B00AZRHQKA EBOK (51 page)

A lazy, crazy day. The suspense began early, directly after breakfast. A call from Larry.

“She’s going on!” I called in to Gene in the bathroom.

“Great!” he called back.

Half an hour later, Art.

“She’s not,” I reported.

Gene put his newspaper down and put on his jacket.

“Come on, love,” he said. “We’re going to be unfindable all day today.”

“Wait,” I said. I phoned Art and told him I wouldn’t be in.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m sick,” I said. “Just like Star!”

Gene and I went to a morning movie, the highly praised Russian film,
A Slave of Love.
Overwhelming. Then by taxi to the World Trade Center and lunched in the sky at Windows of the World, and discussed the picture thoroughly. We looked out and down, and thought we could see The Imperial Theatre.

“It doesn’t seem all that important from up here, does it?” asked Gene.

We walked through the downtown area to Fraunces Tavern, went in, looked around. Taxi to the Frick, walked to the Guggenheim, down to The Plaza, a slow carriage ride to Tavern on the Green. Shared a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Back to our carriage, and soon the Algonquin. Showers. Made raucous, laughing love. Changed. Six-o’clock dinner at La Grenouille—only four others at that unfashionable hour—then to the theatre for the final preview, happily ready for anything.

Star arrived. Patti wept again.

Curtain up, and in the first ten minutes, we knew our troubles were over. Saul, standing beside us, resplendent in his new dinner jacket, began to sob and could not stop. In the confusion, he somehow got the idea that this was opening night. Well, in a way it was.

She took hold, played the show, related to the company, led the audience, and what is most important, became and remained Nora Bayes—with all her gifts and hopes and troubles and triumphs. I had the feeling that I had never before seen
Shine On, Harvest Moon. This
was the memorable evening.

Backstage after the show was a madhouse. Everyone connected with the enterprise showed up. Ivan and Nadia. Alicia. The record boys, beaming. (I didn’t know they
could!
) Cindy Sapiro. Neysa, kissing everyone. Millie. Hy, high on something. Fred, glassy-eyed. Art, hysterical. Jenny, drunk. Absolute unshakable confidence in the air.

Onstage, Larry talks to the company—very briefly. “That’s it,” he says. “You’ve done it. Now all you’ve got to do is do it again and again and again and again, ad infinitum. Before making it big in movies, Fred Astaire did the greatest single dance number ever in
The Gay Divorce
at The Shubert Theatre. 'Night and Day.’ Spectacular and dangerous. Dancing on the furniture, on the mantelpiece, all over the room. Many years later, he was asked how he had done it. 'Well,’ he said, 'I used to get to the theatre at about six-thirty and go out on the stage and do it. Then, once I’d done it—I knew I could do it again.’ So that’s it. Hang on to it. I promise you it’s worth hanging on to—and we want to hang on to
you,
each and every one—as long as we can. One we’ve lost already, as you know—Patti. She’s off to Lotus Land. Take our thanks and love with you, Patti. That’s all. See you after the show tomorrow night. Forget it’s an opening. Just play another great show.”

Hugs and kisses—Patti and Star, a notable coupling.

Art invites the staff to supper at “21.”

“Fine,” says Gene. “See you there.”

We walk to Fifth and start uptown. Gene is thinking, so I let him. We reach 52
^nd
Street, but he keeps walking. Another two blocks, and I say, “We’ve passed it, love.”

“I know,” he says, turning back, but continuing downtown and to the Algonquin.

“You didn’t think I was going to spend our last evening together with that hellhound, did you?” he asks.

“But you said—”

“Easier.”

“And what do you mean, 'last evening’? For God’s sake.
Please!”

“This is it, love. Back to life tomorrow. It’s time.”

“—the opening?” I say, stunned.

“Nothing I can do about that now, is there?”

“No, I guess not.”

“It’s been a tremendous adventure—one of the best and most stimulating of my life. It’ll take me months to sort it out, maybe years. And whatever happens tomorrow, I’m—”

“Whatever? You
know,
don’t you?”

“Certainly not. Anything can happen—She may revert—She has before—and we know what that means. No matter, I’ve done what I can do.”

“Please stay.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to. For the first time, Midge—darling Midge—I’m panicked. Scared out of my wits. I’ve
got
to get out of here. I feel like London in the Blitz. Ridiculous, I know.”

“Wait till morning, then decide. Please?”

“All right.”

We went to bed and lay apart for a long time, sharing sadness. It seemed years before he reached out and touched me. When he did, I moved to him at once and we kissed.

Inside I was screaming, “Don’t go! For Christ’s sweet sake, don’t go! One more day! Night! Don’t go!”

Where had I read it? What sage had pronounced it? “The way to get a man is to be sexually attractive. The way to hold on to a man is to be sexually satisfactory.”

Well, we’ll see. I was determined—in mind and body—to see if there was any truth in this admonition. Where would he find love like mine? Who was waiting for him in Chicago?

In all our miraculous time together, there had been no such exchange. It was a farewell, all right, and we made it into a long long occasion. It would have to be enough to last me into infinity—I could not imagine sharing myself with anyone else ever. Was it possible? What we were doing? Or was all this taking place in imagination? I shall write no more about it, other than to record that it was the pre-eminent, surpassing, transcendent lovemaking of all time.

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Friday, February 1

OPENING-NIGHT AUDIENCES
: New York opening-night audiences are traditionally unpredictable. They may respond too much, or not enough. They seldom hit the norm of a regular audience. We are in good shape. Sing out. Play confidently.

SECOND NIGHT
: Having not yet played our first night, any discussion of the second night may appear to be gratuitous, but we feel it is worth reminding you that the second night is just as important as the first night.

HEALTH AND WELFARE
: For God’s sake take care in the next several hours. Don’t play with knives, and don’t eat funny foods, and, from its knees, the Management implores the members of the company to dispense with any alcoholic refreshment until the final curtain has fallen.

ROAD COMPANY?
:

“Girls come of their own volition and when the quota was filled the equivalent of the No Casting Today sign of the theatrical office was posted in the outer hall. There usually was a waiting list. In jest, Minna and Ada often discussed the feasibility of putting out a road company, but never got around to it.

“The Everleigh Club was, in the lingo of Broadway ticket brokers, a 'hot ticket.’ The show was a bona fide hit, running twice as long as 'Abie’s Irish Rose’ and exhibiting to four times the gross. As in the case of 'Abie,’ many came more than once. It also had the same Romeo-and-Juliet quality that motivated 'Abie.’ It must have been the neighborhood.”

Charles Washburn

QUOTATION FOR TODAY
:

“We are a part of all we have met, and we’ve met them all.”

Ada Everleigh

OPENING NIGHT
: GODSPEED.

57

I awoke feeling bereft. In a moment, I was to know why. It was noon, and he was gone. On the bedtable beside me, a handwritten letter.

Midge, dear girl, dear friend, dear person, dear love: My business

is words and now when I need them, they fail me.

I sit here, writing as quietly as I can so as not to awaken you.

You gave me back my youth, for which I thank you—but now,

as I take my leave of you—I feel old again.

If only you had had the wit to be born some twenty years earlier

—
or is it my fault? Should I have waited?

Still, we had the Heaven of meeting in a demented, artificial

world—where you befriended me beyond any dream of amity I

have ever cherished.

For more things and kindnesses and generosities and help than

my bewildered brain can summon at this wretched moment—

my undying gratitude, my everlasting love.

I do love you. And the fact that I must not, should not—makes

it all the more poignant.

To be real for an instant—let me hear from you. Surely there is

a measure of harmony we can share. You have a life before you,

mine is becoming largely memory.

I suppose I will be coming to New York one day when the smoke

has cleared. Business, you know. In that happy event, may I call

you? Perhaps we can go somewhere high up and look down on

the silly world down there again.

The short life you permitted me to share with you was anything

but
silly—it was a soaring, unforgettable dream.

My hand in yours.

Gene

It took me an hour and two and a half breakfasts to decide what to do, then I did it.

I checked out of the Algonquin and went home to 55
^th
Street. I packed. I packed what I would need immediately and I packed what I would need permanently. I arranged to have UPS pick up everything. Key with the super. I called Mr. Kritzman at Douglas Elliman about the sublease. I left a temporary forwarding address: The Whitehall, 105 East Delaware Place, Chicago, Illinois 60611. I called The Whitehall and made a reservation for two days, beginning tonight. I called Vartan.

“I thought you were dead,” he said.

“Just the opposite, darling. Listen. I’m leaving New York.”

“Show finished?”

“Opens tonight. Looks good.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be there?” he asked.

“Yes—but that’s why.”

“You sound loopy.”

“Oh, I am! I am!”

“What?”

“Vartan—dear—brother! Will you tell a lie for me?”

“Why not?”

“Call Art Clune’s office—say Pop is sick and I have to come right home.”

“Certainly not!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Terrible idea. Bad luck.”

“Jesus, you’re not going to go fucking superstitious on me, are you?”

“Mariam!!
Is that
you?”

“Will you do it? It’s life or death!”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll say
I’m
sick.”

“How can you phone if you’re sick?”

“I mean, my secretary will say—”

“All right, but right
now.
Judson six, one one five five—got it? Area code two one two. I’ll call you. I’ll write you. I love you. I love you like a brother.”

All this took all day. The phone rang incessantly during those times when I was in the apartment, but I paid no attention. My mind was on my future. The egg of my life was hatching.

I made the last plane to Chicago. 9:55 p.m., United. Slept all the way. To The Whitehall by 11:45, Chicago time. 12:45 in New York. I phone Sardi’s—Belasco Room. It takes twenty minutes to get Clay to the phone—I don’t want to talk to anyone else. At last, Clay.

“How is he?” he asks.

“I'm not there yet. Layover in Chicago.”

“Oh.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Smash.”

“Say it again.”

“Smash!”

“What’s in?”

“All the TV—raveroo. Radio, same.
Times
and
News
over the moon. Don’t know
Post
yet, but hear great.
Time, Newsweek—
everything.”

“Wow!”

“That seems to be the word of the hour, honey. Wow. When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. Anyway—thanks. See y’.”

Too late to call what I came for. Sleep unthinkable. I get into a comfortable chair by the window and look out at Chicago—at the night, at the lake—and I think of the past six and a half months. I try to do it as chronologically as possible—remembering it all—step by step. Now and then, I doze. When I wake, I pick up from where I left off. In the end, as the sun comes up, I am happy for all of them: Art, Hy, Fred, Star, Ivan, Alicia (Alicia!), Clay, Jenny, Phil, Patti, Gloria, Calvin—everyone. Gene. Gene! What am I waiting for?

7:45. I dialed. One ring. Two. Three. Oh, God! Four.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” I said.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Have you heard?”

“God,
yes! Phone hasn’t stopped all night. Isn’t it grand?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s believable. What’s
un
believable is that I’m here.”

“Where?”

“In Chicago.”

“What?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“In Chicago.
I’m in Chicago.”

“What are you doing in Chicago?”

“I live here,” I said.