Vivian In Red (49 page)

Alex nods, helpless against the force of an old man’s decisiveness.

“But I want to ask you one thing before you go, young man.”

“Sure.”

“How did Vivian die, exactly? I only know that she died young. After your mother was born, obviously.”

“I only know the family story, and you know how those are, Mr. Short. But I remember it well because it was a cautionary tale in the whole family. She walked on the pier in a storm and got swept away. There was a lighthouse out there she liked. Estelle used to say she was a good swimmer going back to their days growing up in Chicago, but even a good swimmer can’t fight the lake in a storm. My mother told me that all the time, whenever the waves kicked up high. ‘Even a good swimmer can’t fight the storm.’”

Alex and Eleanor trail out of the office, and I lean back in my chair, picturing Vivian on that last day. I can just see her, shoes dangling from her fingers as she watched the lake explode onto the shore and she dug her toes into the sand.

She’d want a better view, sure she would. She always did like a front row seat in life. So she’d drop her shoes and walk closer, closer yet, until the waves leapt up and soaked her knees.

Then she’d look out at the end of the pier and see the surf surging, mist leaping high as the lighthouse. That would be amazing up close, so she’d turn and walk out on the pier. Was it wood? Concrete? It wouldn’t matter, she’d go out as far as she could, never one for doing things halfway.

Was she scared? I wonder, as the wave reared up over her, did she know it would sweep her away? Did she think of her little daughter in those last moments on the solid, strong pier?

Or did she throw her arms back, tip her head to the sky, and let it come?

T
he young girl’s face bursts with delight when she opens the stage door and finds me on my way in. I put a finger to my lips,
shhhh, it’s a secret,
and she giggles behind her hand, letting me past.

It’s hard for an old man to sneak around, this I know, especially me, especially here, because everybody knows me, even if I weren’t wearing my old favorite fedora.

I think that girl is in the chorus, but then again, it’s an easy guess.

The house lights are dim, and this is convenient for me, for sure. I wend my way toward the back rows, so that I’m well clear of the dim halo of stage lights. I don’t want to make anyone nervous, see, but I really did want to be here today. This particular day.

The director is a new guy who looks more than a little like Nat King Cole, and has a boyfriend who he likes to bring to the house for dinner. They’re a hoot, those two. I always forget the director’s name—oy, my memory these days—so I think of him as Nat. Lucky I don’t have to call him by name too much.

Nat is talking to a pretty girl by name of Minerva-Something, and our star, Anthony Tremain, which I’m positive is a stage name.

Then Nat hops down off the stage with the lightness of a fawn, and nods to the rehearsal pianist. I can’t see the fellow, so I can still imagine Fink sitting there, pounding away, accepting of his mediocre status, but playing as well as he can anyhow, because it’s close to what he wanted and close is not nothing.

And then the chords come, and this Anthony young man begins to liltingly sing and soft-shoe around the stage like he weighs nothing, like a piece of fluff on the breeze. I will never get over these amazing people. If I didn’t see scores of them all the time, pouring into New York, I’d refuse to believe so much talent was real. An embarrassment of riches, is what.

It’s not a vocal duet but she doesn’t stand there like a dummy. She flirts and sashays and beams without ever upstaging. She’s terrific, plus she’s got legs for days, which never hurts.

When Anthony finishes up that last refrain, swooping her down in a dip so low her hair brushes the stage, the assembled motley crew out in the seats make as much noise applauding as they can muster, which is more than you’d think.

That might be the best “Love Me, I Guess” I ever did see.

As the noise settles down a bit, I call out, “Bravo! Stupendous!” and everybody whips around to search for me in the dark. They know my voice too, they do. Plus who else says stupendous anymore? They ought to. And boffo, too.

Some wise guy with the spotlight swings it onto me. “Hey, you’re going to blind an old geezer, you putz!” But I’m laughing, though I really am half blind with that light. By the time I’ve blinked the brightness away again, half the cast has rushed up to me, I think.

Nat, whose name I now remember is something like Evan or Kevin, gets to me first and shakes my hand out of my sleeve.

I spend some time telling them all how terrific they are, which they sop up like cats with milk, as well they should.

In a lull, I pull some papers out of my inside jacket pocket. “I got something here I’d like to share with you, but first, is Eleanor around? I’d like her to be here, too.”

The stage manager says, “Oh sure, I just saw her a few minutes ago, I’ll get her.”

Eleanor has a title of some kind or another at Short Productions—at Naomi’s insistence that the family have jobs that sound important—but she’s never in her office and I’m not sure if she ever took her business cards out of the plastic wrap. Instead, she’s over at the theater all the time, getting everybody to teach her everything they know, meanwhile running errands or whatever anyone asks her to do. She runs out for coffee, makes copies, and is in general happier than I’ve seen her during her Columbia days, or with any magazine story. I think she might have a future in casting, personally. She sat in with us during
The High Hat
revival auditions and she had some smart things to say, including about the comedic second lead who we almost overlooked. That gal learned a lot about people by mostly listening instead of talking so much.

She gave up the book project in the end, and oh did Naomi and Paul ever have a conniption fit about that at first! Naomi was mad she wasted all that time on the “wild goose chase” of Vivian, and was none too pleased about the song credit, either. It took me a fair amount of explaining to finally convince her I was not an addled and manipulated old fart, but sharp enough to finally learn from a batch of sixty-year-old screw-ups and give credit where it’s due.

Paul was peeved, as if he’d done Eleanor this huge favor with the book in the first place, not to mention having to give back the advance they’d already paid. Some favor! He’d manipulated her into it, seems to me, and I told him so, too. I’m still his father and I’ll tell him what’s what. Anyway, they got over it, and this Arnie fella is doing a pretty good job. He was the one Naomi really wanted in the first place, anyhow. Sure, the book makes the point about sharing credit with the late Vivian Adair for my famous song, and sure, I’ve been warned that the publisher will want to make a splash about “the revelation,” but it’s not so bad. Arnie will be great on camera and will do all the talking. I had my say in the book, thankful enough I have my words back that I said all there was about Vivian, and her help with lyrics, and how we were “briefly romantic.” Funny how I’ve only recently thought to wonder how much Bee ever guessed about Vivian and me. She probably guessed plenty; she was no dummy, my lovely Beatrice.

When Eleanor finally appears out of the wings, she’s got dust bunnies trapped in her hair, which she tries to brush out, and she doesn’t get them all. But she just shrugs and shades her eyes to try to look out in the seats. “Grampa Milo? You out there?”

“Here, kid.” I wave at her as I’m about to take a seat at the rehearsal piano. “Have a seat.”

She sits down at the edge of the stage, her legs over the side. One shoe hangs loose, dangling from her toe. It melts my creaky old heart to see her so relaxed she can let her shoe hang off her foot, have dust all over her hair, and not think a thing about it.

I go through a parody of piano playing prep, pretending to crack my knuckles and flapping invisible coattails out of my way. I do toss my necktie over my shoulder in case of it swinging onto the keys.

Before I begin, I remind them all of something. “Naomi said way back when she first brought this up to me, this here revival, that she was even thinking of asking me to write a new song. Then I fell down in the sidewalk and it was all very dramatic and no one asked me again. But I didn’t forget. Not this, I didn’t forget. So. Give a listen.”

I used to pretend I was somebody rich, important and grand

A lord of the manor, a fancy gentleman of consequence

But all of that melted away, when you first took my hand

With you, dear, in my arms, none of that makes any sense

I’m no polo player, no aviator, no explorer of exotic lands

Latin, painting or opera, I’m not one who understands

I’m not good looking, not refined, I don’t have joie de vivre

Here with you, dear, it’s only me

I can’t buy you fancy clothes, houses, an automobile

I can’t buy you diamonds or jewels, anyway, not if they’re real

There’s not much I can give you, nothing unless it’s free

Besides my love, dear, it’s only me

The fact that you love me regardless, simply defies explanation

There’s got to be someone better out there in all creation

Despite my attempts to convince you that all my prospects are vile

Here you are right beside me, bathing me in your smile

I guess I’m okay after all, maybe even better than that

Just as I am, as you’ll have me, with no top hat or shiny spats

Goodbye to that life of pretending, of striving, of trying to be

Darling, I love you, as only me

My voice cracks on the last high note something awful, and at first no one breathes a word and I think, yes, this was a mistake, old man, you haven’t written anything in half a century and even then you were sauced when you finished that last one, and people are nice to an old schmuck but that doesn’t mean—

A piercing whistle starts it, then they all jump in with cheering and stomping and someone slaps my back and damn near knocks my glasses off.

I wave my hands at them, enough already. So they probably don’t think it’s terrible but it’s also not
this
good.

Nat—no wait, it’s Devon! That’s his name, Devon!—Devon slides onto the bench next to me and looks at the music.

“These lyrics are fabulous! And the melody’s not half bad, either.”

He winks, and he gives me a playful nudge. He’d written it for me weeks ago, in secret, just like I asked him to. I can’t help it; I like surprises. They’re so … theatrical.

I notice Eleanor then squinting at the back of the house, shading her eyes with her hand.

Speaking of theatrical surprises.

Ellie springs so awkwardly off the stage that one of the cast members has to catch her and stand her back upright like a doll. She walks slowly up the aisle, her face all slack astonishment, until halfway up when she starts to jog.

I’ve got an excellent view from my piano bench of the lanky, loping silhouette of Alex from Michigan. Vivian’s green-eyed grandson.