“Don’t you want to sprinkle some water on your face?” said Molly, glancing at her watch, which miraculously was working. “And change that blouse, it looks like you slept in it. Which you have.”
It was nearly eleven. There was no point in hanging around the hotel. Somewhere in New York there had to be records of Broadway performers and Molly was determined to find them. The sooner they got started, the sooner they could get back to Pelletreau.
While Nell washed up and changed her clothes, Molly checked the thick phone books in the night table for the names of the other cast members from the Without Reservations program on the off-chance that at least one of them might still be around. None of them had listings, however. Nor was there a listing for her grandfather, Richard Jellinek—not surprising after all these years.
Ten minutes later Molly and Nell were downstairs in the lobby—as bright, bustling, and full of polished brass and marble as their room was dull and threadbare.
“How do we get to the Booth Theatre?” Molly asked a harried-looking desk clerk. The Booth was the theater where Margaret Jellinek had starred in Without Reservations, so many years ago. If it still existed, the Booth was the logical place for Molly to begin tracing her grandmother’s footsteps back in time.
“Forty-fifth Street,” replied the clerk without looking up. “Turn right when you get out the door, then right again down Broadway.”
Molly thanked him, though he didn’t seem to hear, and walked with Nell out of the air-conditioned lobby onto the crowded street. It was like walking into a wall of wet flannel. No wonder the hotel had vacancies in July—it was almost as hot and humid here as it was in North Carolina and there was not a tree in sight to provide any shade.
At least New York didn’t look so gray from street level, Molly consoled herself, as they made their way to the corner and into the colorful madness that was Times Square. The blazing morning sun sharpened everything to crystal clarity: the electronic billboards and turn-of the-century buildings; the neon lights; the seething, honking traffic, and, of course, the people.
Molly had never seen so many people, thousands of them. Young and old. Beautiful and hideous. Black, white, and every shade in between, all animated with unknowable cares and hopes, plans and worries. It was a strain just to walk down the street, through so many unfamiliar faces. She instinctively drew close to her sister to protect her, but Nell didn’t seem to need help. Her eyes burned with excitement, her head eagerly darted back and forth to take in the overload of sights. It was Nell who turned onto Forty-fifth Street and led a disoriented Molly to the box office of the Booth.
The turreted theater sat catty-corner on the walkway known as Shubert Alley in the shadow of a behemoth hotel across the street. Its marquee was filled with the names of actors Molly didn’t recognize. Nor had she heard of the show, though it was obviously a hit. A line of people snaked out of the theater and onto the sidewalk.
“I guess we’ll have to wait,” said Molly, surveying the scene and making a quick decision not to barge right up to the ticket window. Not only did she have good manners, but most of the people in line had hard New York faces that promised significant bodily harm to anyone who tried to cut in. Their Yankee-accented conversations were rapid and knowing.
“ … if they’ve already sold all the orchestra seats to the brokers, I’m calling the Attorney General. It’s such a racket … .”
“ … but the Times loves it, and that’s all that matters to me, though I think their critic’s a jerk … .”
“ … and then she bit him, right on the ass. I swear to God, Shakespeare ain’t what it used to be … .”
After twenty-five minutes Molly finally reached the barred ticket booth.
“Date?” said the clerk.
He didn’t look the type to be asking her out. If there was such a type.
“I’d like some information about a play that was here about fifty years ago,” she said.
“I’d say you’re about fifty years too late.”
“You don’t have information about your productions?”
“Sister, the only information I got is that we’re sold out weekends until December and most of what’s left during the week is mezzanine and side seats.”
Molly was neither surprised nor overly disappointed. She had figured the theater for a long shot but had had to try.
“Is there a good library near here that you would recommend that has information about Broadway shows?” said Molly, switching to the next stop on her list of research options. “We’re from out of town.”
Before the man in the booth could answer, half the people in line seemed to be talking to her at once.
“Fifty-third street, across from MOMA.”
“Don’t fool with branches, lady. Go to the main library at Forty-second and Fifth, the one with the two lions and all the tourists out in front.”
“You’re all nuts. She should try Lincoln Center.”
“She wants opera?”
“No, she wants the Library of Performing Arts. And that’s at Lincoln Center!”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Molly wasn’t expecting New Yorkers to be so helpful, especially after a long wait in line. But they were. The man behind bars couldn’t sell another ticket until Molly had been thoroughly briefed on how to get to Lincoln Center and had passed a quiz.
Molly and Nell walked up Broadway as instructed—the one Samaritan who had recommended the Eighth Avenue bus had been shouted down. It was a beautiful day in spite of the heat, and walking in New York wasn’t like walking anywhere else.
An endless sea of pedestrians flowed up and down Broadway dressed in every fashion and color imaginable, from white-belted tourists to half-naked beggars. A babel of languages joined the car horns and sirens in the strange symphony that was the city.
In a second-floor window dancers were rehearsing in front of a wall of full-length mirrors. The streets were pocked with marquees advertising legendary musicals and popular television shows among storefronts filled with cameras and calzones, salamis and sofa beds. The air crackled with excitement.
At Fifty-ninth Street Molly and Nell had their first New York City lunch—hot pretzels and frankfurters from street vendors—and stopped to pet a weary-looking horse, one of many attached to hansom cabs at the curb in front of the park.
On the other side of Columbus Circle, Broadway widened into two lanes and ran diagonally into a neighborhood that felt completely different than the area from which they had come. Here, the buildings were newer, more residential, and not as tall as the ones in Times Square.
Abruptly the street opened again into another plaza, and the white marble and glass buildings of Lincoln Center spread out to the left. According to a sign they were at Sixty-fourth Street. They had covered twenty blocks in what had seemed like no time at all. Molly suddenly understood why the people at the theater had insisted that she and Nell walk. Walking in New York was so entertaining it was a wonder that the city hadn’t figured out a way to tax it.
The Library of the Performing Arts was a comparatively small structure at the rear of the Lincoln Center complex, wedged between Julliard and the Metropolitan Opera. A million-dollar Henry Moore sculpture lazily sunned itself in a reflecting pool out in front. Inside, however, the library had the same atmosphere of purposeful doing, the same kind of people, and the same smell as probably every library in the country.
Molly suddenly felt more at home—libraries were an antique dealer’s best friend and she had spent countless hours in them over the years. A helpful clerk at the front desk quickly directed her and Nell to the fourth floor. A few minutes later they stepped out of the elevator and entered a room of books surrounded by glass walls.
The Billy Rose Collection was a small, quiet space done in the same 1960s architecture that characterized the whole Lincoln Center complex. Bookcases ran along one wall. Five long wooden tables with seats numbered from one to sixty filled the center of the room. A few resear
chers sat in red 1960s-style chairs. The only evidence that the room had anything to do with theater were a few models of stage sets in white lucite boxes on top of the card catalogues.
“We’re looking for information about someone who appeared on Broadway a long time ago,” Molly explained to the librarian, a thin bearded man in his thirties. “Where should we start?”
Five minutes later Molly and Nell were in assigned seats perusing the spread for Without Reservations in the appropriate year’s Theatre World Annual. It was as easy as that. The reference book was packed with information about the show, including the same cast list of eight actors as in the program Nell had found, plus three more production photos. In each photo a young and beautiful Margaret Jellinek dressed in odd, old-fashioned clothes struck a different pose as various cast members looked on.
Tingling with excitement Molly read the brief description of the story:
The family of a dying girl keeps the seriousness of her illness a secret from her. When Linda Blake (Margaret Jellinek) learns the truth, she decides to spend her last days on a whirlwind tour of Europe rather than finish the promising symphony she has been composing. Her heartbroken fiancé (Tuck Wittington) and parents (Lillian St. Germaine, Arthur Page Anderson), try to talk her out of leaving, but it is only the noble sacrifice by her faithful cocker spaniel, Alexander The Great, that finally shows Linda the true meaning of life.
As she read further, however, Molly’s excitement turned to disappointment. Without Reservations had previewed in Boston and tried out in New Haven and Philadelphia before opening in New York City at the Booth on Thanksgiving Day. It had closed that same Sunday, having played a total of five performances on Broadway.
“Well, you’re bound to have some failures in a big Broadway career,” Molly whispered to her sister.
Nell nodded absently, leafing through the current issue of Backstage, the showbiz weekly, that somebody had left on the table. She had long ago learned to amuse herself at libraries while Molly was digging out obscure facts about this antique or that.
Molly turned to the brief biographies of “Popular Broadway Players” included at the back of the Theatre World. Margaret Jellinek wasn’t listed. Nor was Tuck Wittington who played her fiance in Without Reservations, or the actors who played the Doctor, Aunt Tillie, Gramps, and Bart the Handyman. Only the parents—Lillian St. Germaine and Arthur Page Anderson, who were married to each other in real life—rated mention. Each had numerous Broadway credits, including plenty of Shakespeare.
Apparently you had to be pretty well established to get a bio, Molly realized, which meant that Margaret Jellinek must have been something less than a full-fledged Broadway star when she had won the lead in Without Reservations.
Of course, there was nothing wrong in being a newcomer, Molly told herself—or to star in a show that didn’t have a long run. Anthony Quinn had starred that same year in a play that hadn’t lasted even as long as Grandma’s. And he hadn’t rated a bio, either.
“Wait here,” said Molly to Nell, then walked over to the card catalogue and filled out call slips for any archival materials that might be available for Without Reservations. She also picked up more Theatre World annuals for the years before and after Without Reservations.
Two hours later Molly had pieced together the whole story of her grandmother’s Broadway career. It was not what she had been expecting.
From the dates in the reference volumes it was clear that Margaret Jellinek must have managed to land a part in the chorus of a Broadway musical almost as soon as she had arrived in New York at the age of seventeen. To Molly’s surprise Richard Jellinek had been an actor, too. He had made his debut in the same musical—his name had appeared right next to Margaret’s in the chorus listing.
“We’re from a whole theatrical family, how do you like that?” Molly had whispered to her sister, who didn’t seem impressed.
The Jellineks had performed in various shows over the next six years—sometimes together though usually apart, sometimes in the chorus of musicals, sometimes in walk-on roles in straight plays. One musical in which both Margaret and Richard had sung and danced had gone on to a three-year run, but the Jellineks had both left after only a few months for small speaking parts in other shows that quickly closed.
Then, when Margaret Jellinek was twenty-three by Molly’s calculations, she had landed her first leading role: Linda Blake, the doomed young composer in Without Reservations. Calling her performance a failure was too kind a word, however. Molly’s grandmother had bombed.
“Last night at the Booth Margaret Jellinek may have given the worst performance not only of this disappointing season, but possibly in the history of the world,” wrote the critic from the Herald Tribune, capturing the spirit of the reviews.
No one was spared. The playwright was ridiculed. Tuck Wittington, who was making his Broadway debut in the play was savaged (one reviewer called him a “shaky-voiced pipsqueak”). Arthur Page Anderson and Lillian St. Germaine were chided for betraying their talents by participating in such garbage. Even the dog was panned.
The brunt of the blame, however, was heaped on Margaret Jellinek, whose role had to carry the show. Brooks Atkinson said it all in his review for the Times:
Without Reservations, which opened at the Booth Theatre last night seemed to conjure up not the spirit of Edwin Booth, the Prince of Players, for whom the theatre is named, but that of his infamous brother, John Wilkes. After enduring three hours of Margaret Jellinek’s pathetic screeching and yowling, I was ready to shoot Lincoln, myself.
Molly closed the box of reviews, unable to read any more.
No wonder Margaret Jellinek’s name did not appear again in the Theatre World annuals after that year. How many people would be brave enough to show their faces in public after such a humiliation? Two years later she had made her way to North Carolina with her baby, Evangeline. Richard Jellinek’s name had vanished from the Broadway listings at about the same time.
“She was hiding,” whispered Molly to Nell. “That’s what Grandma was doing in Pelletreau. She was licking her wounds and hiding where no one would have heard of that stupid play.”
Nell looked up from a picture of Yul Brynner in the original production of The King and I and smiled a sweet, open smile. Did she understand, Molly wondered, what it meant to spend your whole life broken and fearful in a backwater town? Or did she understand too well?
“Come on,” said Molly, picking up the folders and boxes that contained the evidence of Margaret Jellinek’s shame. They took these to the return window, then walked back to the librarian’s desk. Just because Grandma hadn’t been a success didn’t mean Molly was going to give up trying to find out about her.
“Is there some organization or association that professional actors have to belong to, somewhere that would have information about its members?” asked Molly, her stomach still in knots from the reviews.
“Equity,” said the librarian.
“Equity?” repeated Molly.
“Actor’s Equity. The union.”
It hadn’t occurred to her that actors would have their own labor union, but why not? A union was perfect.
The address for Actor’s Equity ironically turned out to be on Forty-sixth Street, just across Times Square from the Gotham Arms Hotel.
As they left Lincoln Center, Nell reveled again in the noisy, crowded streets. Molly tried to sort out her feelings. Her anger at her grandmother had dissipated after reading the reviews, but so many questions were still unanswered. Where had Margaret Gale originally come from? Why had Richard Jellinek deserted her and his child, and what had happened to him? Why hadn’t Grandma sold the emerald ring?
At least they were making progress, Molly thought ruefully.
“At the rate we’re going we might be able to take the bus home tomorrow,” said Molly, stopping as a traffic light changed from green to red. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
Nell shook her head in a definite no, then nonchalantly jaywalked t
hrough traffic like all the other New Yorkers.
Twenty minutes later they had completed the descent back down Broadway and entered the Actor’s Equity building.
The polished gray granite lobby wasn’t crowded, but Molly immediately noticed that there was something different about the people who came and went: the way they moved, the way they spoke to one another, the way they looked.
Three tall, thin, and fit women in summer dresses swept past and walked up a staircase at the rear of the lobby. Suddenly Molly was conscious for the first time of the silly print blouses she and Nell had on, their worn blue jeans. Everyone here looked so together, so full of sparkle, so … noticeable.
There was a podium directly in front of the lobby doors where one might expect to find an attendant or receptionist, but no one seemed to be on duty. Feeling out of place and uncomfortable, Molly walked over to the address board on one of the gray granite walls and looked at the many listings for different departments of the actors union, trying to figure out where to go.
A young blond woman came in carrying a straw basket from which Molly could see the title on the playscript poking out. It was by David Mamet. The woman was not much taller than Molly and not exactly pretty, but she carried herself with the same confidence that everyone else in the lobby seemed to have. As she passed she gave Molly a quizzical but friendly look. Molly leaped at the invitation.
“Is there a main reception area for Actor’s Equity?” she asked.
“Certainly,” said the girl in a voice that was surprisingly rich, round, and resonant, considering her small size. “Up those stairs at the back of the lobby. Come on. You can follow me.”
“Thanks,” said Molly and fell in line behind her with Nell bringing up the rear.
At the top of the stairs it was crowded confusion, a hallway filled with poised, intense-looking people, some seated on the floor, some leaning against walls. Most were young, but there were a few middle-aged faces. On a door to the left was posted a sign that read, PLEASE BE QUIET, CALLBACKS IN SESSION. Inside somebody was singing at the top of his lungs. Everywhere were bulletin boards full of incomprehensible postings.
The Girl at the End of the Line Page 6
