by Ed Ifkovic
Noel pursed his lips. “What story, Edna? I understand he comes here to watch little sister outshine the others. Doubtless her dollar bills bought him that city-boy outfit he thinks is fashionable.” Noel scratched his head. “An unstylish man wears a suit that you remember yourself not wearing the day before.”
“He comes to watch his investment? The banker checking his deposit?”
“Dark, Edna, my dear. Such nasty thoughts.” A quick grin. “So on-target.”
“Buzzy did say that he maneuvered—maybe orchestrated—her discovery by the now-abandoned Cyrus Meerdom.”
Jackson Roswell fascinated me: stiff, ramrod straight, except for the darting eyes. His arms crossed over his chest, he was a cigar-store Indian, a big, broad-shouldered man, dark hair parted down the middle. A Teddy Roosevelt moustache. When someone scooted by him, begging his pardon, he didn’t move. Rather, feet planted, he compelled the woman to move sideways. She shot him an angry glance, lost on him because his gaze was fixated on the doors that opened to the theater.
Noel nudged me. “Really, Edna, do you always stare so relentlessly at folks?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Do folks ever call you rude?”
“All the time.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Not so far.”
He held up his hand as his eyes swept the lobby. “We need to find our wandering boy, Edna.”
At that moment I spotted Dougie as he leaned back into a glass-plated poster of the revue, Belinda’s highlighted face towering over him. His shoulders hunched and his head tucked into his chest, his black bowtie slightly askew, his dinner jacket unbuttoned. Worse, he seemed to be muttering to himself.
“What in the world, Noel?” I said, pointing.
“Follow his steely eye.”
Of course. Dougie’s unrelenting stare was focused on Wallace Benton’s party. The loud, blustery man’s voice was celebrating Belinda Ross, and his acolytes were nodding and fawning and quietly—but, hopefully, diplomatically—shushing the noisy man. Of course, Benton was not alone in extolling Belinda’s performance—all around us theatergoers talked of that show-stopping number, of their surprise. “They told me she was spectacular but, I mean, really…” But Benton was the loudest, and most authoritative. And, to be sure, he was the only one who caught Dougie’s bitter attention.
“St. Bernard Coward to the rescue.”
Concerned, Noel hustled over and mumbled something in Dougie’s ear, but Dougie shrugged him off, though finally, nudged by the persuasive Noel, he smiled. Good Lord, I thought—not another farewell tour of apology. One thing was certain—the young man no longer needed to practice his lines. Luckily, a bell chimed twice, and Noel maneuvered Dougie into the theater. I followed. When we sat down, Dougie leaned into me, opening his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.
“No apologies,” I said into his face.
He locked eyes with mine. “How did you know?”
I tapped his wrist. “It’s not that difficult, Dougie. You seem to be working from the same script.”
“Edna,” Noel jabbed me in the forearm, “you’re not nice.”
Dougie laughed softly. “At least she tells me the truth, Noel.”
A tick to his voice. “And I don’t?”
“The truth is no fun for you.” Dougie’s eyes glistened. “You spend a lifetime making up your life.”
As the curtain rose, I whispered to him. “Dougie, I may learn to like you, after all.”
“Quiet,” Noel muttered. “Why do Americans talk when the play is on?”
“Usually because we want to hear something interesting being said.”
“Then you need to come to my parties.”
“I do. And we know what happens there.”
Bored now, the audience waited for Belinda’s second-act appearance. Someone actually hissed at a roustabout vaudeville comic who delivered a string of tepid jokes. A fawning hotel clerk questioned a bedraggled Wall Street businessman. “A room for sleeping or jumping?” I cringed.
Tommy Stuyvesant had assembled a motley array of acts, but his dramatic sense was faultless. At the penultimate moment the lights dimmed, the orchestra began a teasing rumble of saxophone and midnight piano, a calculated pause, and Belinda appeared in a smoky purplish haze of light. Stretched out on a crushed-velvet chaise lounge, her face illuminated but shadowy, she sang a bittersweet lament of lost love, a surprising timbre to her voice, breaking at the end, a tear in her syllables. No longer Fanny Brice, now she bore echoes of Helen Morgan, the torch singer belting out “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” from Show Boat, the svelte saloon singer draped over a piano. A woman for all seasons, this fetching Circe. Two rows behind me a woman sobbed, then tittered with embarrassment.
And then it was over. The soft light on her face disappeared, a moment of silence as the purple fog dissipated, and the audience stood on its feet. Thunderous, overwhelming, in fact, and accompanied by shouts, huzzahs, and shrill whistles. Noel turned to me. “I never thought…” His voice trailed off.
“Why would we?” I answered, glancing at Dougie.
Still seated and dragging a white handkerchief across his moist cheeks, he looked up at me, puppy-dog wonder in his eyes, and mumbled, “She loves me.” He stressed the last word. “She sings to me.”
Backstage, huddled into a narrow hallway of the ancient theater, we watched as a stream of well-wishers and idle sycophants worked their way in and out of Belinda’s dressing room. Finally, signaled by an anxious Dougie, we walked in. Belinda was removing the last of her makeup, her face close to the mirror.
“I’m exhausted.” Her first words to us, though said to the mirror.
Noel cleared his throat. “Belinda, my dear, you are a wonder of the world.”
She barely nodded, her gaze still intent on rubbing some lipstick off her mouth. In the mirror’s reflection, devoid of her stage makeup, Belinda looked like the pretty farm girl who stepped off a bus at Port Authority.
A small dressing room painted a dull metal-gray, doubtless the scene of hundreds of acts over its century, strings of vaudeville performers and Shakespearean troupes and Edwin Booth copycats who ignored the musty smell of old dry wood, the rancid smell of mouse droppings, the sudden clank clank of steam pulsing through old pipes. Such noxious odors warred with the heavy sweetness covering the room because of the bouquets of red roses and white carnations that covered the dressing table. A bowl of hothouse tulips rested on a shelf. No windows—a cell. In the cramped room the abundant flowers made the tight space funereal.
Dougie leaned in and she twisted her head upward so he could plant a peck on her cheek. A quick wink at him, a giggle. She tickled his side, and he jumped, delighted. He started to say something into her ear but she brushed him away. Instead, surprisingly, she glanced up at me, my back to the doorjamb, and said in a sweet voice, “Did I disappoint you, Miss Ferber?”
“Hardly,” I answered, surprised. “Why would you say that?”
She smiled but looked uncertain what to say, her eyes cloudy. “Someone told me you’re a…a difficult woman to please.”
Dougie swallowed nervously while Noel, his eyes flashing, roared, delighted.
“Yes,” I said quietly, “I noticed my nemesis Aleck Woollcott in the lobby. I fear he beat a sluggish path to your stage door and…”
A buttery innocence. “He warned me you’d find fault.”
“Belinda, my dear, your performance was enchanting.”
“Really?”
“A lovely voice.”
Belinda sprang up and surprised me by pushing past Dougie, enveloping me in a quick but unwelcome hug. She smelled of a cloying gardenia perfume, so powerful my eyes teared.
She turned to Noel. “Did you enjoy it, Mr. Coward?”
“Madly.”
&nbs
p; Meanwhile, Dougie, watching this unexpected tableau, was smiling wanly, waiting for her attention. “Dinner at Jack White’s,” he announced. “They’re expecting us. All of us.” He pointed at Noel and me.
She shook her head. “I’m exhausted, Dougie. Not tonight. Please. I’m sorry. A good night’s sleep. Every night, we go out…”
Dougie drew his lips into a thin line. “I’ve already reserved a table.”
An edge to her voice. “I told you—not tonight.”
He glanced at Noel and me, a helpless shrug of his shoulders.
An usher slinked behind me, rapped on the doorjamb so quickly that I jumped. “Sorry, ma’am.” His cherubic face was ringed with laughter as he pushed by me. “More flowers for Miss Ross.”
Indeed, he was carrying an oversized spray of deep-red roses, two dozen by my count, lacy baby’s breath accents, tied up in an enormous satin bow. Gaudy, unnecessary, the huge arrangement dominated the small space. More appropriate, I considered, on the back of the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby. Belinda beamed, cradled the bouquet to her chest, buried her face in the lush blooms, and flashed her eyes at Dougie. “I warned you, Dougie. Stop this.”
Dougie faltered. “I didn’t. I…”
Belinda slipped the small white note from a creamy white envelope, and read the card. A lazy smile, almost dreamy. “Good Lord.”
“Who?” Dougie’s one word, sputtered.
Belinda faced me, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “Wallace Benton,” she announced. “Again.” Then, louder, a thrill in her voice, “Wallace Benton. The new skyscraper that…”
Suddenly Dougie lunged forward and ripped the card from her hand. Eyes blinking wildly, he stared at the printed words. He read out loud: “‘You are Manhattan’s newest and brightest angel.’ Like hell.” He tore the card into shreds and flung the pieces into the air. He grasped the bouquet from Belinda, swung it around the room so that red petals flew off, landed on the dressing table, on the floor, on Belinda’s shoulders. Then, a maniac, he beat the bouquet on the edge of the vanity. The satin bow unraveled. Rose petals blanketed her cosmetics table.
Belinda started to cry.
Noel, flummoxed, said in a scratchy voice, “Dougie, for heaven’s sake. Who knew you had such a fiery temper? Flowers are sent…”
Dougie held up his trembling hand. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Frankly,” Noel hissed, “you’re acting as if you were.”
Dougie sputtered. With a flash of embarrassment on his face, he shot by me, pushing his way into the hallway. Over his shoulder he yelled, “The hell with you all.”
Quiet in the small dressing room, Noel shifting from foot to foot, a strange noise escaping his throat. I brushed rose petals off my shoulders, sighed, tired now, sick of the childish scene. I tried to think of something to say but finally stepped back, signaling to Noel: Out of here. Now. Please. He nodded back at me.
A rose petal was stuck in Noel’s blond hair. A blood clot, dark.
Belinda faced her mirror, but her fingers played with a bunch of rose petals. “Wallace Benton,” she whispered. Her eyes got wide with alarm. “But this isn’t my fault. I didn’t send him roses.” She squeezed the petals. “He’s—famous.”
“And rich,” Noel added. “In America, that’s more important than fame.”
Belinda narrowed her eyes as she watched Noel turn to leave. “Why can’t a body have both?” She looked toward the empty doorway—the departed Dougie. “And love.”
By the time Noel and I drifted into the lobby, the theater was empty, the crowds gone. Two bored ushers in sharp-creased pants and gold shoulder braids stood by the front doors, one of them bowing as he opened a door. At that moment I heard an unhappy grunt behind me.
Jackson Roswell stood by the box office window, his back to the glass, his arms folded. In the bright light of the lobby the seersucker suit looked shiny.
“What?” asked Noel.
Jackson sounded angry. “Dougie rushed by. Furious. He wouldn’t stop.” He took a step toward us, rushing his words. “Tell me what happened?”
I didn’t answer, though I stared into his pale face. Noel answered him. “Talk to your sister, Jackson.”
But he sputtered, “Tell me what happened?”
“They had a spat,” I said. “A lover’s quarrel.”
The usher waited, holding the door open.
Jackson shook his head wildly. “I called out to him, but he looked right through me.” His eyes searched the empty lobby, and then, peering toward the street, the dark sidewalk.
“It’s not important.” Noel nudged me forward. I approached the open door.
Anger in his voice. “Of course, it’s important. Nothing can go wrong,”
I looked back, irritated. “What does that mean?”
His voice quivered. “We worked too hard for this.”
“What?” I asked, but Noel, whispering in my ear that the man was a fool, maneuvered me onto the sidewalk. The usher closed the door behind us, though I noticed he watched Jackson warily.
Outside a gust of wind slapped me in the face, and I turned up the collar of my chinchilla coat. Noel stepped into the street to hail a cab while I huddled against the wall, my head turned away from the icy wind. Finally a black cab pulled up, and Noel and I slid into the backseat. The cab sputtered, the driver swore under his breath, a funny Yiddish curse that made me smile, but then he apologized. We turned onto Broadway, idled at a red light.
“Look,” I said to Noel.
Jackson Roswell was slowly walking up the sidewalk, bent into the wind and the scattered snowflakes. He plodded along like an old man, his head dipped down. As our cab moved by him, I watched him absently brush against a street sweeper and, rousing himself from his trance, he raised an angry fist at the man. He turned the corner, headed toward Eleventh Avenue. Over his shoulder, angry, he was yelling something to the hapless sweeper. Jostled, the street cleaner paused, rattled. The man was pushing a straw broom, shuffling discarded programs into a heap by a trash bin. A fortyish man in a shabby, unbuttoned overcoat, he wore a rumpled business suit. A loose necktie. Kid gloves. A battered fedora on his head, pulled down against the chill. For a moment he gazed after the departed Jackson, but then, slowly turning, he stared back into the street. Our cabbie pressed the accelerator and we glided swiftly through the light. But I stared into the man’s face—dull, haunted eyes that were so vacant they seemed drained of all life.
Chapter Five
Lady Maud once sat next to me at a charity auction at the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court. A number of authors, myself included, donated manuscripts for a silent auction to benefit homeless shelters and soup kitchens throughout the city. I parted with an early draft of So Big, boldly signed. Once she learned who I was—I was introduced to her as “Edna Ferber, you know, the Show Boat lady,” an annoying introduction—she fussed and sputtered her pleasure. For the remainder of the dreary luncheon she monopolized me, a hailstorm of chatter about her dead husband, her Fifth Avenue mansion next to one of the Whitneys, her financial whiz kid Douglas—“he insists on being called Dougie, so Newport summer season, no?”—whom I’d not met at that time. And her devotion to the poor.
“Do you know any?” I’d asked, rudely.
Of course, she wasn’t listening to me. She talked of the Crash that wiped out much of high society and her fear that Hoover eventually leaving the presidency—and the growing rumors that New York Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt might run for the office—would bring doom to the world she cherished.
I’d tried to ignore her, to no avail. On my left was someone I desperately wanted to talk to. An old friend, Sinclair Lewis, whom I’d known since we were both cub reporters in the Midwest. I called him Red and he called me Tillie, inane nicknames that thrilled us as we laughed like fools through our days in the newsroom. He still had that head of swirli
ng auburn curls, and I supposed I still reminded him of Tillie, the frivolous young girl with the nose for news. I’d been delighted to find myself seated next to him, ready to catch up on old cronies—and his splashy best-selling success with Babbitt and Main Street—but our reunion was not meant to be: Lady Maud insisted that she tell me what she thought of the desperate landscape that was Manhattan after the Crash.
“After the fall,” I finally told her.
“No, Crash,” she’d said into my face.
“America knocked out of Eden,” I said back to her.
Puzzled, she had no idea what to say to me.
The next day, to my horror, someone slipped me the rotogravure section of the Daily News. An unseen photographer had snapped Lady Maud smiling at me. “Fifth Avenue tycoon’s widow chats with close friend, Edna Ferber.” Lady Maud was wearing an outlandish hat—white ostrich feathers, blue roses, an embroidered sombrero brim. Obviously, the photographer delighted in the absurdity. George Kaufman talked of nothing else for days.
So I was surprised when I found a note in my mailbox the morning after the debacle at the New Beacon. Quite simply, Lady Maud requested my presence for coffee. I was sitting in my work room, rereading the cursory note and debating what to do about it—“I expect you remember me, dear Miss Ferber, from social occasions”—when my phone rang. Lady Maud’s private secretary calling to confirm my visit.
“I don’t know…” I began.
She interrupted, “Lady Maud has a busy schedule. She can see you at eleven. Of course, you have the address.”
I smiled. It was as though I was the one begging for an interview and the busy woman of affairs would try to accommodate me.
My curiosity piqued, I agreed, though I found myself sitting with the dead phone in my hand, a foolish smile on my face. I considered phoning George Kaufman, my sometime-collaborator on plays, who relished such encounters with privileged society because, in his words, “They are the stuff of my satire, my bread-and-butter on Broadway.” But, no, this was to be my own special moment.
