I pointed to a poster on the wall. “I see he’s given Jessica the lead again.”
“The man doesn’t always think with his brains, if you know what I mean.” Richard gave my hand a squeeze and settled his glasses on his nose, turning his attention back to his paperwork. I tried to sound casual as I asked if Harrison was backstage, but Richard said he hadn’t arrived yet. How typical for him to be running late; he’d always hated morning rehearsals.
I went into the empty house and sat in the back row, shifting uncomfortably on the lumpy horsehair seat. The Olde Playhouse was an intimate space, without a balcony or boxes, the tin ceiling still darkened by smoke from before the gaslights had been converted to electric. Compared to the moving picture palaces that were going up all over Manhattan it was downright cramped, but I loved its old-fashioned charm. Not that it couldn’t do with a few improvements, new seats being at the top of a long list.
Behind me, a waft of air from the lobby stirred the curtains as Harrison strode into the house. I drew an excited breath—then held it as I saw Jessica Kingston clinging to his arm. Jessica Kingston my foot, I thought. When we’d first met in acting class, her name was still Jadwiga Kwiatkowska.
I forced myself to exhale. “Harrison.”
He stopped and turned. “Helen, my God. We heard you’d gone to Colorado for the cure.” He shook Jadwiga off his arm. “Jessica, go on, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Don’t be long, Harrison, we’re late as it is.” She gave me a hard stare. “Nice to see you again, Helen.”
I moved over so he could sit beside me, his bulk making the seat groan. Joseph Harrison was one of those men whose confidence in his own genius generated a kind of magnetic field that drew women to him, despite his sour odor and bulging gut. I couldn’t resist the thrill I felt at his proximity as he stretched a heavy arm behind my shoulders. I asked what gave him the idea I was out west. Turned out, I had my mother to blame, not him. He’d tried to see me but she’d told him I was off recovering in a sanatorium. He assumed I had tuberculosis.
“No, I developed pneumonia after the appendectomy. My mother took care of me at home.”
He turned the full force of his gaze on me. “She must be a good nurse. You’re looking wonderful, Helen.”
Fast as the flash people see when their lives are in danger, the entirety of our relationship played out in my mind. I remembered how, despite his initial enthusiasm at casting me, he became frustrated with my performance as rehearsals commenced. He invited me out for a late supper one night so we could discuss the role. Over glasses of wine, he urged me to draw on my experience of passion to fully inhabit the part. My blank look prompted him to ask if I was still a virgin. The blush on my cheeks gave him his answer. “That’s the problem, then. Your lack of sex experience is inhibiting you as an artist.” He himself was an advocate of free relations, he explained. He believed in love given and taken without obligation or expectation. He would never ask a woman to sacrifice her individuality or her career on his behalf—as he himself would refuse to sacrifice either for a woman’s sake. Didn’t I agree, he asked, in freedom for women equal to the freedom enjoyed by men? Overwhelmed by his words and the wine, I nodded. “Don’t you see, Helen? To be a great actress, you need to have a complete experience of life, including the physical act of love.”
I felt ridiculously naive in that moment to think that the only kisses I’d known were staged ones in acting class. Except, of course, for my first kiss on the fire escape with Clarence. But we were only fourteen then, still kids really. If I’d felt any stirrings of passion they’d been knocked out of me by the sting of my mother’s slap across my face. Her reaction had shocked me. Lots of my friends in eighth grade were kissing boys, I argued. That may be true, my mother said as she washed my mouth out with soap, but she was damn sure none of those boys were Negroes.
On my next date with Harrison, a cold supper with chilled champagne in his apartment, I boldly asked him to provide me with the experience I so obviously lacked. It wasn’t the romantic scene I’d imagined, which in my mind had culminated in being carried to a bedroom discreetly offstage. I hadn’t anticipated the fleshy reality of his nakedness, thick hair matted to his pasty skin and pimples scattered across his back like bread crumbs for pigeons. As his sweat dripped into my eyes, I wondered what aspect of the sex experience was supposed to leave me feeling more complete. But afterward, as he stroked my hair and called me his dear girl, his tenderness unhinged my heart. Having already been broken in childhood by my father’s death, it didn’t take much to crack it open. And oh, what a hungry heart mine was.
When the affair came to an abrupt end, I blamed myself for being too inept to hold his interest. If we’d continued, I was sure I’d have learned to give him more variety, even to take pleasure in it myself. But there never seemed much for me to do once he’d removed my clothes and directed me to recline on the bed. When his wandering eye turned to Jessica, Harrison set me adrift to interpret the role on my own. Though our affair had lasted mere weeks, heartbreak was the only word for the ache in my chest as I watched them go off together. My foray into free love hadn’t helped me understand the character I was playing, but competing for Harrison’s attention onstage did intensify my performance. I consoled myself that his praise of my acting was more important than who went home with him once the curtain fell. By the time I understood the trouble I was in, it seemed too late to turn to him for help.
I came back to the present moment, in which Harrison’s meaty hand had found its way to the back of my neck. “I was worried sick about you, Helen.”
“But you managed without me, I see.”
“Oh, well, the show must go on and all that. Are you interested in auditioning? This play’s been cast, but I do have a new project coming up.”
I stared into his eyes, all their sapphire intensity seemingly focused on me. Except I could sense his distraction as he thought of the actors waiting for him to begin rehearsal. As he assessed whether it would be worth his while to break it off with Jessica and take up with me again. As he wondered whether he should have supper at the little restaurant we used to go to. He’d forgotten about that place, I imagined him thinking, but seeing me reminded him how much he liked the steaks there.
Suddenly I could see him clearly: a genius, yes, but a selfish glutton, too, incapable of returning the feelings he’d stirred in me. I felt foolish for coming to see him. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to get as far from him as I could. “No, I can’t think about acting yet. I still haven’t recovered my full strength.” I shrugged his hand off and stood. “Best of luck with the new production.”
“You know better than to jinx me like that, Helen.” He hoisted himself to his feet. I dodged the wet kiss he tried to plant on my cheek and hurried up the aisle. In the lobby, my conflicted emotions got the better of me. Light-headed, I sank onto an upholstered bench, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, a lung exercise the hired nurse had made me practice.
Richard appeared with a glass of water. “You’re better off without him, Helen. You must know that.”
I accepted the water gratefully. “You’re right, I know. I wasn’t hoping to get him back, I just wanted to tell him something.”
“Did you?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”
He took back the empty glass. “Listen, Helen, if you’re looking for something to do, I could use your help sorting through the papers here. I haven’t been able to keep up with things as well as I should and I’ve dug myself into something of a hole. It shouldn’t be a difficult job, and I’d pay you, of course. Maybe you could come by tomorrow? After rehearsals, so you won’t run into Harrison.”
I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to take on a job, even one as easy as sorting paperwork, but Richard seemed so desperate I agreed. At least it would give me a reason to get out of the house, I thought, as I walked back toward Broadway. I wanted to get back on the stage, of course, but it would be a while before I ha
d the stamina for eight shows a week. In the meantime, I could use the money I earned to pay for an acting class. It would do me good to practice my craft before asking the drama agency to start sending me out on auditions again.
I’d been sick for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to think about tomorrow, but why shouldn’t I? I was only twenty-one. I had my whole life ahead of me. I put Harrison and the past out of my mind as I set my sights on the future.
Chapter 2
“Be careful you don’t break your neck, Mr. Kramer!” my landlady exclaimed. She was washing the stoop and in my haste that morning, I’d nearly kicked over her scrub bucket.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Santalucia,” I called back as I rushed down the steps. In Washington Square Park, I ran past children playing by the fountain and old men scattering bread for pigeons without so much as a glance at the soldiers loitering under the Arch. After waiting impatiently for the traffic cop’s whistle, I dashed across Astor Place to the Third Avenue El, taking the stairs two at a time. Out on the platform I looked down toward the Bowery, the track stretching away like a flattened roller coaster, as if my gaze could draw the train any faster. When the vibration in the wooden boards beneath my feet announced the train’s arrival, I checked my wristwatch and finally relaxed. I’d been late only once since becoming Jacob Ruppert’s personal secretary, but a single experience of his withering disapproval had been enough.
Dropping into an empty seat, I pulled my hat down over my eyes. I’d stayed out too late the night before and was hoping to get some rest as we continued uptown, but more commuters crowded on at every stop until the aisle was thick with straphangers, their briefcases and bags bumping my shoulder. When we lurched away from 76th Street, the man standing in front of me lost his footing and stumbled, his shin wedged between my knees. He righted himself and caught my eye to mutter an apology before looking down at the newspaper in his hand. He was handsome, a masculine type, with dark hair and strong features. I was still looking up at him when his eyes swung back to me and lingered for a moment before sliding away again.
I knew what I would have done if we’d been on the street and he glanced back at me like that: put a cigarette between my lips and ask for a light. It was the easiest way. Any man in the city would stop to give a fellow a light, packs of matches ubiquitous in men’s pockets. He’d strike the match and cup his hands as I lowered the tip of my cigarette to the offered flame. A man who wasn’t interested in my sort would keep his eyes on the glowing tip of the cigarette and wave out the match as soon as the tobacco started to burn. But a man like me (or rather, a man who liked men like me) would lift his eyes from the burning match to find me staring up at him. He’d hold my gaze until, perhaps, the match burned his fingers. He’d toss it away, cursing, and I’d offer to buy him a drink to make up for it—there was hardly a block in Manhattan where two men couldn’t step in off the street for a friendly drink. If he said yes, well, it wouldn’t be long before I knew whether or not we were part of the same world.
But smoking wasn’t permitted on the train, and anyway (I discovered as I patted my shirt pocket), I’d left mine on the nightstand in my hurry to get dressed. What I did have in my pocket were the ballet tickets Paul had given me for Sunday night. I could use them, I decided. I’d done it before with opera tickets, the question “Do you like the opera?” dropped casually into conversation with an attractive stranger. If the fellow said he did, I’d follow with a story about being stuck with an extra ticket and how I was looking to give it to someone who appreciated that sort of thing. A few days later we’d meet up at the performance and if, as the lights went down, our knees began to touch, then I’d know how our night might end.
What I needed, I realized, as the train stopped at 84th Street, was for some old crone to hobble on to whom I could gallantly offer my seat, leaving me no choice but to grab the strap next to the man who’d stumbled into me. Then, as the train lurched away from the platform, I could sway into him, apologize for my clumsiness, and strike up a conversation.
But no old crones did get on and the next stop was mine. I looked up at the man again, hoping to catch his eye, but he was still staring at his paper. As the train applied its brakes I readied myself to get off, piqued over the missed opportunity. Just as I stood up, however, a heavily pregnant woman waddled on. I waved her to my seat and grabbed a strap, pretending that had been my intention all along. As the doors closed, I checked my wristwatch. There was only enough time to ride to the next stop. I’d have to talk fast.
The train pulled out and I readied an apology as I swayed—into nothing. No one was beside me. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the man had taken an empty seat across the car. He lifted his eyes, saw me looking at him, and snapped his paper open, ducking his head behind the newsprint.
I felt a fool hanging there as the train chugged past my workplace. As soon as the doors opened at 99th Street I ran across the platform, through the waiting room, and down the stairs. I decided riding back would be faster than walking, so I dodged traffic to cross Third Avenue, panicking as I heard a train rumble above my head until I realized it was the express. I raced up the stairs to the downtown side of the El and dropped my second nickel of the morning into the turnstile. Through the stained-glass windows of the waiting room I saw a thin crowd milling on the platform. Pausing to catch my breath, I put my hand to my chest and felt my heart beat its irregular rhythm. When the train came along, the car was jammed and I had to shove my way on, the door closing practically on my nose. Pressed up against the glass, I looked directly into the upper windows of passing apartments, men swilling coffee and women nursing babies an arm’s length away.
In a couple of blocks, the residential buildings gave way to industry, and soon everything I could see belonged to Colonel Ruppert: the ice factory and the grain silo, the train spur and the warehouse, the new garage and the old stable, and finally, through the massive windows of the brewery itself, the gleaming copper kettles that had made his fortune.
I got off at 89th Street, shaking my head over my misadventure. At the newsstand below the station I grabbed the World and the New York Times, then looked around for the Staats-Zietung but couldn’t find it. When I asked, the man drew it out from under the counter as if it were pornography. “Had some soldiers up here the other day harassing me about selling a German paper while we’re at war with the Kaiser,” he said, giving me a look that seemed to ask why I wasn’t in uniform myself. I paid him and took the papers, my heart murmur and color blindness none of his business.
The smell of malt was thick in the air as I entered the brewery. After greeting the receptionist I called for the elevator to take me upstairs to the offices. I’d been surprised by the building’s opulence when I’d come here a year ago to interview for my job with the Colonel, but by now I was used to the inlaid oak paneling and polished marble floors. In the anteroom to the president’s office, two desks faced each other across an expansive Persian carpet. I nodded at Miss Grunwald before setting the newspapers on my desk and taking off my hat.
“Cutting it rather close, aren’t you, Mr. Kramer?”
Before I could answer, the cuckoo in the Black Forest clock on the wall poked out its head and chirped the hour—nine o’clock. “I had some trouble with the train,” I said. “How are you today?”
“As well as can be expected, Mr. Kramer.” Miss Grunwald was a holdover from the last century and she looked it, too, with her long skirt and pinned-up braids. She’d been wary of me at first, unsure why the Colonel needed a personal secretary when she’d been secretary to the president of the brewery since his father’s time. We’d since grown used to each other, but I knew that, as far as she was concerned, I was little more than a millionaire’s fashionable accessory. She peered at me through her wire-frame glasses. “You’re looking cheerful this morning, Mr. Kramer.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that but before I could ask, in walked the Colonel.
Though a man of modest stature, Jacob Ruppert c
ut an imposing figure. From his starched collars to his polished shoes, he was always impeccably dressed—I’d never seen him in anything less than a tailored three-piece suit no matter the season, though in summer he did swap out his bowler hat for a straw boater. He kept his broad cheeks clean-shaven and the mustache above his thin lips groomed to transparency. His blocky head was out of proportion to his narrow shoulders and tiny feet, but his stern face made you feel he was looking down on you even if he had to crane his stubby neck to meet your eye.
As the Colonel passed Miss Grunwald’s desk, he gave her a tip of his hat and wished her good morning. Though he’d been born right here in New York, he spoke with a German accent, the result of his family keeping up the language at home. Turning to me with a curt nod, he said simply, “Kramer.”
“Good morning, Colonel.” Normally these brief greetings hardly broke his stride, but this morning he paused and scowled at me for a moment. Imagining he somehow knew I’d nearly been late, I regretted again my foolishness on the train.
Once he disappeared into his office, there was no need to instruct us in what came next. After exactly two minutes, Miss Grunwald gathered up the brewery’s business and gave a single rap of her knuckles on the door, then waited with her hand on the knob for his muffled call of komm herein.
I busied myself with the correspondence piled on my desk, slicing open envelopes and assessing their contents, jotting down notes on a stenographer’s pad, though I knew less than nothing about shorthand. Indeed, my only qualifications for the job were my uncle’s recommendation and my degree in Germanic languages from Princeton. I had no business training whatsoever. I didn’t even like beer.
When Miss Grunwald came out of the Colonel’s office, she held the door ajar for me. “He’s ready for you now, Mr. Kramer.”
Bachelor Girl Page 2
