The Winter of Her Discontent (25 page)

W
HEN WE ARRIVED AT REHEARSAL
the next morning, the entire cast was onstage, their voices a cacophony of excited conversation. I looked for a sign of what could've caused the commotion. Had Friday been killed? Had there been another fire? Had someone discovered what was going on in the basement?

Izzie broke off from the group and rushed toward us. “Ruby's engaged! Isn't it wonderful?”

I combed the room for Minnie but didn't see her. Jayne and I climbed onstage and masked our lack of sincerity with practiced smiles that only Ruby would know disguised our real feelings. “Congratulations,” we said in unison. Ruby thrust her hand at us to show off the tiny white gold and diamond ring she wore.

“It's temporary,” she said. “A placeholder until we have time to get a more appropriate ring.”

The other girls continued their chatter, begging Ruby to recount the trajectory of their romance and the precise way her intended had proposed (on the dance floor at the Rainbow Room, while “I'll Be Seeing You” was playing). Ruby gladly gave into their requests, but rather than wearing the blush of the newly engaged who can't believe their good fortune, her accounting of how she had swiftly traveled from Canteen volunteer to wife-to-be sounded more like a Horatio Alger story. Becoming engaged was an accomplishment to brag about, not a milestone in a relationship she cherished.

I shared this observation with Jayne as we disappeared into the back of the crowd.

“She's probably still stunned,” she said. “I certainly would be.”

It was a fair comment—for Ruby anyway—but I wasn't buying it. I still couldn't get past how ill-suited Donald Montgomery seemed for her. Lawrence Bentley, for all his arrogance, had been someone who shared in Ruby's second greatest love: the theater. While I believed Ruby had snagged a man who cared about her, it was obvious to me the train didn't travel in both directions.

“Places everyone!” Walter Friday entered the auditorium from whatever dark corner he'd been hiding in. We all took our spots backstage and readied ourselves for a run-through. I finally located Minnie. She sat in a folding chair intended for whoever would be operating the drapes. Her face was long and heavy, her eyes smudged from recent tears.

I went to her side and offered her my handkerchief. “I guess I was wrong.”

“It looks like it.”

“Don't worry. It won't last. She's already demanding a new ring; it won't be long before she insists on a different man. Ruby won't be going anywhere.”

“Oh, I'm not upset about that.” Her face told me otherwise.

“She isn't worth this, Minnie. She hasn't been much of a friend to you lately. Don't waste your energy on her.”

Her only response was to blow her nose.

“How 'bout you join Jayne and me for lunch?”

“Thanks, but I don't think I'm going to have much of an appetite today.”

I had to admit defeat—it would be impossible to cheer Minnie up. And I wasn't sure why I cared to begin with. I guess I felt a strange kinship with her. We were the late-night parlor dwellers, women who lost sleep worrying about things we couldn't change.

The run-through began, and I temporarily lost myself in the show. Things were still rocky onstage, but they had markedly improved. If nothing else, we couldn't be called a complete disaster.

Or at least I thought that was the case until the dancers made their first entrance. All of the work from the previous day had gone
out the window. Gloria seemed to be performing her own routine, one that looked an awful lot like a drunk weaving down the street. I couldn't stand to watch it, so I ducked backstage and found myself side by side with Ruby.

“You're not seriously going to go through with this, are you?” I said.

“Whatever do you mean?”

I picked up her hand and flashed the ring in her face. “Who are you—Gloria Vanderbilt? You barely know the guy.”

She freed herself from me. “One needn't know someone long to know they should be together.”

I thrust my nose into the air and mimicked her tone. “Oh,
needn't
one? You do know he wants to start a family right away and has every intention of your leaving the stage and joining him in the thriving metropolis of Goshen, New York?”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

She sighed and I knew he was going to get an earful about sharing such intimacies with the riffraff. “First of all, it's none of your business. Second of all, the war isn't over and may not be for some time. By the time he returns, I'm sure I'll be happy to settle down.”

I should've been thrilled. Ruby getting married could only mean more opportunities for the rest of us, but I was bothered by her attitude. Most women I knew would be dying for the war to end and their lives to begin, but Ruby was acting like it was a blissful intermission she hoped to extend so she wouldn't have to watch the second half of a picture that was boring her silly. If that was love, I wanted none of it.

 

At a quarter to five Jayne and I were in the Canteen kitchen emptying containers of food onto serving trays. The place was short of help that night, and Elaine was glad to see me with a new face in tow. While we
scooped, the dapper Artie Shaw was setting up on the platform in the main room, punctuating our clatter with the moan of a trombone.

When we were done transferring food to plates, I led Jayne out to the main room and settled with her in the darkest corner I could find. The men had already been permitted inside and were kicking off the evening dancing to “Begin the Beguine.”

“Isn't it something?” I asked.

“I'll say. I can't believe they don't charge us for being here.” Although I wouldn't have thought it possible, the place was even more packed than it had been on my last visit. How could anyone ever have claimed that Saturday night was the loneliest night of the week?

A sailor caught her eye and Jayne spun toward me and flashed me her pearly whites. “Any lipstick on my teeth?”

“Not a smidge.”

“How's my hair?”

“Blond and resplendent. Go get 'em, tiger.”

She left my side and met the sailor halfway. I couldn't hear them above the din of the crowd, but I knew the conversation that was transpiring as they awkwardly bumped gums before agreeing to share the dance floor. The poor kid didn't know what he was in for. Jayne wasn't capable of holding back and pretending she was just a normal girl who knew a little fancy footwork. From the moment she stepped on the floor, she was a dancer with a capital
D
and he was fighting to keep pace with her. I only hoped, for his sake, that he hadn't bragged about his abilities before going out there.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “See, now I've lost money.”

I turned and found Peaches beside me. At least I think it was Peaches. I hadn't remembered him being quite so handsome.

“And why are you out the cabbage?” I asked.

“I made a buddy a bet that you wouldn't show up tonight. He was trying to make me feel good and told me he'd put a ten spot on your being here with bells on.”

I lifted my hands and wiggled my fingers. “No bells.”

“He didn't say where the bells would be.” He offered me his hand. “Shall we?”

We went out onto the dance floor, and for five dizzying minutes I let myself forget all the doubts I had about seeing him again. I'd been overreacting. Spending an innocent evening dancing with a guy at the Canteen was hardly the first step toward marriage. And who said Peaches would want to marry me anyway? It was pretty arrogant not to want to see a guy because I assumed he'd fall madly in love with me and insist on something more than a casual foxtrot.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

“Careful,” I said. “Someone might hear you and demand you put fifteen percent of that penny in war bonds.”

“I'm willing to take that chance.”

I chewed on my lip. “I was just thinking that this wasn't so awful.”

“I hadn't realized it might be. There are some women who believe I'm easy on the eyes and a dream on the dance floor.”

“I thought we established the other night that I'm not some women. And I didn't mean it like the insult it came out as. I just…” Why not risk honesty for once? As Jayne said, it was only fair to be upfront with the guy. “I was worried you might be wanting a lot more out of this meeting than I was willing to give.”

“There are girls I can pay for things like that.”

“You know what I mean—emotionally.”

“But you've decided I'm here for only a quick dance.”

“Aren't you?”

His eyes grew soft, his smile weakened, and I knew that much of what I'd seen of him up until this point had been a facade. “I'm here for whatever you're willing to give me.”

We danced twice more before I begged for a break and a beverage. Peaches left me to get us some punch while I searched out a vacant table.

“So you did have plans to see him again.” Zelda drummed her red nails on my tabletop and smiled down at me. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming tonight?”

“I figured the less fanfare the better.”

“Did I see Jayne out on the dance floor?”

“The one and only. What about you: Are you solo tonight or is Izzie out there making a soldier's dream come true?”

“Just me. Izzie was beat after today, so I came stag to help with the dinner rush. I'm sure Elaine was thrilled to have you two help out. Saturdays are the busiest nights.” Zelda looked at her watch. “I'm actually hoping to sneak out of here. I'm bushed from today.”

“You and me both. If I were you, I'd make a run for it now, before this song ends.”

“You sound like an old pro. See you tomorrow, and tell Jayne I said hi.”

She rushed away as the band played the closing bars of “Deep Purple.”

“Was that Zelda?” Jayne arrived and perched in the chair across from me. Her face was bright red, her hair a blond tornado.

“The one and only. She just made her escape.”

“Where's Peaches?”

“Fetching punch. Be proud of me: I made it clear I wasn't looking for anything more than a good time.”

“Bravo. Did you tell him your real name too?”

“I'm working on it. What about you—how was your sailor?”

“Which one? I've danced with four, and it looks like the rest of the fleet expects a twirl.”

“If Tony could see you now.”

“Wouldn't that be a pip?” She looked down at the table and, with her finger, drew a circle in its top. “They're really sweet. I forgot what it was like to be around boys like them.”

“They're gentlemen too,” I said. “I don't think there's a guy in here who would think of raising his hand to you.”

She drew a second figure inside of the first one. “One of them asked me to write him.”

“You should.”

“I'm thinking about it.” She lifted her head and frowned. “Why does that guy look familiar?”

I followed her gaze. “Who?”

“The redhead by the doors. I swear I've seen him before.”

I shifted to get a better slant on the man in question. “You have seen him before. That's George Pomeroy.”

P
AULETTE'S FIANCÉ DISAPPEARED INTO THE
men's room. I struggled to push my way through the crowd and toward the doors when Peaches—glasses of punch in hand—stepped in front of me.

“Where's the fire, Delores?”

“I saw an old friend.”

“Kind of rude to leave when you're still entertaining a new one.” He offered me the glass of punch. It was overly sweet and lukewarm.

“Trust me—he's not that kind of friend.” Jayne arrived at my elbow and tugged at my dress. “This is my roommate, Jayne.”

Peaches shook her hand. “Hello, roommate Jayne.”

She smiled up at him. “Hello yourself.”

The men's room door opened and George Pomeroy reappeared. He turned left toward the coat check girl.

“Say, Jayne.”

“Yes, Delores?” She said my new name slowly, like she was uncertain how to pronounce it.

“Could you please make sure our pal George doesn't leave without my talking to him? I'll only be a minute.”

“Sure thing.”

She disappeared into the crowd and had just about reached the coat check counter when George, clad in a leather bomber jacket, pushed through the front door.

I gave Peaches back my glass of punch. “I really enjoyed seeing you again.”

“Why don't I like where this is going?”

“I need to scram. Believe me: this isn't the brush-off. There's just something I need to attend to that's slightly more important than standing here right now.”

He set the glasses on the railing and offered me his hand. “So I guess this is good-bye.”

“Easy now—what about tomorrow night?”

Just like on the dance floor, the humor was gone from his eyes. “This is my last night in New York, Delores. I'm spending the rest of my liberty at home.”

“Oh.” I'd forgotten his time was finite, that I wouldn't be able to bump into him whenever I decided I wanted to see him.
If
I wanted to see him.

“You actually look a little sad about that.”

I was shocked to find tears blurring my vision. “That's because I am.”

“I ship out from here in about a week. I could come back a day early. Could I see you then?”

“Does a cat meow?”

“Let's set it then: a week from Monday. Five o'clock here at the Canteen. Will you promise me you'll be here?”

There was something in the way he said it that made it clear he didn't believe I'd return. I burned with embarrassment. It was one thing for me to wrestle with whether or not to show, but I didn't want him to think I was anything less than excited to see him.

“Wild horses couldn't keep me away,” I said. We shook hands to seal the deal. Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned toward him and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Peaches.”

“Good night, Delores.” I pushed through the crowd and claimed my coat. Jayne was no longer in the building. I found her outside, anxiously pacing as she awaited my arrival.

“He went uptown. He's got at least a block on us.”

“Don't worry—we'll catch up.” We ran after him and soon spied his red head bobbing half a block away. He waved down a cab and disappeared inside.

“Nuts!” I said. Jayne fumbled with her purse and came up with a handful of crumbled bills. Seconds later we piled into our own cab and told a very amused driver to follow the yellow in front of him.

Two minutes and twenty cents later, our driver let us off at West Fifty-seventh Street where, moments before, George had exited his cab and disappeared inside a building.

We were in front of a refurbished brownstone, the kind of place where a room could be had for a little bit of coin in my neighborhood but cost an arm and a leg in this part of town. I searched the landing for door buzzers and mailboxes but found only one. Whoever George was visiting lived alone. With an uptown address.

“Now what?” asked Jayne.

“We buzz,” I said. “I'm not leaving here until I know what he's up to.”

We rang the bell and tried our best to undo what the brief run had done to our appearances. Heels click-clacked down an unseen foyer. A blond head popped up behind the frosted-glass door panels. After a rattle and two clinks, the door opened.

“Rosie!” Izzie stood before me still dressed in the clothes she'd worn to rehearsal. “What a nice surprise. What are you doing in our neck of the woods?”

I gestured toward Jayne and brought her into the conversation. “We were at the Stage Door Canteen tonight.”

“So Zelda told me.”

“We could've sworn we saw Paulette's fiancé there. I've been wanting to talk to him, so we tried to catch up with him and the next thing you know we saw him go into your house.”

Her expression didn't change. If George was up to no good, she didn't know it yet. “Why don't you come in and I'll get him for you?”

As we entered the foyer, a phonograph greeted us, singing “Angels of Mercy.”

“Zel? Guess who's here?”

To our left was a parlor crammed with overstuffed, brightly col
ored furniture, each piece uglier than the next. On top of the various tables, fireplace mantels, and other available spaces was a weird hodgepodge of war mementos: vases shaped like
V
's; postcards of Polynesian dancers; a statue of a dog peeing on Hitler; a red, white, and blue radio; and something that looked like a skull. In the middle of it all sat Zelda, flipping through a stack of phonograph records.

“Well, come in already,” she said to me, as though it were her house.

As Izzie disappeared up the stairs, we entered the room and surrendered our coats. To the right of the parlor was a lavish dining room decked out with a mahogany table and chair set that seemed to have been plundered from Henry the Eighth's fire sale. Paintings dotted the walls vying for the award for “Most Horrifying Depiction of a Historical Scene.” The walls themselves were papered in ornate patterns that pinched a nerve just behind my eyes. The drapes were floral, each held away from the window with a gold-colored tassel.

“Sit, sit,” said Zelda. “What's your poison?”

“Rum and Coca-Cola,” said Jayne.

“A martini, if you can make one,” I said.

“Did you hear that?” Zelda said to Jayne. “She's challenging my bartending skills. I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.” She left the room, and Jayne and I fought for space on a mohair love seat overtaken by gold-fringed throw pillows with needlepointed poems in their centers. These ditties had titles like “To a Friend” and “My Wife” and brief texts that waxed philosophic about loyalty and love.

Jayne let out a low whistle. “Isn't this something?”

“Have you ever seen anything tackier?”

“Tacky? Do you have any idea what this stuff costs?”

I searched the room for price tags. “More than it's worth?”

Jayne ignored me. “How on earth can they afford a place like this?”

Before I could answer, Izzie rejoined us, her face flushed from her journey. “George will be down in a sec. You caught him at bath time.”

“And why is George bathing in your house?” I asked.

Izzie located her own half-drained drink and wet her whistle. “He's our guest. He had a reservation at an awful hotel on the Upper West Side and we thought that with all this space it was foolish for him not to stay here. It's what Paulette would've wanted.”

Jayne wriggled on the sofa until her back met its back. Her shoes dangled two feet above the floor. “This is some place you've got.”

“How do you guys swing a joint like this?” I asked. “I can't even afford a newspaper in this part of town.”

Zelda entered with our drinks in hand. We each took a dainty Austrian crystal glass and held our breath lest it should shatter. “It's Olive's. It came with her husband.”

“Her
dead
husband,” said Izzie.

“Oh.” I took a sip of my drink to keep my tongue from wagging. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” said Zelda. “You didn't know.”

A past conversation wiggled through my brain. Didn't Olive say she was married when I first met her? Had she remarried, or did she still consider herself hitched even though the former mister was six feet under?

“Did the war mementos come with the house?” I asked.

Zelda laughed. “No, those were gifts.”

“That's the bad thing about pen pals,” said Izzie. “They always want to send you stuff.”

I took a quick spin around the room, admiring their collection of souvenirs. It
was
a skull. I was definitely going to need another drink.

“So what is it you wanted to see George about?” asked Izzie.

Was it time to come clean? I looked toward Jayne for the answer.

“It's about what happened to Paulette,” said Jayne. “Rosie and I just can't stop thinking about it. We wanted to find out if George could shed any further light on what happened that night.”

“Why?” asked Izzie.

I hadn't expected the question. I took a deep breath. Was it the worst thing if they found out I was a friend of Al's? “I know the guy in jail.”

The ice in Izzie's glass rattled like dice in a cup. “You know Paulette's killer?”

“No. I mean yes—he's a friend. Of both of ours. But I think he's innocent.” I looked longingly at my still-filled drink. I should've drained it before the conversation began.

“He confessed,” said Zelda.

“I know. Believe me I know, but there's a reason for that…. I just haven't figured out what it is yet. I thought George might know more about what happened. Maybe he could answer some questions that have been bothering me.”

Izzie crossed to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were a number of photographs, all of them of men in uniform. “Wouldn't that be better left to the police?”

Of course it would.

“Rosie used to work for a detective,” said Jayne. “She was the one who unraveled what was going on at the People's Theater.”

“Really?” asked Zelda. She was impressed, or at least as impressed as Zelda ever got. Even Izzie eased her scowl.

“Really,” I said. “And if I learned nothing else from that experience, I did figure out that the police aren't as on the ball as you might think.” And the press rarely gives you credit for the things you do.

“What could it hurt?” said Zelda.

Izzie met her eyes, then looked away. “I suppose it's ultimately up to George.”

George arrived two drinks and ten minutes later, his hair still wet from the shower he'd taken. He was wearing pajamas under a thick terry-cloth robe. Both garments were too big for him, swallowing his hands and feet. They'd probably belonged to one of Paulette's husbands, or perhaps to Olive's.

I reintroduced us and cut to the chase. “I understand you were with Paulette the night she died.”

He looked from Izzie to Zelda, searching for which one of them had made this preposterous claim. “Who told you that?”

“Weren't you?” asked Izzie.

“Of course I wasn't.” He sank into the chair closest to her. “Why would you think that?”

“Paulette told us she had plans with you,” said Zelda. “That's why she didn't go to the Canteen that night. Naturally Izzie assumed that meant you had seen her.”

“I had a message at my hotel,” said George. “She couldn't see me after all. I tried to call her back, but there was no answer.”

“And you're positive the message was from Paulette?” I asked.

George shrugged. “I had no reason not to think so. The girl at the desk just told me someone had called and wanted me to know Paulette couldn't meet with me after all.”

“So it could've been a man or a woman,” said Jayne.

“I guess,” said George.

I returned to my spot on the sofa. “Didn't you think it was strange that she would cancel on you? She hadn't seen you in months.”

George ran a hand through his wet hair. “Of course I thought it was strange.”

“So why didn't you come over here to see if something was the matter?”

“I thought she was worried about the Canteen finding out about us. She'd mentioned to me that she'd felt like she was being watched, and I assumed she was scared that one of the other girls had gotten wind that she was seeing someone.”

“So what?” I said. “If you're in love, if you're planning on being married, who cares about the Stage Door Canteen?”

“It was important to her,” he said. “She'd put in so much time there.” He looked at Izzie and Zelda. “All the girls had. It kept her busy, made her feel like she had a purpose.”

“What did you do that night if you didn't come here?” asked Jayne.

“Stayed at my hotel. Read a book. Went to sleep. There wasn't any point in doing anything without Paulette.”

I mulled this over for a moment. “The day we met, you made it sound like you hadn't come into town until after Paulette died. Why?”

He shook his head and worked his hands into knots. “I don't know. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly. She was dead. That was all I could think about.”

Jayne was right—grief did make people behave strangely. But something else was bothering me. “Why are you still in town? I thought you were going home with her for the funeral.”

He looked at Zelda, then at the floor. “I couldn't. I tried. I went to the train station and everything, but when it came time to board I didn't have the courage. Her memorial service was hard enough, but to be at her funeral…the finality of it all was too overwhelming.”

Somehow I doubted that.

 

“Have you considered that we're barking up the wrong tree?” asked Jayne. We were back home, counteracting Zelda's inferior bartending with our own efforts. Our gin was cheap, our glasses sturdy, just the way it should be.