by Kari Bovee
Grace entered the costume room, surprised to find it empty. Her gaze rested on the lavish headdresses she’d assembled, lined up in neat rows on one of the worktables. She removed her ermine coat and gloves, and made her way over to the bright pink plumed headwear. She gently laid a hand on one of the giant ostrich feathers and stroked upward, relishing the airy feeling of the plume tickling her fingertips. She then bent down to inspect the fine beadwork on the trim she’d completed the day before. Not a bead was out of place, everything secure, much to her satisfaction.
Just as she turned to hang up her coat, Charles, Lucile’s assistant, strutted into the room. Always the peacock, he was wearing a maroon satin jacket with black lapels lined with rhinestones.
“Darling, how are you?” His large eyes widened with his question, and his full lips pursed under his too tightly twirled mustache.
“I’m fine, Charles. Could you please help me stack these headdresses on the trays? We need to take them to the girls.”
“Heard from Sophia yet?”
Grace shook her head. “C’mon, help me here.”
With a sigh, Charles walked over to the wall and picked up two large wooden trays. He and Grace gently set each of the elaborate headpieces on the trays in rows.
“You know, I always wondered how you and Sophia ended up here,” he said. “Is it true? Did Flo rescue you from the streets?”
“Yes, true enough.”
Charles rested a hand on his chest. “Oh, my dear. Living on the streets. How horrible that must have been for you. How did you stay alive?”
“I don’t really like to talk about it. Or think about it.”
“I’m sorry, darling. Didn’t mean to pry.”
Grace raised her eyes to his. “I made dolls’ clothes. Sophia always managed to buy the fabric. We would sell them on the streets to mothers with little girls in tow.”
“Where did she get the money?”
“I’m not sure. Many nights she would leave me alone for a few hours. She always made sure it was a safe place, hidden. And she always made sure I was warm. We found burlap sacks and flour sacks behind the restaurants and used those to wrap around ourselves. There was a man—”
“A man?”
Grace bit her lip and turned away from Charles. “I can’t remember anymore.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.”
“We really should get these headdresses to the stage. Flo will be fuming if we’re late.”
Balancing the trays, they left the costume room and came to the main theater door. Charles leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed it open to reveal the beautiful, gaslit, 1800-seat, art nouveau auditorium. Circular box seats bordered with terra-cotta balustrades, adorned with carvings of grape leaves, apple blossoms, and pomegranates, jutted from the walls. Frescos of angels and demons, birds of prey, and other flora and fauna graced every flat and domed surface of the interior of the grand building.
“Ladies first.” Charles motioned with his head for Grace to pass through.
Flo was pacing the stage, flinging his arms, his shirtsleeves hanging loose around his wrists. Usually, even in casual attire, Flo paid particular attention to his appearance. His lack of fastidiousness surprised Grace.
“One, two, three! One, two, three! Pick up your feet, girls!” Flo yelled at the chorus line. They scurried to match his rhythm. “Are those legs made of lead? C’mon now.”
Grace’s eyes settled on the stage just in time to see one of the enormous columns rise out of the stage floor, the buzz and hum of the electrical winch echoing throughout the theater. Once the music started, that noisy whir would be drowned out by the orchestra’s expert harmonies.
Grace and Charles crossed the stage, approaching another group of girls who were idly waiting for their turn to fall short of Flo’s stringent demands. They handed each one her headpiece. Charles supplied Grace with hair clips, Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade, and other securing devices as she meticulously placed one of the three-foot-tall, plumed hats on each girl’s head.
“Honey.” Flo marched over to Grace, waving his hand. “Get some makeup artists out here. These girls look like ghosts.” He took a drag on his cigar and then let it fall from his fingers before stomping it out on the stage. He turned and pointed to one of the backstage crewmen, a young boy who scurried out from the wings with broom and dustpan in hand.
When Flo turned his back, Charles leaned in closer to Grace. “I hate final dress rehearsals,” he whispered. “Flo is worse than Attila the Hun.”
“Take a breath,” Grace said. “It won’t last forever.”
Grace then went backstage to find Blanche and Derek, the Follies’ cosmetology wizards. She returned to a hushed theater, the rehearsal about to begin. Flo claimed one end of the piano bench while George Gershwin seated himself on the other end. Gershwin’s exuberance at the piano always seemed to have a calming effect over Flo. The two often squeezed themselves onto the piano bench, George working diligently over the keys, a lock of wavy hair bouncing over his forehead, while Flo leaned his head back, savoring the music pouring out over the stage. Many times during the rehearsals Flo would snap out of his trance, jump up from the bench, dance a few steps, and then sit again, his foot tapping in time to the music.
Today, the tenseness pulling Flo’s brow down over his long nose and stretching the skin taut at his jawline allowed no joy. For the first time, Grace noticed the slicked back hair at his temples had silvered, and his eyes, usually sparkling and mischievous, seemed to have dulled. Did he miss Sophia as much as she did?
The musicians settled in the pit, and a cacophony of sounds blurred into quiet conversation.
The usual observers sat in the first row: the composer, Irving Berlin; Flo’s business manager, Jack Boyd; set designer Joe Urban; Lucile; and Charles. Gene Buck, another accomplished composer, stood to the side of the piano near Flo, smoke from his cigar billowing around their heads like a pale thundercloud.
The lights flickered and dimmed, summoning everyone to take their seats. Grace sat next to Charles. Despite her earlier mood, a rush of excitement bubbled up in her chest and the hairs rose on her arms. Seeing another one of Flo’s brilliant creations brought to fruition always gave her goose bumps.
“Let the spectacle unfold,” Charles whispered in her ear.
Grace smiled, her eyes locked onto the stage.
“To think, this genius of a man started as a vaudeville talent hawker.” Charles leaned into her. “I remember ‘The Amazing Sandow, the Strongest Man in the World.’” He lowered his voice for dramatic effect.
“Yes. He’s come quite far. From vaudeville, to nightclubs, to . . . this. . . .”
“Wasn’t his father in show business?”
“He owned a music school and a nightclub. Anna once told me that it broke his father’s heart that Flo didn’t take over the family businesses.”
“Anna Held.” Charles turned in his seat to face her. “The Parisian beauty, God rest her soul. You knew her? Was it true that she took milk baths?”
She shrugged. “That’s what Flo wanted everyone to think. He had gallons of the stuff delivered to the hotel. I don’t know if she ever really bathed in it, though. By the time Sophia and I arrived, their relationship was nearly at an end. Anna wasn’t around much, but I remember she was very sweet.”
“So Flo just got tired of Anna and tossed her out? That must be when he started the affair with Lillian Lorraine.”
Grace pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. She didn’t want to mention that the notorious femme fatale was still lurking in the wings and causing more trouble than most people knew about. Lillian had made it quite clear she didn’t like Sophia and Grace around, but getting rid of Anna Held had proved far easier.
The orchestra buzzed with last-minute tunings. Grateful she didn’t have to answer Charles’s question, Grace refocused on the stage. With a stroke of the conductor’s baton, all fell silent. An upstroke and the violins humm
ed. Gershwin’s fingers brought the piano to life.
A dozen marble columns rose through the stage floor, each topped with a gem-studded girl. Each girl held a silver ball poised high above her head, her flesh-colored leotards splashed with crystals and rhinestones. From the wings, a stream of bubbles flowed onto the stage as ballerinas leaped and swirled in the air. The column girls each released a pearly winged dove from her shimmering orb.
With an abrupt thump, one of the sixteen-foot-tall columns began to fall, and the girl on top of it struggled to maintain her footing. Thrown off-balance by her movements, the other girls screamed in panic. Flo jumped to his feet and marched onstage, signaling others standing in the wings to follow. He ordered the technician to lower the columns. The music stopped.
Grace covered her eyes, bracing herself for Flo’s reaction. He could fly into a rage at any moment. The columns slowly sank back into the floor and vanished, bringing everyone to safety. Nervous titters filled the theater.
“Quiet!” Flo yelled.
Everyone took a collective inhale, waiting for Flo’s inevitable tirade.
He lit another cigar. “People, take fifteen.”
Onstage and off, they all exhaled again.
Flo strode toward the stage technician, a newly hired, freckle-faced young man. A pang of sympathy pierced Grace’s heart. She knew Flo would release a torrent aimed at the young man.
Sounds of stomping feet caused everyone—except Flo, who was unmercifully chastising the stage technician—to turn their heads. A young boy in a Western Union uniform ran down the aisle and onto the stage. He handed Flo an envelope. Flo signed the pad and paid the boy without missing a beat in his rant at the technician. Finally, Flo ripped open the telegram and read.
With all finally silent, Grace turned to leave, but sudden screams made her turn back around. Flo had collapsed, facedown, on the stage.
Grace ran up the stairs, and pushing the awestruck technician aside, she knelt down at Flo’s side. She gently grasped his taut, trembling shoulders and turned him over. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his mouth had locked into a tight grimace.
“Flo, are you all right? What is it? Are you hurt?”
She noticed the telegram clutched in his fist and pried his fingers open to read the yellow page. When her eyes settled on the words, her breath lodged in her throat.
Sophia was dead.
Chapter Three
Her thoughts in turmoil and numb from the news, Grace sat in the corner of Flo’s office, not sure how she’d gotten there. She stared at the photos of Flo’s starlets on the wall behind him. All their faces blurred into the same person—all but Sophia who stood out like a cosmic star, glimmering in a deep blue night.
Light and sound blurred, moving in slow motion. Grace remembered someone onstage snatching the telegram from her hand, people yelling, Flo unresponsive on the ground, and then hands wrapping around her biceps, pulling her up. She remembered the smell of Charles’s cologne and realized he’d held her upright, had talked to her, even though she hadn’t been able to decipher the words. When her knees had buckled beneath her, Charles had gripped her harder. Weight had pressed on her chest, but she hadn’t been able to bring air into her lungs. And now she sat across from Flo in his office, his cheeks ashen, sweat dripping down his face.
Jack Boyd, his manager, sat next to him, his face etched with worry.
This couldn’t be happening. Sophia couldn’t be dead.
Matilda Golden, or Goldie as they called her, Flo’s secretary, scurried around the office like a frantic hen trying to care for her ailing chicks. Although not a beautiful woman, Goldie was striking with her long face, green eyes, and silver hair always pulled tight in a knot at the back of her head. As Goldie stood at the bar pouring Flo a glass of whiskey, Grace could feel the woman’s gaze on her. Whiskey in hand, Goldie rushed over to Flo and gave it to him. He sank deeper into his chair, closed his eyes, and sipped from the crystal tumbler.
Goldie approached Grace, her movements slow and fluid, like a flamingo gliding across a pond. Her eyes held Grace’s carefully, as if Grace might break like a fragile glass figurine at any moment.
“My dear, what can I do for you? Would you like a drink? Something strong?”
Grace looked into Goldie’s eyes, trying to formulate an answer. She didn’t want a drink. She wanted Sophia back. “Why did she die, Goldie? How?”
Goldie leaned down and set her hands on Grace’s shoulders, her sage eyes boring into Grace’s. “They aren’t sure, my dear. It seems to be a bit of a mystery.”
Grace struggled to breathe. She closed her eyes to stop the tingling behind them, but giant tears rolled down her cheeks anyway.
Two weeks later, Grace stood next to a framed, eleven-by-fourteen-inch photo of Sophia adorned with a black satin wreath. The memorial, held on the rooftop of the New Amsterdam—home of the Midnight Frolic, one of Flo’s racier, bolder productions—was again nothing short of Ziegfeld extravagance. But Grace’s heart felt like a heavy, black lump of coal. She gripped the telegram in her hand so tightly she could feel the blood pulsing in her fingers.
“How are you holding up, kid?” Fanny’s voice broke the silence.
Grace turned to her. “Would it be easier if I knew how she died? Why she died?”
Fanny’s dark, usually merry eyes filled with sympathy. Her talent shone, but sadly, good looks still eluded her. Small eyes set too close together made her nose look too big for her face, and her lips—her best feature—were full and rosy but wore the constant smirk of sarcasm. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think it’s ever easy.”
“From Jack.” Grace held up a crumpled telegram. “Sending his condolences. So sorry he couldn’t be here. So sorry he couldn’t afford a decent funeral. His sister paid to have her buried at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles. They didn’t even wait to see if I could get there.”
“I’m awfully sorry, dear, but look around you. This memorial Flo has put on is beautiful.”
“Yes, as usual, a monumental affair, fraught with famous theater and film folk.” She clutched the telegram harder. “Eddie Cantor and Will Rogers and W.C. Fields—it’s just a show. Like everything Flo does.” Grace closed her eyes and sighed, feeling awful for unloading on Fanny. “I’m sorry. I know I should be grateful. Flo’s done so much for us. When our parents died, Sophia and I couldn’t afford any sort of funeral. We used the small amount of money left behind to bury our parents in a pauper’s cemetery. After that, we had no other option but to live on the streets.”
“Oh, my dear. How old were you?”
“Twelve. Sophia was thirteen. Eleven months after our parents died, Flo found us wandering on Forty-Second Street, near the theater—bedraggled, thin, unwashed, and hungry. He seemed fascinated by us, by our predicament. He questioned us for a long time. Took us to a café to get some food. And then he offered to house us, train us, and give us jobs. In a moment, our lives changed.” Grace surveyed the party. The rooftop glittered like a star-studded sky with gas lamps, elaborate and ornate bouquets, exquisite food, and dozens of society people.
“Come on,” Fanny said. “Let’s sit down.”
Fanny led her to one of the tables, all of which displayed large, porcelain elephant vases, their trunks uplifted with white and purple orchids spilling from the rotund backs of the ceramic beasts.
“What’s with the elephants? I’ve always wondered.” Fanny fingered a purple petal of orchid.
“They’re good luck,” Grace said. “Flo’s obsessed with them.”
“Eccentric does not begin to describe the man.” Fanny’s face looked like she’d just sucked on a lemon.
Grace looked up to see W.C. Fields standing next to her at the table. He wore a fine Burberry London Sterling wool-and-mohair three-piece suit, his generous belly stretching the buttonholes on his waistcoat beyond what seemed comfortable. He took off his boater and swept into a bow.
“My dear girl, your sister was a vision of loveliness,
and she had one hell of a set of pipes. We will miss her around here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fields.”
His pudgy face squished into a grin, amplifying his bulbous red nose. He winked at her, nodded to Fanny, and moved on. Before Grace could take another breath, Gene Buck approached the table.
“Your sister was a dream to write for. Perfect pitch, perfect pitch.” He smoothed his hand over his receding hairline, and his bright blue eyes regarded her with kindness. He reached for her hand and brushed his lips against the back of it. “All my sympathies, Grace. You stay strong.”
“Yes, yes, I must, mustn’t I?” Grace said, a bit tongue-tied at his piercing stare.
“Oh, God,” said Fanny.
“What is it?” Grace asked.
Fanny pointed to the other side of the rooftop. “She’s here.”
The slender, auburn-haired Lillian Lorraine had entered the room, resplendent in a black velvet gown, the neckline plunging inappropriately low for a memorial service. Her large brown eyes were downturned at the corners, and the cleft in her chin gave her face a strong, if not masculine, appearance. A wide-brimmed, black hat dipped seductively over one eye, with jet-black ostrich feathers set in a dazzling plume at the back of her head. She stopped to speak with Mr. Fields, who ogled her unabashedly.
“Do you think she’ll come over here?” Grace asked, her hands starting to shake.
“Undoubtedly.”
The velvet-clad woman let out a laugh so loud that the room went silent for a moment.
“Like a whore in church,” Fanny said.
“Oh, Fanny. Don’t embarrass me. Please. If she comes over here, be kind. I can’t take a confrontation.”
“Don’t worry, kid.” Fanny waved her hand in front of her face. “I won’t drag her out of here by the hair.”
