A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  At eight, the door opened. It was Rosie, her hat and shoulders covered in snow. She met Eleanor’s eyes and nodded.

  For the past week, Eleanor had barely seen Rosie. Between her shifts and evenings out, Rosie came home to change clothes and sleep. Hot rollers and cold cream were the only evidence that Rosie was even there. When they shared the space, they bumped around each other squeaking out “Pardon” and “Do you want the light on?” The night she returned, Eleanor had expected either an empty apartment or a blowout fight. Instead, they left each other extra coffee and saved the hot water. Rosie slept on the pullout in the living room. Eleanor didn’t know if it was a truce or a cease-fire.

  “How was work?” she asked.

  “Fine.” Rosie hung up her wet things and set off for the bathroom, washing off her makeup. “A woman came in today with the foulest-smelling coat I’ve ever encountered.”

  “How long did it take to get out?”

  “Haven’t yet. Look at my hands—I’ve been scrubbing with baking soda since noon. I look like I clawed my way out of a burning building.”

  “Oh no. Here.”

  Eleanor joined her in the bathroom and perched on the sink. She scooped a dollop of Vaseline, rubbing until it was warm. Rosie held out her hand, and Eleanor took it between her palms. She massaged the ointment over Rosie’s chapped skin, taking care to cover the backs of her hands and nailbeds. She gripped Rosie’s hand between her own until it was warm. Rosie’s fingers were small, the knuckles like smooth pearls.

  “Your hands are like ice,” Eleanor said.

  “Outside’s colder than a well digger’s ass,” Rosie said.

  Eleanor flushed. She’d only heard that expression once before. “So, Rosie Hughes, you can keep a secret.”

  Rosie looked down. “I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor washed her hands, then, when she was ready, faced Rosie. “You’re sorry? I thought you hated me.”

  “I did,” Rosie said. “But I should have told you about him and me.”

  Eleanor shrugged. “I meant what I said, setting you up. Even if I made a mess of it.” She looked at Rosie but couldn’t catch her eye. “I’m sorry.”

  “You embarrassed me,” Rosie said. “I didn’t want to look desperate.”

  Eleanor stared down at the bathroom tile. “I wanted you to be happy.”

  Rosie blushed. “You aren’t mad? He was your boyfriend.”

  “In name only. I don’t know if you two’ve ever talked about me. There’s no love lost there.”

  Rosie made a face.

  “Does it bother you? Tommy and me?” Eleanor was nervous to ask; doing so suggested that Tommy still held feelings for her, when she suspected he didn’t.

  Rosie smiled, like she was trying not to hurt Eleanor. “Look, it’s like you said. I don’t think there’s any love lost there. He’s not yours, Eleanor. I don’t think he ever was.”

  The words hurt; he was the first man to look at Eleanor as a woman. She remembered his hands on her waist and his smile in the morning light, then let the feeling pass. She put an arm around Rosie.

  “Shall we have a drink?”

  Rosie held up her shining hands. “I don’t think I’m in shape to go out.”

  Eleanor went to the kitchen and fished out a bottle of gin.

  “I don’t have to sing tomorrow.” She swished the bottle. “Want to get tight?”

  * * *

  Reparations with Rosie went a long way toward bolstering Eleanor’s mood. When Don invited her to a performance of The Music Man, she dressed up. After their last evening in the bar, Eleanor was surprised by the invitation. She rewore the green dress he’d purchased for their Yale dinner, remembering the effect it had had back then. Don rang the bell at six forty-five, and when he came up, she saw his eyes widen.

  “Smashing,” he said.

  Each time he looked at her body, she felt like she’d done something much more impressive than exist. “Would you like a drink?”

  “One. I don’t like to be drowsy in the theater.”

  Don took his place on the couch, in that way he had of not noticing other people’s discomfort, and picked through the belongings on her coffee table.

  “‘Eyelashes—the new rave.’ I wasn’t aware those were a recent invention. And you find this sort of reading compelling?”

  Eleanor returned with two glasses of gin. She set his down on top of the Vogue. “They’re my friend Rosie’s. She copies all the patterns.”

  Don raised his glass. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

  When they clinked, Eleanor wondered if tonight might be the night something passed between them. She wanted to discuss the show and how his revisions were coming—but he stuck to politics, which she knew nothing about. He had strong opinions on Castro, called Eisenhower weak for recognizing him. Eleanor hoped her blank look read as interest. Eleanor wondered when Don had time to read the newspaper. He talked quickly, happy to have an audience. With her legs crossed beneath her, Eleanor rested her arm on the back of the couch so her fingertips touched his cashmere sleeve.

  Eleanor was too aware of him; he was so close, but she had no idea how to bridge the divide. She was as stricken as she had been in the library months earlier. At five after, Don placed his glass down and announced they should be on their way.

  “You’re like my mother before church,” Eleanor said. “‘We have to be there early!’”

  Don put his hand on her back. “This is church.”

  * * *

  “People say musical theater is in a golden age,” Don said in the lobby during intermission. “I hope that isn’t the case. I want to believe I haven’t lived through the best of it.”

  Right then, a balding man with heavy eyebrows approached Don.

  “Dick.” Don shook his hand, then turned to Eleanor, again placing his hand on her back. “May I introduce you to our new star, Eleanor O’Hanlon? Eleanor, this is Richard Rodgers, a man who needs no introduction.”

  She worked her way through several sentence beginnings before finishing one. “Mr. Rodgers, it’s such an honor. I adore your musicals.”

  “Dick is a good friend of mine.” Don pulled Eleanor closer. She could feel the sweat from his palm. “This man taught me how to write a song.”

  “Are you a singer, young lady?”

  Don tapped her hip with his fingers. “I snapped her up to star in A Tender Thing.”

  “Lucky man.” Rodgers winked at Eleanor. “The gossip says you’re good.”

  Though she knew this wasn’t a real compliment—he had never seen her himself—Eleanor could not speak.

  She listened as Don and Rodgers discussed the performance, as well as rehearsals for their new productions. Don was speaking very quickly, laughing often. She had never seen him in a subordinate position; it might have been endearing, but he was making her nervous. Eleanor didn’t mention that she’d auditioned for Rodgers’s newest project. Rodgers noticed Don’s hand, which never left her waist.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of intermission, and Rodgers kissed her on the cheek.

  When they returned to their seats, Don gripped his program until it creased.

  “Do you dislike him?” she asked.

  “Hush. You never know who’s around.” Don reached for her hand and held it for the remainder of the show.

  On their way home, Eleanor asked again. “You seemed uncomfortable.”

  “We have no hard feelings at all.” Don seemed surprised enough by her question that she believed him. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I don’t like small talk. I was glad to have you there.”

  “He’s a genius. I’m sure he’s intimidating.”

  Don made a noise. “Hammerstein, his partner, is really the brains.”

  Eleanor was insulted that he thought she didn’t know who Hammerstein was. “Don,
I think he believes we’re a couple.”

  Don walked quickly, his eyes scanning for an available taxi. “I’m sure he does.”

  Eleanor hesitated.

  “I’m not so cold that I don’t enjoy being seen with a pretty young woman.” Don’s eyes flicked to her. “Though of course our relationship is strictly professional.”

  She blushed, as if he was rejecting her all over again. “But he’ll think I slept with you to get the role.”

  “Everyone gets the role somehow.” He turned to her, and she was startled by the stony expression on his face. “A composer out with his star is nothing new. Tongues will hardly wag. It’s almost expected nowadays. I’d much rather people spend their time thinking about my work—especially people like Dick Rodgers.”

  “But you touched me that way, knowing it would cause gossip.”

  He was quiet. “Being out with you, my dear, doesn’t cause gossip. My solo appearances are what have always interested people, in the most invasive of ways.”

  He met her eyes and she saw something hard there that alarmed her. But then he turned away, searching the downtown traffic for a cab with its lights on. She watched him for a long moment. Most people Don’s age were married. For the first time, Eleanor allowed herself to imagine that he had been truthful—that he had never become so close with another person. Until now, she’d attributed his words to artistic hubris. But what if it was more? This realization came as if she were tripping over a stone; her stomach swooped, and she recognized the certainty of her misfortune as much as the suddenness of it. It frightened her to imagine him so separate. She went back through her memories, seeing his touches in a new light, his flirtations.

  “Don,” she whispered, approaching him and laying her palm against his back. His sweater was soft and warmed by his skin. “Did you mean it when you said you never felt love?”

  She prayed that he would turn and do something out of a musical—take her in his arms, profess his affection. He stayed facing the passing taxis.

  “I’ve never told you an untruth.”

  She didn’t understand. “But how could you write the show? Every note carries such yearning. Even if I wasn’t playing Molly, I’d feel it. How did you know how to do it?”

  He sighed. “I told you before, Eleanor. I wanted to know what it was like.”

  “I think you do know what it’s like,” she said. “That feeling must be real to you.” She looked up. “Wanting someone that much. I know what it’s like.”

  He held her gaze. His eyes were pale as a Wisconsin winter pond.

  He raised his arm. A cab pulled against the curb. He helped her in and kissed her cheek. He handed the driver a bill and patted the roof of the car before shutting the door and stepping back to the curb. Eleanor watched him on the corner as they drove away.

  At home, Eleanor sat with Rosie, who was exercising her arms with soup cans.

  “How was your date?” she asked.

  Eleanor curled her feet beneath herself. She explained the strange moment with Rodgers and how Don had rejected her at the bar in Boston.

  “So it was a date,” Rosie said, “but only for people to see.”

  Eleanor blinked. “Why would he do that?”

  “He wouldn’t be the first man to bring a date just to show off.”

  “Show off what? I’m just an actress, and there are far prettier ones if that’s what he’s after.”

  “Stop it. You’re lovely, you’re young.” She twisted her mouth. “You’re female.”

  She hated to prove Rosie right about something. But she did understand men. “I don’t think he’s being honest about something.”

  “If you think so, you’re probably right.” Rosie adjusted the cans so she pushed them out in front of her. “Makes your bosom firmer,” she said.

  Eleanor left her to it. She went to the kitchen and opened a new jar of pickles. Don had always been strange, but she had always assumed she understood him. They had so much in common. As she undressed for bed, Eleanor wondered if she knew him at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eleanor took the Broadway local up to 125th Street. As the train climbed, more and more whites got off, until she was the only one. She sat, knees together, crossing off the stations in her mind. She thought that she was going to get a nosebleed, up so high.

  People stared—or at least she thought so. She’d worn a navy scarf over her hair, which Rosie said made her look like a nun, and did nothing to hide her complexion. It was lunchtime. People were out despite the cold, doing their shopping or getting a meal, shouting greetings across the street, smoking under store awnings. Everyone was black up here, as far as she could see. She felt as conspicuous as—well, as the only white girl on 125th.

  Charles and Gwen lived on 130th. Once she was moving, she felt better. The shops did not look so different from the ones downtown: groceries and delis, liquor stores, cigar shops, and in the distance, a church; like the rest of New York, the streets were an intersection of everything a person might need.

  On her way north, she passed a school at recess, the road closed off. Girls played hopscotch on the sidewalk, and boys were playing stickball in the street. She passed a girl with skinny knees sitting on the curb, watching the boys with a knotted mouth.

  After crossing Columbus, Eleanor reached Charles’s brownstone. She rang the bell for number 3.

  A large woman with hair pulled into a gray-patched bun opened the door. Her eyes widened when she saw Eleanor, but she otherwise did not speak.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Lawrence?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Eleanor O’Hanlon. I work with him in the show.”

  The woman held open the door, and Eleanor stepped inside.

  Three young children barreled down the staircase, a girl and two boys. They nearly knocked over Eleanor’s escort, who wrangled one by the hood of his coat.

  “Where do you think you’re going like that, Bobby?”

  The boy stopped, eyes going wide. “Outside.”

  “You’ll break your neck going down those stairs,” she said. “Or mine.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “If I see you like that again, Bobby, I’ll tell your mama.”

  She gave them a stern look, holding each pair of eyes long enough to make sure they received her point, before dismissing them. Once they were gone, she smiled.

  “You must have children,” Eleanor said. “You sound just like my mother.”

  “I’ll take you in,” she said, pulling out a key.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Charles’s mother?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Lawrence.”

  “How is Gwen?”

  “You’ll see her for yourself. She’s out for a walk but should be back any minute.”

  Mrs. Lawrence opened the door, calling out Charles’s name as she did.

  Eleanor stayed at the threshold, looking in. The apartment was tidy, with windows that did not catch the afternoon light. The radiator clanked in the corner, the room too hot. A couch sat against the wall, covered in a crocheted blanket. A gray cat lounged on the back. Something was cooking on the stove. Mrs. Lawrence left Eleanor waiting and went back to preparing the evening meal.

  Eleanor removed her hat and gloves and held them in front of her. As soon as Charles emerged, she switched to one hand, thinking she looked foolish with her hands clasped like an unfaithful husband.

  “Eleanor.” He kissed her cheek, surprised to see her. She nodded at an upright piano in the corner, sheet music spread on the stand.

  “Practicing?”

  “Just singing,” he said. “What are you doing all the way up here?”

  Eleanor removed the scarf from her hair and folded it in her lap. “Can I tell you something even I can’t believe?” She glanced at him; he was listening. She was nervous, bu
t she had come all the way up to Harlem for someone to talk to, someone who would understand. She told him, “I don’t think I want to be an actress.”

  Charles softened. “Don’t get blue on me now, Eleanor.”

  “It’s not that. I can’t stop thinking about the show, about how to fix it.”

  She heard him click his tongue against his teeth.

  “I know it’s silly.” She’d thought Charles might understand, but he seemed dubious. “But I think I could be a writer.”

  “Have you spoken to Don about this?”

  The mention of Don had her blushing. Charles’s eyes took in her face, and she felt like he could see every thought she’d had.

  “He’s an odd one,” Charles said. “Tough as he is, he might not laugh at the idea of a lady writer. You never know.”

  “Maybe.” Eleanor had no idea what Don would think; he surprised her again and again, opening up, then slamming back closed as if she’d humiliated him. “He is odd. He can be . . . kind. There’s something about him, Charles, that makes me think he understands Molly and Luke better than all of us. He’s captured their love, at least. The furtiveness, the fear.”

  “It seems Don Mannheim has asked these questions before,” Charles said. “I’ve been in a lot of musicals and plays, and I’ve never played a character who feels like a real man. Always . . . clowns before. He’s done something right with the show, even if it’s not perfect.”

  She looked across the coffee table and caught his smile; she cared for him quite deeply. He’d been a true friend throughout the process. Now, with everything between them, she felt a depth of esteem for him that she carried for no one but Rosie.

  “Are you in love with him, Eleanor?”

  She went hot; she covered her mouth with her hand.