Bachelor Girl

by Kim van Alkemade

  “I’ve been curious all day to know how you were managing, Helen. Was the office in as much disarray as it looked?”

  “Even more than I imagined.” I sat down in Richard’s chair and spun it back and forth as we spoke. Albert was such a sympathetic listener that I found myself pouring out all the details of my day. He didn’t interrupt to instruct me in what I ought to do. Instead, he encouraged me to trust my own decisions. I was flattered by his faith in me, but when I asked for his advice regarding the ledger and the missing checks, I was disappointed he had none to give.

  “It looks like I’ll be going up to Boston on business this week,” he said, wrapping up the conversation. “I’ll telephone again when I get back. Good luck, Helen.”

  Glancing at the clock, I was surprised at how long our call had lasted. I hung up just as the first cast members began to arrive for that evening’s rehearsal. Grabbing my jacket, I locked up the office and made a hurried escape.

  Chapter 14

  Helen spoke so enthusiastically about the job she was undertaking that I stayed on the line with her even after I should have left for the day. I thought back to when I’d initially come to work for the Colonel. Neither of us had a clear idea of what a personal secretary did, and it took some time to define my position. I envied Helen her chance to decide things on her own and encouraged her to trust herself, knowing that whatever system she came up with couldn’t be worse than the mess Richard Martin had left behind.

  Going home, my pockets were weighed down with cash advances from three different expense accounts. The money made me nervous. In my room, I hid it between the pages of a book and made a note to purchase a lockbox. Tuesday morning, instead of heading up to the brewery, I spent the day at the clipping agency on Madison Avenue. They had a file on Harry Frazee so thick it was held together with rubber bands, but most of the articles concerned his theatrical ventures: shows he produced, theaters he owned, actresses with whom he was rumored to be keeping company. But the New York papers didn’t have much to offer about Frazee’s history with the Red Sox, so I decided to take the Merchants Limited up to Boston that very evening. After stopping at my room to stuff a few clothes into a battered satchel and fill my wallet with the Colonel’s money, I hurried up to Grand Central to catch the train.

  I wasn’t used to playing the part of pampered businessman. I wondered, as I cut into a thick steak in the dining car, if this was how my father had traveled, back before he lost his fortune. To me it was a novelty made possible by an expense account, but to him it must have seemed a birthright. I felt out of place walking into the Lenox Hotel, where the crisp notes I counted out for a single night’s stay would have covered a week’s rent in the Village. A bellhop carried my satchel with as much deference as if it were monogrammed luggage. A chambermaid filled my tub with steaming water while a valet took my suit to be pressed and my shoes to be polished. Alone at last, I soaked until my fingers were as wrinkled as raisins, relishing the luxury of having a bathroom to myself.

  I spent Wednesday at the clipping agency on Beacon Street. I’d been rehearsing a story to explain my interest in the owner of the Red Sox, but the clerk at the agency never asked—for a fee she handed over whatever file I requested. I sat at a table in the cramped reading room alongside actors scanning their own reviews, investors researching companies whose stocks they were buying, and journalists searching for background on their subjects. I wasn’t sure what the Colonel needed to know, so I wrote down everything that caught my eye. I’d brought two full Parker pens, not wanting to have to mess with refilling the ink. By the time I was done taking notes on Harry Frazee, both pens were empty and my last few scribbles were in smudgy pencil. Hastily gathering my notes, I got to South Station just in time to board the five o’clock Merchants back to New York.

  I’d skipped lunch so as not to waste my time in Boston. My stomach growled as I settled into an upholstered seat in the parlor car, waiting for the porter to announce dinner. A rather elegant man across the car kept glancing my way. I pulled out a cigarette then patted my pockets, pretending not to have any matches. He appeared instantly at my side. I stood as he flicked his lighter, the tang of flint and petrol in my nostrils. “Would you care to join us?” he asked, gesturing to another man, equally refined. I followed him to the corner of the car, where the three of us leaned together as best we could in those bulky seats. They were on their way to New York for some meetings, they said. After ascertaining that I was a resident, the second man asked, with studied casualness, “Do you know of any gay places to spend an evening? We haven’t been to the city in years and we’re not sure where a man might enjoy himself.”

  Most Manhattanites would have suggested a burlesque theater in Hell’s Kitchen or a racy supper club in Harlem, in which case the conversation would have ended politely, no harm done and none the wiser. Instead I said, “There’s a nightclub called Polly’s in the Village that’s quite entertaining, unless you were thinking closer to Times Square?”

  They looked at each other, then at me, and we all smiled, our recognition complete. “I can’t believe Polly’s is still in business,” the one who’d lit my cigarette said. “It was shabby five years ago, and what a sad parade of performers! There was one, though, who was quite good. What was her name?”

  “It wouldn’t have been Jacqueline, would it?” I asked. They both agreed and were delighted when I told them Jack was my friend and that he’d moved his act to Antonio’s. When the porter announced the first seating for dinner, I explained that I’d missed lunch, and they agreed to go in with me. We enjoyed a pleasant meal together, though at such an early hour they ate lightly. I didn’t like to mention the Colonel’s name (he’d made me paranoid about the press sniffing out his pursuit of Babe Ruth), so I simply said I was a secretary sent up to Boston on business. They didn’t press. Respecting one another’s secrets was the glue that held our world together.

  We couldn’t speak freely with the waiters hovering over us, so when they meant to refer to each other, they invoked their imaginary wives (left at home, presumably, with batches of mythical children). In this way, I learned they’d been together for twenty years. One worked as a draughtsman and the other wrote for the Atlantic Monthly. I wasn’t sure what to make of them. With their refined manners and hearty handshakes neither seemed like a pansy, but as we relaxed over dinner the writer’s gestures did become looser, his hands swishing a bit as he talked. I decided he must play the woman’s part, though he was no more like the dolled-up pansies who populated places like Antonio’s than his friend was like the rough men our rouged faces were meant to attract.

  We went back to the parlor car where we passed the hours smoking and talking about the war. I supposed King’s ship must be nearing the coast of France. I didn’t like to think of him in harm’s way so I changed the subject by mentioning an article in the paper about the Turkish invasion of Armenia. That got us on the topic of Constantinople and Byzantium and Alexander the Great. For a while I actually forgot, as our conversation covered the events of the wider world we all shared, about the difference that segregated the three of us into our own secret circle.

  My companions and I parted in Grand Central Station with tentative plans to meet over the weekend. Lining up with the other businessmen at the taxi stand, I reached into my pocket for the last of the Colonel’s cash. The cab whisked me down to Greenwich Village where I was asleep in my own bed before midnight.

  When the Colonel arrived at the brewery Thursday morning I was at my desk, sorting through my scribbled notes. He gestured for me to follow him into his office, eager to hear the results of my research on Harry Frazee. Miss Grunwald’s remark about supposing we’d be wanting coffee was meant to be cutting, but the Colonel simply said that would be appreciated.

  I summed things up as succinctly as I could. Whereas the Colonel had always been a competitive sportsman (he’d once sailed a yacht fitted with metal runners over the frozen Hudson in a race against one of Vanderbilt’s locomo
tives along the bank), Harry Frazee was an entertainer. To Frazee, the entire baseball enterprise was more about filling seats than winning games. He considered Fenway Park equivalent to an outdoor music hall, viewed the players as performers rather than athletes, and saw Babe Ruth as a prima donna who thought the entire production revolved around him.

  After a brief interruption as Miss Grunwald precariously delivered our coffee, I concluded, “Of course, it’s because of Babe Ruth that the Red Sox are a winning team, and winning teams fill ballparks, but there’s a great deal of speculation in the Boston press that he’s becoming more trouble, and costing more money, than Frazee thinks he’s worth.”

  “He’ll cause me just as much trouble if I can get him, if not more,” the Colonel said. “New York is a bigger stage for an ego like Ruth’s to play on. But that’s the difference between me and Frazee. Any trouble Ruth brings with him will be worth it if he can turn my boys into champions. I’d love to put the Giants in their place, and the Dodgers, too. Frazee lacks the vision, Kramer. If we can put a winning team in a modern stadium in this city, the Yankees will outsell every other enterprise in the league. They won’t be able to touch us.” He smiled as an idea occurred to him. “Can you imagine if we were allowed to sell beer at the games? Why, I’d have myself a monopoly.”

  “I suppose it will be a matter of finding the point at which what Frazee can get for Babe Ruth outweighs what he’ll lose by letting him go.”

  “You’ve given me plenty to think about, Kramer.” We reviewed his schedule for the day, then he asked, “What do you hear from Helen?”

  “I spoke with her on Monday. It seems the Playhouse was even more disorganized than she realized. I was thinking of stopping by after work to see the progress she’s made.”

  “You’ll have to leave early, then. Don’t you have an appointment with that orphanage fellow tonight?”

  “That’s right.” It amused us both that the Colonel was keeping my schedule for a change. “Mr. Stern promised to show me the plans for the new property.”

  “Let’s hope they’re further along than you thought.” He took a peppermint from the onyx jar and popped it into his mouth, then stood and walked me out, his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done good work this week, Kramer. Take tomorrow off, why don’t you. I’ll be out of the office in the morning on some real estate business, then I’m taking Mother up to Rhinecliff for the weekend. I’ll see you back here on Monday.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  He told Miss Grunwald he was ready for her. She followed him back into his office, turning to shoot me an evil glance. The old order had been overturned, I realized. Whatever grudging acceptance Miss Grunwald had developed for me would be replaced now with antipathy. I gave it no mind. It was the Colonel’s esteem I coveted, not hers. I settled myself behind my desk, still glowing from his brusque praise.

  Chapter 15

  I stood in the center of Richard Martin’s office and slowly turned a complete circle, admiring the results of my work over the past three days. The mahogany desktop was polished, the white marble floor was a revelation, and even the Edison bulb burned brighter, now that its glass globe had been washed. I’d relocated the time card rack backstage and relegated the collection of Playbills to a high shelf. The posters that had once obscured the walls were neatly rolled, tied with twine, and consigned to a storage closet. I’d sorted the bills and receipts into labeled folders in the filing cabinet and boxed the faded clippings and out-of-date paperwork for Richard to someday sift through. The new corkboard displayed an orderly array of postcards and production notes, each pin a silver dot. The only items on the desktop now were a cup of pencils with points sharp as knitting needles, the telephone, and the ledger, which I still hadn’t figured out.

  I imagined Richard’s amazement on his return from Montauk. As if rehearsing in the absence of a scene partner, I gave him a tour of the office, narrating aloud as I pulled open drawers with fluid gestures. Then the telephone rang, startling me back to reality. I was dismayed to hear the banker’s nervous voice on the other end of the line warning me that our account balance had sunk alarmingly low after a series of checks had been presented for payment that morning. Realizing those must be the missing checks, I dutifully wrote down the information the banker related to me, then entered the check numbers and amounts into the ledger. Running my finger down the column of sums, I was ashamed to realize that the check I’d written to the stationery store would practically empty the account once it cleared. I told myself I’d had no way of knowing. It was Richard’s faulty bookkeeping that had gotten the Olde Playhouse so close to insolvency, not a filing cabinet and a corkboard. Still, the pride with which I’d imagined presenting my accomplishments dissipated.

  “There’s nothing I can do about it now,” I said to no one. Besides, I reminded myself, once Harrison’s new play opened next week, sales were sure to replenish our coffers. I went out and settled myself on the stool behind the ticket window and tried to slide open the drawer below the counter. It stuck. I gave it a hard tug, releasing an explosion of stubs that I scrambled after on my hands and knees. I tried to sort them out, but Richard’s system for keeping track of which seats were sold for which performance baffled me completely. If it had been up to me, ticket sales would be organized in an entirely different way. But it wasn’t, so I spent the next few hours bundling old stubs and preparing new tickets for the upcoming production.

  The quiet of the afternoon was interrupted by a messenger delivering a frantic note from Harrison. He was insisting that I come up with the money for a long list of demands, most of them intended to enhance Jessica’s role. She must not be carrying the part on her own, I thought, if Harrison wanted to include a dog in the show. Not only was he asking for an animal with stage experience accompanied by a trainer, he also wanted an elaborate bouquet of fresh flowers (replaced daily), an extra stagehand (they already had two), and a new change of costume for Jessica (whose character, he claimed, would never wear the same dress to dinner as during the day). I sent the messenger away without a reply so I could take my time composing a letter explaining that the finances of the Olde Playhouse were too precarious for me to spend the money.

  Writing to Harrison, however, put me in a confessional mood. It’s such an intimate act, writing a letter, the soft tip of graphite looping across the surface of the paper as secrets and feelings are shaped into words. I found myself composing a very different letter in which I revealed to Harrison the ordeal he had put me through. When my vision blurred, I was careful not to let my tears fall upon the foolscap. Pent-up sentences spilled for three pages until I finally rested my cramped hand.

  Blotting my eyes and stretching my fingers, I glanced over the letter, knowing I’d never give it to him. Harrison believed in freedom, in passion unencumbered by convention. He would see my words as an accusation meant to trap him into some obligation. I’d read enough novels in which the woman schemes to catch the man; I was unwilling to play my part in a plot that invariably ended in misery. Better to carry my secret with dignity, I decided, than to let its revelation reduce me to melodrama. I tore the paper into strips, crushed the strips into a tight ball, and tossed the ball into the wastebasket. Then I thought of the custodian. I retrieved the ball of paper and shoved it into the pocket of my skirt where it pressed against my thigh. With a deep breath, I took a fresh sheet of foolscap and started again, explaining plainly to Harrison why the Olde Playhouse could not afford to meet his demands. I had just finished when I heard someone calling for me across the lobby.

  “Helen, are you here?”

  Though I’d spoken to Albert only a handful of times, already my ear was attuned to the timbre of his voice. I emerged with an outstretched hand, but as we met he drew me close for a kiss on the cheek, the European manners of his dancer friend apparently now a ritual between us. His lips, as they touched my skin, were wonderfully soft.

  He stepped back and searched my face. “Are you feeling well, Helen?�
�

  “Yes, of course.” I brought my hands to my cheeks, realizing how blotched they must be from crying. “The dust gets in my eyes sometimes is all. How was your business trip?”

  “Uneventful, just some research. The hotel was nice, though. Anyway, I’ve been wondering how you were managing, so I decided to come see for myself.”

  “Let me show you.” Leading him to the office, I enjoyed acting out the scene I had rehearsed on my own to such an appreciative audience.

  “It’s miraculous, Helen. I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished. I wouldn’t have known where to begin, this place was such a disaster. The room itself seems twice as large.”

  “It is, actually. There were so many things piled on the floor I could hardly move. Now look.” I sat down and, with a push of my heels, rolled the chair across the office, my arms outstretched. Albert laughed along with me, sharing my delight.

  “Helen Winthrope!” Harrison’s booming voice echoed across the lobby. I jumped out of the moving chair, losing my balance. I would have fallen if Albert hadn’t caught me. I was still in his arms when Harrison’s shadow preceded his appearance in the doorway. He was in a dangerous mood, I could tell. His hair, which needed cutting, was raked back from his forehead in a greasy mane, his smell as he waved his arms was pungent, and the black smudges under his eyes were so pronounced I suspected him of dramatizing his appearance with makeup.

  “Joseph Harrison, this is Albert Kramer.” I hoped the introduction would put Harrison on better behavior, but he dismissed Albert with an impatient nod then focused on me.

  “Helen, I will not be snubbed by a substitute manager with no experience in production. It’s all well and good you helping out while Richard is recuperating, but you have no right to ignore me. He made you a signatory on the Playhouse accounts for exactly this reason. None of my requests are more than fifty dollars taken separately. You could write the checks immediately.” I had no time to ask how he knew so much about our finances before he waved a sheaf of notes in my face. “Here are the invoices from the dog trainer, the florist, the dressmaker, and, oh yes, this one is for an electrician. I want Jessica to be able to switch on the light beside her bed, not just simulate it with a spot, but the stage isn’t wired properly. And I need you to hire an extra stagehand. In rehearsals, the hands we’ve got are too slow changing from the garden scene to the bedroom scene and back again.”