by Vanda
I turned to Connie. “How about we say tomorrow, noon.” I flipped to the page in my date book, balancing it on my knee. “So that’s Connie … Connie what?”
“Lingus.”
“Excuse me?” I looked up from my date book. “Your name is uh—Connie Lingus?”
“Yeah!” LeRoy said. “You wanna make sumpin’ outta it?”
“Stop, LeRoy.” Connie said. “Lotsa folks make fun of my name. It ain’t no never mind.”
I tried to smile. What had I gotten myself into? “Well,” Big smile. “Names can be changed, can’t they?”
“See Con? She gonna change ya and ball up all our plans.” His arms flailed around his body. “That’s what they does.”
Connie put her arms around his head, stopping his aimless movement. She kissed his neck. “No, baby, she ain’t gonna change nuttin’. I ain’t gonna let her. You always worrying ’bout stuff that don’t never happen. He does that, Miss Huffman. It takes me to stop him from doin’ dat. You know how men are.”
LeRoy put his thin brown arms around her and pulled her close. “She gonna do somethin’ to you, Sweet Pea. That what they does. Stick by me. I love ya how ya is.”
“LeRoy and I got plans, Miss Huffman. He gotta stay in my plans. Ya know what I mean?”
“Of course. But Connie, could we speak a moment outside? Privately.”
“No!” LeRoy shouted, stepping in front of Connie. “Ya can’t take her. She mines.” He spun around and grabbed Connie by her shoulders. “Con, I knows about life. You barely grown, but me, I knows things so ya gotta listen. She gonna do things to your head. That’s what they does. They ball up everything in your head, so ya can’t hardly think no more. What’d I tell you ’bout them?”
“It’s up to you, Connie. But is LeRoy in charge of everything you do? You can’t think for yourself?” I knew exactly what I was doing, and I wasn’t at all pleased to be doing it. “I don’t know that I’d want to represent someone who didn’t have her own mind.”
“Don’t be listenin’ to her crap, Con. She gonna ball up everythin’ in your head. That’s what they does.”
“I sure as hell can t’ink for myself,” Connie said firmly, stepping away from LeRoy. “I’m only gonna go out and tawk wit’ her a minute, honey. Dat’s all.”
“See what she doin’? Changin’ you. That’s what they does. Don’t goes, baby. Don’t goes out there wit’ her. There ain’t no good out there. There ain’t no us out there. You ain’t never comin’ back.”
“I ain’t got no shoes on. ‘Course I’m comin back.”
As we stepped through the door I heard LeRoy crying out, “No, Connie, you ain’t comin’ back. You ain’t. That’s what they—”
I closed the door as we walked into the hallway. Connie opened her purse and took out a used gum wrapper, opened it, unwrapped the old gum, and plopped it into her mouth.
“Connie, how badly do you want this? How badly do you want to be a star?”
“You can make me a star?”
“I think so. A lot’s gonna depend on you because it’s gonna take a lot of work and a lot of sacrifice. What I need to know is if you can sing on Tuesday the way you sang tonight.”
“Sure can. I been singin’ since I was four, Miz Huffman. My father taught me practic’lly ’fore I could talk.”
“Then are you willing to make the necessary sacrifices?”
“You betcha.”
“I’m going to speak to you frankly, woman-to-woman ’cause I know you’re smart. How far do you think a hopeful like yourself would get in show business with a colored business manager?”
“Uh … but we been together for three years.” Tears swelled her eyes. “He sticks up for me. We’re in love.”
“Let me ask you this. How far do you think a white performer would get in this business with a colored boyfriend?”
“But ...”
“You think about it. I don’t want to influence you.” Like hell I didn’t. “I’ll leave Tuesday noon open. Don’t show up if you’re not prepared to make the necessary sacrifices.”
I left her in the hallway with a thin stream of tears smearing black streaks down her face. I left her with a choice to make, but I knew what her choice would be. No talent like that was going to sit quietly inside of her. Still—I didn’t sleep too well that night, or many nights afterward.
Chapter 24
September 1949
ALL OVER THE city, all over the country—the world too, I guess—we were glued to our Sunday New York Times. Richard, Juliana, Johnny, and I were having brunch at the Peacock Restaurant in the Waldorf Astoria on Richard’s dime that was considerably more than a dime—but he sure owed us a good time after yesterday’s rehearsal.
Johnny had been playing the intro for “Put the Blame on Mame,” and Juliana came out dancing and singing in a black leotard and tights. Richard jumped out of his seat and ran up on stage with Juliana’s bathrobe in his arms. “Cover yourself!” he yelled, trying to drape the robe over her shoulders.
“Richard!” Juliana pushed him away. “I’m rehearsing.”
Stan approached the stage, as always, wearing his three-piece suit. He removed his thick glasses. “Mr. Styles, what do you expect her to wear to rehearse a number like this? She has to move. For the actual show, she’ll be fully covered in an appropriate-length dress. Now, if you would be so kind as to leave the stage. We have a great deal of work to accomplish today.”
“Well, uh … I guess.” Richard reluctantly hopped down from the low stage, caressing Juliana’s bathrobe. “Sorry, fellas. Sorry, Johnny.”
Johnny nodded.
We got through that song okay, despite Richard squirming around in his chair. But, gosh, she did look good, and I kind of wanted to throw a robe around her myself. I mean, Johnny was looking at her with those eyes men get.
Then we set up for the “If I Were the Only Girl in the World” number. This was the song that Stan had chosen for her to dance with men in the audience. He had Spatz and Wallace, our dancers, two brothers who came from a family of Vaudevillians, sit at a couple of tables down front and pretend to be audience members.
Juliana had changed into a simple navy-blue day dress. Her voice was in top form, and it was the kind of song she could have fun with, so we all sat there falling in love with her again. But when she stepped down from the stage and reached out for Spatz, taking him into her arms and flirting with him, Richard got squirmy in his seat again. I held onto his arm and shook my head no. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and took out a pack of Marlboros. He shook so bad he couldn’t get the cigarette out of the pack, so I took one out for him and put it in his mouth. He couldn’t connect his lighter with the cigarette, so I lit it for him.
I watched her from the corner of my eye while keeping Richard busy with his cigarette. Juliana, her arms around Spatz, sang right into his face. It was extremely romantic. As the song came to an end she kissed him on the cheek. Richard jumped up. “No. Definitely not. Julie, you cannot flaunt yourself in front of these men.”
“Richard, stop it,” Juliana said with contained anger. “This is no place for your insane jealousy. This is the act.”
“Easy, Juliana,” Stan said, walking toward her. “We can’t have you getting upset.”
“But Stan,” Richard whined.
Stan turned toward him. “That’s Mr. Devenbach to you, Mr. Styles. And now, Mr. Styles, please sit. Quietly.”
As Richard slunk back into his chair, the messenger I was expecting ran in. “Here it is, Al.”
I took the envelope from him and pressed a coin into his hands, sending him happily off. “That it?” Stan asked.
“Yup.” I handed the envelope to Stan. He slid out the sheet music and let his eyes scan over it. “Okay,” Stan said, handing the music to Juliana. “Look at the second verse.”
As her eyes scanned the page, a grin formed on her face. “Phew. Yes!”
“Johnny, play the intro, please,” Stan said.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Don’t call me boss.”
He grinned at Stan as he ran his fingers over the keys, playing the intro to “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.”
She sang the first verse of that song, drawing me in. I had to get closer to the sounds, to be surrounded by them. I struggled to ignore Richard, who was stabbing a pencil into one of his hands. He got through the first verse without drawing blood, but the second verse … Well—when she sang, “And worship the trousers that cling to him,” his face contorted into such a burning radish that it looked like it was going to explode. Then she sang, “Horizontally speaking, he’s at his very best,” and Richard flew out of his seat, fists raised. “No! No!” Juliana pushed through to “…Thank God, I can be oversexed again.”
“You’ve changed the words,” Richard yelled. “Julie, you can’t sing those filthy words. Put the real words back! I’ve heard that song on the radio and I know those words are—”
“These are the words Hart wrote,” I told him. “They were the ones Vivienne Segal sung on Broadway.”
“Lorenz was my dear friend,” Stan added. “May God rest his soul. And of course, the words he wrote cannot be sung on the radio, but they can be sung in a cabaret. Al convinced me that we owe Larry this honor.”
“But Doris Day and Helen Forrest don’t sing it that way on their records. No one will ever record it.”
“We’re trying to break new ground,” I told him. “We want to do something entirely new with Juliana.”
“By letting her sing filth? Julie, tell them you won’t.”
“These words are perfect for me, Richard. Go home.”
“An excellent idea,” Stan said in his usual calm manner. “Mr. Styles, go home. You cannot continue to interrupt my rehearsal. Please leave. Now.”
“I’m paying for this.”
“And we are all grateful to you. Aren’t we, everybody?”
We said things like, “Sure are. Thanks, Richard,” and so on.
“But I …” Richard said. “She’s my …”
“Unless you would rather I left …” Stan pulled on the cuffs of one sleeve, then the other.
“No!” Juliana cried out. “Richard, go!”
“Well?” Stan crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry, Stan,” Juliana said. “This is all so unprofessional. Richard, you have to go.”
“But I’m your husband!”
“You are. And we don’t need any husbands here. We do need the musical director.”
“But I’m your manager.”
“Yes. And my manager doesn’t need to be here, either. My musical director does. I’ll see you at home tonight, darling.”
He looked around the room for support, but found none. He marched toward the door.
“Oh and Mr. Styles,” Stan called before Richard could get through the door. “You shall never again enter any of my rehearsals. I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you.” He turned back to us. “We can proceed now.”
To make it up to us, after he and Juliana went to church, Richard brought us to the Peacock for a leisurely brunch. We didn’t expect the Sunday Times, usually a favorite brunch activity, to so thoroughly upset our appetites. Shivers of fear rippled up my arms. “I can’t believe it,” Johnny said. “They’re not supposed to be as smart as us. Everyone said they couldn’t do it.”
“Well, they did it,” Richard said softly, taking a sip of his Mimosa. “They did it.”
Juliana sat quietly in her breezy-cool dress, her dark hair tumbling loose around her face, her gaze looked far away. What was going on in her mind?
I pushed my eggs Benedict aside and looked down at my paper. I read the words over again to myself. “We have evidence,” Truman told the press, “that within recent weeks, an atomic explosion occurred in the U.S.S.R. …”
The Russians had the bomb.
Chapter 25
October 1949
OVER THE NEXT few months, we engaged in a nonstop flurry of activity. Nothing like constant movement to take your mind off possible world destruction. But it was always there—the awareness. Everything was the same and nothing was. We always knew that one stroke of Stalin’s mentally-deranged, Soviet Union finger could exterminate us all like scurrying little bugs. Best not to dwell on it too much.
I was going to take the fall semester off from school, but when I casually mentioned it to Max, he blew up. To appease him, I registered for one course. I thought a scene-study class might be easier than something theoretical—no exams to cram for, but I was wrong. I was constantly taking the subway uptown to rehearse some scene I had to present to the class, and then dashing back downtown to manage the club and Juliana’s career. But I had to admit I liked being back at the acting. Acting at school gave me more gratification than it had when I was considered a so-called professional. The scenes I read were from plays I cared about, not the lame radio junk I used to get paid for, like: “For a wash that’s whiter than white, brighter than bright …” Jeepers! The Russians have the bomb, for criminy’s sake.
I was two people. There was me, the college student, who went to school in shirtwaist dresses and flare skirts and occasionally stayed up late in bars having deep conversations about the world. And there was the old-maid career woman me, who wore business suits and clunky heals and rushed to the club to hire a bouncer or rehearse a line of scantily-clad chorus girls.
All throughout October, Johnny feverishly wrote new songs for Juliana’s act. As soon as he finished one, Juliana was learning it, and Stan and I were working it into the show. Johnny hated it when I suddenly threw on my coat to go uptown to rehearse. “Not that again,” he’d complain. “You can actually get a degree in acting? What kind of a Mickey Mouse school is that? And at your age? You must be a fossil over there.”
He was wrong. With so many veterans going to school on the GI Bill, lots of students were my age. Mostly men, though. Women who were qualified for Veterans Benefits didn’t come to City. Maybe they didn’t want to be teachers.
Johnny, Stan, and I were also pulling together songs we hoped would be Juliana’s first 33 rpm LP microgroove album. LPs were so new that Max thought maybe we should stick with two songs for a 78 rpm, but from the talk I was hearing in the music department at school, it was clear that the new microgrooves were the way to go; they would put Juliana ahead of the rest. Max agreed, happy I was learning the latest in the business. Convincing Richard was harder, but I prevailed.
We hired Juliana a new vocal coach, the best from Max’s best-of-the-best list. Of course, she didn’t know her coach came from Max. I made the contact and Richard forked over the money. Juliana was thrilled with how the act was shaping up, and I reveled in seeing her so happy. Of course, she and I didn’t get to be alone with each other very often. I kept telling myself that someday all this would be behind us, and we’d have plenty of time together.
Max recommended a photographer, and the most gorgeous, glamorous pictures of her were taken. Maybe too glamorous for my taste. Juliana had a natural beauty that didn’t require a lot of makeup or special lighting. It came from a quiet confidence in her beauty that emanated from the inside of her. Max approved the photos, so we put them on posters around town under the logo, “Sensuous. Seductive. Secretive.”
She was booked to play The Onyx in early November. My anxiety rose. This would be Juliana’s biggest gig since I started managing her. Juliana seemed unfazed throughout the last-minute preparations. That is, until the Newsweek article came out.
She was resting in the alcove off to the side of the rehearsal space at Carnegie Studios, eating her lunch of lime Jell-O. She was always on a diet, which worried me; she had a perfect hourglass shape. If she changed that, she’d be harder to book. I walked over to where she sat in a white straight-backed chair, reading a magazine.
“Johnny finished another song,” I told her, leaning on the opposite wall. “Stan and I thought you might want to try it out this afternoon. See if we c
an fit it into the act.”
She didn’t stir from her reading, only shook her head. “Why are they doing this?”
“Doing what? What are you reading?”
I looked over her shoulder and saw the title in bold letters.
“QUEER PEOPLE.”
“What magazine is that?” Holding her place, she flipped the cover toward me.
“Newsweek? Why would they …? Are they even allowed to print words like that?” My heart thundered, and a shiver ran through me.
“Apparently. Read the rest. They use all the words.”
I read the article to myself over her shoulder.
“The sex pervert, whether a homosexual, an exhibitionist, or even a dangerous sadist, is often regarded merely as a ‘queer’ person who never hurts anyone but himself. Then the mangled form of some victim focuses public attention on the degenerate’s work, and newspaper headlines flare for days over accounts, and feature articles packed with sensational details of the most dastardly and horrifying crimes.”
“‘Homosexual.’ It’s right there in print,” I said. “I thought quality magazines and newspapers couldn’t use that word, that their editors wouldn’t let them, but there it is.”
“The world’s changing. I feel it more everyday.”
I took a deep breath. I had to calm down for her sake. I knew none of this applied to me. My feelings were only for Jule. No other woman ever … well, there was Marta the Jewish girl, but that was meaningless kid stuff, so that didn’t count. But why was my heart pounding over a simple little article? “Jule, this doesn’t have anything to do with you,” I whispered, trying to believe what I said. I looked over at Stan and Johnny, sitting near the far wall behind the post, eating. Johnny, of course, knew about Jule, and maybe Stan did too, but no one ever talked about it.
“Oh, yes, it does have to do with me.” She stood, rolling up the magazine tightly in her two hands.
“They mean the guys.”
“Oh, do they? And I suppose they meant ‘the guys’ when a group of girls chased me and a friend through the woods and beat us up so badly we spent weeks in the hospital.”
