The Winter of Her Discontent (6 page)

“It goes both ways though, doesn't it? One of her other boyfriends could've bumped her off just as easily as Al for being unfaithful.” I left my bed and freed our booze from its hiding place in the closet. This conversation demanded a cocktail. “So what picture did you see?”

“
They Got Me Covered
.”

“For someone who spent the evening with Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour, you don't look too amused.”

“We ended up leaving early. Tony had a meeting.”

That was the problem with dating someone in the mob: undependable schedules. “And so the truce has already ended?”

Jayne's pixie face squeezed into a scowl. “I made it clear to him that I wanted what I wanted, and if he couldn't give it to me, I couldn't see him again.”

“You have to do what you have to do.” I was never thrilled by my best pal's choice of men, and not just because Tony was a criminal. He didn't call her, he forgot her birthday, and on one awful occasion he sent her home with a bruise he thought a ring would be big enough to make her forget. But I wasn't the kind of friend to tell her how to live her life. That was a decision she had to make on her own.

“Before I let him have it though, I asked him about Vinnie Garvaggio,” said Jayne.

“What did he say?”

She spun toward me slowly, aware, no doubt, that telling me this information would make it hard to indict me for any future forays I might make into helping Al. “He said this was Garvaggio's first time investing in theater. Vinnie met Walter Friday last fall and was so charmed by him he decided to back Friday's big comeback. Apparently, there are a number of other big guns pooling the money for it too.”

“Including Tony?”

Jayne sat on her bed and tossed her legs over the iron footboard. “Nope. He said he didn't like Friday and didn't trust that he'd see any return.”

I'd never thought of Tony as a discriminating person, but then I suppose you'd have to be to continually toe the line between businessman and business end. “Interesting—why didn't Tony like him?”

“He wouldn't tell me, but given what you just said about Paulette Monroe, maybe he's more protective of Al than we thought.”

W
E AWOKE BRIGHT AND EARLY
Monday morning and ankled over to the Sarah Bernhardt for our first official corps rehearsal. Upon arrival, we were ushered into the rehearsal hall we had used for auditions, where the same pianist (smoking the same cigarettes) entertained us with a piece from Liszt's
Faust
while we stretched and prepared ourselves for six grueling hours of dance instruction.

For the first time I was able to take in the ten men and eight women who, in addition to ourselves, would make up the corps. It was an unusual group. Most of the women were large for dancers—too tall, too wide, too thick. Jayne alone appeared properly proportioned, though in her tininess she stood out like a sore thumb. The men, on the other hand, were universally small. Not one of them was tall enough to meet me eye to eye, and I strongly suspected that if any of them attempted to lift me, their spines would collapse like a jack-in-a-box.

The elf wasn't the choreographer of the show. That honor was given to a middle-aged dame named Maureen O'Reilly, who, despite her Irish moniker, had a thick German accent that made her sound like she was on the verge of a coughing fit. “Back in my homeland de first zing a dancer learns is discipline. Today you vill dance like you are in Dublin.” We waited for an explanation for the incongruity between her name and her accent, but none ever came. She was probably a victim of the war, forced to shed her national identity if she wanted to continue to work in peace. The land of the Liberty Cabbage welcomed everyone these days, except the Krauts.

She walked with a cane, though it wasn't immediately clear if she needed it or if it was an affectation. She was terrifying, not because of where she probably hailed from, but because of her way of sizing each of us up and spitting back a version of ourselves that was completely different from what we imagined. As twenty of us stood shoulder to shoulder, she walked the line and diagnosed the precise reason we shouldn't have been cast. “You are too fat,” she told a zaftig dancer. “You have big bosoms,” she told another. “You are short,” she informed Jayne. “And you,” she said to me, her tone making it clear I was the worst of the bunch, “are not a dancer at all.” Having named our maladies, she threw her hands into the air and sighed. “Very vell. If zis is vat I am stuck vith, ve vill have to vork twice as hard and twice as long. He vill not humiliate me too.”

I didn't know who
he
was, though it didn't take Einstein to figure out that our motley crew had been assembled to make Maureen's life more difficult. Out of retaliation, she had us begin the day by performing the same routine the elf had given us at the audition. We didn't get halfway through it before she pounded the cane on the floor and told us to stop. “It is clear you are not ready to dance. Today, ve vill focus on learning to valk.” And
valk
we did. Not in the traditional sense, but as dancers, with our heads high, our limbs extended, and our backs effortlessly straight. For three hours we practiced like primates who'd just figured out what upright meant, and by the end of it every part of me hurt. I longed to slouch and stare at the floor as I shuffled home.

“That was awful,” I told Jayne over lunch. We'd ducked into the deli across the street and hunched over twin servings of what they claimed was roast beef on rye but which tasted more like pork soaked in brown gravy. We managed to snag a corner booth just before the noon crowd packed the joint. It was curious to see a place that couldn't distinguish beef from pork enjoying a constant flow of business. It may have been the prices, which struck me as unusually low for wartime rationing. Or it could've been the sign on the counter that proudly proclaimed that the establishment would not be partici
pating in the voluntary meatless Tuesday program that the city ration office was trying to encourage.

“How are we expected to dance without meat?” I told Jayne. “We'll be too weak.”

“You still have Al's gift.”

I'd tried to forget about the steaks. As scarce as meat may have been, I couldn't help but connect those thick slabs with Paulette's lifeless body. No matter how hungry I was, or how desperate for flesh, I couldn't see myself eating them anytime soon. “Wasn't it weird how Maureen was talking like we'd been assembled to make her life difficult?”

“It's an odd group,” said Jayne. “Most of them seem like they can dance, but—” The restaurant door clanged open and Ruby and Minnie entered. While Ruby staked out a table, Minnie went to the counter and ordered for the two of them. Jayne and I slumped into our booth until all anyone could see of us were the tops of our heads.

“I bet she pays for her lunch,” I told Jayne.

“Minnie?”

“Absolutely. Have you ever seen such undeserved fawning in your life?”

Minnie waved to Ruby from the counter, her face tight with apprehension. She was worried that she was taking too long for her royal highness. I scanned the room for any sign of Paulette's friends. I'd been hoping to find time to corner each one of them individually. If they were as close to Paulette as Minnie claimed, they might be able to clear up the mystery of Paulette's active love life.

“Where do you think the other actresses eat lunch?” I asked Jayne.

She picked apart her sandwich and examined its innards with the careful eye of a surgeon looking at a wound. “If they're smart, anywhere but here.”

Ruby turned her head this way and that, trying to determine which table would empty next. After exchanging a few teasing smiles with suits seated near the window, her peepers landed on Jayne and
me. The playful, seductive grin left. She raised a bemused eyebrow and glided to our side.

“Corps rehearsal today?” she cooed.

“Why yes,” I said, pulling myself upright. “However did you know?”

“The tights and leotards gave it away. It's an interesting look for you.” Neither Jayne nor I had bothered to change—instead we'd thrown skirts over our dance clothes and hoped we looked chic. “Walter says he's hoping to start working on the first number at the end of this week. I do hope you'll be ready by then.”

That was good. If I didn't get a chance to talk to Paulette's friends before then, at least I knew we'd all be in the same room together soon.

“Don't worry about us,” said Jayne. “We'll be ready.”

Minnie appeared behind Ruby and cleared her throat. In her arms was a tray full of lunch for the two of them.

Ruby tossed a side glance at our table. I was only halfway through my sandwich, and I wasn't going anywhere. I turned and rested my legs on the bench beside me. “Enjoy your lunch,” I told her with a smile. “The roast beef is particularly…delicious.”

She wiped the grin off her own face. “Have fun at corps rehearsal.” She and her minion retreated to the other side of the shop where a four top was getting ready to vacate a table near the kitchen.

“We could've asked them to join us,” said Jayne.

“Don't go soft on me. You know how miserable that would've been. Besides, if she wants something, she needs to learn to ask for it. She can't spend her whole life expecting everyone else to do for her.” As I devoured the rest of my sandwich, I spied Ruby and Minnie from the corner of my eye. Ruby dissected her sandwich, pointing out each layer of so-called food and demanding that Minnie verify that it had been prepared to her specifications. That task complete, Ruby divided her attention between eating and talking animatedly, no doubt forcing Minnie to relive every glorious moment she'd experienced at that morning's rehearsal. Minnie watched her with such rapt attention that if a bomb erupted in the room I doubt she would've looked away.

We finished our lunches and hustled back to the rehearsal room. Maureen's mood seemed to have improved since morning. Instead of instructing us to walk according to her strict standards, she told us we were now ready to attempt to dance. We took our positions at the front of the room and waited for her to shuffle us into whatever order she found the most aesthetically pleasing. I was paired with a miniature man named Delbert Rath and placed at the back of the line with the other towering dames. Mrs. Fentswallow, the chain-smoking accompanist, settled behind the piano and lit up in anticipation of her need to play. As she ashed between the ivories, Maureen instructed us to begin performing the steps we knew. I thought we were doing a grand job of impressing her, but as our partners spun us to the left, she slammed her cane onto the floor and screeched.
“Nein!”

We froze in mid-step. It was amazing how much worse a reprimand sounded when it was delivered in German.

Maureen lifted the cane until it reached her forehead and tapped the tender skin there with its topper—a pewter griffin with red eyes. “Zat is not ze vay ve do it,” she said. “You must connect each movement to the next one. Zis time ve vill do it faster!” She clapped her hands to mark the time. “Schnell, schnell, schnell! Zen you vill see.” Maureen ordered Mrs. Fentswallow to quadruple the tempo and smiled at our fear-stricken faces. With a snap she ordered us back into the opening pose.
“Und fünf, sech, seiben, acht!”

The music took on the rapid, looming quality of a bad dream after a Friday night drunk. Delbert and I tried to keep up, but the practicality of doing the same number of things in a quarter of the time struck that part of my brain that attempts to be logical as impossible. When everyone else was turning, we were still two steps behind, and our only hope of catching up was to eliminate everything that stood between them and us. We were approaching a leap, so I focused all my energy into reaching that movement at the same time as everyone else, at which point I'd do my darnedest to stay with them until the end of the routine. While the rest of the women jumped from a standing position, I was forced to do it from a crouch. I met them midair
and was pleased as punch to find myself landing in time with them. Alas, I forgot to alert Delbert to my plan. Instead of landing in his arms, I hit the floor. My feet skated away from me, leaving it up to my knee to keep me from falling on my face.

My forehead met the floor, my mouth hung open, and as the others continued to twirl around me, I bounced on my knee, hoping for the momentum to be able to force myself into a standing position.

Most actors know how to fall. It's one of those handy skills you develop for the stage that becomes very convenient for everyday life. The problem wasn't that I'd fallen but that I'd fallen before. Two months earlier, after a night of champagne and self-pity, I'd fallen on an icy sidewalk and done a number on the same knee, destroying a dress of Ruby's in the process. And here I thought I didn't get a souvenir of that trip.

I took a deep breath to minimize the pain and found the sweet, familiar odor of butter filling my nostrils. Is that what happened right before death? Did you hallucinate all of your favorite things?

“Are you hurt?” Maureen asked when the song came to an end.

“Is Hitler German?”

“
Nein
. He is Austrian.”
Oops.
“You vere a bar behind everyone else.”

I lifted my head and silently let her know what I thought about her lack of concern.

“Can you valk?”

Delbert took hold of my arms and pulled me upright. As long as I didn't put weight on my injured leg, I was fine.

“I can hop.”

She sighed and shook her head. I was being very inconsiderate. “You cannot dance injured,” she said, though I suspect she was dying to complete the sentence before my injury was mentioned. “Go home. Ice your leg. Come back tomorrow. If it's not better…” Her voice trailed off. I got it. If it wasn't better, me and my bum leg were out.

She told the other dancers to take five, and Jayne and Delbert helped me out the door and down the stairs. I thanked Delbert for
his assistance and sent him on his way while I hobbled out of the theater and onto the curb.

“Do you want me to wait for a cab with you?” asked Jayne.

“And face the wrath of Maureen? No, get upstairs. I'll be fine.” I turned away from her and pretended to hunt for a hack. I blinked back tears that mixed with a light snow.

“Does it hurt?”

The pain was no worse than the thousands of other injuries I'd done to myself, but I couldn't get past the harm to my ego. “It's not so bad.”

“You didn't even want to be in this show, Rosie.”

“It's not a want; it's a need.” If I didn't stay in the show, I wouldn't be able to talk to Paulette's friends, and if I couldn't talk to them, there was no chance I could find out what had really happened to Al.

Jayne rubbed my arm, to warm me up and reassure me. “It'll get better,” she said. “Just stay off it for the rest of today.”

I smiled at her tact. “I will. Now go. Seriously.”

She went inside the theater, and I settled onto a bench shielded by the Bernhardt's marquee. There were no cabs in sight. I passed the time watching a brunette half a block away kiss her flame-haired soldier good-bye, then set my sights on a flyer plastered by the snow to the ground. The New York Wing of the First Fighter Command was desperately in need of women between the ages of eighteen and fifty to work in airplane interceptor centers. D
ON'T
B
E
I
DLE,
the flyer warned. O
UR
P
ILOTS
N
EED
Y
OU.

“And I need them,” said an unfamiliar voice. I looked up and found the brunette standing beside me. Now that I could see her up close, I recognized her as one of Ruby's costars and one of Paulette's friends. She was tall and thin, with the kind of grin that was made for Benson & Hedges ads.

“I don't think they'll pay you for that,” I said.

“Don't be fooled; they won't pay you for spotting enemy planes either. And what I do is more fun.” She pulled out a brass cigarette case decorated with two enamel hearts pierced by an arrow. “Smoke?”