A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  They had an emergency rehearsal that night, even though they were supposed to be off. Frank Taliercio even wrangled the orchestra. When they finished singing it through the first time, Charles didn’t say anything, only nodded.

  Harry rose out of his seat. “That’s it! That’s the money, right there!”

  “This is beautiful, Don,” Charles said finally. “How did you come up with it?”

  “Old-fashioned brainstorming,” he said. “You sit with something long enough, you’ll get a breakthrough.”

  Harry hoisted himself onto the stage and began to walk Eleanor and Charles through the blocking. When he returned to his seat, Eleanor couldn’t contain herself.

  She tugged Charles’s sleeve, bending him toward her. “It was my idea.”

  “Really, Eleanor?”

  She nodded. “Thanks to you.”

  “Trust Don not to say anything.”

  “I don’t care. Charles, some of these are my lyrics. I’m going to perform my own material.”

  He grinned. “Attagirl.”

  They went to the wings to wait. Eleanor should have been tired after her late night and her day of work, but she bounced on her toes. When the underscoring for the change before their new song began, she turned and threw her arms around Charles.

  * * *

  When they finished, Don took her out for a cocktail. They found seats at the end of a quiet bar, and he ordered an old-fashioned. Eleanor asked for a glass of champagne. Neither felt festive; they didn’t toast. They were exhausted and too nervous for celebration.

  “I think this new song might be our secret ingredient,” he said. “Between ‘Sunday Evening’ and ‘A Table and Chairs,’ I think the show has more gravity.”

  “I hope it’s enough.”

  “The song is good. But I’m not a fool. It can’t fix the other two and a half hours.” He drained his glass. “I suppose this night is more of a wake than a celebration.”

  “We still have the pre-Broadway rehearsals to work it out.”

  “At least you understand how much we poured into this.” He drained his glass. “I don’t know how I can limp back to New York.”

  She was surprised; she had not expected his shame to run so deep. “Don, if the show isn’t a hit, that doesn’t mean it’s a failure.”

  “That’s what ‘flop’ means.” He moved his hand on the bar like a dying fish.

  She gripped his wrist, shook it until he stopped.

  “I’ll see it through to New York. But I wish I’d never even started.”

  Eleanor tried to feel sorry for him, but it was impossible. “Don, I’ve lost my family because of this show. Don’t tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

  “And it was worthwhile to you, Eleanor?”

  She thought of her days writing with him, her night with Charles, the incident with the drunken man, everything she’d learned, everything she show had given her and might give someone else. She thought of the following day, when she would perform “Sunday Evening” in front of hundreds of people.

  He was shaking his head before she answered. “Why did I even ask you? I brought you from Wisconsin and gave you a shot at Broadway. No matter what happens, I got you out of that miserable place. Of course it was worth it to you. But me? I have a reputation, a career.”

  “I came to New York on my own.”

  He jerked his head. “You might think I’m old, Eleanor, but I’ve got at least twenty, thirty more years to produce work. This is the only thing I’ve ever known how to do well. If this show fails, it will all come down around me. And then who would I be?”

  Eleanor felt nervous, even frightened, as he broke from her grasp and ordered another drink.

  He shook his head, his eyes closed, his lips pulled into his mouth. “I couldn’t make it work.”

  They were quiet a long time. Eleanor saw his hands tremble as he held his drink. His eyes flicked to her once. It occurred to her, in a glowing moment, that Don had come to her for support.

  “This show means something to me, and to Charles. If we get it right, it can cause change. Even if it isn’t a hit, Don, one person will listen and understand Molly and Luke.”

  He didn’t answer. She left her hand on his arm. “Don, even if it’s a flop, it will still be the most brilliant thing you’ve ever written. That will always be true, long after people remember The Birds and the Bees. Don’t you dare call that your best. Please. You couldn’t even convince me.”

  He laughed, patted her hand, left his over hers. “Eleanor, you are a good friend.”

  He turned to her. His collar was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, hair mussed. He looked more casual than usual, and tipsy. He met her eyes. That had been happening more and more lately; today, after their long hours of work, he didn’t even seem to prepare himself before looking straight at her.

  “Don.” She met his gaze, held it. “You aren’t just a writer to me. I don’t just admire your work. I admire you.”

  She tightened her grip on his sleeve.

  “Eleanor, don’t do this.” He stood. He looked sure and sad, and she knew that he had been aware, all along, of how she felt.

  She was silent.

  For a moment, his expression was pained, before he hid his face, looking through his wallet. It took several tries for him to separate two fivers.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said, then met her eyes. “Separately.”

  * * *

  She got to the theater early for their last performance and once again went through the side doors, afraid that if she encountered the protestors, or saw Connor Morris, she would lose control.

  Charles came by with a postcard painted with a rose and smiled as if their show were a hit. “Real flowers wouldn’t last through the trip home.”

  “I got you something too.” She produced a bakery box. “I went to Mike’s this morning.”

  “Did you have one for yourself?” He pulled on the red-and-white string, opening the box and revealing a half-dozen fat cannoli. “Gwen will have a fit.”

  “I’ve one saved for after the performance. Couldn’t risk the phlegm.”

  Eleanor was jumpy at the thought of seeing Don later but vowed to enjoy the performance for herself and relish the time she could spend singing with Charles. He had one of the most beautiful voices she’d ever heard, and a comfort and charisma onstage that could not be learned. That night, they’d perform her own number. That night, at least, she would get to live her dream.

  She left Charles to get ready and went backstage to have a moment of peace before they opened the house. Onstage, staring at the empty seats, she thought about everything that had changed since she’d auditioned for Don. Was she still that farm girl who didn’t have a proper headshot? Somewhere between renting her own apartment and swallowing the failure of A Tender Thing, she had begun to feel a hardness inside of her chest. Broadway no longer carried the fizzy excitement of years past. Instead, when she thought of the shows, they seemed like exquisite, complex puzzles. She lost her sense of worship without losing any fascination. Even if “Sunday Evening” couldn’t save the show, she knew there was truth in the song, and her contribution improved A Tender Thing.

  “You’re not going back to Wisconsin,” she said out loud. “No matter what happens. Even if you never do another show.”

  She waited for the words to be enough. She took a breath.

  “Maybe one day, you’ll write your own show.”

  The idea was still small, but when she said it, it rang against something in her. She looked into the orchestra pit, where she’d sat beside Don as he wrote “Sunday Evening.” That had been a thrill that was as powerful as it was unexpected. But it made sense: She hadn’t fallen in love with musicals because of the ingénues. She’d fallen in love with the melodies, the symmetry, the marriage of words, music, and dance. She’d wanted to c
limb inside of them, and from her place in Wisconsin, acting was the only entrance she could see.

  In minutes, the cast would gather together for their preshow ritual. They’d tell each other to break legs. Charles would pat her on the shoulder before going to the opposite wing for his entrance. Freddie would finish up his elaborate stretching routine by resting his foot on the shoulder of the tallest person nearby. Eleanor would close her eyes and visualize Molly’s moment before she walked onstage.

  But right then, she didn’t think about Molly. She thought about how far she herself had come.

  * * *

  It was her best performance. She spoke without thinking. When meeting Luke at night, she discarded the theatrical looking-over-her-shoulder in favor of a real fear. Throughout the performance Eleanor felt the weight of her parents’ rejection, and it grounded her, gave her something for Molly to risk.

  She threw herself against Charles, meeting his kisses with vigor and leaning into his touch. For the first time, she began to crave him. By the end of the first act, when he lowered her onto the ground for their lovemaking scene, she was trembling.

  Usually, she had finished by sliding up from the leading tone to the tonic of the scale, resolving the tiny dissonance against Charles’s held note. But Don had changed the harmony, so now she leapt up to the fifth, in a glorious high note. Don wanted Luke and Molly to end each song in different places. It sounded beautiful; Eleanor’s high notes had improved in the rehearsal process, and this one rang out true and clear. She got chills, then reached for Charles, bringing him to the floor.

  After the first act, Harry approached with his pad of paper. “Your meeting scene was fantastic. Magnificent, lady. God, more of that. Hold on to it for New York.”

  She swallowed; would they make it in New York?

  From what she could sense, “Sunday Evening” worked. The audience was silent. While Charles sang, she tried to hear coughs or rustles but came up with nothing. Their voices floated above the orchestra. When they kissed, there was a full three seconds before people began to clap. Then the applause swelled along with the underscoring. Eleanor clung to Charles, her face hidden in his chest, and listened. It was the most glorious sound she’d ever heard.

  At the end of the show, they ran downstage right, where the lighting was darker and they were illuminated by a spot. The crowd behind them was still singing, searching for them. She touched Luke’s cheek.

  “We got away.” A train whistle sounded. The music from “Sunday Evening” swelled up, triumphant, with brass instead of strings, brighter, happier than before.

  “Our love can do anything,” Luke said. He kissed her. Together, they sang the final lines. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her finger, now dressed with a gold band.

  “And now, we’re one / The two of us are one / For every night, and every day.”

  Her high note floated above the orchestra. The spotlight narrowed. Luke cupped her face and kissed her. Just before blackout, he pulled her onto the train.

  Eleanor and Charles held hands in the curtain call. For the first time, they received applause from the entire crowd. It was a sparse house, but no one walked out. There were no cheers, no flowers, and no one stood up, but they clapped.

  Because she could not stop herself, Eleanor burst into tears.

  ACT FOUR

  The Eleven O’Clock Number

  Chapter Nineteen

  In Wisconsin, the winters were silent. The frost rolled heavy over the farms, snuffing out the noise of the animals. Only when Eleanor sat outside, plowing a path to the center of a field, could she hear the snapping of twigs or the falling crystals. In bed at night, the moonlight reflected off the snow, which froze over in an impenetrable blanket. The world turned blue. The thaw didn’t come until April, the noise of the birds and squirrels returning with the grass.

  New York was different. Winter amplified the sounds. The pavement was salted and too frequently crossed for any snow to pack, so it turned to brown muck that cars kicked up as they passed. People’s shoes were filthy, crunching over the sidewalk. On Eleanor’s first day back, she stepped into what she thought was a sheet of ice—it turned out to be a muddy slush puddle, six inches deep.

  All this made her excursions out dreadful, but still, she was glad to be back home. Eleanor would not miss Boston, with its crumbling buildings and the chilly demeanor that hung from every brick and citizen.

  It was Monday, one week after she had returned to the city. On Friday she’d had a meeting with her agent, Geoffrey.

  “I think it’s time you attend some auditions,” he said. “One can never be too prepared.”

  She didn’t want to think about what she needed to be prepared for. So he set her up with a string of appointments. Unlike the open calls of the summer, creative teams brought her in along with a small selection of actresses. She supposed that was what “making it” meant.

  That day, she was called in for a new musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein. Something about a singing nun; it sounded inane. But a Rodgers and Hammerstein audition was nothing at which to turn up her nose. A Tender Thing was a masterpiece in her eyes, but tickets had sold in New York only on Don’s and Harry’s reputations. They had four weeks of healthy audiences. After that, it was all up to word of mouth. She could be unemployed by June.

  There were two other women there, each with her headshot and résumé in her lap. One woman looked familiar. Eleanor peered over her shoulder to read her name at the top of the résumé—Sally Anne Howes, the woman who had replaced Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady. Eleanor’s stomach lurched; not three months ago, she’d watched the show, smug that she was a star and Sally a replacement. Well, here they both were.

  The elevator doors opened. Eleanor felt the wave of dismay before she recognized her.

  Maggie Carmichael’s mouth opened in surprise. Her eyes were bright; Eleanor imagined how she must look, waiting to audition when she was supposed to be the star of a Broadway hit.

  Maggie sat beside her. “The gossip says Boston was a true experience.”

  Eleanor was quick to change the subject. “How’s Charades? Why are you at an audition?”

  “This is what we gypsies do, isn’t it? Go from show to show?”

  Eleanor had thought about a life of this. She’d grown so attached to A Tender Thing that she was afraid to move on to something else. This experience, albeit punishing, was special. Would she attach to every show, then be wrenched free, only to do it all over again?

  A young man came out and called in Sally Ann.

  “She’s in My Fair Lady,” Maggie said. “A Broadway baby one day. But who knows about tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to look over the sides.” Eleanor pulled out the script cuts they’d been given the day before. “I can’t talk now.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Break a leg.”

  * * *

  In the room, a man in a gray sweater sat in the middle, younger men on each side. He was reading Eleanor’s résumé and looked up when she came in.

  He waved a hand toward the center. “What are you singing today?”

  “‘Morning ’Til Night.’” When he didn’t reply, she added, “From A Tender Thing.”

  She handed her music to the accompanist—another young man, though a part of her expected to see Don behind the piano—and stood center. She anchored herself, thought of the scene before, imagined Charles in front of her. The accompanist began to play, and she sang.

  It was a different experience than it was with Charles, but they had performed together enough that she felt him there. After weeks with an orchestra, the piano sounded skeletal. He played too fast and she couldn’t get her bearings. She didn’t breathe before the high note, and it came out strangled.

  “Thank you,” the man said.

  She blinked, smiled, and left.

  * * *

 
As Eleanor struggled into her coat and scarf, Maggie approached her.

  “You sounded great.” Maggie bit her lip, looking uncomfortable. “You know,” she finally said, her eyebrows pulled close together, “we’re each other’s competition, but you don’t have to hate me. We’re just two people who want the same thing.”

  The experience of the audition still hung around her. Would that be her life from now on? A series of rooms with strangers, bare cuts of songs she had once sung with a full orchestra?

  Maggie was looking at her, and her face managed to show two expressions. She looked supportive, but behind that, she showed the gleam of a predator who knew she was closing in. A predator who wanted a real opponent. Maggie wanted a friend in the waiting room, so she had an equal to beat in the audition studio. Her expressions were transparent, and both were convincing. Eleanor finally appreciated why Maggie was compelling to watch.

  “I know we’re competition,” Eleanor said. “So forgive me for not wanting to chitchat before an audition.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes but did not seem angry. “Eleanor, this is painful enough. No one is pulling for any of us.”

  Eleanor felt foolish. “You’re right.” This wasn’t where she wanted to be. She didn’t want to audition again and again or learn parts like a model trying on clothes. She wanted theater, the real creation of it. Maggie had something else, something barbed that allowed her to navigate the pool of talented girls, pushing them aside without hurting herself. Eleanor didn’t even need this job, not yet, and she was already anxious. Instead of feeling inadequate, though, she felt grateful. She nodded at Maggie, smiled.

  “Break a leg. I hope it goes well.”

  * * *

  The radiator was screeching when Eleanor got home. She needed to get it bled. They would start New York rehearsals the following week; three weeks of those, and then the show would begin preview performances. Opening night would follow in early May, after four weeks of previews. If they flopped, she could afford rent for six months.