City of Girls (20 page)

“We don’t serve the carriage trade,” Olive said. “We serve working people, or do I have to remind you?”

“Well maybe the
working people
of this neighborhood would like to see a quality show, Olive, for once in their lives. Maybe they don’t like being treated like they are poor and tasteless. Maybe they think it would be
worth it to pay a bit extra to see something good. Have you considered
that
?”

The two of them had been bickering about this for days, but it all came to a head when Olive burst in on a rehearsal one afternoon—interrupting Peg while she was talking to a dancer about some confusion over blocking—and announced, “I’ve just been to the printers. It’s going to cost two hundred and fifty dollars to
print the five thousand new tickets you want, and I refuse to pay it.”

Peg spun on her heel and shouted: “Goddamn it, Olive—how much money do I have to pay you to
stop talking about fucking money
?”

The whole theater fell silent. Everybody iced over, right where they stood.

Maybe you remember, Angela, what a powerful impact the word “fuck” used to have in our society—back before everybody and
their children started saying it ten times a day before breakfast. Indeed, it was once a
very
potent word. To hear it coming out of a respectable woman’s mouth? This was never done. Not even Celia used that word. Billy didn’t even use that word. (I used it, of course, but only in the privacy of Anthony’s brother’s bed, and only because Anthony made me say it before he would have sex with me—and
I still blushed whenever I spoke it.)

But to hear it
shouted
?

I had never heard it shouted.

It did cross my mind for a moment to wonder where my nice old Aunt Peg had ever learned such a word—although I guess if you’ve taken care of wounded soldiers on the front lines of trench warfare, you’ve probably heard everything.

Olive stood there with the invoice in her hand. She had a distinctly slapped
look about her, and it was something terrible to behold in one who was always so commanding. She put her other hand over her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears.

In the next moment, Peg’s face went sodden with remorse.

“Olive, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m an ass.”

She stepped toward her secretary, but Olive shook her head and skittered away backstage. Peg ran after her.
The rest of us all looked around at each other in shock. The air itself felt dead and hard.

It was Edna who recovered first, perhaps not surprisingly.

“My suggestion, Billy,” she said in a steady voice, “is that you ask the company to start the dance number again from the top. I believe Ruby knows where to stand now, don’t you, my dear?”

The little dancer nodded quietly.

“From the top?” asked
Billy, a bit uncertainly. He looked more uncomfortable than I’d ever seen him before.

“That’s correct,” Edna said, with her usual polish. “From the top. And Billy, if you could please remind the cast to keep their attention on their roles and the job at hand, that would be ideal. Let us be mindful to keep the tone light, as well. I know you are all tired, but we can do this. As you are discovering,
my friends—making comedy can be hard.”

The ticket incident might have dissolved from my memory, but for one thing.

That night, I went to Anthony’s place as usual, ready for my standard
evening fare of sensual debauchery. But his brother, Lorenzo, came home from work at the unforgivably early hour of midnight, so I had to beat it back to the Lily Playhouse, feeling more than a little frustrated
and exiled. I was irritated, too, that Anthony wouldn’t walk me home—but that was Anthony for you. That boy had many sterling qualities, but gentlemanliness was not among them.

Okay, maybe he only had one sterling quality.

In any case, I was flustered and distracted when I arrived back at the Lily, and it’s likely that my blouse was on inside out, as well. As I climbed the stairs to the third
floor, I could hear music playing. Benjamin was at the piano. He was playing “Stardust” in a melancholy way—more slowly and sweetly than I’d ever heard. Old and corny as that song was even back then, it has always been one of my favorites. I opened the door to the living room carefully, not wanting to interrupt. The only light in the room was the small lamp over the piano. There was Benjamin, playing
so softly that his fingers barely touched the keys.

And there, standing in the middle of the darkened living room, were Peg and Olive. They were dancing with each other. It was a slow sort of dance—more of a rocking embrace than anything. Olive had her face pressed against Peg’s bosom, and Peg was resting her cheek on the top of Olive’s head. They both had their eyes closed tightly. They were
clinging to each other, squeezed together in a silent grip of need. Whatever world they were in—whatever era of history they were in, whatever memories they were in, whatever story they were knitting back together in the tightness of their embrace—it was very much their own world. They were somewhere together, but they were not
here
.

I watched them, unable to move, and unable to comprehend what
I was witnessing—while at the same time, unable to
not
comprehend what I was witnessing.

After a while, Benjamin glanced over to the doorway and saw me. I don’t know how he sensed that I was there. He didn’t stop playing,
and his expression didn’t change, but he kept his eyes on me. I kept my eyes on him, too—maybe looking for some kind of explanation or instruction, but none was offered. I felt
pinned in the doorway by Benjamin’s gaze. There was something in his eyes that said: “You do not take another step into this room.”

I was afraid to move, for fear of making a sound and alerting Peg and Olive to my presence. I didn’t want to embarrass them or humiliate myself. But when I could feel that the song was ending, I had no choice: I had to slip away, or be caught.

So I backed out and
gently closed the door behind me—Benjamin’s unblinking gaze on me as he finished playing the song, watching to make sure I was good and gone before he touched the final, wistful note.

I spent the next two hours in an all-night diner in Times Square, not sure when it would be safe to return home. I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t go back to Anthony’s apartment, and I still felt the power
of Benjamin’s stare, warning me not to cross that threshold—
not now, Vivian.

I had never been out alone at this hour in the city, and it frightened me more than I cared to acknowledge. I didn’t know what to do, without Celia or Anthony or Peg as my guides. I still wasn’t a real New Yorker, you see. I was still a tourist. You don’t become a real New Yorker until you can manage the city alone.

So I had gone to the most brightly lit place I could find, where a tired old waitress kept refilling my coffee cup without comment or complaint. I watched a sailor and his girl arguing in the booth across from me. They were both drunk. Their fight was about somebody named Miriam. The girl was suspicious of Miriam; the sailor was defensive about Miriam. They were both making a strong case for their
respective positions.
I went back and forth between believing the sailor and believing the girl. I felt like I needed to see what Miriam looked like before rendering a verdict on whether the soldier had been untrue to his sweetheart.

Peg and Olive were
lesbians
?

It couldn’t be, though. Peg was married. And Olive was . . .
Olive.
A sexless being if ever there was one. Olive was made of mothballs.
But was there any other explanation for why those two middle-aged women were holding each other so tightly in the dark while Benjamin played the world’s saddest love song for them?

I knew they had quarreled that day, but is this how you make up with your secretary after an argument? I hadn’t been around a lot of business concerns in my life, but that embrace didn’t seem professional. Nor did
it seem like something that would happen between two friends. I slept in a bed with a woman every night—not just any woman, but one of the most beautiful women in New York—and we didn’t embrace like that.

And if they were lesbians—well, since
when
? Olive had been working for Peg since the Great War. She’d met Peg before Billy did. Was this a new development or had it always been this way? Who
knew about this? Did Edna know about this? Did my family know about this? Did Billy know about this?

Certainly Benjamin knew. The only thing that had rattled him about the scene was my presence in it. Did he play the piano for them often, so they could dance? What was going
on
in that theater behind closed doors? And was this the real source of the constant bickering and tension between Billy
and Peg and Olive? Was their underlying argument not about money or drinking or control, but about sexual competition? (My mind raced back to that day at auditions when Billy had said to Olive, “How dull it would be if you and I always had the same taste in women.”) Could Olive Thompson—she of the boxy woolen
suits, and the moral sanctimony, and the thin line of a mouth—be a
rival
to Billy Buell?

Could
anybody
be a rival to the likes of Billy Buell?

I thought of Edna saying of Peg: “These days she wants loyalty more than fun.”

Well, Olive was loyal. You had to give her that. And if you didn’t need to have fun, you’d come to the right place, I suppose.

I could not parse what any of it meant.

I walked back home around two thirty.

I eased open the door to the living room, but nobody
was there. All the lights were off. On one hand, it was as if the scene had never occurred—but at the same time, I felt that I could still see a shadow of the two women dancing in the middle of the room.

I slipped off to bed and was awoken a few hours later by Celia’s familiar boozy warmth, crashing down next to me on the mattress.

“Celia,” I whispered to her, once she’d settled in beside me.
“I have to ask you something.”

“Sleeping,” she said, in a gluey voice.

I poked her, shook her, made her groan and turn over, and said louder, “Come
on,
Celia. This is important. Wake up. Listen to me. Is my Aunt Peg a lesbian?”

“Does a dog bark?” Celia replied, and she was sound asleep in the very next instant.

SIXTEEN

From Brooks Atkinson’s review of
City of Girls
in
The New York Times,
November 30, 1940:

If the play is destitute of veracity, it is by no means destitute of charm. The writing is quick and sharp, and the cast is nearly universally excellent. . . . But the great pleasure of
City of Girls
lies in the rare opportunity to witness Edna Parker Watson at work. This lauded British actress
possesses a flair for the comic that one might not have expected from so illustrious a tragedienne. Watching Mrs. Watson stand aside to appraise the clown show in which her character regularly finds herself is a marvel. Her reactions are so richly humorous and subtle as to make her walk away with this delightful little piece of lampoonery tucked tidily under one arm.

Opening night had been terrifying—and
also contentious.

Billy had stocked the audience with old friends and loudmouths, columnists and ex-girlfriends, and every publicist and critic and newspaperman he knew by name or reputation. (And he knew
everyone
.) Peg and Olive had both objected to this idea, and strongly.

“I don’t know if we’re ready for that,” Peg said—sounding just like a woman who is panicked to learn that her husband
has invited his boss over for dinner that night and expects a perfect meal on short notice.

“We’d better be ready,” said Billy. “We’re opening in a week.”

“I don’t want critics in this theater,” Olive said. “I don’t like critics. Critics can be so
unsympathetic
.”

“Do you even believe in our play, Olive?” Billy asked. “Do you even like our play?”

“No,” she replied. “Except in spots.”

“I cannot
resist asking, though I know I’ll regret it—
which
spots?”

Olive thought carefully. “I might somewhat enjoy the overture.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “You’re a living tribulation, Olive.” Then he turned his attention to Peg. “We’ve got to take the risk, honey. We’ve got to spread the word. I don’t want the only important person in the audience that first night to be me.”

“Give us a week at least
to work out the kinks,” said Peg.

“It doesn’t make any difference, Pegsy. If the show is a bomb, it’ll still be a bomb in a week, kinks or no. So let’s find out right away whether we’ve wasted all our time and money, or not. We need big gravy people in the audience, or it’ll never work. We need them to love it, and we need them to tell their friends to come and see it, and that’s how the ball
rolls. Olive won’t let me spend money to advertise, so we
need to ballyhoo the hell out of this thing. The sooner we start selling out every seat in the house, the sooner Olive will stop looking at me like I’m a murderer—and we can’t sell out every seat in this house unless people know we’re
here
.”

“I think it’s vulgar to invite one’s social friends to one’s place of work,” said Olive, “and then
expect them to provide free publicity.”

“Then how do you aim for us to alert people to the fact that we have a show, Olive? Would you like me to stand on the street corner in a sandwich board?”

Olive looked as though she wouldn’t be against it.

“As long as the sign doesn’t say THE END IS NEAR,” said Peg, who did not seem certain that it wasn’t.

“Pegsy,” said Billy, “where’s your confidence?
This mule kicks. You know it does. You
know
this show is good. You can feel it in your belly, just like I do.”

But Peg was still uneasy. “So many times over the years you have told me that I was feeling something in my belly. And usually the only thing I was feeling was the unsettling sensation of having just lost my wallet.”

“I’m about to
stuff
your wallet, lady,” said Billy. “Just you watch
me do it.”

From Heywood Broun, writing in the
New York Post:

Edna Parker Watson has long been a gem of the British stage, but after watching
City of Girls,
one wishes she had come to brighten our shores sooner. What might have been seen as a mere curio transforms into a memorable night of theater, thanks to Mrs. Watson’s rare understanding and wit,
as she portrays a down-on-her-luck society
doyenne who must turn bordello madam in order to save the family mansion. . . . Benjamin Wilson’s songs crackle with delight, and the dancers are brilliantly ascending. . . . Newcomer Anthony Roccella smolders as a flashy urban Romeo, and Celia Ray’s distracting carnality gives the show an overall adult savor.

In the last few days before opening night, Billy spent money like crazy—even crazier
than usual. He brought in two Norwegian masseuses for our dancers and stars. (Peg was appalled by the expense, but Billy said, “We do it in Hollywood all the time, with your jumpier stars. You’ll see—it calms them right down.”) He had a doctor come to the Lily Playhouse and give everyone vitamin shots. He told Bernadette to bring in every cousin she’d ever had—and their kids, too—to clean that theater
until it was unrecognizable. He hired men from the neighborhood to hose down the façade of the Lily, and to make sure every lightbulb in the big electric sign was firing at full blaze, and he put new gels on all the stage lighting, as well.

For the final dress rehearsal, he brought in catering from Toots Shor’s—caviar, smoked fish, finger sandwiches, the works. He hired a photographer to take
publicity photos of the cast in full costume. He filled the lobby with large sprays of orchids, which probably cost more than my first semester at college (and was probably a better investment, too). He brought in a facialist, a manicurist, and a makeup artist for Edna and Celia.

On the day of our opening, he wrangled up some kids and unemployed men from the neighborhood, and hired them (at fifty
cents a pop, which was a pretty good wage, for the kids, at least) to mill about outside the theater, giving the impression that something tremendously
exciting was about to happen. He hired the kid with the loudest mouth to keep shouting, “Sold out! Sold out! Sold out!”

On the evening of opening night, Billy presented Edna, Peg, and Olive with surprise gifts—for good luck, he said. He gave Edna
a slim gold bracelet from Cartier that was just to her taste. For Peg, there was a handsome new leather wallet from Mark Cross. (“You’ll need it soon, Pegsy,” he said with a wink. “Once the box office starts pouring in, your old wallet will bust at the seams.”) As for Olive, he ceremoniously bestowed her with an overwrapped gift box, containing—once she had finally gotten all the paper and bows
off it—a bottle of gin.

“Your own stash,” he said. “To help you anesthetize yourself during the utter boredom that you apparently suffer from this production.”

From Dwight Miller, in the
New York World-Telegram:

Theatergoers are urged to ignore the saggy and worn seats of the Lily Playhouse, and to ignore the flakes of ceiling that may land in their hair as the hoofers dance onstage, and to
ignore the ill-designed sets and the flickering lights. Yes, they are urged to ignore every discomfort and inconvenience, and get themselves over to Ninth Avenue to see Edna Parker Watson in
City of Girls
!

Then the audience was entering the theater, and we all crowded backstage—everyone in full costume and full makeup—listening to the glorious din of a packed house.

“Gather round,” said Billy.
“This is your moment.”

The nervous, high-strung actors and dancers all formed a loose
circle around Billy. I stood next to Anthony, as proud as I had ever been, holding his hand. He gave me a deep kiss, then dropped my hand and shifted back and forth on his feet lightly, jabbing the air with his fists, like a boxer about to fight.

Billy took a flask out of his pocket, helped himself to a generous
swig, then passed it to Peg, who did the same.

“Now I’m not one for speeches,” said Billy, “given that I’m unfamiliar with stringing words together and I don’t enjoy being the center of attention.” The cast laughed indulgently. “But I want to tell you people that what you’ve made here in a short amount of time and on a shoestring budget is just as good as theater can ever be. There is nothing
playing on Broadway right now—or in London, too, I would wager—that’s any better than the goods we’ve got to offer these folks tonight.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything playing in London at all right now, darling,” corrected Edna dryly, “except maybe ‘Bombs Away’ . . .”

The cast laughed again.

“Thank you, Edna,” said Billy. “You’ve reminded me to mention you. Listen to me, everyone. If you get
nervous or unsettled onstage, look to Edna. From this moment on, she’s your captain and you couldn’t be in better hands. Edna is the coolest-headed performer with whom you will ever have the privilege of sharing a stage. Nothing can shake up this woman. So let her steadiness be your guide. Stay relaxed by seeing how relaxed she is. Remember that an audience will forgive a performer for anything
except being uncomfortable. And if you forget your lines, just keep talking gibberish, and Edna will somehow fix it. Trust her—she’s been doing this job since the Spanish Armada, haven’t you, Edna?”

“Since somewhat before then, I should think,” she said, smiling.

Edna looked incandescent in her vintage red Lanvin gown from the Lowtsky’s bin. I had tailored the dress to her with such care. I
was so proud of how well I’d dressed her for this role. Her makeup was
exquisite, too. (But of course it was.) She still resembled herself, but this was a more vivid, regal version of herself. With her bobbed, glossy black hair and that lush red dress, she looked like a piece of Chinese lacquer—immaculate, varnished, and ever so valuable.

“One more thing before I turn it over to your trusty producer,”
said Billy. “Remember that this audience didn’t come here tonight because they want to hate you. They came because they want to love you. Peg and I have put on thousands of shows over the years, in front of every kind of audience there is, and I know what an audience wants. They want to fall in love. So I’ve got an old vaudevillian’s tip for you: If you love them first, they won’t be able
to help themselves from falling in love with you right back. So go out there and love them hard, is my advice.”

He paused for a moment, wiped his eyes, and then spoke again.

“Now listen,” he said. “I stopped believing in God during the Great War, and you would’ve too, if you’d seen what I saw. But sometimes I have relapses—usually when I get too drunk or overly emotional, and right now, I’m
a little of both, so forgive me, but here goes. Let’s bow our heads and have a prayer.”

I couldn’t believe it, but he was serious.

We bowed our heads. Anthony took my hand again, and I felt the thrill that I always got from his attentions, no matter how slight. Somebody took my other hand and gave it a squeeze. I could tell from her familiar touch that it was Celia.

I’m not sure I’d ever had
a happier moment than this.

“Dear God of whatever nature you are,” said Billy. “Shine your favor on these humble players. Shine your favor on this wretched old theater. Shine your favor on those bums out there and make them love us. Shine your favor on this useless little endeavor of ours. What we’re doing here tonight doesn’t matter a bit in the cruel scheme of the world, but we’re doing it
anyhow. Make it worth our while. We ask this in
your name—whoever you are, and whether we believe in you or not, which most of us don’t. Amen.”

“Amen,” we all said.

Billy took another swig off his flask. “Anything you’d like to add to that, Peg?”

My Aunt Peg grinned, and in that moment she looked about twenty years old.

“Just get out there, kids,” she said, “and kick the living shit out of
it.”

From Walter Winchell, writing in the
New York Daily Mirror:

I’m not bothered about whatever play Edna Parker Watson is in, just so long as she is in it! She stands head and shoulders above other actresses who think they know how! . . . She looks like royalty, but she can bring the ham! . . .
City of Girls
is a masterpiece of flapdoodle—and if that sounds like a complaint, folks, believe
me, it is not. In these dark times, we could all use some more flapdoodle. . . . Celia Ray—and boo to whoever has been hiding
her
all these years—is an iridescent minx. You might not want to leave her alone with your boyfriend or your husband, but is that any way to judge a starlet? . . . Don’t worry, chippies, there’s something tasty for you in this show, too: I could hear all the ladies in the
audience sighing for Anthony Roccella, who oughta be in pictures. . . . Donald Herbert is hilarious as a blind pickpocket—and that’s what I call some politicians these days! . . . Now, as far as Arthur Watson goes, he’s way too young for his wife, but she’s way too good for him—so I bet that’s how they make things work! I don’t know if he’s as wooden a fellow offstage
as he is in the spotlight,
but if he is, I feel sorry for his cutie-pie wife!

Edna got the first laugh of the show.

Act 1, scene 1: Mrs. Alabaster is at a tea party with a few other opulent ladies. Amidst the general chatter of idle gossip, she casually mentions that her husband was hit by a car the night before. The ladies all gasp in shock, and one of them asks, “Critical, my dear?”

“
Always,
” replies Mrs. Alabaster.

There’s a long beat. The ladies stare at her in arch confusion. Mrs. Alabaster stirs her tea calmly, with one pinky raised. Then she looks up in purest innocence: “I’m sorry, did you mean his condition? Oh, he’s dead.”

The audience roared.

Backstage, Billy grabbed my aunt’s hand and said, “We got ’em, Pegsy.”

From Thomas Lessig, in the
Morning Telegraph:

The high-battery sex appeal of Miss
Celia Ray will keep many a gentleman glued to his seat, but the wise audience member would do well to train his eyes on Edna Parker Watson—an international sensation who announces herself in
City of Girls
as a star whose big day in America has finally come.

Later in Act 1, Lucky Bobby is trying to convince Mrs. Alabaster to pawn her valuables in order to finance the speakeasy.