At the other side of the dance floor, she jabbed a finger at his chest. “Irving Berlin’s wife isn’t Jewish and no one cares.”
“I’m sure plenty of people do care, but he’s Irving Berlin so they don’t talk about it, not to his face, anyhow. Don’t you read the papers? You heard that Father Coughlin on the wireless ever? You shoulda seen what someone scrawled on our awning at the shop the other day; I won’t repeat it to a lady. I don’t know what you see in me anyway. I’m a funny-looking Jew with almost no money of my own, in a career that’s not exactly respectable and at which I will most likely fail. I’m working all the time, too, so I’m no fun, either, as you yourself pointed out. You’re a beautiful girl and a hundred guys would fall at your feet if you so much as blinked in their direction.”
“But not you.”
“Maybe someday I’ll get married and have a family but it’ll be a Jewish girl that probably my mother picks out, and only after I have enough money that I could afford a wife, and that’s nowhere near right now.”
“That sounds dreadful.”
“It’s normal. I’ve never expected anything else and why should I? Kid, I don’t mean to insult you. You’re a beautiful girl but I’m the wrong guy. I promise you that.”
“Some promise.”
Quick movement caught Milo’s eye. It was Allen striding toward them. “Milo! Get back here already! Gordon wants to talk about staging and might need more verses in the swing number. And he says Bell doesn’t like the melody in the duet.”
He looked over his shoulder but Vivian had dissolved into the crowd. Allen grabbed his arm. “I knew she’d be a distraction. This is a working dinner, pal.”
Allen staggered as he swerved around a pert cigarette girl in her red and blue outfit, swiveling his head as he passed to ogle her gams.
“No thanks,” Milo said to the girl’s tray of smokes. “I should make sure Vivian’s all right.”
“She’s fine. What, is she going to get mugged in here?” Allen stopped short, wobbling as he did so, and seized Milo by his upper arms. Allen was shorter and smaller, and Milo had a crazy moment of wanting to laugh at how they must have looked just then. Allen said, “Forget her, look. You didn’t hear what I heard just now. Gordon’s worried. Shows are closing all up and down Broadway and people are losing their shirts. No one wants just a bunch of flash and girls with hardly no clothes on, and they can’t afford to put that kind of show on anyhow. It’s all up to us. It’s gotta be the songs.”
Milo nodded and shrugged his arms away from Allen, who led the way in a looping, twisty path back to their table. Allen sat down hard, nearly coming out the other side of the chair, and slugged back his drink.
“Short! Welcome back. So tell me about this last song you’re working on…”
After an hour or so, Gordon ran out of steam for work and Milo felt he could breathe freely again. He knew Leah would sweat him for information on the Stork Club, so he glanced around some more to take a full report back. He wasn’t much for reading the society pages, so he was probably seeing all sorts of famous types without knowing it. He did recognize Ethel Merman, first by hearing her brassy voice even over the sound of the band and the chatter, then by her huge smile and great swath of red hair.
The band swung into “Blue Skies.” Nothin’ but blue skies, from now on … He’d heard Irving Berlin came into the club sometimes. He craned his neck to scan the tables nearest, though Milo couldn’t be sure he’d recognize him, anyway. Seeing no one he thought was Berlin, Milo leaned back in his chair and tried to imagine what it would be like to have dinner in a club, and hear the band strike up your very own song. Probably happened to good old Irving all the time, these days. Milo remembered Vivian’s argument about Irving Berlin’s gentile wife. How could he make her understand about obligations? She apparently felt none at all, having taken off from her family with not a single regret.
Milo put out his cigarette in the black ashtray, the words STORK CLUB in vibrant, blocky white. Earlier, Allen had told him that the ashtrays get stolen constantly. Milo didn’t have the nerve to pocket one himself. He did pick up an extra couple matchbooks, figuring it would make Leah smile. A white cartoon stork stood on one leg, looking both rakish and ludicrous in a top hat and monocle.
He’d have to choose his words carefully if his father was in earshot when talking to his sister about this place. If Yosef Schwartz heard Milo going on about expensive suits and the prices of drinks—Milo had chanced to see a menu and wanted to grab his chest like he was near to die—he’d stomp around the apartment. The expense of replacing that awning ruined by some hoodlum had set Schwartz and Son back a goodly amount in a month where they could scarce afford it. But his father would not hear of not replacing it, snapping that his customers would not be rained on as they walked into his shop.
Meanwhile, they’d come home the week before after a picture at the Paradise Theater to see the Kleins’ furniture all in the street, getting rained on. The Schwartz men had joined their neighbors in busting down the bolted door and putting their furniture back, but most of it was already ruined, and it was only a matter of time before the marshals came to enforce the eviction.
Milo craned his neck again, looking for Vivian, trying to remember the color of her dress. But it was smoky and dark inside, and his eyes were bad, and it seemed hopeless. She’d probably caught a cab and gone home, the thought of which made Milo shift in his seat. He should’ve gotten her the cab himself if she’d wanted to go, and called it for her, and seen her into it properly. He hadn’t ever been much for taking girls out but he knew how to be polite and he sure hadn’t been that.
Milo set down his glass and shouted across the table. “Mr. Gordon! Thanks much for tonight, but I’d better shove off so I can write you some more terrific lyrics.”
Allen clapped Milo on the shoulder and regarded him with an unfocused, woozy gaze. Milo told his friend, “You’ll take a cab home? You take a train and you’re like to get on the wrong one and end up in Yonkers.”
Allen promised and Milo untangled himself from his friend’s droopy arm. He decided to make one more circuit of the club before leaving, just in case.
He walked past her at first, and it was her voice that made him double back. She was laughing, but the sound was strained, nervous. He squinted through the haze until he saw her face yellowed by a candle at her table. A man was next to her, having pulled up his chair so close he was practically in her lap. He had one hand on her chin, and in the heartbeat that Milo was looking, he saw that hand grip, and crank her face toward his. Vivian was trying to pull away, grimacing with the effort.
Milo stomped up to the table and used the deepest voice he could muster. “Hey! Pal, do you mind? That’s my girl. Vivian, where’d you get to, I’ve been looking everywhere.” He was holding out his hand and stepping forward as he said this as if there was no doubt at all the man would relinquish Vivian to him. Perhaps because the initial loud “Hey” had startled him into loosening his hand, the man sat back from her, glaring up at Milo with malevolence.
Vivian took Milo’s arm and he whisked her through the crowd, jostling people and not bothering with the “excuse me” this time. They burst onto into the lobby by the hat check and both looked behind them, then chuckled in a giddy, nervous way.
Milo set Vivian back from him and looked her over. Her dress seemed shifted funny, and wrinkled. Her hair was a mess as if she, or someone, had been running their fingers through it. Her hat was missing, as was one glove. “Are you okay?”
Vivian patted her hair. She looked pale, except for a pink flush just at her cheekbones. “Just fine. I lost my hat, I think, but best to leave it. I’d never find it now.”
“Who was that fellow?”
“Oh, someone who I thought was the right kind of man. I was wrong that time, too. Seems like I’m wrong quite a lot.”
Milo cleared his throat and presented the tickets to the hat check girl. “Good thing I found you again. I had your ticket.�
��
When he turned back around, Vivian had her arms crossed and was facing away. “Yes, good thing.”
Milo collected their coats. “Should I get you a cab?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Oh, you’d better not, you’ll freeze out there.”
“Then the train.”
“Look, let me get you a cab, see you home…”
She snatched the coat out of Milo’s hand, knocking his own to the floor in the process. “God forbid someone see me in a cab with a Jew, it would be a scandal!” She was out of his sight in three long strides while Milo was still trying to collect his things off the floor.
He chased her out into the night and saw, to his great relief, that she was slamming the door of a cab after all. He shrugged into his coat and lit a cigarette, waving on another cab that had slowed, hopefully, by the Stork Club awning. He’d take the El.
He glanced back in the direction Vivian’s cab had gone, annoyed that she made him think she would walk home alone in the dark, in this weather. So maybe they’d never get married or anything. Still, he’d never want anything bad to happen to the girl, especially on his account.
New York City, 1999
I’m straightening my bow tie in the mirror downstairs, while Esme fusses behind me with a lint roller all over my tuxedo jacket. My father would’ve given his eyeteeth to have one of these roller things for the shop.
In the mirror behind Esme’s frowning concentration, I see Linda’s somber face appear. I raise my hand in a wave, and then smile broadly, tugging my tie from both sides.
“You look great, Pop,” she says, but her voice is limp and tired. “Now you be sure to let us know the minute you are too tired and want to go home. Joel made me swear on the family silver that I wouldn’t tire you out.”
I wave my hand at her. Yes, I know, I know.
She’s got this long silvery dress that swoops down to the floor. It looks sharp on her. It reminds me of the gowns all the ladies used to wear way back when. Bee used to have such a fit when hemlines went up so high you could give a girl a physical just by walking past her on the street, and I can’t say she was wrong. There’s something so unimaginative about hanging your parts all out.
Not that the men didn’t like to look at skin back in my day. Look at Ziegfeld. He didn’t exactly go broke by putting girls in sparkly nude stockings. No, he went broke by losing his keister in the stock market like most everyone did back then.
I’m so glad to be getting out somewhere, anywhere. I’ve been starting to feel stir-crazy in this place, and lonely. I let them tell me to stay home on Rosh Hashanah, and as soon as everyone left, with me and a nurse all by our lonesome, I regretted it. Sure, it saved me from having to deal with all the pity faces, and it spared me from the exhaustion of being out in public for hours. But I missed it, turned out. Yom Kippur. I’ll definitely go on Yom Kippur. I mean, if I can go to this AIDS charity gig Paul lined up, I can get myself to temple on that day, of all days. My poor mother, rest her soul. She used to hate it when I’d work on Shabbat, and miss dinner, too, not caring a button that the theater world doesn’t exactly grind to a halt on Friday nights.
I’m almost looking forward to this party. No one can hear anyone talk at those places anyhow, not hardly. I can stand there with my drink and smile at all the girls and I won’t have to go numb with small talk.
Linda’s been quiet, picking invisible lint off her own dress. She says now, “Okay, I’ll go have the car brought around. Paul will be down to help you with the stairs.”
She catches me roll my eyes. “Pop, we always liked to give you a hand no matter what, and it rained today, the steps are slick. You don’t want to end up in the hospital with a broken hip, I’m sure of that.”
Damn if she isn’t right. Fine, then.
Esme pats my shoulder. “You look fine, Mr. Short. And don’t you worry about them fussing over you. It would be worse if they didn’t care, yes? I’ll be off for home now. No gala for me, just checkers with my son. Maybe helping him with homework if he didn’t bother to do it yet.”
I wave goodnight to her and stand back from the mirror. I look snazzy in a tux. I remember the way Max used to appraise me, when I first could afford to start dressing sharp. He’d tug at my cuffs, inspect the sewing, offer his approval with a curt nod. I could’ve worn suits he made, but I couldn’t bring myself to make him crouch at my feet to get the pants hemmed right. It seemed wrong to me. He might’ve liked to, I don’t know. It’s not a thing we ever talked about.
I come out the bathroom door, and a dark shape out of the corner of my eye startles me. I look around quick: Eleanor! I clap my hands so she sees me. She’d been staring at photos lined up on a table near the window seat, but she looks up now, and I know her happy face is a reflection of mine. It takes me two seconds to figure what’s different: no glasses tonight. She’s got most of her hair behind her head but some curls are squirting out. She’s wearing a plain black dress that stops at the knee but looks quietly elegant. Not sophisticated like Linda’s sleek gown, or bold like Naomi would wear, but lovely in its way.
She has reached me now and gives me a careful hug, hardly any pressure at all. I squeeze her tighter to show, c’mon, we’re not made of porcelain here. She chuckles and gives me a firmer squeeze. I’m tempted to ruffle her hair but don’t want to muss it up.
I pantomime delight and surprise to her.
“This isn’t my usual kind of party, Grampa, but when they told me where you were going, I decided to be your date. Naomi called in a favor to make sure I got a seat so late. I think I might owe her a kidney.”
I indicate her dress and give her a nod and a smile.
“Thanks. It’s Eva’s. I haven’t been to a society thing in a while and didn’t have anything suitable, so they tell me. Esme had to take it in a little, which just between you and me, drove Eva a little nuts.” Eleanor giggles behind her hand, then pulls at the corner of her eye. “Goodness, these contacts. I shouldn’t bother but if I have to hear ‘You look so pretty without your glasses’ one more time I might jump in front of the F train.”
She’s joking, but a chill crawls over my neck anyway.
She takes my arm as if I’m supporting her, though I know it’s the other way around. “Shall we? Our chariot awaits.”
From the corner of my eye like this, she could be my Bee, and this thought makes my heart cave in a little.
Paul is waiting on the steps and between them all they get me down the wet stone without incident, and loaded into the car, which is not our usual town car at all but a limo. Of course, it’s a gala, after all, and there are a bunch of us going anyhow.
Linda and Paul are seated as far away from each other as they can manage, which in this big car is pretty far in fact. Eleanor is staring out the window as the limo pulls into the halting traffic.
Vivian smiles back at me from the front seat, next to the driver. She gives me a fingertip wave, then blows me a kiss.
I stare back at her long enough to show she doesn’t bother me, and then I stare out my own window, and we all sit in silence like a bunch of store mannequins.
I’m getting a handle on this Vivian-apparition business. I might startle if she really sneaks up. But mostly I just look at her like, so what? You’re there. Enjoy yourself.
It’s not terrific that she’s hanging around. I’ve stopped thinking of her as “the thing” or “it” or “hallucination” because it’s tiring to make my mind think that way when my gut just calls it Vivian. I still figure she’s stroke damage, in any case.
My stroke damage turns around in her seat and looks from one of us to the other. She looks from Paul to me and nods with a knowing look. Then she puts her slim hands on the back of the front seat, near the little privacy window, and rests her chin on those hands, inspecting Eleanor.
I look over at Eleanor, too; she has turned toward the front of the limo and is gazing out the window closest to her face. Not much to see out there she hasn’t seen
a thousand times before. It’s that time of evening where some of the city is fully dark, shadowed by the buildings, but then the setting sun spills gold down a street, bright and thrilling as could be, for just a moment, as you glide past.
When she’s not pulling at the corner of her eye, she’s tugging on a curl, and there’s a softness around her eyes that makes me thinks she’s so very sad. I hope it’s not for me. That’s the thing I’ll hate the most when I kick it. Whatever happens I’ll either be fine, or just dust, but either way, I hate to think of them sad. I wish I could tell her not to be sad, that I’m old and when I’m gone it will be fine because old people are supposed to die. Not like her dad.
And not like me.
I reach out and slam the little door shut, Vivian disappearing from view. I can’t tell if the door closed over formless fingers, or if she moved, but in any case I can’t see her. I listen for that husky alto in my head but there’s nothing.
I glance around and they’re all staring at me. Paul has his portable phone to his head. Linda’s mouth is frozen in an oval, a lipstick stilled in her hand, her compact open in the other. Eleanor touches my knee. “You okay, Grampa?”
I nod and look out the window, and I’m glad for once that I can’t explain, because what on earth would I even say?
It’s a fine fall night, cool but not cold, the boiling heat of August blown away. I’d have loved to stride up the steps of the New York Public Library past all the flash bulbs, right between those two stone lions, but the limo pulled right up to the 42nd Street entrance; either the driver knew the old geezer couldn’t manage the stairs or Linda gave him advance word.
I try to look around casually as Paul gives me a hand out of the car, to see if Vivian would appear out here, too. No sign of her, for now anyway. I know by now that a closed door—car or house—is no obstacle.
Vivian In Red Page 13
