The War Against Miss Winter (19 page)

I
OVERSLEPT THE NEXT MORNING
and took a cab I couldn’t afford to People’s Theatre, arriving fifteen minutes late for our first rehearsal. I sneaked into the theater and took in the auditorium for the first time. It was surprisingly large and ornate for an experimental space. It looked as if it could seat close to five hundred, though I doubted they ever got that many people to come to their shows without papering the house. The cast was spread out among the first row, some flipping through their scripts, others carrying on quiet conversations. They greeted me with the enthusiasm Park Avenue wives reserve for their maids, so I retreated to a seat in the rear.

Ruby was absent, which meant I got to pretend I was both the star and the lead. To start us off, Peter had us pair off with the person we believed our character would have the greatest disdain for. I teamed up with the “German woman,” an actress named Heidi Lambert who matched me height for height. We introduced ourselves and bumped gums while the other women assembled themselves into their pairs. Once Peter was satisfied everyone had found their appropriate antagonist, he asked one person from each pair to join him in the lobby. When enough time had passed for those of us who didn’t accompany him to go from uncomfortable to bored, Peter and the four women returned.

As our first exercise, Peter had us stand face-to-face with our partners and mirror each other’s movements. Those of us who’d remained in the room led the exercise, while the others mimicked our motions, taking pains to do things at the exact same rate we did them. Once Peter was satisfied we’d achieved whatever nameless objective he’d set for us, he had the four of us he hadn’t talked to don blindfolds while our partners led us by the hand about the theater, alerting us when obstacles
were in our paths. After this exercise was complete, we did a few other trust-oriented activities most of us had done a thousand times before. Once we had built up simpatico with our partners, Peter had us switch roles so I was the one mirroring Heidi, leading her around, and catching her when she fell.

Strangely, Heidi never developed a rhythm with me. Rather than letting our mirrored motions become predictable—as they should—she attempted to trick me so I wasn’t able to anticipate her movements. When I led her blindfolded about the theater, each step she took was hesitant, as though she expected at any moment to fall off a platform. There was something about me Heidi didn’t like and didn’t trust. Since we’d barely spoken two words to each other, this was incredibly disconcerting.

By two o’clock I was ready to jump ship and beg Lawrence Bentley for a part. Exercises like this were as experimental as putting butter on bread—every milquetoast theater company did something similar to build up trust and compatibility in its cast. Aside from developing insecurity about how someone I didn’t know had grown to despise me, I was getting nothing out of the experience.

After a brief break, Peter explained that for our final activity he would assign each pair a relationship and have us improvise a scene in which a specific conflict had to be addressed. Because he wanted us to feel unself-conscious during this exercise, he asked the other groups to retire to the lobby so we could work independently with him.

When it was time for our scene, Peter asked for a moment alone with me. He ushered me over to the edge of the stage and we huddled as if we were about to make a football play. “You’re getting married after a whirlwind courtship,” he said. “What I want you to do is tell your mother the news and convince her it’s a good thing.”

I struggled to keep from rolling my eyes. Did Peter think all of this was innovative and exciting? What was next—having us don costumes and speak words written by someone else?

We started the scene and all was proceeding quite normally until I announced that I was getting married. I expected Heidi to belittle the groom-to-be or to express concern that the marriage was too soon.
Instead, she slapped me across the face, called me a whore, and exited the theater.

Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for
that
. Once I was done gasping in pain, I sank to my knees and curled into a ball.

“You’re supposed to leave.”

I started at the sound of Peter’s voice, afraid that it was Heidi returning for another go at me. When I was sure I was safe, I plopped onto my keister and sought him in the dark audience. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment. Since I’m only an understudy, why don’t you tell me what the deuce that was all about?”

Peter left his seat and came around to the apron. “Can we keep it between us?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiled and his face turned pale pink. “I like to call it a trust diminishment exercise.”

“And what’s the purpose of such a thing?”

He awkwardly pulled himself onto the stage and took a seat on the floor beside me. “If I want this show to be more than patriotic blathering, I need to have each character attempt to convince the audience of the supremacy of her point of view. Each of the eight women believes her position is the only position and everyone else is the enemy.”

I rubbed my cheek to make sure I still had feeling in it. “So everyone went through this?”

He crossed his arms about his knees. “In different ways. I told your partners vile, hideous things about each of you to put them on their guard throughout the day.”

“Such as?”

He cleared his throat. I wondered if he was torn about revealing his magician’s tricks or worried that I’d squeal to Actors’ Equity. “Well, you, for example: I said I was forced into using you by a board member and you had made it very clear you had no intention of remaining an understudy and would do whatever necessary to get the part you believed should have been yours—the German woman. There were a few other things—total fictions, of course—that I selected based on what I
knew about Heidi. Then I gave her a detailed character history for the upcoming scene, something she’s been able to stew over for most of the day. I put Heidi in the position of being an old-world immigrant who was working day and night to create a better life for you. Back in the homeland you were a little darling, but since you immigrated you’ve ruined yourself by pursuing what you perceived as the American way: dabbling in booze and dope, and selling yourself to anyone who possessed either of those.”

I had to hand it to Peter—his exercise was effective. Even though acting was acting, I wouldn’t go near Heidi again if he paid me.

“Forgive me?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what I was forgiving him for: putting me through this exercise or ruining the experience by telling me his plan. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“That’s a relief.” He pulled himself to his feet and offered me his hand. I rose with such force that we almost toppled over. For a moment we stood—still touching—in the middle of the stage, our eyes lighting on each other like two kids in a high school production of
Our Town
.

Then the moment ended.

“Ahem.” Hilda cleared her throat to make her presence known. She stood at the rear of the auditorium, her arms crossed against her clipboard. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Peter.”

Peter dropped my hand like…well, like it was
my hand
and squinted into the distance. “Absolutely, Hilda. Absolutely.” He turned back to me and wiped the hand that had held mine on his pants. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rosie.”

It poured the whole way home. By the time I reached the Shaw House I was so wet I sloshed when I walked. Half the house was assembled around the radio in the lobby listening to a program I couldn’t identify. No doubt something had happened with the war.

Let Jack be all right.
Please
.

“You ever hear of an umbrella?” asked Belle. With a wave of her hand she directed me off the wooden floor and onto the rug.

“I was dry when I left,” I said.

Belle returned her attention to the radio. “Keep it moving; we don’t need a puddle.”

“What’s everyone listening to?”

Ella Bart, a Rockette who was determined to parlay her gams into a career in the movies, pulled a lollipop out of her mouth and directed it at the Magnavox. “
Cavalcade of America.
Paulette Monroe’s on.”

I nodded, relieved it was nothing important and irritated that they could be focused on something so trivial. Paulette was one of the Shaw House’s success stories. Two years before, she’d left us for Hollywood, where she played second banana to a number of much better known stars in the pictures. Whenever she appeared on film or radio, the Shaw House took notice as though we believed we could catch success as easily as a cold.

I left them to their listening and climbed the stairs to my room. Inside, Jayne was sitting on her bed, Indian-style, with her back to me. Churchill sat at her side, his gaze switching between her and the wall as he tried to figure out if she’d gone goofy. To this featureless bit of plaster she whispered, “I missed you, Jonathan. Not a day went by when I didn’t wonder what you were doing and who you were with. Did you miss me? I like to think so. I like to believe that even as you fought I was there in your mind, watching over you.”

I snorted at Bentley’s sappy writing. Jayne whirled around, revealing the script nestled in her lap. “Hard at work already?” I asked.

She turned the script upside down to protect it from further ridicule. “I thought I should use my time wisely.” An odd glow had come over her complexion. For a woman who’d been beaten black and blue, she looked radiant. “Plus…he’s changed my part. I’m now playing the lead.”

“In Bentley’s show?” She nodded her confirmation. “Wow…that’s
swell. Really swell.” She deserved bigger and better congratulations, but I was so surprised I wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess he’s given up on Ruby then.”

“Yep. I asked him about her and he claims she’s sticking with the People’s Theatre gig.” She paused and tried to read my reaction. “I’m sorry, Rosie.”

“I made my bed.”

“I know, but if he’d cast Ruby you might’ve gotten a better part out of the deal.”

“And then you wouldn’t have. Believe me—things are fine.” I came to her side and offered her my hands. “Things are better than fine. You’re the star!”

She returned my squeeze, then pulled her arms away to keep the water still dripping from me from making contact with her. “You’re soaking!”

“Not anymore. Now I’m just dripping.” I put on my bathrobe and wrapped my hair turban-style in a discarded towel.

“How was your rehearsal?”

“Both tedious and fascinating.” I kicked off my mules and my feet came in contact with small, hard knobs. I lifted my leg and discovered black beads clinging to the bottom of my stocking. I followed the trail into the cavern made by my dresser. There, my one good evening bag lay in shambles.

I lunged at the bed. “I’m going to kill him.”

Jayne rose and filled the distance between Churchill and me. “Take it easy. He’s a cat. He doesn’t know any better.”

“The hell he doesn’t!”

“It’s only a bag.” Jayne bent down to survey the damage. “Maybe it can be fixed.”

I couldn’t bear to look at the extent of Churchill’s deed, so I stared down the feline until he leaped from the bed and retreated into the closet. “You touch anything in there,” I told him, “And I’ll be repairing it with catgut.”

“It’s not so bad.” Jayne brought over what remained of my purse
and gingerly laid it on her bed. “If you sewed the beads back on, I bet nobody would even notice.” She fingered the loose handle and opened the purse’s clutch to tuck it inside. As she did so, the contents of the purse peeked out, including Eloise McCain’s check. “What’s this?”

“I got paid for organizing the files,” I said.

Jayne pulled the check all the way out and stared at it. Friday’s date was emblazoned in Eloise’s impeccable hand. “That’s why you went to Louie’s—to get paid?” I nodded. “How did you end up with coffee all over you?”

“A friendly visit turned nasty. Eloise’s son came by not only to deliver the check but to find out where the files were. He was none too pleased when I told him I didn’t know.”

Jayne’s head snapped up. “He’s in the navy, isn’t he?” I nodded. “Do you think he’s the one who worked me over?”

“Edgar? I’d put money on it. And get this: he claims he’s Raymond Fielding’s son.”

She traced the engraved address at the top of the draft. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you wanted me to stay out of it.”

She jerked a nod and her gaze fell to Tony’s ring. For a long time she stared at it as though the stone had hypnotized her. The room grew so quiet I could hear Churchill breathing.

“We could tell Tony,” I said. “He could take care of Edgar for you.”

She shook her head. “If Edgar’s going around threatening you and me, he must be pretty worried that we’ll find something.” She paused and tucked her hair behind her ears. “We should go over there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Eloise’s house.” She picked up the check and carefully smoothed out its creases. “We need to figure out why she and her son are so interested in the play.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

Jayne lifted her head and met my eyes. “Definitely.”

W
E TOOK THE SUBWAY UPTOWN
and lost ourselves in the growing foot traffic. It was just before 5:00, but already the walks were crammed full of suits making a mad dash for the next train out of the city. The locals moved at a more leisurely stride, pausing to pick up the
P.M.
papers, which screamed with the headlines from overseas. It was good news as far as the war went. Nazi land forces were weakening around the African front. British bombers were continuing their attack on Germany’s Ruhr region. The American government was halting rising corn prices so our farmers could produce more dairy and meat. People grinned at the front page, relieved that casualty numbers weren’t clogging up the headlines with all their zeros. They were still there, though. Even when the dead didn’t achieve the quantity that earned them two-inch letters, you could count them between the lines.

We paused at a traffic light and entertained ourselves by reading the signs plastered on telephone poles. WACs urged us not to marry unless we were marrying a GI. A tearful mother announced in bold type,
I GAVE A MAN
!
WILL YOU GIVE AT LEAST
10%
OF YOUR PAY IN WAR BONDS
?

I’d have to get back to her on that one.

“What’s the plan?” I asked Jayne.

She steered me right. “We need to get into her apartment and look around. Maybe one of us can provide a distraction while the other person searches the scene.”

I stopped midstep. “You’ve been reading my pulps, haven’t you? You do realize they’re fiction, right? They’re not how-to manuals.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t use them as a guide.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

I’d never had any reason to go to Jim’s house before. In fact, I’d had
no idea where he lived. The address on Eloise’s check took us to Park Avenue and Fiftieth Street. We marched up and down the block twice before realizing the number we sought had been before us all along: the Waldorf-Astoria.

“She lives here?” breathed Jayne.

The limestone and brick building towered forty-seven stories above the street, a monolith to money and the things it could buy. Outside, doormen adorned with gold-colored epaulets opened car doors and assisted guests in and out of the building. Flags from a foreign land flew above the entrance while shoeshine boys and newsies kept a respectable distance, hawking their wares with knowing nods rather than the irritating chatter they used in our part of the city. We walked into the building as if we belonged and tried our best not to gawk at the marble floors and ornate bronze and wood decor. Scattered throughout the lobby were delicate antique chairs easily flummoxed by human weight and brightly colored Oriental rugs that bore no evidence of the foot traffic they endured on a daily basis.

A crowd was gathered at the lobby desk, drawing the attention of the hotel staff and house dicks who should’ve been monitoring our arrival. Foreign words flew through the air so rapidly that I doubted even those who spoke the language were able to follow them. The employees interjected apologies they addressed to “Madame” and “your Excellency,” but despite their efforts, the haranguing continued, escalating like an aria until I was certain one or the other of the complainants would use up their air and collapse to the floor.

“If we go up, we go now,” I told Jayne. “Follow my lead.” I took her by the elbow and led her to the elevator bank. Between the doors was a marquee listing the permanent residents’ names and suite numbers. Mrs. James McCain lived in the East Tower on the forty-fourth floor. We identified which car would take us there and pushed the signal button. An elevator operator so old he predated the inventor of the device greeted us with a smile that revealed an ill-fitting set of dentures. “She’s going to kill us,” I told Jayne. “We’re a half hour late and Eloise was fit to be tied the last time that happened.”

“You’re her favorite niece,” said Jayne. “She won’t stay angry. She’s
grieving.”

The operator followed our gab as if he were watching a tennis match and when we paused for breath interjected the question we were hoping he’d ask. “Going to Mrs. McCain’s?”

“Yes, please,” said Jayne with a smile and a wink.

“Forty-fourth floor, here we come.” He pushed a brass button, then wiped his glove’s imprint from the surface. As though it were afflicted by the same age-induced inertia as its operator, the elevator chugged upward at a pace designed to remind its passengers that while we might be too lazy to use the stairs, that didn’t mean we were going to get there any faster.

After a lifetime the elevator came to a heavy stop and its shining doors slid open to reveal a modest lobby decorated with two potted plants that had managed to survive without any available light source. Eloise’s scent lingered in the air, then coiled back on itself like a snake she’d charmed into threatening whoever should pass her threshold.

“Forty-fourth floor,” said the operator. We exited the car and it closed with a
whoosh
that shouldn’t have been assigned to so sluggish a device. There were two doors on the floor, one that bore only a number and another adorned with a tasteful plaque announcing
MRS. JAMES M
c
CAIN.
I fingered the plate beneath the embossed metal letters, trying to read if Jim’s name had ever appeared with his wife’s and, if so, how recently it had been removed. There was nothing there to tell me.

We put our heads to the door and listened as Eloise’s terse voice barked an order that her companion “use more care when mopping the floors.” After she delivered her what-for, her footsteps grew in volume until it was a matter of seconds before she appeared.

We backed away from her entrance and hunted for a place to hide. As we were planting ourselves behind the plants, Eloise emerged from the apartment.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize someone was here.” She was dressed to the nines in a black pantsuit with a matching veiled hat. Slung over her arm was a fur, too warm for the journey to the lobby, and an alligator clutch that matched her reptilian shoes.

I stepped around a scrawny palm and thumped myself on the head.
“Ah, so
this
is your apartment. We were having the darnedest time figuring out which number went with which door.”

Her ringless left hand caressed the fur; it purred in response. “What can I do for you?”

I urged my mind to think of something clever. When that failed, I begged it to think of anything at all. “Money.” I pawed my (cheap, tattered) purse until I came up with her check. “Edgar delivered this, which I was terribly appreciative of, but I’m afraid the sum doesn’t cover the other money I was owed. He told me I would have to take up the matter with you.”

Her penciled eyebrows tipped toward her nose. “I thought my generosity more than covered both debts.”

Even if I hadn’t been desperate for an explanation for why I was there, Eloise’s sum
was
short. I was owed six weeks’ back pay, and while she may have guessed at what my rate was, the figure didn’t begin to approach Jim’s scale.

I matched my hoity to her toity. “I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

“How much will it take to resolve this matter?”

I named a figure that was only slightly more than what I was owed, since it seemed my inconvenience deserved a little juice. The alligator bag devoured her hand, then, recognizing the number was greater than what she carried on her, she sighed for the third time and announced she would need to retrieve her checkbook. She started back into the apartment and made as though she were going to close the door.

Jayne lunged after her and stopped the door with her hand. “May I come inside?”

Eloise took in the unmanicured mitt and stepped backward. “Whatever for?”

To snoop, of course.

“I need to use your powder room,” said Jayne.

Eloise stared her down, searching for a sign Jayne was lying. Jayne shifted her weight in a subtle demonstration of her bladder’s fullness.

Eloise pushed the door open its full width and gestured her inside in such a way that said since we’d already inconvenienced her, one more
misuse of her time wouldn’t tip the scales. “It’s down the hall, first door on the right.” She moved to again close the door, but I shadowed Jayne and wedged myself into the hallway.

“Do you need to use the powder room too?” she asked.

“No, but I assumed you wouldn’t be so rude as to leave me out here by myself.”

Eloise waved me into a sitting room, then disappeared into the same hall Jayne had turned down. The joint had as much in common with Jim as bunnies had with blitzkrieg. The apartment was sparse and modern. Bright white walls served as the backdrop for brilliantly colored abstract murals and sculptures. Stark wooden furniture void of cushions sat before a fireplace made of an amalgam of metal and stone. I admired the artwork or, at least, pretended to, since on closer inspection it was clear they were amateur attempts.

I moved closer to the canvases to identify the source of mediocrity. They were hung so high and the signatures were so small that the only way I could make out the artist was to stand atop a spindly wooden bench that wobbled the minute I put my big toe on it. I balanced as best as I could, then stretched as high as my legs would allow until I could read “E. Fitzgerald.”

Eloise cleared her throat. I bobbled atop the bench and gracelessly climbed to the floor. “Did you do these?” I asked.

She sat at a small secretary, flipped open her checkbook, and licked the pen nib. “Yes.”

“They’re very good. Have you ever had a showing?”

Eloise signed the bottom of the draft with great flourish. “Many, many times.”

“Do you still paint?”

For a second, something softened in her face. Though it was completely out of character, it looked as if she was about to let her guard down and speak to me not as a woman who was beneath her but as an artist who might understand her turmoil.

Then it passed.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She handed me the check, taking care not to smudge the ink. “Where’s your friend?”

“Still in the can, I presume.”

Eloise cocked her head toward the hallway. “I don’t hear water.”

“Maybe she’s not ready for it yet.”

She met my eyes. Her eyebrow ascended in a silent question that she didn’t bother to let me answer. She turned and headed into the hall.

On cue, Jayne appeared. “Sorry that took so long.”

Eloise pointed us toward the door. “I assume you’ll be leaving now?”

“Of course,” I said.

She didn’t see us out. We rushed out the door and into the lobby. Jayne signaled for the elevator while I waved the check until it dried.

“Anything?” I asked.

“She likes nice soap and thick towels,” said Jayne. “Aside from that, nothing. You?”

“She’s an artist. Not a very good artist, but at least that’s something new. We need to get back in there.”

Jayne nodded. “What if we wait until she leaves and see if the maid will let us in? We know she’s on her way out, so it shouldn’t take long.”

Old and Speedy appeared and signaled for our descent. An eternity later, we exited the lobby and picked up a copy of the
Times
from the stand outside the Waldorf. We lingered near the newsie, taking turns spying the entrance to the building, shielding our faces with the news that the French had won a pass in Tunisia. Eloise emerged five minutes after us and climbed into a hired car. As soon as the bucket was out of sight, we returned to the lobby and asked Old and Speedy to take us back up to her floor.

We knocked on Eloise’s door for a good twenty seconds before the maid answered. She cracked it open a sliver of a sliver. “Yes?” She had a husky voice flavored with an ethnicity I couldn’t identify.

“Hiya,” said Jayne. “My friend and I were just here and my friend believes she may have left something in the living room. May we come in and get it?”

“Mrs. McCain’s not here.” With more words to go by, her accent sounded Eastern European, but there was something forced about it, as if she were from somewhere else but had picked up English while visiting Warsaw.

“I understand she’s not here,” I said. Where was this belligerent attitude coming from? Given Eloise’s past behavior toward me, I found it hard to believe she treated her staff well enough to earn this kind of loyalty. “I ran into her in the lobby, and when I told her I forgot what I forgot, she told us to come upstairs and get it. I know if we have to come back, she’s going to be very disappointed.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the door. Babies were born. Soldiers fell. “You are lying. Mrs. McCain would not tell you that. She does not like you.”

“That’s why she told us to come up here,” I said, fists clenched, body ready for action. “She doesn’t want to see either of us again. And she’s going to be none too happy with anyone who’s responsible for our return visit.” I thought I’d convinced her, but rather than accepting defeat and letting us enter, she started to close the door. I no longer cared about snooping through Eloise’s belongings, but I was determined to get into that apartment and give the maid my what-for. I pushed against the door, throwing her off balance and sending her onto her backside.

“Hey!” she shouted in unaccented English. Or at least someone did. Someone in a maid uniform who looked an awful lot like Ruby Priest.