropping six pages of handwritten music on top of her pressed powder. “New song.”

  Eleanor picked up the music. “Now?”

  “I was thinking about the protests and had an idea,” Don said.

  Harry perched on her table. He pressed his hands together and pointed at her. “So far it’s been all about love. Now we’re going to make it about danger.”

  Eleanor paged through the music. It was a solo for Molly.

  “We’re adding this in at the top of the second act,” Harry said. “Molly and Luke have just slept together and decided to elope. Curtain up, you’re packing. Only now, instead of excitement, you’re terrified. The song comes after you put the picture of your mother in the suitcase. Now you sing this.”

  Eleanor read the lyrics. It was a simple AABA ballad; two verses, bridge, verse. “But this is about how she doesn’t want to go with him.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eleanor looked up. Don was nodding. He tapped a finger on the bridge. “Until here. We modulate from minor to relative major. She starts to remember Luke. The last verse, she chooses him.”

  “But she chose him in the scene before. When they made love.”

  “She chose to fuck him,” Harry said. Eleanor flinched. “They’re attracted to each other and he’s right in front of her. It means so much more that she chooses him all alone. She has to doubt first.”

  She looked over the lyrics. “Every morning over coffee / I’ll see him looking at me / And know it’s just the two of us / Not even a few of us / Just him and me / A table and chairs, one window and a TV.”

  She looked at the bridge.

  “Can I look back and be happy to be / This man’s wife, his family / Say, I found love / And hope it sticks around?”

  “But . . .”

  “Trust me on this,” Don said.

  Eleanor paged through the rest. “She doesn’t want to go with him,” she said. “How can you do that? She loves Luke. If she loved him, she wouldn’t sing this.”

  Harry and Don looked at each other. Eleanor’s insides leapt; she didn’t know what the look meant, but it was about her. Don tapped the music.

  “Molly is made up of more than just love for Luke,” he said. “She’s leaving everything behind, her family, everything she was raised with. It’s all right for it to be difficult for her.”

  Eleanor looked at the music again. She didn’t want Molly to be afraid. Eleanor was afraid enough. Even looking at the lyrics felt too personal, and she worried about singing them out loud without crying. Her mother’s voice, twisted with cruelty, was still in her mind. “Don, I can’t do this. Not today.”

  “Come downstairs, we have to run the music before we open house.”

  * * *

  As soon as the curtain fell, she rushed to her dressing room. She had never been so affected by a song; it was as if Don had pulled out the fears she had not even articulated to herself. Molly’s worries about sacrificing her family for Luke were too close to her own; Eleanor had to push all thoughts of her mother away, or else she would panic. Molly nearly chose to stay home, to keep her family. To perform the song well, Eleanor had to really entertain the possibility of giving up. She had to feel the pain of the loss of her family. Accessing that onstage felt dangerous, like she was a breath away from losing control.

  Eleanor feared breaking down completely. Instead, she approached that chasm, then backed away. She concentrated on singing beautifully and making pretty, sad faces.

  If she were the sophisticated girl she pretended to be, she would not have been so torn by her choices. Broadway would be enough for her. Don had always known how deep her farm roots ran; she pretended that Wisconsin was where she came from, not who she was. Don knew better. He had put all of that into Molly—all of Eleanor’s weaknesses and fears that she wanted to leave behind.

  Except that Molly chose Luke. Even with her fear of losing her family. Molly still chose Luke. Did that mean he thought there was hope?

  It was late, and she was hungry. She changed into her street clothes.

  She realized she’d left her music backstage and went there on her way out. When she opened the door, she heard Don and Harry talking. She hid behind a curtain, listening to their conversation.

  “I don’t know, Harry.”

  “She’ll get it.”

  “Maybe this is too much for her. The girl never even met a black man until a few months ago.”

  “At first I thought you were crazy, casting her. But I see it. The girl has fire.”

  “Still, she doesn’t understand.”

  “Why would she? She’s from Wisconsin.” Harry’s voice grew tired. He spoke through a sigh. “Give her time.”

  “Harry, we don’t have time.”

  She wanted to hear more, hear it all. She picked her music up off the floor and strained her ears.

  “It’s like she was blank, up there,” Don said. His words confirmed every doubt that she’d ever fought about her performance. “She has no idea what she’s talking about. I thought it should be obvious—an Irish girl, a Negro. But she’s just singing away, totally empty.”

  “She’s scared. Don, she’s learned this much.”

  “Can you teach someone this?”

  Eleanor reeled. This was Don, who had said she would do something special
for theater. And now he didn’t believe in her?

  “Harry,” he said, “she’s just a little girl.”

  A hand touched her arm. She jumped and turned. It was Charles.

  “Time to go, Eleanor.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  Charles led her outside, where she caught her breath in the cold air. It was snowing, the flurries catching the light of the streetlamps.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “How could I not?” she said. “They think I’m awful.”

  “I heard them say you didn’t seem to understand what you were singing about.”

  “They’re wrong.” Eleanor’s voice was too loud. “The entire time I was singing, all I could think was how angry I was with Molly, that she was even considering leaving Luke. I was so angry with her. And with Don, for writing that.”

  “You can’t judge your character.”

  “Molly loves Luke. Only weak people would let something like that stand in their way. Charles, they changed the show so Molly nearly gives up on him.”

  “But she doesn’t.”

  Eleanor felt her emotions getting away from her; she hated it but couldn’t stop. “She’s supposed to see beyond all this color garbage. She wouldn’t be conflicted, wouldn’t be scared. Molly is better than that.”

  Charles took her shoulders in his hands. “That’s wrong. You’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe they were right.” Charles’s voice was light, infuriating Eleanor. “I don’t think you understand how hard it would really be.”

  “Well, I do!” Eleanor watched him shrug and then raised her voice. “Stop it!”

  “Things aren’t so easy, Eleanor.” Charles pressed his palms to his temples. “Your parents disowned you this morning and you still don’t get it.”

  The wound was so fresh; when he mentioned it, her insides went white-hot.

  “Eleanor—it’s all right if you’re sad about your family. That doesn’t mean you don’t care about the show. It doesn’t mean we aren’t friends.”

  Her horrible performance was now playing in her head. “I’m going to be fired.”

  “Don’s comments in that article were bullshit. It’s not about love. It’s about race. They just threw some love on top so the audience could see it.”

  “I think love should be enough.” She still heard the coldness of her mother’s voice on the phone. The idea that even Molly and Luke—whose love she had started to believe in completely, as if they were real—might reject each other was terrible. “It has to be enough for someone.”

  “Would it be enough for you?” Charles asked. He looked her in the face. “You asked me if I’d ever be with a white woman. Would you ever be with me?”

  She took him in, conscious now of his height, his smooth skin, the way his voice stirred something in her. What would it be like, being with Charles? All his warmth, his beauty, his intense capacity for love that she saw glimpses of, concentrated on her?

  “It’s not an option,” she said.

  “You’re right.”

  Desperately, she tried to find proof that he was wrong. “Love was enough for me.”

  “Love for musicals. Not for people.”

  “Losing my family wasn’t easy just because it wasn’t for a person. I’d say it was even harder.”

  “Well, let’s see,” he said. “You think you know how hard this would be? Come on. We’re going out.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is . . .”

  “Safe?” Charles grinned at her. “It might not feel safe, but that’s the point. In any case you don’t have to worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  The cab dropped them off in a neighborhood far from the theater. Most places were closed; there were few streetlamps. Eleanor stuck close to Charles, hands in her pockets.

  “See that man?” Charles nodded at a figure across the street. “He’s looked over here half a dozen times. He’s wondering if I kidnapped you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  They walked a few more blocks until they reached a building with darkened windows. They descended to a basement door, through which Eleanor heard music.

  “How did you find this place?”

  “Gwen and I came last week to hear music,” Charles said.

  “Where is she tonight?”

  “She wanted to sleep. Besides, this needs to be just you and me.”

  She was nervous already; his words made her more so.

  He took her hand. “Do you trust me?”

  She thought about the newspaper article. A knot formed in her throat. But she said yes.

  “Good.” He pushed open the door. The whole place was filled with smoke. She heard a saxophone and smelled beer.

  “How do you breathe in this place?”

  Charles rolled his eyes and tugged her inside. “Hold my arm.”

  He took her to a table and pulled out her chair. She looked around; the place was racially varied, but the integration did not extend to the tables. Eleanor and Charles were the only mixed couple sitting together. In New York, one would see couples who looked different, but not often in Boston. Charles removed his coat. Eleanor wanted to keep hers on; her dress underneath, calico and normally her favorite for its swishy skirt, seemed girlish. But Charles gave her a look, and she shrugged it off. The air was hot and pleasant. The place was dark, with bluish light on the musicians onstage and votive candles on the tables. The flame’s glow flicked across Charles’s face.

  “Tonight,” he said, “we’re Molly and Luke, testing out a night together.”

  Eleanor opened her mouth to ask questions, but Charles motioned for her to wait.

  A young Negro waitress came up to them. She smiled at Charles slowly, sticking her hip out. He smiled back, then nodded at Eleanor. The girl turned and her smile froze on her face.

  “What can I get you, miss?”

  No champagne here. “Gin and tonic.”

  “Jim Beam.” Charles smiled at her as she left, then looked around the room. He touched her wrist. “Here. Hold my hand.”

  They’d held hands in rehearsals, but it felt different this time; without the context of the show, he felt more like skin than usual.

  “So what exactly did your parents say?” he asked, his voice so quiet she had to lean closer.

  She looked away. A white woman was staring at her, chewing her food. Eleanor caught her gaze. The woman raised her eyebrows, looked back at her plate, and shook her head like she couldn’t believe the price on a melon at the market. When Eleanor turned back to Charles, he looked expectant. She fought off an instinct to lie.

  “My mother says I’m not welcome home.”

  He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. “Because of me?”

  She thought again about lying. “They don’t understand that it’s all fake, onstage.”

  “Is it fake?”

  She withdrew her hand. Gwen came to mind, home and large with child. “Charles.”

  “You’re misunderstanding me. Things are different between us than they were when you started. You’re close with me now. We may not be Molly and Luke, but the show has changed you. What did your yeoman say about me? Did he like what we were doing?”

  She turned away.

  Charles took back her hand. “There’s a man checking you out like you’re on the bargain rack.”

  Eleanor turned around. A white man with shaggy black hair was watching her, unblinking. “Why is he staring?”

  “He thinks you’re easy.”

  The waitress returned, setting the drinks on the table. Charles’s was a double. He eyed it, raised his eyebrows. She smiled at him, moving her hips back and forth. Charles put his left
hand over the glass, so the votive shone on his ring. She blinked, looked at Eleanor, stood up straight. “Yell if you need anything else.”

  Eleanor’s mouth fell open as she watched the waitress leave. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “What?”

  “You made her think you and I were married.”

  Charles leaned forward again. “And how did she react?”

  “She didn’t like it. But that’s because she wants to go to bed with you.”

  “Maybe. But girls like her don’t look at me like that when they see Gwen.”

  “She didn’t like us together.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Why should she care? It’s not as if she thinks you’re dangerous. I mean, she’s also . . . she would know.”

  Charles took a sip of his drink, swirled it in the cup. “Eleanor, maybe she’s unhappy with you.”

  Eleanor leaned back in her chair and drank the liquid. She was beginning to realize she didn’t really like gin; it tasted like fermented Christmas trees. But it was the drink she’d learned to order. She took another pull to stay away from Charles’s gaze.

  He tapped her arm. “Let’s dance.”

  “No.”

  He took another drink and then stood up, offering her his hand. The music was slow blues, long plucks on a bass. Eleanor realized her hands were sweating.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Lean against me.”

  Charles put a hand on her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck. His embrace shielded her from the room. An empty place opened inside her, dull and lonely and sweet. The blue light glowed through her eyelids, until it seemed the very color of her thoughts. She was no longer Eleanor; she was Molly, and glad to be. They danced like this in the show, and her body recognized the position. She melted against him, joints loose, buzzed. Charles held her close, his body warm under his sweater. He smelled like clean sweat, whiskey, and the smoke that clung to his skin.

  “I feel like Molly.”