by Brandy Purdy
Yet I couldn’t leave Nance or even openly reproach her. I feigned blind ignorance and never said a word about Ricca and just went on smiling, showering Nance with affection, gifts, and money and playing the charade of love, hoping she would eventually tire of her new dalliance and come back to me. More fool I not to realize that there would always be a new diversion to delight Nance. If she didn’t find them, they would find her. Variety was the spice of Nance’s life; she lived for novelty and could not abide stagnation and boredom.
But the curtain always has to fall. The night finally came when it was no longer possible for me to pretend anymore and she turned all my gold and silver tinsel dreams to cold gray, dead ashes. I was dancing in her arms, in my bloodred velvet gown, cheek to cheek, heart to heart, gold scorpion at my breast, when Nance coyly alluded to the greatest gift of all, one that only I could give her. Then, when the hint eluded me, she came brazenly out with it and asked the impossible of me.
“Give me your life, dearest Lizbeth,” she begged, her voice sultry and hot against my ear, her tongue flicking out, to tease the lobe, just like a snake’s forked tongue.
She was asking me to give her the once in a lifetime role all actresses dream of, the one she would be forever identified with; no matter how many other actresses attempted it in the decades that followed, it would always be her role. She wanted to portray me in a play. I would be given full credit as authoress even if I didn’t write a single word and left it all to an anonymous phantom pen Nance would hire, and we would appear together before the press and I would publicly declare that Nance was the only one I trusted to do full justice to the story of my life, that no other actress could breathe such life and heart into my personal tragedy.
I felt stung, used, and betrayed. For the first, and only, time I said No to Nance. And so she said good-bye to me, but not in actual words, at least not then. And I was still too much in love with her to see the truth behind her sad little smile as she laid her head upon my shoulder and let her tears soak through my lace collar as we finished what was to be our last dance.
“It was just an idea, that’s all; let’s forget the whole thing,” she whispered. Of course, she didn’t mean a word of it. Forget and forgive was a concept completely foreign to Nance.
But I was only too happy to agree and go on pretending.
When the music ended and we sat down, as a conciliatory gesture I drew my checkbook out of my purse.
“Now you need never worry about losing your farm,” I whispered as I handed her a check for $10,000.
I thought it was enough. But Nance didn’t even say thank you. She just folded the check in half and stuffed it down the front of her marigold velvet bodice for safekeeping, then sat forward and moodily pillowed her chin against her fist and wearily began reciting:
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
Then she yawned right in my face and languidly lit another cigarette.
I knew then, with my sinking heart, terrified by the plunge it was so suddenly and abruptly taking, back into darkness and lonely oblivion, that she really was bored with me, and tired of me, and that Ricca and all the other casual dalliances were not just passing fancies, merely the continuation of a long-established pattern. And, even worse, Nance was disappointed in me, because I had finally said no, where before I had always said yes. That no was the death knell of our love, if it ever really was love, and about that I had my doubts even if I didn’t want to acknowledge them. I only knew I felt let down, like I had failed her, even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong; I just didn’t want my life story paraded before the footlights. I didn’t want to be a playwright or provide the fodder for any more headlines. It wasn’t a slight against Nance herself, or her talent. I just wanted the scandal to die and to be allowed to live out my life in peace, blessedly free of the macabre notoriety that had for so long surrounded me.
And if I had failed her, well . . . she had also failed me. She was the one acting like a fickle, petulant child casting aside a once-favored toy just because it was no longer new. The only thing I didn’t know was how to fix it without crumbling and caving in, saying Yes in spite of every screaming instinct I possessed, and forever hating myself for it.
If I gave in and gave her what she asked, I would only be buying more time with Nance, but history was bound to repeat itself eventually, boredom would again set in, and I would silently simmer with repressed resentment, I would get tired of saying Yes, and the death knell would sound again, and then it really would be final; there would be no last-minute reprieve for the condemned.
It really is better, a little voice in the back of my mind that I didn’t want to hear whispered, to just get it over with.
Sometimes it really is hard not to hate the truth. But I was desperate to hold on even though I knew it was like trying to pull a tiger back by its tail when it wants nothing more to do with you; it is bound to turn around and bite you. I just didn’t want to let go of the dream.
I knew something was different the moment my foot crossed the threshold into her splendid suite at the Bellevue Hotel. I knew she was leaving; I think I even knew that she was leaving me, not just New York, but I didn’t want to face the truth. I kept hoping the check that would allow her to keep her precious farm was recompense enough for denying her my life. I kept praying, PLEASE let everything be all right!
A flush of shame suffused my cheeks as I remembered the last time I had been in this suite. Pictures I would rather forget flashed like lightning through my mind. The drink of the green fairy. The bedroom. Naked skin. The sweaty tangle of satin sheets soon kicked to the floor.
I was willing to do anything to please Nance, to hold on to Nance, except the one thing she wanted most—to take my life and make it her own, to flash and flaunt my tragedy before the footlights, to make my ghostwritten play my all too public confession, brazenly delivered to all and any who could afford the price of a theater ticket.
Shame flooded me as the memories came rushing back like a series of rude slaps. Nance’s husband, Alfred, in his plush purple velvet dressing gown and matching slippers, a tassel bobbing on one toe as he swung his foot to the rhythm of the record playing on the phonograph, something whimsical and merry by Gilbert and Sullivan. The Mikado: “Three Little Maids from School Are We” played over and over endlessly. And was there, at some point, at least for a time, another body between Nance’s and mine in that big bed, one with smooth golden-caramel skin? My mind is all a cloudy muddle and in truth I do not want to remember.
I can only blame the green fairy. No, that is a lie! I can only blame myself! Maybe it wasn’t The Mikado after all; maybe it was The Pirates of Penzance? I hope so! Somehow that is easier to live with than “Three Little Maids.” Am I making any sense at all? My mind is so muddy not even a catfish could see in the sluggish, murky water that fills my head whenever I recall that night, my last night, with Nance.
Yes, I am nearly certain now that it was The Pirates of Penzance! I see myself clinging tight to Nance, bathing her bare skin with my tears, begging her not to leave me to pine, alone and desolate. And I hear her laughing, boldly declaring it better by far to live and die a pirate king, just like she always said that it was better to be an outlaw than to not be free. And Alfred, sitting with all the sangfroid of a modern major general, with a snifter of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other, in a wing chair at the foot of the bed, swaying his foot to the music, the golden tassel on his slipper jouncing, jiggling like a worm on a fisherman’s hook,
watching as Nance and I . . . Nance and I . . . the green fairy’s magical elixir . . . the giggling wanton naked loss of inhibition, wiggling and writhing, skin upon skin, hot flesh upon cool satin, the taste of her . . . the feel of her . . . like melted silk!
I shut my eyes against the shameful flood of images, like lurid photographs flickering past in a pornographer’s hands, just a quick peek, to titillate and entice a purchase, then opened them again on the sun-flooded scene of chaos that lay spread out before me like the debris a hurricane had left behind.
There were trunks, boxes, and valises strewn everywhere, their contents spilling out or stuffed haphazardly in. Dresses, undergarments, jewels, hairbrushes, shoes, stockings, hats, gloves, shawls, and parasols and all sorts of things were scattered everywhere, across the floor, draped over tables and chairs. A monkey and an angora cat were climbing the curtains; they had already succeeded in pulling down one and it lay pooled upon the floor providing a sumptuous feast for the baby goat that was the latest addition to Nance’s menagerie. The baboon was swinging from the crystal chandelier, the parrots were squawking and talking, Jolly Jack was alternately swearing and asking for a cracker, and all the dogs dashed about in circles barking. What the management would say when they beheld the damage Nance’s pets had wreaked upon their finest suite I could only imagine. I supposed I would have to write another check.
Talking ceaselessly of everything and nothing, Nance flitted about like a hummingbird from flower to flower, never lighting anywhere for more than a moment, issuing a volley of instructions to her black maid, Jemimah, and her new secretary, the effete Patrick in his skintight lemon-and-chocolate-checkered trousers and lavender waistcoat, with a green carnation in the buttonhole of his forest-green velvet coat marking him as a lingering devotee of the dead and disgraced Oscar Wilde. Her golden hair was caught up loosely in a disorderly topknot, and she was still in her petticoats. Jemimah dogged her steps, diligently trying to lace up her sea-green satin corset and imploring Miss Nance to be still, “just for a moment, honey!” But Nance must always be in motion; stillness was for corpses, she always used to say.
“Nance!” Alfred bellowed as he strode into the room, trailing a cloud of cigar smoke behind him, fluttering a paper angrily in his hand. “Have a look at this, Nance!”
She paused only for an instant, so that I marveled that she could take in even the barest gist of what was written there.
“Violet gloves accented with gilt embroidery and garnets—what a frivolous expense!” she declared, tossing her head as she moved off again, causing a long hank of golden hair to tumble down her back and her maid to roll her eyes and heave an exasperated sigh as she fumbled about inside an open trunk for more hairpins. “If I were you, Albert, I would refuse to pay it!”
That was Nance’s way. And when Alfred bellowed back, “I intend to!” she nodded her approval.
When she saw me reflected in the mirror above the mantel where her raccoon was trying to fish the poor goldfish out of their bowl for breakfast she spun round to greet me. It was then that I saw a certain disturbing vacancy in her eyes. There was a twitch at her lips, causing them to hover momentarily somewhere between a frown and a smile, before the switch was thrown and she became The Nance O’Neil, the flamboyant and famous actress whose whole life was a stage.
“Lizbeth!” she extravagantly exclaimed, and theatrically flung wide her arms and came to embrace me as if she were crossing a stage and there was an audience watching and applauding her entrance. There was something distinctly artificial in the way she kissed me once upon each cheek, her lips, and her hands at my waist, barely touching the skin she had once so fervently caressed.
I had been right. Something was different. I knew it. I felt it. I could not deny it. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to fall down on my knees and beg and plead and do whatever I had to do to fix what was wrong, but I didn’t know how except by giving up, giving in, and giving her the story of my life, and that I could never do. I felt confusion and hurt flood every part of me. Words deserted me; if I ever had any gift for them it abandoned me, leaving me feeling stupid and small, as if my tongue were of no more use than a fat and lazy garden slug.
I didn’t hear her—I was too lost in my frantic, fearful emotions—but Nance sent the others out.
And there we stood, face-to-face, amidst the chaos of Nance’s belongings, for what we both now knew would be the final time.
“It’s over.” I felt the words being torn out of me, but I had to say them.
For one mad moment I thought that perhaps if I said them first they would not hurt so much. But they did; oh, they did! Tears overflowed my eyes and I felt them on my cheeks and I hated myself because I could not keep them back. I didn’t want Nance to see me weep. I wanted to be sophisticated and regal at the end of our affair, blasé and nonchalant in my defeat; I didn’t want anyone to see my humiliation and know how much it hurt me.
I thought of the things I had done with this woman only last night, and before an audience, and shame flooded in and drowned any desire I might have still felt. I felt dirty and vulgar. In the deep, dark recesses of my heart, locked away to try to keep me from feeling the pain again and again every day, I still loved Orrin Gardner and longed for his touch. I still awoke some nights after dreaming of him easing into me and our bodies becoming one. But then Nance had come, like a whirlwind, into my life, and now I had to reap the storm.
Nance, forgetting that her corset was only haphazardly tied, turned away to carelessly pull a dark-green afternoon dress embroidered with coral and gold roses over her head. She didn’t bother with the back; her maid and the others would return in a little while, after I was gone, and someone would attend to it—someone always did. Someone always took care of Nance O’Neil and cleaned up the chaos and disarray that were as natural to her as breathing.
“Long ago when I was just a silly green girl my first lover taught me an invaluable lesson, Lizbeth. As a parting gift I shall pass it on to you so that you may profit from it on future occasions.” Now she was speaking to me like a stranger despite the deep intimacy of the subject.
Always the actress, she spoke as if she were onstage; her carriage, her tone, her gestures, the way she held herself, suddenly became different, as if she were positioning herself, subtly shifting angles, considering the lighting and the audience’s view of her, calculating how to show herself to best advantage. She was playing a beautiful, sophisticated woman of the world who was about to confide, to a more drab and naïve old-maid acquaintance, a pertinent secret as the audience sat forward in their seats breathless with anticipation.
She put her hands lightly upon my shoulders and asked a question: “If you are afraid someone you love is going to leave you, what do you do?”
“Find a way to make them stay?” I whispered in a tear-choked, tremulous little voice, hating myself all the time for it, and her too, for making me play out this ludicrous and demeaning finale. I glanced down at my purse, dangling from my wrist, and thought of money and everything it could, and could not, buy.
Nance tilted her head and sagely posed another question: “And if you cannot?”
I shook my head as my detested tears rolled down my face.
Nance tilted my chin up and made me look at her.
“You leave first so you do not have to watch them walking away from you.” She smiled sadly. “You should have left me first, Lizbeth, instead of waiting for me to leave you. It was inevitable, you know, my dear. It is always better to be the one who walks away rather than the one who is walked away from. It’s all a question of timing.” She patted my hand and smiled at me. “And over the years, I’ve gotten rather good at it. My timing is impeccable—everyone says so!”
She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for a round of applause. But I would not give it to her, I would be damned first! Instead, I pulled my veil down over my hat brim to hide my red and blotchy wet face. I suddenly felt as if my reddened eyes and nose and th
e tracks of my tears were victories to add to her lengthy list of accolades, trophies she would prize forever.
“You’ve been pretending for so long you have forgotten what is real!” I said bitterly. “I was never real to you, not as a person. I was just a diversion, a novelty, a bottomless purse and a story you wanted me to give you so you could make it that once in a lifetime role every actress longs for! Tell me, Nance, was it thrilling to bed a supposed murderess? That’s one more thing you can boast about! Another story you can dine out on!” As my tears overwhelmed me, I rushed out the door, thankful only that I did not crash into the wall beside it; I was crying so hard I could hardly see.
I never looked back, so I don’t know how she received my words, or if they even made a dent, the faintest little pinprick in the hard, high-polished, glossy veneer of the actress Nance O’Neil. I only knew that she would go on. She never really loved me; I was never real to her, only a character, a role, one of those shunned and unloved women she excelled at portraying, that she hoped to add to her repertoire, to cement her everlasting fame as the actress who had brought the true story of her intimate friend Lizzie Borden to the stage. Nance might regret losing the part, but she would never regret losing me, no more or less than she did any other lover at the end of the affair.
Headlines—the bane of my existence, the hammer striking the killing blow to my heart, shattering it like scarlet glass—screamed at me from the breakfast tray I had forgotten to phone downstairs and cancel.
