Winter in June (11 page)

 

The pianist played several minutes of music while we peeked out at the audience from the wings. I wasn't sure how many men were there, but if I had to guess, I would say at least five hundred. Many of them had brought their own camp chairs, others were on blankets, and still others sat on the rock ledge that surrounded the performance space. For a moment I thought about climbing on the stage and asking if any of them had heard of Jack, but I couldn't stand the thought that a crowd of so many men might respond to my question with silence.

We set up the show to delay Gilda's entrance until the last possible moment. Her thinking had been that this way the men would focus on us rather than the big-name star sharing our stage. First, Kay would sing a solo; then Violet would tell some jokes, then Jayne
and I would do our tap and chat bit. The four of us would do another song, in the middle of which, Gilda would appear. As soon as the song ended, she'd do a solo and interact with the audience. When that was over, we'd join her again for a ridiculous patriotic pageant Violet had thrown together to finish out the show.

The problem was, Gilda's appearance was being billed far in advance of our arrival and all the men knew she was supposed to be there. So rather than patiently awaiting her arrival onstage, they spent the first part of the performance calling out her name, asking where she was, and telling us to move on already and get to the star.

Kay didn't cope with it very well. She struggled to belt out her lyrics in what should've been a showstopper. From the wings we could see her hands shaking and her face turning pink with embarrassment. She rushed through her song, forcing the pianist to double his pace to catch up with her, and ended it a verse too soon. The men noticed her agitation, but they didn't try to quell it; they only screamed louder for her to get off the stage and send out Gilda.

It was terrifically rude, and if it had happened to me in New York, I probably would've wanted someone's head for it. But I was able to hold my tongue when I thought about who was doing it. After all, these men had been in the middle of nowhere for God knows how long. Of course they wanted to see a star. Who were we to deny them that chance?

Violet fared much better. It didn't hurt that she was a born performer, commanding a stage the way Patton commanded the army. Effortlessly, she adjusted the jokes she'd rehearsed and worked Gilda into each one, providing the men with a little appetizer of what was to come.

“When we first arrived on the island, we headed into the enlisted men's canteen for dinner. A sailor pulled Gilda aside and said, ‘Excuse me, Miss DeVane, but you mess with the officers.' Gilda smiled and replied, ‘I know I mess with the officers, but where do I eat?'”

The men howled appreciatively. Violet took it as a sign that she should continue along the same path.

“Before we came to the South Pacific, Gilda was in England. There she met a very friendly member of the RAF, who asked her to dance. He was admiring her outfit and asked her what kind of dress it was. Gilda said it was a V-neck. The soldier replied, ‘Right, like V for victory.' His eyes fell below her neckline until Gilda clapped her hands to get his attention. ‘The V may be for victory,' she said, ‘but those bundles aren't for Britain.'”

The men laughed again, but it was clear that their patience was waning. Another chant for Gilda started in the back of audience. Violet held up her hands in surrender and said, “Easy, boys, like the monkey said after he got his tail caught in the lawn mower, it won't be long now.”

Jayne and I decided to follow Violet's lead and throw out our original routine. First, we took off the modest dance skirts that reached to our knees. Then we pulled our necklines down until we were able to create—in my case—the illusion of cleavage. We both tapped our way onto the stage, our bodies clad in nothing but bowties, top hats, leotards, and tights. The sight was enough to earn us a few seconds of silence followed by a chorus of “hubba, hubba.”

We started off doing the shim sham shimmy, a tap routine that's made up of the shim-sham, the pushbeat and crossover, the tack Annie, and the half break. Or as I liked to think of it: the two steps I can do, the one where I always trip myself, and the one that inevitably leaves me with an angry bruise on my leg. It's hard to do and looks impressive, even when you manage to screw it up. And when you're wearing nothing but a leotard and shaking what your mother gave you, it can be more tantalizing than a burlesque. We ended with a big finish—hands out to the side, fingers splayed. We hadn't stopped moving for ten seconds when the men started their call for Gilda again.

Clearly if we wanted to maintain their attention, we were going to have to be naked.

“Gosh, I can't get used to the military,” said Jayne once we wrestled back their focus. “The men are so different here. So brave and strong. Why, just yesterday I saw a bunch of them playing football
on the beach at Tulagi. One of the fellows tripped when he went to catch the ball and landed right on a pile of sharp rocks, one of which went right up his…well, you know.”

“Rectum?”

“Damn near killed him, but he got up and kept playing. I guess ignoring pain is one of those army things.”

“You mean like snafu?” I asked.

“Snaf-what?”

“Come on, now,” I told her. “Haven't you heard the soldiers use that before? It's an acronym.”

Jayne thumped herself on the head. “That's right. Someone explained that one to me last night.”

“And what did they say it meant?” I asked.

“Rosie? Do you really need me to tell you?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “It's a word that's made up of the first letters of other words.”

It was all terribly corny, but we got some laughs out of the crowd, even if it meant that everything we rehearsed went by the wayside. As soon as Gilda took the stage, the men went nuts, drowning out the rest of our group song with proposals of marriage and offers of other sorts that involved less commitment and more pleasure. When it was time for Gilda to go it alone, the four of us took to the backstage area to get some air and water.

“Unbelievable,” said Violet.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“What do you mean, what's the matter? Did you see what they did to poor Kay? They practically booed her off the stage.”

“They're excited,” said Jayne. “You can't blame them.”

“It's not them I blame. She planned it this way, you know.”

“Who planned what now?” I asked.

“Gilda. All that talk about sharing the stage with us and not wanting to steal the limelight was a lot of bunk. She knew they'd act like this.”

Kay was off to the side as we talked, and as the subject of the
conversation became clear, she moved closer to us. “She didn't know the men would know she was here,” she said.

“The hell she didn't. It's in all the star's contracts that they're promoted first.”

“So we'll change things around,” I said. “Next time, we lead with Gilda and let the men get it out of their systems so that by the time the rest of us go on, they're ready to listen.”

Violet removed her flask from where it was secured in her garter and took a swig. “Like that'll work. They'll just clamor for her to come back onstage.”

Gilda's song ended and the four of us rejoined her for the remainder of the show. The crowd had settled considerably since the start of the performance, their appetite for Miss DeVane finally quenched. But despite the fact that we had their attention, I couldn't help but notice Violet staring daggers at Gilda every time she opened her mouth.

Over the next few days we altered the show so that Gilda was the first person onstage. While it eliminated some of the problems, it was clear that what the men wanted was Gilda, regardless of when they'd first been given her. Our only hope was that someday the novelty of having a movie star around would wear off. In the meantime, we would have to be patient. Or concede that a one-woman show would be more successful.

While we were halfway to solving that dilemma, a new one was popping up. Having reluctantly accepted that the show was all about Gilda, Violet sought her revenge by drinking before each performance. She could be a jovial drunk, but when her tippling was fueled by anything other than her desire to relax, she turned meaner than Bette Davis. I don't think sober Violet would've dared to say half the things her sloshed counterpart covered, but that didn't take the sting out of the words. Especially when she said them onstage.

“I have to admit,” she told the crowd one night, “I was a little
nervous about meeting Gilda DeVane. I mean, you've seen her films, right? So I was expecting this smart, sophisticated woman who wouldn't give me the time of day. Turns out I didn't need to be worried. The first night we were together I offered her a penny for her thoughts, and she gave me change. I'm not saying she's dumb, but just like a beer bottle, she's empty from the neck up. I kid, of course. She's a bright girl, though you wouldn't know it from her love life. I don't want to say Gilda's popular with the men around here, but I couldn't help but notice that even the generals are starting to salute her. They used to let her hang around the strategy sessions, but one day one of the colonels ordered the men to take those hills and half of them looked at Gilda and announced they already had. I don't even want to tell you about the confusion that arose at the pinning ceremony.”

The men liked the jokes. They weren't so enamored of Gilda that they couldn't laugh at her image. Being told she was dumb or a floozy made her real to them. And accessible.

It was clear, though, that the jokes were wearing on Gilda. At first she smiled at each bit delivered at her expense, but I could see the muscles working in her jaw as she struggled to hold her tongue. And Violet fueled the fire, asking all of us what we thought of her act after each show. Gilda would lie and claim she hadn't heard it, though we all knew she had. Anyone else would've let Violet have it good, but Gilda wasn't about to pull the curtain on something the men were enjoying. That is, until the end of our first week, when Violet's material became a tad too personal.

“Did you hear Gilda was dating Van Lauer? All was going great until she started hinting that she wanted to get married. Gilda has always believed marriage was grand. Or if you ask her ex-husbands, twenty-five grand. Don't worry—Van doesn't have anything against marriage. Just ask his wife. But obviously the poor guy didn't want to be accused of bigamy. We all know what the sentence for that is: two mother-in-laws.”

At the end of the show, all of us went onstage to sing “You're a Grand Old Flag.” As we sang, we swung flags with great ferocity
while mimicking the fabric's motions with our bodies. Normally the routine was perfectly safe, but Violet had drunk enough that night that she seemed unaware of how far off her mark she was. Rather than compensating for Violet's spatial issues, as the rest of us were, Gilda edged closer and closer to her so that when we lowered our flags and swept the floors with the poles, the wood tripped Violet and sent her flat on her stomach.

There are only two things to do when another performer has fallen: stop everything or keep dancing. Professionals do the latter. Professionals out for revenge insist on it.

“Keep going!” hissed Gilda. And so we did, stepping over Violet's body and making it impossible for her to sit upright and rejoin us. The men howled with laughter at the sight of her sprawled on the floor, her underwear momentarily on display. Gradually her horror became comical, and she tried to pass off the whole unfortunate situation as a planned bit. The audience may have bought it, but the rest of us knew better.

At end of the show, we examined Violet's injuries and helped her patch up her scraped knees.

“I just don't know what happened,” she said. She was searching for her flask to self-medicate, but it wasn't where she expected to find it.

“I think I do,” said Gilda. She produced Violet's flask from where she had hidden it and held it out. Before Violet's mitt met metal, Gilda lifted it out of her reach. “Not so fast.”

“Give me that! It's mine.”

“Not any longer. It's mine until you learn a little self-control.”

“So what? Now we're a bunch of teetotalers?”

“If that's what it takes, then that's what we'll be.”

I didn't like the way she was throwing that “we” out there. While I was happy to stand behind Gilda's efforts to get Violet to sober up, I would consider withdrawing my support if my own cocktail hour was being rationed.

Violet's mouth became a half moon. “Is this about the jokes?”

“This is about you being too ripped to safely do anything on
stage. You're lucky you weren't hurt worse out there. You could've taken one of us down with you.”

“It wasn't that bad.”

It was clear what was going to happen. Violet was too stubborn to accept that Gilda was angry for any reason other than her jokes. We would be at a stalemate if someone didn't back up what Gilda was saying. I caught Jayne's eye and dropped my own gaze to her ankle. She followed my line of sight, not getting my point until I widened my peepers. With a roll of her own, she kicked herself in the shin with her tap shoe and, wincing against the pain, shifted her weight.

“Actually it kind of was that bad, Violet,” she said. All eyes turned to Jayne. She lifted her leg to show off the cherry red mark marring her skin. “When you fell, your pole whacked me in the leg. I almost took a spill myself.”

“Is that why you grabbed onto me?” I said.

“Of course,” said Jayne. “Did you think I tripped myself?”

“I'd hoped not. Thanks to you, I almost poked my eye out.”

“It was a disaster,” said Kay, following our lead. “I thought all of us were going to topple over like dominoes. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“Geez, I didn't mean for it to happen,” said Violet.

“Of course you didn't,” said Gilda. She shook the flask. “But this is a problem. Here's how it is, Violet—either you're clean and sober for these shows or you're out of the cast.”

“You can't do that!”

“I can and I will. I don't want to. You're brilliant at what you do and the men adore you, but I have to put everyone's safety first.”

Violet surveyed the scene through red-veined eyes. She'd provided Gilda with the perfect excuse to can her—no questions asked—and no matter how great the thrill may have been to tear down Gilda in front of thousands of men, the privilege of performing was too great for her to continue to risk it.

“All right,” said Violet. “No more drinking. Now may I have my flask back?”

“Of course,” said Gilda. She took the flask from me, unscrewed the lid and poured the contents onto the ground.

 

For the first two weeks, we did a minimum of three shows a day, island-hopping throughout the Solomons, dining in a dozen different officer messes, and hearing enough tales of bragging and bravery to last a lifetime. At least once a day I managed to ask someone if they'd heard of Jack. I was so used to being told no that I think I would've collapsed from shock had someone owned up to knowing him.

That was the greatest mystery of all: How could we have seen so many men and traveled to so many places without encountering one person who'd met him?

Somehow we managed to evade the war everywhere we went. We landed in towns that had faced the Japanese days before or left islands as the first bombers entered their airspace. In fact, it seemed to me that you could time enemy activity based solely on our schedule. If we performed for you, odds were you'd be under attack in the next twenty-four hours.

We often heard the distant sound of mortar shells, but without actually seeing the damage they wrought, we were able to convince ourselves that it wasn't destruction we were hearing, but a Fourth of July celebration come early.

Each evening we returned to Tulagi. Most nights we immediately hit the sack, but on those rare occasions when we still had energy, we hung out with Spanky and his friends, drinking at the canteen or sitting in one of the swimming holes under the light of the rising moon. At least most of us did. More and more often Gilda pleaded exhaustion, and while the four of us gave in to an hour or two of cocktails and conversation, she disappeared. Usually she was in the tent when we returned. Usually.

The Wacs continued to join us at the canteen, though I was smart enough to keep my distance. I was doing a pretty good job avoiding them when one night, my dogs barking from too much activity during the day and way too much activity at night, I sought refuge
at a table hidden in the shadows and propped up my aching feet on a chair.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

I looked up and found one of the Wacs looking down at me. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I freed the chair and with a gentle kick pushed it her way. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” My companion had curly dirty-blond hair and a heart-shaped face. She didn't wear any makeup, but she didn't need to. Hers was a natural kind of beauty that required very little intervention.

I hated her on sight.

“Doesn't anyone want to dance with you?” she asked.

“I'm taking a break. What's your excuse?” I followed her gaze to the dance floor, where Jayne was being tossed about by a sailor who seemed to have learned most of his swing moves from King Kong.

The Wac had a beer in her hand, and with a swift knock of the cap against the table, she opened it. “My partner of choice isn't here. So how's the island treating you so far?”

Was she really being nice? I couldn't tell if this was sincerity or a setup. “Swell as far as I can tell. You been here long?”

“Too long. I've been in the islands since last July. Did you hear about Leslie Howard?”

The actor had been killed two weeks before at the Bay of Biscayne, though the news had just reached us. In some ways it hit me harder than when Carole Lombard had died. Howard had been a crush of mine, even if I'd found his Ashley Wilkes passive and annoying. “Yeah, it's still hard to believe. Gilda said he was a really nice man. Very personable.”

She sat down, and for a moment we shared a tense, uncomfortable silence trying to think of what to say next. As far as I saw it, I had two options: leave and find my way back to my tent, or figure out what it was that made the Wacs dislike us.

Bolstered by the beer, I decided to explore the latter.

“So what did we do?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I can't help but notice that most of the Wacs want nothing to do with us, and I'm trying to figure out why.”

“We have nothing against you.”

“Could've fooled me. So, is it actresses in general?”

She tossed back a swig of beer while she considered the question. “Most of us have been here a long time doing a lot of hard work. It's not easy when someone else shows up and gets the attention, you know?”

I nodded. So Kay was right. “You can hardly blame that on us.”

She smiled wryly. “And yet we do.”

“So what can we do to make it right?”

“Give up a chair. Share a beer. Remind the fellows that there's a thing called loyalty.”

“I'll try, but you can lead a horse to water…”

“Too true. I'm Candy Abbott, by the way.” She offered her hand. Her grip was strong and confident.

“Rosie Winter.”

Across the room I spied a pair of Wacs whispering furiously while bouncing their attention between each other and an energetic fellow in army air force duds dancing with Kay. As Kay tripped over one of the pilot's unusually large feet, the two women broke into laughter loud enough to be heard above the music.

“It goes both ways, you know,” I said. “If we're going to play nice, it would be nice if your friends would too.”

“She's a special case. I don't think I can call my dogs off her.”

I worked at peeling the label off my beer bottle. “What's the wire on Kay?”

“She's a traitor to the armed forces. She convinced our CO to go home, promised us she'd stick around, and then decided she wanted to leave too. The way we see it, she's got some nerve coming back here after all of that.”

“Come on now—don't mince words. Tell me how you really feel.”

She threw her head back and laughed. Despite all the reasons I shouldn't, I liked Candy Abbott. “Truth be told, there was a time when I was friends with Kay, though I could be shot for admitting
it,” she said. “The three of us were pretty close before she decided to desert.”

“Three of you?”

“Yes, you're looking at one of the original Tulagi Musketeers—Kay Thorpe, Irene Zinn, and yours truly.”

The name made my breath catch in my throat. Kay was friends with Irene? Why hadn't she said something?

“What's the matter?” Candy asked me.

Did Candy know she was dead? I didn't think so. And I didn't want to be the one to tell her. “Too much beer. So why did they leave?”

“Irene had better opportunities Stateside.”

“How so?”

Candy set down her beer and worked on rolling the cuff of her camp shirt. “Before she signed up, she was an actress. That's how she and Kay first met. I think she always regretted coming here instead of staying home and seeing where Hollywood might've taken her. Don't get me wrong—Irene was a great soldier and a brilliant code breaker, but you could tell that she was always asking herself ‘What if.' She felt like being here was her moral duty though. It was really important to her to feel like she was doing whatever she could to help the war effort.”