At 93rd Street, I gave Pip a short walk in Central Park. Jake had suggested I bring him along so Princess could see her pup again. Fully grown, Pip was still a runt at just a dozen pounds. Even in the neat little vest my mother knitted for him, he trembled in the January cold. Crossing Fifth Avenue, I carried Pip up the steps to the Ruppert mansion. After ringing the bell, I traced the carved stone columns of the portico with my gloved finger. It was a shame, I thought, that a wrecking ball would soon reduce the mansion to rubble. Jake and his siblings had agreed to redevelop the property, now that their mother was dead. Jake himself was moving into a large apartment directly across the street, his address of over fifty years changing by less than sixty feet. Whatever the reason for his summons, I was glad for this chance to offer my sympathies in person. I’d wanted to attend Mrs. Ruppert’s funeral but my mother said I shouldn’t, as I was neither family nor Catholic. I’d settled for sending flowers and a card, though I was sure my modest bouquet was lost among the profusion of arrangements.
Mr. Nakamura invited me in with a bow. Before I first met him in person, I’d pictured Sessue Hayakawa in the role of Japanese butler. But Osamu Nakamura, short and bespectacled, was no movie star. “Colonel Ruppert is in the library, Miss Winthrope. Please follow me.”
The mansion was in that disarray which precedes moving, with furniture shoved out of place and doorways blocked by packing crates full of straw. I set Pip down on the floor, his nails clicking on oak planks from which the carpets had been rolled away. In the parlor, carved wooden satyrs lay prone on the floor like sleeping children, the mantel from which they had been pried left splintered and raw. The yards-long table in the dining room was stacked with dishes exhumed from china closets and sideboards. I imagined negotiations among the family members over which sister would inherit the monogrammed silverware, which niece the crystal punch bowl, which granddaughter the set of Limoges porcelain.
I found Jake sitting behind a surprisingly delicate desk. Princess, a good ten pounds heavier than my Pip, came dashing up to meet us. The dogs circled each other, barks and growls giving way to lingering sniffs. Jake came forward, eager as I was to witness this reunion of mother and son, but if they recognized each other, they gave no sign we humans could read. Princess turned and strutted back to her wicker bed beneath Jake’s desk. Pip stretched and scratched at my legs, wanting to be picked up.
“I thought they’d be more emotional, seeing each other again after so long.” I stroked Pip’s flat little face. “How is Princess when she visits with your nieces? Does she recognize her other children?”
“Children only applies to people, Helen, but yes, she is usually excited to see her pups. She may have forgotten Pip here.”
I kissed the top of Pip’s baseball-size head and put him down. Calm now, he explored the room, giving his mother a wide berth.
“So much for that.” Jake took my hand. “Thank you for coming on a Saturday, Helen. I’m rather overwhelmed here, as you can see.” He waved his arm at the bookcases, which were filled to bursting with leather-bound volumes. In the center of the room, a rustic table had been fashioned from planks on sawhorses. On it, an assembly line of sorts had been created: stacked books at one end, followed by a roll of newsprint, then books wrapped neatly as birthday presents, each carefully labeled and ready to be placed in a crate at the far end of the table. “Everything is going to the American Art Association for sale. They’ll be back on Monday to finish the job.”
I picked up a book of poems by Robert Burns. It was beautiful, the lettering on its embossed leather cover picked out in gold and a hand-colored illustration on the doublure. I tried to turn to a poem I remembered from school but was stymied. The pages were all uncut, the printed words visible only by peeking between the tented pages. I realized these volumes were never intended to be read, only collected and displayed, the words mattering less than the handmade paper on which they were printed or the crushed crimson morocco in which they were bound. “I’m surprised you’re selling your collection. Albert said you loved your books.”
“I do. Such well-crafted things they are, and all in pristine condition. But with Prohibition strangling my brewery, it took all the cash I had on hand to acquire Ruth, and there’s still his salary to contend with.”
I scanned one shelf, counting the books, then multiplied that by the number of shelves. There were hundreds of titles, many of them in volumes of a dozen or more. I remembered Albert telling me the Bret Harte alone had cost a thousand dollars. I knew they couldn’t all be so valuable, but I estimated the collection to be worth around fifty thousand. I supposed some newly minted millionaire might buy up the entire library to fill the empty shelves of one of those gaudy Hamptons estates. I tried to imagine such a thing. In our own living room, we had one bookcase stuffed haphazardly with novels and histories, some magazines and cookbooks, an illustrated encyclopedia and a well-worn dictionary.
I turned my attention back to the man before me. Though he was at home on a weekend, Jake was as elegantly attired as I’d ever seen him, from his gleaming white collar to his polished cap-toed shoes. Albert told me Mr. Nakamura’s duties included laying out Jake’s clothes every day, as if he were a theatrical production of one. I glanced down at my own outfit. My boots were stained from the slush on the sidewalks, and my blue dress—the same one I’d worn that day to Rhinecliff, still the nicest thing in my closet—was beginning to fray at the cuffs. “I’m glad you invited me, Jake. Ever since your mother passed away, I’ve been wanting to give you my condolences.”
“Thank you, Helen. It was to be expected, at her age, but still her death has been a terrible blow.” He lifted his hand, as if to touch my cheek, but turned the gesture into a tug on his tie. “I regret now I never introduced you.”
Mr. Nakamura appeared with a tray of coffee and cakes, which he placed on the small desk. To make conversation as we ate, I asked Jake about his plans for the evening.
“I’m meeting Vincent Astor and his wife for dinner,” he said. “I expect we’ll drop in on the Hamilton Lodge Ball afterward.”
“Is that the queer masquerade, at the Rockland Palace? I’ve always meant to see one of those.” It wasn’t something I would have expected him to be interested in, but then again New York society did enjoy its diversions.
“It’s always entertaining, and Mrs. Astor enjoys it. What I’m really looking forward to, though, is the Westminster Kennel Club show. It’s this coming week at Madison Square Garden. The dogs are down from the country for it.” I looked around, wondering where a Saint Bernard might be hiding. “Oh, they’re not here! We keep a kennel in the old horse stable at the brewery.” He leaned back in his chair and entertained me with the story of how he acquired the breeding stock for his line of Saint Bernards by importing a stud and two bitches from England back in 1892. “They cost me twenty thousand dollars in today’s money, but in return I’ve been rewarded with many championships. You should come with me to the show, you’d enjoy it. Oh Boy always takes a prize, and I expect a ribbon for Bulgari this year, too.”
It explained a lot to know that he’d paid as much for three prize-winning dogs as he was spending on Babe’s record-breaking salary. Jake’s library was magnificent, but I could see why a man who valued winning would cash it in for the chance at the World Series.
Jake cleared his throat and set down his coffee. “Helen, listen. I asked you here to talk about something. I’ve had an offer from Martin Beck.”
It took me a moment to place the name. “The vaudeville producer?”
“That’s the one. He approached Ruppert Realty this week about the Olde Playhouse. I guess he doesn’t mind being on the wrong side of Tenth Avenue because he wants to buy it.”
It took me a moment to understand. “Are you saying that Martin Beck wants to take over the Olde Playhouse?”
“Actually, he wants to raze it to the ground and build a new theater on the land.”
I sat back, stunned. It had taken every ounce of my en
ergy and ingenuity over the past couple of years just to keep the Olde Playhouse from bleeding red ink. I hadn’t cost Jake anything, but I hadn’t added any value to his portfolio, either. No matter how well I managed it, the Playhouse would never be a money maker. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to sell it, but I hated to lose my job. Who else would hire a young woman to manage a theater, even a small one, even with my experience? I’d been off the stage for too long to land myself a well-paying part on short notice. Perhaps, with Jake’s recommendation, I’d be able to stay on for a while and manage the new theater. “Will you put in a good word for me, with Mr. Beck?”
“Not so fast, Helen. It isn’t a done deal. Now, explain to me why the Olde Playhouse never makes any money.”
I took a deep breath and laid it all out for him. The problem was that the theater itself and the plays produced in it were at odds, financially. The Playhouse wanted its taxes paid, its plumbing repaired, its roof patched, its seats replaced. The productions wanted actors and publicity and costumes and sets. It was a constant case of robbing Peter to pay Paul. No matter how carefully Bernice Johnson, our bookkeeper, balanced the sums, we never seemed to come out on the winning side.
Jake summoned Mr. Nakamura and asked for some schnapps. He sat in silent contemplation until a carafe of clear liquor appeared on a silver tray with two tiny fluted glasses. Jake filled the glasses and handed one to me. “Prost.” I sipped at mine, the fumes heady in my nose, while he tossed his back in one quick shot. “The problem, Helen, is that you are trying to run two businesses at once. If the theater itself were its own company, with a manager whose only job was keeping it in good repair, then a producer could pay a fixed amount for the use of the Playhouse and focus on the plays themselves. The question is, which would you rather be?”
“I’m sorry, which what would I rather?”
“Manager or producer. Which would you rather be, Helen? Unless you’re ready to step aside from this career of yours and find a husband. Just don’t steal my secretary.” He wagged a finger. “Kramer is invaluable to me. I wouldn’t want him distracted by a wife and children.”
I struggled to follow the rapidly shifting topics of our conversation. “Wait, so, you’re not going to sell the Olde Playhouse to Mr. Beck?”
“Not if you don’t want me to. Now that I know he wants the land, I can always go back to him if I change my mind.”
Like a card player analyzing the hand she’d been dealt, I reviewed the options Jake had spread before me. The conventional path was marriage, but Albert, it seemed, was off the table—even without Jake’s disapproval, neither of us was ready to take that step. Manager would be the safer choice: a steady salary and no temperamental directors to deal with. I did my shot of schnapps and set the empty glass decisively back on the silver tray. “Producer.”
He smiled. “Well then. I’ll have Kramer set up the new company.”
“But, who will manage the theater?”
The hall clock chimed the hour. Jake stood up and so did I. The dogs at our feet stretched and yawned. “You’ll make that decision, Helen.”
Mr. Nakamura appeared with my coat over his arm. “I’ll walk her out, Osamu,” Jake said. “You can go start my bath.”
Under the portico, Jake held Pip while I buttoned up my coat. Handing me the dog, he reached out to turn up my collar. “You should have a new coat if you’re to accompany me to Westminster. For the women, it’s as much a fashion show as a dog show.”
I smoothed the placket, embarrassed. “I was waiting for the spring sales to get a new one.”
Noticing my threadbare coat must have reminded him of my salary, which he’d never raised. He removed his billfold and gave me five dollars for my taxi fare. As I rode home through the winter’s early darkness, my mind whirled as I considered the future. I’d been strict with my income and my mother’s savings were finally replenished, but that meant I had nothing set aside for myself. I’d been looking forward to moving out and setting myself up as a Bachelor Girl in a little apartment with a chafing dish and a telephone. But now that I’d be starting over as a producer, I didn’t think I could afford it. I wasn’t sure how this new company would work, but I imagined I’d be forgoing a salary for a share in the profits. If there were any profits. As manager, I could have happily cashed a regular, if meager, paycheck. As someone’s wife, I wouldn’t have had to worry about earning a salary at all. Instead, I’d chosen the riskiest option. There’d be no one to blame if I failed. But if I didn’t? A smile stretched across my face as I imagined getting all the credit for my own success.
Chapter 24
“It’s just a bow tie, it’s not as if I’m rouging your cheeks. Now stand still, Felix.” I knotted the silk tie around his collar. “There.”
He turned to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I feel so conspicuous.”
I looked over his shoulder, wondering what he was seeing. I supposed red must stand out to his vision the way blue did to mine, a bright color that cut through the ordinary. “Believe me, darling, a red bow tie will be the least conspicuous thing at the Hamilton Lodge Ball.”
He faced me and smiled. “I have to admit, you do look delicious.”
“I do, don’t I?” My tinted lips and the mascara on my lashes made me look a bit like Rudolph Valentino. “Like I said, just a touch of makeup. The cabdriver won’t even notice, I promise.” I gave him a kiss. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Despite my reassurances, he was nervous. To Felix, being queer was a private affliction best kept behind closed doors. The few times I’d cajoled him into coming out with me to Antonio’s or a party at Paul’s house, he became so uncomfortable we ended up leaving early. I’d certainly never talked him into attending the annual Hamilton Lodge Ball before. Back in 1919, the influenza was his excuse to keep us both home, and last year he’d simply refused. But this past November he’d invited me to the fund-raising gala he’d organized for the orphanage relocation fund. I knew he wanted me there as Ruppert’s personal secretary, my presence meant to convey to the trustees an exaggerated sense of the Colonel’s commitment to purchasing their Manhattan property. I agreed to accompany him, but only if he promised he’d come with me in January to the “Queer Masquerade,” as the newspapers called it.
When word of our plans got around among the tenants in the brownstone, the composer and the old actor decided to come along, too. We shared a taxi up to 155th Street where people were queued around the block to get into the Rockland Palace. We got in line behind a pair of Negro pansies in sequined gowns who told us they saved up all year to make the trip from Virginia for the chance, on this one night, to masquerade as themselves. All around us, short-haired women in suits flirted with men wearing dresses, playfully subverting the difference between our sexes. I noticed that spectators destined for boxes in the gallery went in a separate entrance, richer and whiter than those of us on line for floor tickets. Felix, eager to get off the street, relaxed as we neared the door, the scene awaiting us still beyond his imagination.
Inside, the vast hall throbbed with music and laughter. The sweat of six thousand bodies steamed the air, ice sculptures dripping and potted palms drooping in the heat. Bunting decorated the gallery, and streamers dangled from the ceiling like tentacles. Dancers filled the floor to overflowing, fox-trotting to a lively orchestra. Most couples were of the same race, but there was plenty of mixing, with every shade of skin represented from arms dark as night to limbs pale as moonshine. Champagne glasses were piled into precarious pyramids beside crystal bowls of punch spiked with whiskey. We drank without fear, reassured by the waiters that the fee paid to the police for keeping the peace included turning a blind eye to Prohibition for the night.
We soon lost track of our neighbors, the composer wandering off to watch the musicians and the actor disappearing in the dazzling crush. Emboldened by the crowd, Felix asked me to dance. I remembered a moment during that fund-raising gala when the orphanage band
had been playing a waltz. Our elbows touched and our eyes met and our bodies vibrated in time to the music. It was as close as we could come, among the trustees and their wives, to sharing a dance. Now, in the Rockland Palace, Felix took me in his arms and moved me around the floor. People were so densely packed that we soon stopped attempting a two-step and simply swayed, my head on his shoulder, his hand snug on my waist. A tuxedoed lesbian, hair short as a soldier’s, glided by with a pretty girl in her arms. For a quick waltz we switched partners until, laughing, we sorted ourselves out again. It wasn’t just the alcohol in the punch that propelled our gaiety. In this place, on this night, pansies and bulldaggers who spent their days dodging insult and injury could openly cling to their sweethearts in safety, while those of us who lived our lives hiding in plain sight felt free to be seen for our true selves. It generated a certain hysteria, this mass unmasking multiplied a thousand-fold.
A tap on my shoulder was followed by a voice in my ear. “Aren’t you two the love birds tonight.” It was a miracle Paul had found us in that crowd. Even among all the finery of sequins and feathers, his unvarnished beauty was devastating. I didn’t blame Felix when the kiss he placed on Paul’s cheek wandered perilously close to his mouth. His benefactor had taken a box in the gallery, Paul said, and the three of us fought our way through the throng and up the stairs. We emerged among the socialites and swells who’d come to the Rockland Palace to gawk at the curiosities below. Let them be amused, or scandalized, or superior, I thought. At least they were witness to the reality of our existence.
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