Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  Needless to say, I’m game. We return to the fountain, where I skewer a marshmallow and hold it beneath one of the spouts from which the chocolate flows. Very carefully I transport the sweet treat to my mouth above a tiny plate meant to catch any mischievous drops. “Yum,” I declare. “This is the best chocolate-fountain chocolate I’ve ever had.”

  “Maybe the chocolate is from Belgium, too.” Trixie dispatches a raisin cluster. “Why are we the only ones dipping anything?”

  Shanelle opts for a Snickerdoodle. “Because unlike the rest of these people, we actually eat.”

  I become aware of a razor-thin redhead eyeing me with obvious curiosity. She’s only a little younger than me, so perhaps we have finally lighted upon a friend of Lisette’s. She’s attired in a luscious white sleeveless dress with an illusion neck of sequined lace. Her brunette companion is wearing a cap-sleeve sheath with silver banding at the waist. Somehow I get the idea I admire their outfits more than they admire mine. Shanelle’s and mine, I should say. Unbowed, I introduce my companions and myself.

  “Did you by any chance go to Porter’s?” the redhead asks me.

  “Excuse me?” My mind cranks. “Porter’s?”

  The brunette snickers. “She doesn’t even know what Porter’s is.”

  “It’s just that you look familiar,” the redhead goes on. “At least in a way.” She runs her eyes over me with what I read as disdain, though maybe I’m just being paranoid. “I don’t suppose you went to Mount Holyoke?”

  At least that I’ve heard of. “No,” I say.

  My monosyllabic response leaves silence in its wake. Normally I would add a remark to roll the conversation along. Something like: “Actually, I’m working toward my bachelor’s degree at night at Cleveland State.” I’d probably leave out that I’m on hiatus because I’m so busy with my Ms. America duties. But I don’t care to share those tidbits with these two.

  “Did you meet Lisette at Mount Holyoke?” I ask the redhead.

  “No, we met at Porter’s.”

  The brunette jumps in. “Just so you know, that’s Miss Porter’s School in Connecticut. It’s one of the oldest girl’s boarding schools in the country.”

  And no doubt one of the most prestigious. “I’m so sorry you’ve lost one of your childhood friends. It’s tragic.”

  The two are sufficiently well bred to assume sad expressions. But those last about ten seconds. Then the brunette runs her discerning gaze over Trixie, Shanelle, and me. “I gather you’re Dream Angel people.”

  “We’re consulting for the production,” Trixie says.

  The redhead nods. “So you’ve worked on Broadway before.”

  “Dream Angel is Off-Broadway,” the brunette corrects.

  “Actually,” Trixie says, “this is our first time working on a theater project.”

  I cringe as the redhead looses a laugh. I know what’s coming next.

  “How in the world,” she inquires right on cue, “did people who never worked in theater get hired as consultants?”

  After a moment of silence, Shanelle responds. “We were hired to give Lisette some insight into the pageant world. You may know that Dream Angel—”

  “Has to do with beauty pageants, yes,” the brunette says. Then understanding dawns in her dark eyes. “Don’t tell me you three have actually competed in those?” She makes it sound horribly vile, as if we get our jollies running a dogfighting ring.

  “Not only competed,” Trixie chirps, “won!” She gestures to me. “I’m very proud to say that Happy here is the reigning Ms. America.”

  Clearly aghast, the brunette turns to the redhead. “Who does that?”

  I clench my jaw. I had hoped to avoid all discussion of beauty pageants at this event since I did not anticipate the topic would go over well, but as a proud title-holder I cannot allow this disrespect to go unchallenged. “Two and a half million women a year do that,” I hear myself say. “In the U.S. alone. They do it for scholarship money; they do it to build confidence and poise; they do it to jumpstart careers in entertainment or broadcast journalism or politics.”

  “You got that right,” Shanelle says. “Look at Erika Harold, Miss America 2003. Sure, she didn’t win her race for Congress in Illinois, at least not yet, but she said there is no finer training for going in front of the cameras and keeping your cool than competing in beauty pageants.”

  “No wonder these two are dressed alike,” the brunette says to the redhead. “Maybe they’re competing in a pageant this afternoon.”

  They chuckle before the redhead turns away with a sniff. “Well, before today I never met anybody who actually competed in beauty pageants. As far as I’m concerned, they’re medieval. And Lisette certainly didn’t know any so-called beauty queens. We met for lunch at least once a month, but she never could explain what possessed her to write about such a despicable topic.” The two whirl away.

  Trixie shakes her head. “Well, at least Lisette has a few friends here.”

  “Even if they are royal bitches,” Shanelle mutters.

  “That redhead did make an interesting point, though,” I say. “Of all the character types she could’ve written about, why did Lisette choose a beauty queen?”

  “You have to ask, girl?” Shanelle says. “We’re fascinating.”

  “I think it’s because so many people have strong opinions about us,” Trixie says. “As we just saw. Nobody’s neutral.”

  “But the whole beauty-pageant thing is so far out of Lisette’s experience,” I say, before I’m forced to drop the subject by the loud clinking of a spoon against a glass. The man we guessed to be Warren Longley moves to the center of the gathering and clears his throat. The guests hush. “Thank you all so much for coming today,” he says into the silence. “It means a great deal to me, to Lisette’s mother Stephanie, to her brother Robert, and to her sister Jacqueline.

  “As a family, we made the decision not to mourn the tragic end of Lisette’s too short life but rather to celebrate the time she had with us and the immense joy she brought. Forgive me if I can’t speak for long today about my dear daughter.”

  He pauses to compose himself and tears rise to my eyes. Warren Longley may not be a paragon among men, but at this moment he is a father grieving his child and my heart breaks for him.

  “A dear friend put together a video montage,” he manages to say, “and our family would like it to speak for us.”

  He steps back and I see that now the video wall is showing the montage. To the haunting music of “Sunrise, Sunset,” one image melts into the next: Lisette as a baby, a girl, a young woman, the woman I knew. When the last photo fades, there isn’t a dry eye in the house.

  Except for the peepers belonging to Oliver. He steps forward to give Warren Longley a manly back-slapping hug. I see that he’s substituted his usual black cords and red sneakers for white cords and white sneakers, along with a white button-down dress shirt. He’s carrying what appears to be a rolled-up poster.

  “As Warren and I discussed several times in the last few sad days,” he begins in his squeaky voice, “Dream Angel is more than ever Lisette’s legacy. Of course, nothing can make up for the tragic loss of her life. But this musical can show theatergoers here in New York and maybe down the road in London, Toronto, and elsewhere, too, just what an immense talent Lisette was.”

  He pauses and everyone claps. I note that the tenor of these remarks is vastly different from what Oliver said Thursday night after Lisette died, when her father was not within earshot. Then he tossed out phrases like: This production is the toughest I’ve ever worked on and that’s because of Lisette Longley. She was hardly a friend of mine. I’m not going to start pretending now that she was.

  Oliver goes on. “I’ve tried to think of ways in which we, her theater colleagues, can honor Lisette. To that end, I have the pleasure of unveiling the new poster for Dream Angel. So without further ado—”

  He unrolls the poster and holds it up for all to see. For the most part it’s iden
tical to the original, which features an illustration of a beautiful woman grabbing at a flying tiara as if it were the bridal bouquet at a wedding reception. This version is different in one big way. In the upper left corner, occupying a lot of prime real estate, is a photo of Lisette along with the phrase: In loving and grateful memory of Lisette Longley, librettist extraordinaire.

  I bet Oliver worked closely with Warren Longley on this. I meet the gaze of Tonya Shepherds, who’s standing across the room. She was sure right when she told us that Lisette’s photo would land on Dream Angel’s promo materials.

  Oliver is about to say more when a commotion erupts in the foyer. There’s lots of gabbing, laughing, even clapping. Seconds later I hear the rumble of a male voice, then more giddy conversation and applause. Finally, the crowd parts and a new arrival is revealed.

  It’s none other than Broadway icon Oliver Tripp Sr.

  He’s recognizable to those Americans who don’t live under rocks. I can spot a father/son resemblance, but in most ways Oliver Sr. and Oliver Jr. cut very different figures. Where Junior is skinny, Senior is portly. Where Junior is unkempt, Senior is impeccably groomed, today wearing a gorgeously tailored white suit with a pink and white striped bowtie and matching pocket square. And while Junior often assumes a meek demeanor, Senior always seems bold as can be. He was a ragingly successful Broadway director and in his seventies still oversees the occasional production in theater-loving cities like Chicago, Minneapolis, and Charleston.

  Bradley Cooper hustles over to shake hands and so does Warren Longley. But Oliver Jr. makes no move to greet his father. He simply observes the hullabaloo, mute and forgotten, his audience as lost as if they’d dematerialized. I get the idea this isn’t the first time his father has stolen his thunder.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” Oliver Sr. says, though it’s too late for that. “I’ll just sneak over there by the back,” and he heads in my direction, shaking hands all the way, winking or waving at acquaintances, holding the floor even as he pretends to cede it. I expect him to veer off, but no, he keeps coming right at me. In the excitement I’ve been separated from Trixie and Shanelle and find myself in the rear by the windows. The hole-in-one golf ball is to my right and Senior claims a spot to my left. But not before he gives me a wink.

  People settle down again. Oliver Jr., pipes up. “Well, safe to say my father is a man who needs no introduction.”

  That sets off a fresh smattering of applause. Since I’m standing next to the new man of the hour, I feel compelled to participate, though for the first time ever I feel sorry for his son.

  Why did Senior show up here? Clearly no one expected him, including our host. I’m pretty sure Senior has nothing to do with Dream Angel. I’ve never seen him around the theater and only once did I hear his son speak his name.

  “Let’s remember what we’re here for today,” Junior says. “We’re here to celebrate the life of Lisette Longley.”

  I doubt I’m the only one who hears what he doesn’t say: We’re not here to celebrate my father. Senior must have the same reaction because I sense him stiffen.

  “Warren Longley and I are of the same mind in many respects,” Junior goes on. “We both love musical theater. Sure, we admire the symphony, the opera, the ballet, but nothing else fuels our passion quite the same way. And that is why Warren has been so generous to Broadway and Off-Broadway productions alike. He puts his money where his heart is.”

  That sets off a new round of applause, particularly among us theater folk. Perhaps because the adulation is not directed at Senior this time, he manages only a cursory clap or two.

  Junior sort of puffs up before he delivers his next line. “I am delighted to announce that Warren is showing even deeper faith in Dream Angel. He’s investing another half-million dollars in the musical.”

  Before the word musical has even left Oliver Jr.’s lips, people are whooping and cheering. All the noise is a mercy because to my left I hear a surprising remark pop out of Oliver Sr. “Not sure that’s such great news. I told my son he shouldn’t be so dependent on one single investor, but do you think he listened?”

  I don’t know who Senior is talking to. He’s not looking at me; in fact, he’s not looking at anybody. He’s staring straight ahead. But I heard that comment clearly and I’m pretty sure everybody else in our vicinity did, too.

  “There’s another piece of exciting news I’d like to share,” Junior continues. “For those of you who don’t already know, we’re resuming previews for Dream Angel tomorrow night.”

  A frisson courses through the crowd. That is precisely the rapid-fire timing Tonya predicted yesterday.

  “Not only that,” Junior says. He takes a deep breath. “Warren and I have decided opening night will be this Wednesday.”

  Wow! Less than one week after Lisette’s death. Tonya was right about this, too. As people murmur in surprise, I watch Tonya hug Oliver Jr. She’s doing a great job of looking thrilled, but boy, is she under pressure now, what with all the changes being made to the production. The entire cast and crew are, for that matter.

  Before I came to Broadway, I would’ve thought most shows opened on Friday, like most movies. But unlike movies, whose reviews come out beforehand, a show’s all-important Times review traditionally comes out the morning after opening night. That’s why shows that expect a good review almost never open on Friday. They don’t want the review buried in the week’s least-read newspaper.

  I’m making eye contact with Shanelle and Trixie, who look as amazed as I am at the opening-night news, when Senior pipes up again. “If I thought my son would listen,” he says, making zero effort to be quiet, “I’d tell him to slow down. Don’t restart the previews so fast! And for God’s sake, don’t move up opening night! But hell would have to freeze over before he’d take my advice.”

  This time I’m positive everyone around us heard that remark. Several people throw shocked looks at Senior, myself included.

  He keeps right on going. “Maybe my son could keep me away from the previews, but he sure won’t keep me away from opening night.” Then he turns and looks at me. “I’ll give you three guesses why he’s so hell-bent on keeping me away.”

  I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I am now. What in the world is Senior doing? It sure seems like he’s deliberately trying to undermine his son. For it’s pretty darn clear that not only is everybody around us hearing these derogatory remarks, people further afield are, too. Including none other than Junior and Warren Longley, both of whom are frowning in our direction.

  I hear myself speak. “How about you and I go get ourselves some wine?” I take Senior’s arm and try to pull him away from the throng. “Then we can chat.”

  He doesn’t budge. “We can chat right here. Come on, guess why my son is keeping me away from those previews of his.”

  “I am truly parched.” I tug harder. I don’t know what Senior will say next, but I do know I don’t want Junior—or Warren Longley—to hear it. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty, too. Plus, I’d love to chat just the two of us.”

  No go. Senior just scowls at me. “Fine. If you won’t guess, I’ll tell you.” He raises his voice. “My son is embarrassed by Dream Angel! That’s why he doesn’t want me to see the previews!”

  Senior’s insult reverberates around the room. I’m so stunned that I think my heart skips a beat. And even though now it’s too late to shut up the old meanie, I yank on his arm. Unfortunately, the man is as unyielding as a buffalo. And try though I might to keep my balance, my right arm flails into the small table atop which perches the hole-in-one golf ball.

  I look to my right to see both the table and the crystal stand rocking. Aghast, I let go of Senior and grab at the stand, trying to make it stabilize.

  That turns out to be exactly the wrong thing to do. Yes, I manage to seize the stand. But to my horrified disbelief, my quick grab launches the golf ball skyward.

  I am riveted by the ball’s flight. And preoccupied though I may be, I percei
ve that I am not alone. A fraught silence descends upon the multitude as our eyes track the golf ball, now tracing an exquisite arc toward the chocolate fountain. I daresay the ball looked no more majestic as it sliced across Georgia’s beautiful blue sky on its momentous hole-in-one journey six months ago than it does right now.

  Just as I’m wondering why in the world the Longley staff didn’t attach that darn golf ball to the stand after what by all rights should have been its final flight, it goes plop!—and lands smack dab on top of the chocolate fountain, yes, into the very hole from which the chocolate flows.

  “Wow!” Trixie cries, “that golf ball is really good at getting holes in one!”

  At that moment, as we stunned onlookers remain paralyzed in place, the chocolate fountain whirs to a stop. Luscious chocolate, Belgian or otherwise, no longer flows from it. Thanks to the golf ball plugging the hole, the fountain’s outer ring has ceased spinning as well, and a rather ominous silence has settled over the entire apparatus.

  Seconds later, I don’t think I’m imagining it, a hiss begins to emanate from the chocolate fountain. It grows in volume until it becomes a shriek.

  I guess I’m the type who’d stay to watch a train wreck because I stand mesmerized as the fountain begins to shudder. The harder it shakes, the more my stilettos seem rooted to the spot. The fountain’s outer ring again begins to spin, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Out of the corner of my eye I see the fountain’s minder back away, clearly too petrified to intervene. She called these European fountains “a little temperamental,” but I’m thinking that might be an understatement. For now I hear a menacing rumble from deep inside the fountain, as if it’s angry. Very angry. Sort of like Vesuvius before—

  From behind me, Senior stomps closer to the fountain. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this damn thing?” he bellows. “What about what I have to say?”

  I can’t imagine what more Senior has to say, and I suppose I’ll never find out, because the golf ball chooses that moment to rocket straight up toward the ceiling. Chocolate erupts behind it in a black rush. Now the ring is spinning wildly, whirling like a dervish, its spouts madly spraying chocolate near and far, streaking every surface it can find, from the Longley’s white walls and white carpets to the oh-so-modern white furniture and gorgeously attired hoity-toity guests.