Coming Attractions (22 page)

“Come on. There’s something I have to say to the Bickersons in the other room.”

Helen gathered her friends in Marty’s living room. Marty sat across from her.

“Is this another pep talk?” Jenny asked.

“I think she’s going to ask Marty out and wants us here to shame Marty into it,” Kim said.

Helen laughed and looked at Marty. “Would I have to shame you into it?”

“No way, sweetheart.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Helen looked at the group. “I want to talk about Blair.”

“Go ahead, Helen,” Mark said.

Helen thought for a moment. She watched while smoke from Marty’s cigarette spiraled upward and scattered into different directions. There had been smoke that night.

“Blair touched our lives from many directions, on screen and off. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman like her.” She paused while heads nodded in agreement and smiles invaded her friends’ lips. “The first night I met her, I thought she was obnoxious, rude, undisciplined, and a lush. And she was. I think all of you will agree, but that was Blair. She was a pain in everyone’s ass, but also warm and intelligent and funny and sensitive. She was a friend.”

Marty wiped tears from her cheek and she reached for Mark’s hand. Phil stood with Nick, their arms around each other’s waist, and stared at the floor. Jenny curled up on a chair and closed her eyes. Jackie came up behind her and rested her hands on her shoulders. Jenny sat quiet. Kim walked to the window as the back of her hand caught a tear. She looked outside and listened while Helen continued.

“And she was always straight with us, whether we liked it or not.” Helen smiled at a memory. “She once told me I look like a sad cocker spaniel when I’m not smiling.” Her smile vanished and then her emotions broke. “I tried to protect her. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed her downward—” Stacey came up behind her and wrapped her arms around Helen’s waist. Helen turned and buried her face in Stacey’s shoulder. “She’s gone, I’m alive, and I feel so damn guilty.”

“No, Helen,” Jackie said. “Never feel guilty for your survival.”

“We don’t hold you responsible,” Jenny said when she reached Helen’s side. She pushed the dampened hair away from Helen’s cheek. “Blair would have said it was meant to happen that way and—”

“—and we shouldn’t make ourselves crazy over something that will never be clear,” Helen finished. A deep breath helped her continue. “So I’m accepting my life, and if you’re listening, Blair, I love you and I’ll miss you tremendously.”

“Me too, Blair,” Marty said into Mark’s shoulder.

Kim walked to Helen’s side, knelt, and wiped away Helen’s tears. “That was nice.”

Stacey cleared her throat and brushed a tear away. “So let’s call it a night.”

God, that felt good. Helen suddenly jumped. “One more thing! I want to make our announcement at the beginning of the show. How do you all feel about that?”

“I say do it and then we can slide into the good stuff.” Marty danced a shuffle. “Dazzle them.”

“Whatever,” Jay said.

“Okay, Helen,” Kim said with a new smile.

United in their purpose, they ended their night with hugs and kisses all around.

“The Stanwyck Theater, right, Helen?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, dear. March sixth. Rehearsal in the morning and be backstage by six that night,” Helen said. Jenny was a great costume designer, but also a scatterbrain. And young. Twenty-three. Oh, to be twenty-three.

*

Helen and Marty lounged on the sofa after the gang departed. Tired from a long day, she yawned and stretched her arms. She rested her head on the back of the sofa. Marty leaned back onto the arm of the couch and an overstuffed yellow pillow framed her head and shoulders.

Marty closed her eyes. “It’s gonna be a great show.”

“If the patrons stay,” Helen said.

“That never occurred to me. Do you think they might leave?”

Helen bounced her cane repeatedly on the tip of her toe. “It’s a distinct possibility. We won’t lose them all. The gays will stay. They’ll be saying, ‘I knew he was a queen or she was a dyke.’”

“We should have discussed it.” Marty sounded concerned for the first time. “I hope I can handle it.”

“Don’t do a Chamberlain on me. I’ve had it up to here with that.” Helen drew a line across her forehead. “If you want to bail out, fine. All of you can, but I’ll be there.”

Marty sat up. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“Everything and nothing.” She tossed the cane to the floor. “Not anymore, I guess.”

“Explain.”

“What’s to explain? Marty, I miss Cory so much.” Helen cried and Marty held her.

“Call her, sweetheart.”

“I’ve tried. She doesn’t return my calls.” Helen moved away. “Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Sure.”

*

Helen moved closer when Marty snuggled against her back. Warm waves of breath relaxed her neck and she smelled a fragrance of Coco Chanel, number unknown. She wasn’t Cory, but Marty was comforting. She wondered how she’d slept alone for all those years after Chelsea.

“Are you scared, Helen?”

Helen laughed. “You’re the one who should be scared. You’re my fantasy woman.”

Marty kissed the back of Helen’s neck. “I know I’m not the woman you want. I meant, are you afraid of being alone?”

“I’ve done alone. I’m afraid of never feeling Cory’s arms around me again.”

*

Helen dreamed and Cory stepped toward the inferno.

“Cory!”

Finally, her seat belt now released, Helen rushed to her, grabbed her arm, and swung her around. The bouncing, the screaming, and the screeching stopped. The fire backdrafted. Cory looked into Helen’s eyes.

“We’re safe?” she asked.

Helen pulled her into her arms. “We’re safe, baby. We’re all right.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Show time.

The night was a shelter from Helen’s thoughts of Cory. Backstage at the Stanwyck Theater, nervous excitement charged the air. The men, Helen couldn’t figure them out. To them, it seemed just another night, as they sat together in their dressing room, discussing the Knicks and the Rangers. But the women were flying. Dresses went on and came off. Jenny forgot a button and a zipper needed mending. Frazzled, Marty was soaked with perspiration, and her hair frizzed to the appearance of an aged dandelion.

Stacey watched the commotion from a sofa, apparently entertained by their nervous energies.

“Sure,” Helen said to her, “be amused.”

“I’m gonna pop her one,” Kim said, sans smile, while she struggled with her panty hose. “These stupid things. Did a man develop these?”

“Good grief, Kim. They stretch,” Stacey said. “Just pull them up.”

“That’s it.” Kim jumped on Stacey’s lap and pinched her cheeks. “I’ve had enough of you tonight.”

“It got you on my lap.” Stacey grinned.

“Pig.” Kim jumped down and continued to wrestle with her panty hose.

“Okay, ladies,” Helen announced to her clattering collection of feminine folly. “Jackie, are you finished with makeup?”

Jackie added the last touch to Marty. “All set.”

“The house is full and I’m shaking like a leaf.” Helen stared at Jenny. “Are you all right?”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” Jenny clutched her mouth and headed toward the bathroom with no time to spare.

“I hope that isn’t an indication of the way the rest of the night’s going to end up.” Marty strutted up to each woman and kissed her cheek. “Break a leg, girls.”

Helen held up her cane. “Don’t say that.”

“Three minutes, ladies,” their stage manager yelled through the door. “Get to the wing, Helen.”

Helen’s pulse quickened. “Come with me, Marty.” She took Marty’s hand and turned to the women. She looked them over. Jenny came out of the bathroom, pale. “This is it. Relax and have fun out there. We can do it.”

It seemed a long walk to the wing. Marty was silent. Helen thought about her sonata and wondered if Cory was anywhere near the city.

“Are you ready, Helen?” Paul asked.

“Yes.” She peeked from behind the curtain to an auditorium whose size suddenly seemed to equal that of Shea Stadium. “Jesus,” she whispered. The lights dimmed. A man’s voice boomed throughout the auditorium. Helen flinched.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he paused, “your host for this evening,” another pause, “whose hometown is really Brewster—” The audience laughed with his added piece of trivia.

“Who told him that?” Helen whispered hoarsely to Marty, who also laughed.

“New York’s favorite columnist, Helen Townsend.”

“Luck, sweetheart.” Marty kissed her.

Helen took a deep breath and walked on stage to the dais. A burst of thunderous, rolling applause shocked her. She was never on the receiving end of such a welcome, only ever a bearer.
There was no wonder left to why celebrities had egos.

Helen couldn’t help but smile. She glanced around the now-darkened auditorium and waited for silence.

“Thank you and welcome. This is a special night for the cast and production crew. Our show will benefit children with AIDS, and your full admission charge will be donated.” More applause. Now was the tough part. She waited once more for quiet.

“Before we begin, we have an announcement.”

She looked toward the wing, where everyone gathered around Marty. Family. Marty gave her a thumbs-up and a nod. Helen looked back to her audience and realized she was talking to darkness.

“Turn up the house lights, please.” A moment later, the darkness lightened and faces brightened. “That’s better.” She scanned the auditorium and continued.

“This show is a statement by all involved. That includes stagehands, lighting, sound, wardrobe, the entire production team. Unanimously we stand before you”—Helen found herself joined by her friends—“all members of the gay community.”

There. It was done. Some of Hollywood, Broadway, and all of Helen stood, naked to the world. Helen gripped the dais while her words met with a dead silence. The only prominent sound was the pounding in her ears. Her palms grew sweaty and she hated the quiet. Then someone coughed and another cleared their throat. Helen’s eyes followed the sounds. People whispered to those sitting next to them. Jenny reached for Helen’s hand, Marty took hold of Jackie’s, and a chain reaction went down the line, joining the group. They became one.

It must have been the gays in the audience who reacted first. Whistles, a few yelps from around the audience, applause from a group here and there. Those things offered little relief. A man in the eighth row stood.

“I didn’t come here expecting to see a bunch of faggots skipping around.”

“Sit down!” a young woman said. “Don’t be rude.”

“The men involved with the show are gentlemen, sir.” Helen grew more confident, having mentally prepared for the worst-case scenario.

“Nothing but a bunch of queers,” the same man muttered and headed toward the exit.

“I’m here to see a good show, Helen,” the woman with the white scarf, third row, said.

“And we promise you one.” She watched while seven more left their seats, some laughing. “We’re coming out tonight for community support. For the children who are not understood, for the parents who are not. For your neighbors and for some of you.” Helen watched members of the audience whisper and then suddenly a slow, but strengthening applause rang through the auditorium and delivered a feeling of relief to Helen. “I’m scared to death up here.”

“You’re a gutsy group, Helen,” the man with the woman in the white scarf said.

“Thank you. We have a terrific show for you. Marty would say we’re going to dazzle you. And we just might.”

“Blair,” Kim whispered.

“Oh,” Helen said into the microphone and blushed when she heard her voice echo. The audience laughed. “The show is dedicated to another member of our community. Blair Whitman.” The clapping of hands was loud and long. Blair still commanded an audience.

Helen introduced the first act, Nick and Phil, who had worked up a comedy sketch. Along with Marty, Helen watched them from the wing.

“You were great,” Marty said with excitement. “I almost went after that first guy.”

“Thanks,” she said and checked her appearance in a full-length mirror. She fussed with her sleeves.

She wore a white, form-fitted dress. Sequins dressed the fabric from shoulders to waist, and the skirt was split up the side. The neckline dipped below her throat, where Cory’s emerald sparkled. Helen’s cane felt more like a complementing prop than a practical necessity. She looked out to the crowd again.

“What do you suppose they’re thinking?” Marty said.

“Who cares? They’re still here.” She peeked into the audience and was satisfied with their obvious enjoyment of the show thus far. Would Cory have found this so threatening?

Kim was on stage next. She received an ovation and an encore. For her second number, she winged it. “Little Brown Jug” became a liberating, three-variation cello piece. Yo-Yo Ma would have been envious, if not mortified.

Next, Helen introduced Marty. Her songs were sentimental pieces that she had trouble getting through without choking up. The first, “On the Wings of Love,” had been Blair’s favorite. The second, “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face,” she sang in memory of Blair. Behind her, a screen flashed a series of photos of Blair, from her as a baby to her stills from her final film. The tears evoked by her reminiscence would have been sufficient to water a rainforest.

On they played, some of Hollywood’s and Broadway’s finest: dancers, a juggler, a ventriloquist, several actors and actresses. Dancers acted, singers danced, and actors tried it all. Not great sometimes, but always at least good, and often comical, they had a swell time and they charmed their audience.

Intermission turned into fifteen minutes of backstage Keystone Cops, and the joint was jumping. Helen hugged the men and danced with the women.

“We did it! We darn well did it. You guys were great,” she said.

Jenny returned from the bathroom, pale after a second run-in with nerves. “I’m learning to hate porcelain. Why am I such a wreck?” She looked toward her jubilant comrades for an answer. “I only dressed you.”