by Karen White
“Oh well, then we should be thankful, I suppose. Because of all the time he’s been spending with Marjorie, filling her head with notions of being an actress. At least we don’t have to worry about anything else.”
“You would see the bright side of it, wouldn’t you?” And Marjorie’s father laughed, and Marjorie heard a loud kissing sound, and so she turned around and crept up the stairs in order to stomp back down them noisily, again preventing further disquieting action.
So Marjorie and Mr. Carson had settled into a friendly mentor-student relationship, which suited them both. Marjorie never did fall in love, real love, with a real boy her own age, during high school, and she did wonder about that. Was she lacking in some basic female quality? Or was she simply too focused on what came after, unlike most everyone else she knew who could only think ahead as far as the senior dance? She knew it would have been so easy to fall in love in wartime; even the plainest, most pitiable girls managed to find a soldier who was eager for her lipstick-sealed letters and pensively posed photograph. And sometimes Marjorie did feel a pang of regret, or of missing out on something—like now, for instance, in the Kissing Room, as she watched a trembling young woman fling herself into the arms of a private with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, heard the muffled, tear-soaked cry of, “Oh, Doug!” and then nothing. Nothing but tremulous yearning, unchecked joy. Experiences and feelings that Marjorie had never had, except onstage.
It was onstage that Marjorie came to life; it was onstage that she was known as someone special, someone different. Offstage, in her own home where people ought to have known better, since they lived in such close proximity to her brilliance, she was just little Marjorie, spoiled daughter of a banker, annoying baby sister of a WAVE who had gotten her picture in the local paper simply because she had joined up. Offstage, in the hallways of Lower Merion High School, she was one of many pretty little coeds, expected to marry a returning soldier someday sooner rather than later, maybe after attending a year or so of junior college so she would have something to contribute to dinner parties other than her meat loaf.
But onstage, underneath a mask of makeup with her hair pinned up inside a hot wig, wearing a threadbare, stained costume that still turned her into someone else entirely; onstage, beneath bright lights that nourished her, fed her, made her blossom and grow and expand . . .
“You’re the most promising student I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Carson said, almost reluctantly, one day after rehearsal for Susan and God. “You have to work on your voice, for it’s too small. You have to project better. But your face—you can’t hide a thing with that face, and that’s your ticket.”
Marjorie had blushed, of course; she had always hated the way every emotion and thought could be read on her traitorous face. She’d never been able to keep anything from her parents or her sister, who had the best poker face in the world, everyone in the family agreed. But not Marjorie; no one dared tell her a secret or asked her to hide something as a child. One too many birthday presents had been revealed, one too many surprises spoiled.
But Mr. Carson said her face was her fortune! Mr. Carson said she had talent, real talent! Encouraged for the first time in her life by someone who really understood her dreams and didn’t dismiss them as childish notions that should have been outgrown long ago, Marjorie worked hard. Harder than she had ever worked at anything in her life, to her own astonishment. When Mr. Carson gave her books to study, she pored over them, not quite understanding them all—Stanislavski seemed to speak in a language she could not share, for instance—but reading them, nonetheless, practically memorizing them. And when, after graduation, Mr. Carson encouraged her to go to acting school, she nearly fainted to hear the unspoken dreams finally articulated out loud. And she asked him to talk to her parents, who disapproved of any kind of career in the arts. They weren’t keen on careers for their daughters at all, but had allowed Paulina to enroll in nursing school, and then the WAVES, because of the war.
“No, Marjorie, I’m not getting involved between a student and her parents,” Mr. Carson replied one afternoon right after graduation; only the underclassmen still had class, but Marjorie and her fellow graduates had decided, grandly, to visit the “dear old place” for old times’ sake.
The two of them were hanging out in Mr. Carson’s dingy little office off the wings of the auditorium stage; after a year and a half it still seemed impersonal, as if he could vanish and no one would ever know he’d been there. There were no photos, no framed diplomas or certificates, not even a pile of old playbills. No, there was only his coat and his hat and his battered briefcase, and a copy of the last play they’d done together, the last one they would do together, You Can’t Take It with You. Surprisingly, she had not played Alice, the lead; he had given her a smaller, flashier role as Essie, the ballet-dancing older sister, and she had simply stolen the show with it.
But now the end of the school year loomed, and Mr. Carson seemed unaccountably glum.
“I’ve learned my lesson, unfortunately, in the past,” he admitted, leaning against the front of his desk but balancing lightly upon the balls of his feet, as if he might suddenly leap into the air upon the slightest whim. He played with the end of the scarf he used as a belt, just like Fred Astaire; Marjorie loved that about him, thought it dashing and original (though even she had to admit that Fred Astaire had done it first).
“But my parents won’t hear of me becoming an actress. They won’t! But if you put in a good word for me, perhaps I can get them to at least give me a few months. I’ve looked into schools, and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts seems perfect—of course, if I could even get in.” Marjorie tried to look doubtful about this, but she simply could not hide a sly smile.
“Of course you’d get in,” Mr. Carson said, knowing that was what she wanted to hear. “But I can’t risk it, Marjorie. Although really, I don’t know why I shouldn’t. I’m going to be replaced anyway. Now that the boys will be coming home, I’ll be the first to get the boot for some returning war hero.”
“Oh no, that’s nonsense!” Now it was Marjorie’s line. “Of course they’ll keep you! Why, look at the quality of the plays we’ve put on since you’ve been here! And we even got reviewed by the local paper! That never happened before.”
“That’s kind of you, but it doesn’t matter. Not in a high school. I know I’m the low man on the totem pole.”
“Well, the war isn’t really over, not yet, Mr. Carson. There’s still Japan,” Marjorie said, although she couldn’t quite sell it. Everyone knew it would all be over by the end of the summer. This graduation, unlike previous grim, stoic years, had been a truly joyous event with tears overflowing, because this time they were tears of happiness, cried freely by mothers who no longer feared their sons would trade their graduation caps for combat gear. Oh, sure, the war with Japan was still on, but by the time these boys finished boot camp, it would all be over. Europe was won, Germany defeated. The graduating class of 1945 was spared; the roll of honor in the school courtyard would have few new names added to it now.
“You’re sweet, Marjorie. And please, call me Doug, for God’s sake. I hate this Mr. Carson stuff, with all of you.” And Mr. Carson leaned toward her, to brush her hair off her shoulder. For a brief moment, Marjorie tried to summon up the old crush, but she couldn’t; she only smiled and shook her hair back, and accepted the compliment when Mr. Carson—Doug—told her she looked much better with it up. Then he returned to the subject of her future.
“At least try out for some of the little theaters, a community playhouse or something. Do that, for me? If your parents won’t let you go to New York, surely they would let you still perform here. You’re good, Marjorie. I don’t usually encourage students like this. Hell, half the time I can barely suffer through watching them onstage myself, let alone inflict them upon others. Cigarette?” He offered her one from the box on his desk.
Marjorie laughed and accepted it, d
elighted by the surprisingly intimate, catty turn of the conversation. “Even Susan Taggart?” Susan Taggart was the closest thing Marjorie had to a rival; she had played Alice in You Can’t Take It with You. Woodenly, Marjorie couldn’t help but think.
“Especially Susan Taggart. She ‘ran the gamut of emotions, from A to B’—to quote Dorothy Parker on Katharine Hepburn.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard that before!” Marjorie inhaled, quite sophisticatedly, she thought; then she laughed, and felt as if she was at the beginning of this wonderful new career, a career made up of opening night parties full of witty banter, exactly like this. She wondered how she might continue to see Mr. Carson—Doug—during the summer, as a sort of preparation for the next step.
But Mr. Carson, true to his prediction, was gone by the end of the month; gone from Narberth, gone from her life without a word of farewell. Nobody knew where he went, although there were rumors, of course. Dark, dangerous, spiteful rumors. Marjorie was sad, naturally, but not quite heartbroken. Merely melancholy and a little bit piqued that he didn’t get to see her in her debut with the Narberth Community Playhouse, not quite the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia, where all the big plays tried out before Broadway, but still semiprofessional. One of the leads had understudied Fredric March once, on Broadway.
Mr. Carson, the one person in her life who could have truly appreciated it, was not there to see her performance as Tweeny in The Admirable Crichton, a real coup for a newcomer. However, her parents were there on opening night, supportive in their own way, praising her performance while somehow tempering the importance of the achievement. (“Yes, dear, you did well in this nice little play. We’re very proud of you, although it’s not quite the same as your sister getting her nursing degree, now, is it?”)
But nothing, not even her parents’ backhanded compliments, could dull the luster of her first real opening night, in a play with adults playing adult parts, no teenagers donning gray wigs and doddering around in their misguided attempts to indicate age. This was the real thing; she was part of a troupe, part of a club, and her curtain call had been received with a nice little burst of applause, indicating her success in the role. And she had been invited to the opening night party! She, only eighteen, had been asked to “come along, ingénue,” to the home of the actor playing Crichton (he who had understudied Fredric March). She was just about to ask her parents if she could go, when a complete stranger came up to her and interrupted the family conversation.
“Hey. Good job, kiddo.” And he handed her a business card.
Abe Holmes, Talent Scout. MGM Studios, Culver City, California.
“Excuse me?” Marjorie’s father had said, his bushy eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. He moved instinctively nearer his daughter. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Abe. Abe Holmes. I’m a talent scout for MGM. Sister here has the goods, I think.” He jerked his thumb toward Marjorie.
Her heart beating wildly, her legs suddenly trembling, Marjorie could only stare at the business card.
“The goods?” Marjorie’s father repeated, incredulously. “Now see here, Mr. Holmes. This is my daughter you’re talking about. I don’t like your tone of voice.”
“Sorry.” And Mr. Holmes did appear to be contrite. He removed his hat, looked down at his shoes meekly, then shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Konigsberg before turning to Marjorie. She peered up at him; he didn’t look much like a talent scout, although she really had no idea how one should look. Mr. Holmes looked like a banker; like her father, in fact, in a boring gray suit, gray tie, white shirt. The only flashy thing about him was a gold ring with a ruby on the second finger of his left hand. Marjorie had never seen a ring on a man that wasn’t a wedding or a class ring.
“Miss, uh, Miss Konigsberg.” Mr. Holmes consulted the rolled-up program in his hand. “You did a very nice job in the part. I would like to talk to you, and your parents, of course, about making a screen test for MGM.”
By now, the rest of the company was circled around Marjorie, her parents, and Mr. Holmes; Marjorie detected that the tide of good feeling toward her had already turned. Waves of hostility seemed to emanate from her cast mates like the heat from the footlights, still burning bright on the other side of the curtain. The actress who had played Lady Mary turned and ran off the stage, only to reappear in her costume from the first act, much finer and more flattering than the one she wore at the end.
“Well, I’m sorry, but this sounds like a con to me.” Mr. Konigsberg barked a laugh, and Marjorie was seized with a desire to shove her father, who had never even raised his voice to her, into the orchestra pit. But she merely bit her lip and waited.
“I can understand that, sir,” Mr. Holmes said, still so very respectful. “I assure you, however, that I do work for MGM. Please feel free to call the studio—the number’s on the back—to confirm.”
“Well, that would be a long-distance call,” thrifty Mr. Konigsberg muttered, and Marjorie had to practically put her fist in her mouth, to prevent a scream.
“I would tell you to reverse the charges, but the boss wouldn’t like that much,” Mr. Holmes admitted with a rueful smile. He wasn’t very handsome, Marjorie thought, finally conquering her excitement enough so that she was able to assess him coolly, like any other man. He was a little bit younger than her father, she decided; his hair wasn’t gray, but it was thinning on top. His face was rather fleshy, with a bulbous nose and absurdly pink cheeks. But he oozed confidence; his eyes, particularly, seemed awfully penetrating, despite being rather small. He narrowed those eyes at her now, and she raised her chin and met his gaze, taking extra care to widen her already large eyes, and to smile in her best imitation of Vivien Leigh.
Mr. Holmes did not smile, but he did nod with what Marjorie felt to be appreciation.
“Say, I’d like to take you all out for a soda to talk about this. What do you say, sis—I mean, Miss Konigsberg?”
Marjorie inhaled, thankful he had addressed her and not her parents. For she knew the best way to handle her father; it was the way her mother always counseled handling a man. “Use the assumptive close, Marjorie. Don’t ask permission, just do what you want and let him think it was his idea.”
So now Marjorie said, without a hint of hesitation, “I think that would be grand, don’t you, Mother? Let’s go to Shubert’s. You love their sundaes, Dad; I just know you were going to suggest it yourself. Now, if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll go change and grab my coat.” And she pivoted, slowly, gracefully, and walked unhurriedly away, scattering the little circle of her fellow actors, whom she had previously held in such awe. Now, with the appearance of one business card, all that had changed; they looked small and ordinary. Destined to spend their lives with the Narberth Players. She must remember to come visit once in a while, for it would do them all good to see how successful one of their own had become.
Marjorie took her time changing out of her costume, blotting her face with a handkerchief in order to tone down her stage makeup, reapplying her lipstick in a more natural shade, not that fire-engine red she had been told to use. She powdered her face all over again, sprayed some perfume on her neck, wrists, and under her arms, then donned her street clothes, which fortunately were rather nice—a ruffled blouse, flared wool skirt, and vest in a deep emerald green that matched her eyes.
And then she joined her parents and Mr. Holmes, willing herself not to speculate about the conversation they must have had in her absence. In his own car, Mr. Holmes followed the Konigsbergs to Shubert’s, a bustling ice-cream shop with shiny metal counters, bright red stools, polished black-and-white floors. It was corny, it was small town, but it was the perfect setting for a young, big-eyed aspiring movie star.
They ordered, Marjorie and her mother on one side of the booth, Mr. Holmes and her father on the other. And they listened to Mr. Holmes’s practiced speech; he was sent out a couple of times a year, even to the sticks l
ike this—Mr. Konigsberg bristled at that—to see beauty pageants and local plays. MGM was sure that now, with the war over (VJ day had happened a month ago), there would be a big surge in popularity for the movies, and they needed stars. Some of the older ones—well, you all know whom I’m talking about, Kate Hepburn and Dietrich and even Garbo—who were big prior to the war were washed up now, kaput. The studio needed young, pretty things, new faces, to match the new, jubilant mood. And it was his job, Abe Holmes, happy family man who hated to leave his wife and daughter to traipse all over the country but a job’s a job, don’t you know that, sir?—it was his job to find these new faces and bring them either to New York or Hollywood for a screen test. All expenses paid, of course; any train fare or hotel stay would be reimbursed. It was all completely legit, on the up-and-up; why, Ava Gardner had been discovered this way, you know the story, right, sis—I mean, Miss Konigsberg?
All three adults had then turned to Marjorie, who had smiled demurely, cast her gaze down, and sipped her milkshake before nodding. Of course she knew how Ava Gardner had been discovered, her picture in some photographer’s window, and then a screen test in New York. And now, she was married to Mickey Rooney! Or was it Artie Shaw? Marjorie was a bit confused. But Ava Gardner was prominently featured in the fan magazines and appeared on her way to stardom, and she had been screen-tested right in New York, just as Mr. Holmes was suggesting for her, Marjorie Konigsberg!
“Of course, the name will have to go,” Mr. Holmes said now, with a remarkable lack of tact considering the company. “Konigsberg. What is that? Jewish?”
“German,” Mr. Konigsberg replied icily.
“Marjorie’s okay, maybe. Kind of long. But we’ll let the publicity department deal with all that. First, we have to screen-test you. Now let me see, I’ll be in New York in a week. I have to swing through a few more of these towns first. So how about the twenty-first? Early afternoon, say?”
