The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  If there was one thing she’d learned growing up striking and blond in East Falls, Pennsylvania, it was that silence was currency. It wasn’t enough for a girl to be pretty. If she wanted male attention—and not just any male attention, not the kind that could be gotten at any ice-cream counter, but real attention, the kind it behooved her to command—it paid to stay quiet. Grace wasn’t sure why it bothered men so much when women were honest. She only knew that it did, and she’d gotten very good at knowing when to open her mouth to get a laugh or when to play her cards close to her chest. It didn’t matter if the man was loud and brash himself, like her father, or more artistic and introspective, like Don. Silence worked on them all.

  She spent the rest of the evening listening to the jazz quartet and watching the room watch Jack Kennedy. It was amusing, really. So many people wondering what he had and they didn’t. Except Grace didn’t wonder that. She wondered if her own talent was a match for the trumpet player’s on the stage, and if it was, where would it lead her?

  As the audience clapped at the end of his solo, Grace’s mind went—as it did so often when she was at any kind of performance—to her own well-worn daydream of standing on a stage and taking a bow as clapping and whistling filled the air. The stage in her imagination was bigger than the one in her high school, where she and her older sister, Peggy, had played so many roles. But now Peggy, her father’s precious Ba, was married with a child, and the stage belonged to Grace; it was a Broadway stage, the grandest of them all. She could feel the way the hard black floor vibrated beneath her feet as she stood there, beaming with gratitude at the rumble of applause. Everyone she loved would be there, proud of her, her mother and father in the front row. She would be so happy, knowing that her hard work had finally paid off. Cradling an elegant bouquet of roses in her arms as she curtsied one more time, she felt in her soul the proof that she’d done well at last.

  Chapter 3

  She told herself not to be disappointed that her parents couldn’t make it up for every performance she gave in her second year at the Academy—there were so many, large and small, meant to show off the talents of the graduating students. In some ways, they were in-house “debutante” affairs, with agents, directors, alums, and well-known actors invited so that they could vet the new crop of talent coming out of the Academy. These shows were how actors like Gregory Peck had gotten noticed, and Grace had high hopes for herself.

  She wished her mother and father could see her lead as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story, but since her mother had an event at the club she’d been planning for months, she knew that meant neither of them would be coming. But this performance was not all about applause and congratulations from her parents. She loved acting, the work and craft of it, how it enabled her to leave her own self behind in the dressing room and emerge as someone else entirely: a pampered Main Liner; a shrill hausfrau; even Caliban, the sea monster from The Tempest. Anything was possible in a theater. She could be anyone. And the performance was where it all came together, with no stops and starts and new directions to distract her from the serious business of being someone else.

  Little had she known as she whiled away the hours of her asthmatic childhood, soothing her embarrassment that she couldn’t compete with athletic, golden Peggy and Kell by role-playing with her dolls—then later, staging mini productions anytime her uncle George visited and she knew she’d have an attentive audience—that she’d been teaching herself how to act and direct. She was never happier than when she was immersed in those make-believe worlds. Then she discovered she could do it professionally! Well, she simply couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  “It’s a hard life,” her uncle George had warned her one day when she was in high school. “Lots of rejection. Long, grueling hours of rehearsal with actors that are better than you and directors who never think you’re good enough. If you think you might want to do anything else with your life, you should do that instead.”

  “I just love the theater, Uncle George,” she replied, her voice catching with emotion. “There’s nothing else I’ve ever loved so much.” In all her twenty years, it was still true. Even the modeling she did to pay her rent at the Barbizon and fund her life in New York couldn’t compare. Sure, modeling was fun and relatively easy, and she was compensated well for it in both cash and compliments. But it was just a way to make ends meet so that she wouldn’t have to depend on her parents. It wasn’t art.

  There was only one other dream that had ever tugged at her heart: the one of her in a beautiful sundress, standing beside a tall and handsome husband and cradling a swaddled baby in her arms. But she’d never been able to picture this dream as clearly as the one of herself onstage. She’d always assumed this was because she didn’t know who the man was; in her mind’s eye, he had dark hair and eyes, but his features were blurry. Lately, she’d tried putting Don into this picture of domestic bliss, and the image made her feel nervy, both excited and worried at the same time. She wasn’t sure if this was because he was the man for her, or because he wasn’t. So she put all her attention on her work to avoid thinking more about it. Fortunately, there was no shortage of acting to execute lately.

  It was a freezing March morning, and Grace was bundled into two wool sweaters, lined gloves, and her heaviest coat, plus a scarf and a hat as she rushed between the subway and Carnegie Hall, her daily destination for a year and a half, as that was where the Academy held classes. She felt lucky to be there, brimming with both anticipation and accomplishment every time she pulled open the heavy door beneath the central of five arches forming the entrance of the gracious building, which had some of the finest brickwork Grace had ever seen.

  Her play would be in the Lyceum, which seated more than five hundred, upon the largest stage on which she’d ever performed. At least Uncle George would be there. It meant so much to her that he believed in her—and she really did have him to thank for getting her into the Academy, as he’d pulled a few strings after she’d missed the application deadline. She’d been positive she’d be going to Bennington for their excellent theatrical studies program, but then heartbreakingly didn’t get in because of her grades in math, of all subjects! “I can only get you the audition,” Uncle George said of the Academy. “The rest is up to you.” He’d sent a dozen long-stemmed roses the day her acceptance letter arrived in the mail. She couldn’t help but stick out her tongue and make a face out her bedroom window in the direction of Bennington. I’ll show you, she’d thought.

  Landing the main role in The Philadelphia Story was a further step in the right direction. Grace enjoyed the irony that she was an Irish Catholic from East Falls whose father had made his considerable fortune in construction, a girl who’d never be accepted by the Lord family no matter how many gold medals her father or brother won. And she was aware of an additional, very private irony in her playing this role that Katharine Hepburn had made famous: the father, Seth Lord, was extremely hard on his daughter. Oh, his reasons for lecturing Tracy were different from those of Grace’s father, but nevertheless, Grace felt a strong connection to this character, in the way she wanted so much to impress her beloved dad. So unusually, instead of escaping herself when she played the character, Grace gave Tracy a little bit of her own heart. Just enough to make Tracy real, never enough to betray Grace’s own dearest wishes. It had been a tightrope to walk as she rehearsed her lines and reacted to her fellow players as authentically as possible, but she was pleased with the result.

  That afternoon at the Lyceum, in the dressing room she shared with the other girls who were in the play with her—Janet, who was only a year older than her but who’d donned enough makeup to play Grace’s mother, and Bridget, who’d be playing the no-nonsense photographer Elizabeth Imbrie—Grace began to feel nervous and even relieved that her parents were not there in case she fell apart onstage. It would be okay if Uncle George saw; he’d understand. And if she did bungle it, she could stick out the remainder of her time at the
Academy, then go home and marry a nice Catholic boy with dark eyes and a bright future. No one who patronized the arts on the wide, grand boulevard of Philadelphia’s Benjamin Franklin Parkway would be the wiser.

  Get ahold of yourself, Grace. This is what you’ve trained for your whole life. You’re ready.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly, focusing on the air moving in and out of her nose and lungs, a centering technique the movement teacher had taught in her first year. Iiiiiinnnnnn, ooooooooooouuuut. Iiiiiiiiinnnnnnnn, ooooooooouuuuut.

  Then suddenly, it was time. She took off her glasses and allowed her eyes to adjust to seeing only six or seven feet ahead. It was just enough to do what she needed to do; anytime a character was out of her sight, she used her finely attuned ears to make up for what her eyes lacked.

  Walking onto the stage, Grace felt the heat of the lights above. Thus warmed, the audience a distant, fuzzy sea, and the set of the Lord mansion her only reality, she felt—amazingly, as she always did in this fraction of a second just after a play began—ready. Between the first scene of her throwing out her first husband, and the last of her happy remarriage to the same man after two other suitors vied comically for her affections, Grace lost herself entirely. She wasn’t aware of speaking memorized words, but rather of moving and conversing with the other actors. This was what she lived for. These sustained moments of disappearing into someone else, even when the someone else had so much in common with her.

  The applause was a surprise. It broke the spell. Now she wished she could see the audience better, but all she could make out were smears of flesh tones and navies and grays. Very quickly, though, there was a wave—a rise upward for a standing ovation. Grace’s heart burst and her whole body thrummed as the adulation embraced her. She barely felt the vibration beneath her feet—instead it was more like she had lifted off, like she could fly.

  In the greenroom afterward, someone popped a champagne cork to appreciative gasps and claps, and Uncle George gave her a tight hug. “I couldn’t be prouder,” he said; then holding her at arm’s length, he smiled at her admiringly, the dimple in his cheek carved deep.

  William Weagley, Uncle George’s handsome, dapper . . . Grace was never sure what to call him. Her family always referred to him as his valet or “his man,” and George never corrected them. “How’s your man, William?” her father would ask, if he happened to remember his brother had “a man” at all. When William did turn up at a family event, he was introduced as her uncle’s “friend,” but Grace knew that even this term of vague endearment was woefully inadequate. William didn’t visit when George came to Philadelphia, but George often included him on family outings that happened on his turf in New York, and he’d never been anything other than kind to Grace. She embraced him now and said, “Thank you for coming, William.”

  “You were really terrific, Grace,” he said warmly. “Funny and heartbreaking at the same time. Congratulations.”

  “I know how much theater you see, so that’s high praise,” Grace said, bowing her head in acknowledgment. William had an encyclopedic knowledge of literature, including every published script from Ben Jonson to Tennessee Williams. Poetry was his favorite, though, and he’d lately been raving about James Baldwin and Robert Lowell. He and her uncle saw every single play in New York, on Broadway and off.

  Uncle George and William invited her out for a congratulatory dinner. “And of course, bring Don,” added George with a wink.

  Grace beamed and accepted the invitation. How much easier certain things were here, with her chosen people, than they had ever been at home. Another reason to love the theater.

  Before she went to her dressing room, she drifted over to a group of classmates who were clutching their cups of champagne and laughing.

  “Well done, Grace,” one of the girls, Julie Pullman, welcomed her. “Great performance.”

  The rest of the group cheered their agreement, toasting her enthusiastically with their cups, all except a girl named Faye from the first year, who raised her glass reluctantly and offered no huzzah, and even curled her lip in protest. A few weeks before, Grace had overheard Faye referring to Grace as “the cover girl,” with pure derisive hatred in her tone. Grace knew some others at the Academy were jealous of her success outside the walls of Carnegie Hall, the clothing and dinners and clubs her face and paychecks enabled her to enjoy. She put it down to sour grapes. Her whole life people had made snotty remarks about her looks, and she’d had to learn to ignore them.

  What got to her was when people really believed she coasted by on her appearance, because nothing could have been further from the truth. She worked every hour of the day, either to make money or improve her acting. Even her relationship with Don, their nights on the town that so often revolved around theater, kept her on her toes, always studying her craft—far from seducing a teacher to get what she wanted, as she was sure some of the girls twittered behind her back, being with Don was a constant challenge. She always, always felt she had to impress him. She certainly hoped that performances like the one she’d given that night proved she wasn’t just a cover girl. Be real, she wanted to say. The Academy’s full of gorgeous people, all working hard to become better actors.

  Still, no matter what she said to herself, Faye’s snarl wounded Grace. The whole evening, full as it was with toasts and excited plans at dinner, then passion in Don’s arms later, her classmate’s words sliced her happiness like a knife, reminding her of what a long way she still had to go to prove that she was more than what she appeared to be.

  * * *

  You’re being paranoid, Don,” said Grace as she straightened the blue tie she’d given him for this outing with her parents at the club. She put her hands on his chest and leaned up on the balls of her feet to kiss him chastely on the cheek. The door to the guest room was closed, but it was best not to risk a flare of desire. They’d already come too close to making noise the previous evening when she snuck down to his room to cuddle at midnight. Damn the creaky floorboards.

  “I’m not paranoid,” said Don moodily, running a bony index finger between his neck and collar. He hated wearing ties. “Your father’s barely said ten words to me since I got here. And all he can do is talk about your brother’s next race.”

  “Well, it is Henley, Don. And it’ll be Kell’s second if he wins again. It’s quite a feat, you know.”

  “I don’t care about rowing, Grace. I care about you. And all Kell can do is ride you for your voice, which you’ve put so much time into correcting. I’d like to hear him take the bricklayer out of his tone.”

  Let that one slide, Grace, she told herself, though she felt a defensive indignation heat up her chest. Patting Don on the lapels, she shrugged and said, “It’s just how they are, Don. Neither of us is going to change them.”

  “Good thing you left, then,” he muttered.

  The dining room of the club was flooded with brunch-time light, and a pianist tinkled a Rodgers and Hammerstein medley on the Steinway at the other end of the large room. Their party—Don and Grace; her parents; Peggy and her husband, George Davis; plus Kell and Lizanne—was seated at a round table by the windows so they could look out on the flowering cherry and apple trees outside, which were just reaching their springtime peak. Peggy and George were deep into their second Bloody Marys while her parents were nursing their first. Lizanne was still too young to drink, and handsome, strong-jawed Kell was on a Spartan diet while he trained. Don was waiting for a refill on his mimosa, and Grace was working on her coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. She had a feeling she’d need her wits about her, but the awkward silence at the table had her regretting her choice of beverages. Maybe Don wasn’t paranoid after all.

  “Lizzy,” Grace ventured to her younger sister, thinking that high school subjects were likely to be the safest, “how are you liking Mrs. Conyer’s history class this year? She used to dress up like pilgrims and presidents when she taugh
t certain lessons. Does she still?”

  “Sounds like she has a flair for the theatrical,” interjected Don, trying to find a way into the conversation.

  Lizanne swallowed a mouthful of eggs Benedict and said, “She’s all right. Still dresses up and all. But I like Miss Waverly’s math class best.”

  “What sort of math are you doing this year? Is it geometry?” Grace asked, unnerved by the uninterested clinks of silver against china made by the rest of her family.

  Lizanne washed her eggs down with a gulp of milk, then said, “Yeah. Geometry.”

  Silence again.

  “I can’t get over how much you girls all look alike,” Don said, making eye contact with Peggy and Lizanne, both of whom had the same blond hair, fine noses, and peachy complexions as Grace. In their features and coloring, the three of them were obviously sisters, and obviously their mother’s daughters; though Margaret Majer Kelly’s hair had darkened over the years, it still had a golden hue that lightened close to blond by every summer’s end. Kell had inherited their father’s straight nose, wide pearly smile, and darker hair—though not nearly as dark as Don’s, Grace could see as they all sat around the table together.

  “Too bad that’s where the similarities end,” her father said, not looking up from his plate, where he was nearly finished with his sausages and eggs.

  Grace saw Don’s body jerk forward, saw him open his mouth to reply, but she lightly put her hand on his under the table and said brightly, “Yes, I never could handle a tennis racket like Peggy or a lacrosse stick like Lizanne.” Don shot her a disapproving look. She’d deal with that later.