Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  “That lady is exceptional.”

  “Do not decide … so quickly … that you are not,” said the detective. Inclining his head, he made his way to his seat. Behan and I settled on the low wall; nudging me with his elbow, he whispered, “Exceptional.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Ah, you’re pleased. You going to give me the story?”

  “Not in a million years. Sh, they’ve rung the bell.”

  The audience was certainly ready to be enchanted—or appalled. They would be happy either way, I thought. A hum of excitement greeted the dimming of the house lights. I felt both intrigue and apprehension as the actors took their places without fanfare, Claude with his pail, Blanche with her broom, Nedda still and thoughtful, and Mr. Harney dignified and dressed to the nines on the divan. I sensed turned heads at Claude’s first beat, amused smiles as Blanche tapped the broom on the floor, but then growing interest as Leo’s opening continued. The energy began to flow from the stage into the audience and back again, creating an electric connection that grew stronger and stronger with the ever increasing tempo.

  Then as one, the performers ceased all movement, all sound. Claude announced, “Two Loves Have I.”

  And was answered with the first rousing ovation of the night.

  Having seen the show in parts so many times, I found myself listening to the audience. Leo had described to me the coughs and dead air that mean failure to connect. No deadness here, the air was alive and humming. Around me, I sensed shoulders bobbing, feet tapping. Whenever the music signaled that the Ardens were about to take flight, there was an all but audible intake of breath in anticipation, followed by the wondering silence of people caught up in the spell of perfect movement. The chuckles that welcomed Roland Harney—and the cheers for Peanut—grew into shouts of laughter and applause as he exited. Nedda Fiske captured the audience’s heart the moment she appeared. The silence that followed “The Things Everyone Says” was stunned; it took a few moments for people to gather themselves enough to roar their approval. When the curtain came down, there were actual screams of happiness as the audience realized they had been the very first to see something the city would be talking about for months.

  It would be impossible to say who got the larger ovation at the curtain call. Possibly it was Leo, who was pulled onstage by Nedda Fiske and Blanche Arden. Spreading his arms, he seemed to dive more than bow in acknowledgment of the applause, then he waved for everyone to be quiet.

  He said, “A few weeks ago, the theater world lost a giant. A man who gave many of us our careers…”

  The Ardens and Roland Harney nodded.

  “Sidney Warburton put me here today. This is his theater. It will always be his theater. And it wouldn’t be right if we didn’t honor him tonight.”

  Leo nodded to the orchestra. What followed is now an anthem of show business, a raucous, defiant love song to the thrill and madness of performing, the joyful delusion that people will pay attention, that a few minutes of the world’s eyes on you is worth any sacrifice. It was, when I considered the man who had inspired it, a complete falsehood. And yet my heart took it as eternal truth and I found myself grinning and tearful because it was all just … so good.

  When I had collected myself, I turned to Michael Behan, who seemed amused by my reaction.

  “That’s a love story?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, dabbing at my eyes.

  “I did like the dog. The dog is talented. Don’t suppose you could get me an interview with him?”

  I promised an interview with both dog and owner. As I did, I saw Mrs. Hirschfeld fighting against the crowds swarming out of the theater to reach her son. Behind her was a gray-haired gentleman with an elegant mustache and a gentle smile. His light eyes wandered the theater, at times fixing on something beyond sight. Mrs. Hirschfeld, I noticed, kept one hand on his arm at all times. That would be Leo’s father, who could never keep straight the names of his children.

  Then I felt a tug on my skirts and looked down to see Simon Warburton.

  “Where’s Papa?” he asked.

  Stalling, I introduced Simon to Michael Behan, who, hearing the name Warburton, grasped the situation.

  “Simon, I write for a newspaper. Your father’s a very important man, isn’t he? Everyone knows who he is.”

  Simon nodded.

  “Tell me something they don’t know. What do you like best about him?”

  Simon twisted as he thought. Finally he offered, “He’s funny.”

  “He’s funny. Thank you, Simon.”

  I held out my hand. “Come, let’s find your family.”

  If Mrs. Warburton had noticed her brood was one short, she gave no sign of it. She was having her photograph taken with Leo. Harriet stood patiently to the side. Seeing me, she raised her eyes heavenward. I smiled in sympathy; as the owner of the theater, Mrs. Warburton would be in Harriet’s life for some time. But as I drew close, she murmured, “Mrs. Warburton is considering a move to Chicago. I think Chicago is a very wonderful city, don’t you?”

  “Ideal,” I agreed.

  She squeezed my hand. “Please, do tell her so.”

  Then in a light maternal tone, she added, “And you should say hello to Leo. He has been looking for you all day.”

  Simon was returned to his family. Leo shook many more hands. Harriet tactfully cleared the crowd, then removed the Warburtons to Churchill’s. I waited until Leo had no more hands to shake, then offered my congratulations.

  “I think ‘triumph’ is the word they use.”

  Leo had had a lot of praise poured on his head; he was drenched in goodwill and sweat, and almost breathless from thank-yous. His hair reached toward the ceiling. He took my compliment with a wide smile, then noticed Michael Behan. As a matter of course, he held out his hand. “Leo Hirschfeld.”

  “Michael Behan of the Herald.”

  “… Critic?”

  “No, no. Merely documenting the … someone called it, ‘theatrical event of the century.’ I don’t know that she was entirely sober though.”

  “Fine with me,” Leo said with a grin. “Well, come along to Churchill’s and keep documenting. Jane, you’re coming, right?”

  At this point, Behan said he wanted to talk to ecstatic audience members before they got into cars or passed out; could he meet us in the lobby? We said he could. Leo watched as he left. Then tugging at his suit, he said, “I would hug you, but I’m disgusting. Harriet has another one of these waiting at the restaurant. But—”

  He spread his arms, leaned in. I spread mine, touched his hands; for a moment our foreheads rested.

  “Congratulations, Leo Hirschfeld.”

  “Thank you, Jane Prescott.”

  As we headed up the aisle of the now empty theater, he said, “So, tomorrow, I want to try…”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow, Leo.”

  “What?” He pulled up short.

  “I am never setting foot in a theater again unless I have a ticket. You and Mrs. Tyler can make whatever business arrangements you need without me.”

  “But when am I going to see you?”

  He was, I thought, impossibly greedy. Pressing his hand, I said, “You will see me, Leo. Next week, next month, next year. When we’re … ninety years old, you’ll see me. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  Feeling that was well settled, I let go of his hand and walked toward the doors to the lobby.

  Then Leo called after me, “Thank you, by the way. For answering my question.”

  There had been so many questions over the past month, I had no idea what he meant. I was about to ask him to explain when I became aware of shouting outside. The audience, I thought, excited by the sight of departing Ardens or Peanut. But this was not the happy, excited hubbub I had heard when I arrived at the theater. This noise twisted my stomach, raised the hair on the back of my neck. I hurried to the doors and pushed through to see Michael Behan staring up the block.

  “It’s started.”


  Either Leo said “What?” or I did, but the three of us slowly made our way up Forty-Fifth Street to the heart of Times Square. Ahead, I could see a wall of people, more running past us to join them. The enchanted crowds that had just left the theater were gone, either slipping away in cars or absorbed into the throng. I felt Leo looking anxiously for Harriet and assured him that William and Louise would have taken her to Churchill’s.

  Mr. Behan stopped one fellow and asked him what had happened. With a strange giddiness, he answered, “Germany’s declared war on France, England’s declared war on Germany…” Thrilled to the point of speechlessness, he ran up the block.

  It is a strange force that draws you toward catastrophe. I knew perfectly well we should turn around; we were due at Churchill’s, people would be worried. Why move toward the thousands of people who had gathered to see the paper bulletins posted in the windows of the Times, screaming the final declarations of war in bold red letters? Turn back, go inside, to the lively, joyous party, music and dance and champagne and celebration. It made sense for Michael Behan; he was a reporter. Yet Leo and I followed, somehow wanting to face the truth of how this night would be remembered.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise, I told myself. For days, the Times had posted those red-lettered bulletins in its windows, announcing each escalation of hostilities: AUSTRIA CHOOSES WAR, RUSSIAN AND GERMAN RELATIONS SEVERED, FRANCE REFUSES PEACE. There had been talk of bringing Charlotte and her husband home, but it had been mild fretting, easily quieted by Charlotte’s airy telegrams: it would all be over soon. And it had seemed so far away.

  At first we stood at the outskirts of the crowd, but as more people joined, we were pulled deeper into the crush. Surrounded by people so caught up in great events, they were heedless of those around them, I grew nervous. Then I felt the weight of Michael Behan’s arm around my back, the grip of his hand on my arm, and felt steadied.

  Hearing two men arguing in German, Behan asked Leo if he had family in Europe.

  “My parents get letters from Lemberg, wherever that is.” His tone was light, but his eyes stayed on the mass of people around us; he was a man who absorbed mood and energy by osmosis, and his expression told me he also felt the danger. “You?”

  “Quite a few. But they’ve got their own war.”

  Around us was the rumble of conversation, discussion, debate as to how long it would last, what the kaiser really wanted, if Serbia could hold out, and what it all meant for Hungary. Then voices began to join, become melodic as a group of men started singing in German. Immediately other voices rose with “La Marseillaise.” One cannot sing and stand still, apparently, because people began to march through the crowds, pulling others with them until groups began forming in large numbers, each singing their song with bellicose pride. At one point, the French and German crowds veered too close; men splintered off, fists raised, and the crowd as a whole surged around the battle. I was buffeted as some were drawn closer and others sought to flee.

  “Let’s…,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Leo.

  We shouldered our way out of the crowd, which had grown much larger in the brief time we had been part of it. Once free, we stood under the marquee of the Sidney. The theater was now dark and lifeless. The street deserted. Irrational, I looked up, hoping to see the twenty-foot electric kitten with its ball of yarn. But we were in the wrong place and I couldn’t find it.

  “Well,” said Leo. “Shall we go on to the party?”

  Behan looked back at the crowd. “I should stay.”

  To be pleasant and—I suspect—wanting more publicity, Leo said, “Come on, it’s a bunch of tired, old eagles bickering over their share of the guts. It’s over there, not here.”

  “Still. I’ll give a good write-up to the show, though.”

  “Of course you will, it’s a great show.”

  Behan looked at me. “Enjoy the festivities.”

  Somehow I didn’t think I would. What I truly wanted was to go home, shed my party gown, curl up in bed, and pull the covers over my head.

  But everyone was waiting for Leo. And Leo was waiting for me.

  “Good night, Mr. Behan.”

  22

  The next morning, a howl of joy announced the fact that Louise had finally told William he was to be a father. This was followed by a hasty gathering of the staff to share the momentous news, before the parents-to-be tore off in the Ghost to tell her father. Later in the day, they traveled to Long Island to see the ladies of the family, William’s mother and sisters, as well as Louise’s mother, Mrs. Benchley, who had just arrived at the Oyster Bay house. As it was a family occasion and only overnight, Louise said I could stay in the city. I thanked her; the future arrival meant there was a great deal of work to do.

  When I had assessed Louise’s fall and winter wardrobe for what might be carried over from last season and could be let out, wondered whether Mrs. St. John could be enlisted to make maternity dresses any more attractive, and learned of the existence of nursing corsets, I made an idle tour of the house until I found a sunny little room that had been vaguely designated Louise’s office. Would it be the office? I wondered. Or the nursery? Would Louise’s grand fling with the theater be a once-in-a-lifetime experience before she retired into motherhood? Or would Mrs. Tyler’s grandchild be raised in backstages and dressing rooms? I could not imagine it, but then so many things had happened in the past month that I could not have imagined.

  That afternoon, I called the number Anna had given me and left a message. An hour later, Ethel told me I had a call. Five minutes later, I had plans for dinner.

  We ate at her uncle’s restaurant; from the delighted reactions of the waiters and kitchen staff, I had the feeling it had been some time since Anna had visited. This time, we talked easily about our old subjects: her aunts, my uncle, her brothers. The older one was out of jail, both were still looking for work. As we talked, I realized in some small part how the flood of her life had continued without me, how much I did not know, how alone I had left her. I was about to ask what she made of the war—whatever she thought, it would not be what I read in the papers—when she said, “I see the chorus girl wife was arrested for murder.”

  Startled that she would pay attention to the shooting of a theatrical producer—and admit it—I said, “Yes, she was.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s getting married again. To someone else. I suggested he should.”

  Initially Anna’s jaw dropped, but she regained her customary sangfroid as I explained. When I was done, I sat back and waited to hear I had behaved splendidly.

  Anna said, “That sounds nice for you.”

  “Nice for me?”

  “Of course. He likes you, you like him. But you don’t trust him. So, you arranged things so you don’t have to concern yourself with a man you don’t trust. Now he’s some other woman’s problem.”

  “They arranged themselves,” I said. “I just suggested they make it legal. Anyway, I don’t see that I did Harriet Biederman such a bad turn. Leo Hirschfeld is about to be a wealthy man, not to mention the father of her child. If the marriage is not a success, she will have recourse. Which she would not have had with the butcher.”

  Anna nodded in approval of my pragmatism. “So, no regrets.”

  “No, I do have regrets. I regret that I was not a better friend.” She looked at me questioningly. “A good friend doesn’t disappear.”

  I could see that she was considering whether or not to take my apology seriously. A wave of the hand would consign us to a false friendship; goodwill, pleasantries—but no truth. No risk.

  Finally, she said, “You were happy. Dancing. Laughing. Doing … Lord knows what!” She mimicked a scandalized aunt. “I was jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Of all the things for Anna to be.

  “Yes. I thought, why can she do those things and I cannot? Well, no, at first I thought, she is frivolous and shallow, maybe once she was halfway intelligent, but now, with t
his boy … this songwriter … she’s just like everybody else.”

  “I hope there was a second thought.”

  “There was, that was rude, too. And the third one and the fourth. Only with the fifth thought, maybe sixth, I thought, What is that like?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never gone dancing,” I said.

  “Of course I’ve gone dancing. And then, my brain starts and it all seems so pointless. As if I’m lying to myself.”

  “Tell your brain to mind its own business and not be so censorious.”

  “I can’t because my brain is right. It is stupid—worse than stupid, it’s criminal—to dance when the world is about to end.”

  She was not exaggerating; her tone and expression told me she was sincere in her choice of words. Unnerved, I said, “That seems to me the exact right time to dance. And the world isn’t ending.”

  “Yes, it is. It has to and there will be a much better one afterward. But to get there will be hard.”

  Taking a drink of water as if that would stave off apocalypse, I said, “I think it will be like the Balkan messes. They’ll…” I did not actually know all that much about the Balkan messes. “… shove some borders here and there and everyone will go home.”

  “The homes won’t be there anymore. Not the same ones. And many people won’t come back.”

  For as long as I had known her, Anna had worked for a new world—not just a better law or more people voting. A completely different society where not only would I not work for the Tylers, families like the Tylers would not exist. She wanted that future with all her heart, brain, and sinew. If she had believed in prayer, she would have been on her knees for hours. And now she saw it coming, and she did not rejoice.

  I thought to say something cheerful, as if I could dispel her dark mood by giving her an opportunity to think me dear, but naïve. In the past, it had been my way of reminding her there was affection in the world as well as conflict. Now it seemed insulting—to both of us.

  I waited until we had left the restaurant to say, “It seems the police have given up hope of ever finding the other people involved in the Lexington Avenue bombing.”