City of Girls (26 page)

If I’d had my wits about me, or if I’d been capable of making up an interesting story, I might have given a different answer—but as it was, all I could manage in my terrified state was the truth.

“I’ve always liked her name. You see, my brother’s name is Walter, just like yours. My grandmother’s father’s name was Walter,
too. My grandmother was the one who named my brother. She wanted the name to carry on. She started listening to your radio broadcasts a long time ago because she liked your name. She read all your columns, too. We read them together, in the
Graphic
. Walter was my grandmother’s favorite name. She was so happy when you named your children Walter and Walda. She made my parents name me Vivian, because
the letter
V
is half a
W,
and that was close to Walter. But after you named your daughter Walda, she said she wished that Walda were my name, too. It was a clever name, she said, and a good omen. We used to listen to you all the time on the
Lucky Strike Dance Hour
. She always liked your name. I wished my name was Walda, too. That would have made my grandmother happy.”

I was running out of steam—running
out of tattered sentences—and also, what the hell was I talking about?

“Who invited
that
compendium?” Winchell joked, pointing at me again.

“You needn’t pay any mind to her,” said Olive. “She’s nervous.”

“I needn’t pay any mind to
you,
lady,” he said to Olive, and turned his chilling attention to me again. “I feel like I’ve seen you before, kid. You’ve been in this room before, haven’t you?
You used to hang around with Celia Ray, didn’t you?”

I nodded, defeated. I could see Olive’s shoulders deflate.

“Yeah, I thought so. You come in here tonight, dressed all sweet and pretty like Little Mary Cotton Socks, but that’s not how I remember you. I’ve seen you up to all sorts of hanky-panky in this room. So I think it’s pretty rich—
you
trying to convince
me
that you’re a decent young
lady. Listen, you two, I’m on to your racket. I know what you’re doing here—you’re campaigning me—and I hate like hell to be campaigned.” Then he pointed at Olive. “Only thing I can’t figure out is why you’re making all the effort to save this girl. Every soul in this club could testify that she’s no fainting virgin, and I know for a fact that she ain’t your niece. Hell, you’re not even from the same
country. You don’t even talk the same.”

“She
is
my niece,” insisted Olive.

“Kid, are you this lady’s niece?” Winchell asked me directly.

I was terrified to lie to him, but equally terrified not to. My solution was to cry out, “I’m sorry!” and to burst into tears.

“Ack! You two are giving me a headache,” he said. But then he passed me his handkerchief and instructed, “Sit down, kid. You’re
making me look bad. The only girls I ever want crying around me are showgirls and starlets whose hearts I just broke.”

He lit two cigarettes and offered me one. “Unless you’re
temperate
?” he said, with a cynical smile.

I gratefully took the cigarette and gulped down the smoke in a few deep, shaky breaths.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty.”

“Old enough to know better. Not that they ever
know better. Now, listen—you say you used to read me in the
Graphic
? You’re a little young for that, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “You were my grandmother’s favorite. She read your columns to me when I was little.”

“I was her favorite, was I? What’d she like about me? I mean, aside from my beautiful name, about which you’ve already given us quite a memorable monologue.”

This wasn’t a difficult question.
I knew my grandmother’s tastes. “She liked your slang. She liked it when you called married people
welded,
instead of
wedded
. She liked the fights you picked. She liked your theater reviews. She said you really watched the shows, and cared about them, and that most critics don’t.”

“She said all that, your old grandma? Good for her. Where is this genius of a woman now?”

“She died,” I said, and
I almost started crying again.

“Too bad. I hate losing a loyal reader. What about that brother of yours—the one they named after me. Walter. What’s his story?”

I don’t know how Walter Winchell had gotten the idea that my family had named my brother after
him,
but I wasn’t about to dispute it.

“My brother Walter is in the Navy, sir. He’s training to be an officer.”

“Signed up of his own accord?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “He dropped out of Princeton.”

“That’s what we need right now,” said Winchell. “More boys like that. More boys brave enough to volunteer to fight Hitler before somebody tells them they have to. Is he a good-looking kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course he is, with a name like that.”

The waiter came over to ask if we needed anything, and I came
this close
to ordering a gin fizz double,
purely out of habit—but had the presence of mind to stop myself just in time. The waiter’s name was
Louie. I’d kissed him before. He didn’t appear to recognize me, thank goodness.

“Look,” said Winchell. “I need you two to scram. You’re making this table look low rent. I don’t even know how you shoehorned yourselves in here in the first place, looking the way you do.”

“We will leave after I get
an assurance from you that you won’t put Vivian’s name in the newspaper tomorrow,” said Olive, who always knew how to push people
just a little bit further
.

“Hey, you don’t come to Table 50 at the Stork Club and tell
me
what
you
need, lady,” snapped Winchell. “I don’t owe you anything. That’s the only assurance you’re getting.”

Then he turned to me. “I would tell you to keep your nose clean
from now on, but I know you won’t. The indictment stands—you did a lousy thing, little girl, and you got caught. You’ve probably done a bunch of other lousy things, too, only you’ve been lucky so far not to get busted. Well, your luck ended tonight. Getting tangled up with somebody’s bum husband and a hot-to-trot lezzie—that’s no way for a girl from a good family to live. You’ll do more stupid things
in the future, if I know people. So all I can tell you is this: if a so-called nice girl like you is gonna keep rummaging around with rough trade like Celia Ray, you’re gonna have to learn how to fight your own corner. This old hag here is a pain in my neck, but she’s got a lot of fortitude, going to bat for you like this. Not sure why she cares about you, or why you deserve it. But from now on,
little girl, fight your own battles. Now get the hell out of here, you two, and stop ruining my night. You’re scaring away all the important people.”

TWENTY

The next day, I hid in my room for as long as I could. I kept waiting for Celia to come home so we could talk all this over, but she never showed up. I hadn’t slept and my nerves were a jangling nightmare. It was like I had thousands of doorbells attached to my brain, and they were all buzzing at the same time. I was too afraid of running into anyone—but most especially Edna—to risk going
to the kitchen for breakfast, or for lunch.

In the afternoon, I slipped out of the theater to go buy the paper so I could read Winchell’s column. I opened it up right there at the newsstand, fighting the March wind that wanted to blow my bad news away.

There was the photo of Arthur and Celia and me, in our embrace. You could vaguely make out my profile, but there was no way to be sure it was
me. (In low light, all pretty brunettes look the same.) Arthur’s and Celia’s faces, however, could be seen clear as day. They were the important ones, I suppose.

I swallowed hard, and made myself read it.

From Walter Winchell, in the
New York Daily Mirror,
afternoon edition, March 25, 1941:

Here’s some conduct ungentlemanly and improper from one “Mr. Edna Parker Watson.” How ’bout two American
showgirls to keep you warm, you greedy limey, if one ain’t enough? . . . That’s right, we caught Arthur Watson pashing it outside the Spotlite with his
City of Girls
costar Celia Ray and another leggy denizen of Lesbos. . . . I call that a nice way to spend your time, mister, while your countrymen are fighting and dying against Hitler. . . . What a commotion out there on the sidewalk last night!
. . . Let’s hope these three stupid cupids had fun playing for the cameras, because anyone with brains can see it: Here’s another showbiz marriage about to get Renovated! . . . Arthur Watson probably got a number nine spanking from his wife last night. . . . What a lousy day for the Watsons! They shoulda stood in bed! . . . That’s the word from the bird!

“A leggy denizen of Lesbos.”

But no name.

Olive had saved me.

Around six that evening, there was a knock on my door. It was Peg, looking just as green and grisly as I felt.

She sat down on my clothes-strewn bed.

“Shit,” she said, and it sounded like she meant every word of it.

We sat in silence for a long while.

“Well, kiddo, you sure did foul things up,” she said at last.

“I’m so sorry, Peg.”

“Save it. I won’t queen it over you.
But this sure has brought down trouble upon our heads—trouble of every variety. I’ve been up with Olive since dawn, trying to bring order to the wrack and ruin.”

“I’m
so
sorry,” I said again.

“You should really save it. You’ll need those sorries for other people. Don’t waste them on me. But we do have some items to discuss. First off, I want you to know that Celia has been fired.”

Fired!
I’d
never heard of anyone getting fired from the Lily.

“But where will she go?” I asked.

“She will go elsewhere. She’s done. She’s in the ash can. I told her to come get her things tonight while the show is on. I’m going to ask you not to be in this room when she arrives. I don’t want any further agitation.”

Celia was leaving and I wouldn’t even get a chance to say goodbye! But where was she going
to
? I knew for a fact that she didn’t have a dime to her name. Nowhere to stay. No family. She’d be laid to waste.

“I had to do it,” Peg said. “I wasn’t going to make Edna share the stage with that girl again. And if I didn’t get rid of Celia after this mess, we would’ve had a palace revolt from the rest of the cast. Everyone is too angry. We can’t risk that. So I’ve replaced Celia with Gladys.
She’s not as good, but she’ll do fine. Wish I could fire Arthur, too, but Edna won’t have that. She may end up firing him herself down the line, but that’s her call. The man’s a bad hat—but what can you do? She loves him.”

“Is Edna going onstage tonight?” I asked, in wonder.

“Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? She’s not the one who did anything wrong.”

I winced. But truly, I was shocked to
hear she would be performing. I
thought maybe Edna would be in hiding—checked into a sanatorium somewhere, or at least crying behind a locked door. I thought maybe the whole play would have been canceled.

“It won’t be a pleasant evening for her,” said Peg. “Everyone’s read Winchell, of course. There will be a lot of whispers. The audience will be staring at her with bloodlust, wanting to see
her flounder and flail. But she’s a trouper, and she’ll face it. Better to get it over with, is her feeling. Show must go on, and all that. We’re lucky for her strength. If she wasn’t this resolute, or such a good friend, she probably would have quit the show—and then where would we be? Thankfully, she knows how to prevail—and she will.”

She lit a cigarette and went on: “I also had a talk today
with your boyfriend, Anthony. He wanted to leave the show. Said he wasn’t having fun anymore. Said we were ‘bugging’ him, whatever that means. Specifically said that you are bugging him. I managed to convince him to stay, but we have to pay him more, and he stipulated he doesn’t want you ‘messing’ with him anymore. Because you ‘did him dirt.’ Says he’s done with you. Doesn’t even want to hear you
‘jawing’ at him. I’m just quoting here, Vivvie. I think I’ve conveyed the fullness of his message. I don’t know whether he’ll be able to put on a good show tonight, but we’ll find out soon enough. Olive had a long talk with him this morning, trying to keep the boy on track. It would be best if you steered clear of him. For now on, pretend he doesn’t exist.”

I felt like throwing up. Celia was
banished. Anthony never wanted to talk to me again. And because of me, Edna would have to face an audience tonight that wanted to see her twist on a rope.

Peg said, “I’m going to ask it straight from the shoulder, Vivvie. How long have you been dallying around with Arthur Watson?”

“I haven’t been. It was just last night. It was just the one time.”

My aunt studied me, as though determining if
that were true or not. Ultimately, she shrugged it off. She may have believed me, she
may not have. Maybe she came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter, one way or another. As for me, I didn’t have the energy to fight my case. It wasn’t much of a case, anyhow.

“Why’d you do it?” Her tone was more puzzled than judgmental. When I didn’t answer right away, she said, “Never mind. People always
do it for the same reason.”

“I thought Edna was fooling around with Anthony,” I said lamely.

“Well, that’s not true. I know Edna, and I can promise you it’s not true. She’s never operated that way, and never will. And even if it
had
been true—it’s not a good enough reason, Vivian.”

“I’m so sorry, Peg,” I said again.

“This story’s going to be picked up by every rag in town, you know. In every
town.
Variety
will run it. All the tabloids in Hollywood. In London, too. Olive’s had reporters calling all afternoon, asking for statements. There are photographers at the stage door. Such a comedown for a woman like Edna—someone of her dignity.”

“Peg. Tell me what I can do.
Please
.”

“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t do anything other than be humble and keep your mouth shut, and hope everyone
will be charitable with you. Meanwhile, I hear you and Olive went to the Stork last night.”

I nodded.

“I don’t mean to be melodramatic, Vivvie, but you do understand that Olive has saved you from ruin, don’t you?”

“I understand.”

“Can you imagine what your parents would say about this? In a community like yours? To have this sort of reputation? And with photos, to boot?”

I could imagine. I
had
imagined.

“It’s not entirely fair, Vivvie. Everyone else will have to take it on the chin—not least of all Edna—but you’re getting away with it, scot-free.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Peg sighed. “Well. Once again, Olive saves the day. I’ve lost track of the number of times she’s rescued us—rescued
me—
over the years. She is the most remarkable and honorable woman I’ve ever known. I do
hope you thanked her.”

“I did,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I had.

“I wish I’d gone with you and Olive last night, Vivvie. But apparently I wasn’t in good enough shape. I’ve been having too many nights like that, lately. Drinking gin like it’s soda water. I don’t even remember coming home. But let’s face it—it should’ve been me, petitioning Winchell on your behalf. Not Olive. I am your aunt,
after all. Family duty. Would’ve been nice if Billy had lent a hand, as well, but you never can count on Billy to stick his neck out for anyone. Not that it was his responsibility. No, it was my job, and I dropped it. I feel sick about all this, kiddo. I should’ve been keeping a better eye on you all this time.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, and I meant it. “It’s all my fault.”

“Well, there’s
nothing to be done for it now. Looks like my bout with the bottle has run its course once more. It always ends the same way, you know, when Billy comes around, bringing the fun and the confetti. I always start out by having a big old time with him, and then one morning I wake up to learn that the world has gone smacko while I was blacked out, and meanwhile Olive’s been struggling to fix everything
behind my back. I don’t know why I never can learn.”

I didn’t even know what to say to that
.

“Well, try to keep up some spirits, Vivvie. It’s not the end of the world, as the man says. Hard to believe on a day like this, but it really isn’t the end of the world. There are worse things. Some people have no legs.”

“Am I fired?”

She laughed. “Fired from what? You don’t even have a job!” She looked
at her watch and stood up. “One more thing. Edna doesn’t want to see you tonight before the show. Gladys will help dress her this evening. But Edna does wish to see you after the show. She’s asked me to tell you to meet her in her dressing room.”

“Oh, God, Peg,” I said. There was the nausea again.

“You’ll have to face her eventually. Might as well be now. She won’t be gentle with you, I dare
say. But she deserves her chance to lay into you—and you deserve whatever’s coming. Go in there and apologize, if she’ll let you. Admit what you did. Take your lumps. The sooner you get flattened to the ground, the sooner you can begin to rebuild your life again. That’s always been my experience, anyway. Take it from an old pro.”

I stood in the back of the theater and watched the show from the
shadows, where I belonged.

If the audience had come to the Lily Playhouse that night to watch Edna Parker Watson squirm in discomfort, then they left disappointed. Because she didn’t squirm for a moment. Pinned to the stage like a butterfly by that hot, white spotlight—scrutinized by hundreds of eyes, whispered about, giggled over—she played her role for all it was worth. Not a
flinch
of nerves
did that woman reveal for the satisfaction of a bloodthirsty mob. Her Mrs. Alabaster was humorous, she was charming, she was relaxed. If anything, Edna moved across the stage that night with more economy and grace than ever. She carried herself with undented self-assurance, her face revealing nothing except how pleasant it was to be the star of this light, joyful show.

The rest of the company,
on the other hand, was visibly squirrelly at first—missing their marks and stammering over their lines, until Edna’s steadfast performance eventually righted theirs. She was the
gravitational force who kept everyone stabilized that night. What was stabilizing
her,
I could not tell you.

I don’t think it was my imagination that Anthony’s performance in the first act had an angrier edge to it than
usual—he was less Lucky Bobby than Ferocious Bobby—but Edna managed to pull even him into line, eventually.

My friend Gladys—stepping into Celia’s role and Celia’s costume—looked perfectly good and danced without flaw. She lacked the comic, languid delivery that had made Celia such a hit. But she did the job ably, and that’s all that was needed.

Arthur was dreadful, but of course he was always
dreadful. The only difference tonight was that he also
looked
dreadful. He had sickly gray circles under his eyes, and he spent most of his performance mopping sweat off the back of his neck, and staring at his wife across the stage with the most pathetic hound-dog eyes. He didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t upset. The only saving grace was that his part had been so trimmed down that he didn’t
have too many minutes onstage in which to ruin everything.

Edna made one significant alteration to the show that night. When she sang her ballad, she spontaneously changed the blocking. Instead of aiming her face and voice up to the heavens, which is how she usually did it, she took herself straight to the edge of the stage. She sang directly to the audience, peering out at them, picking people
out of the crowd and singing to them—singing
at
them, really. She held eye contact, staring them down as she sang her heart out. Her voice was never richer, never more defiant. (“It’ll surely do me in this time / I’ll probably be left behind / But I’m considering falling in love.”)

The way she sang that night, it was as though she were challenging the audience, person by person. It was as if
she were demanding:
And you’ve never been hurt? And you’ve never had your heart broken? And you’ve never taken a risk for love?

By the end, she had them weeping—while she stood dry-eyed in their ovations.

To this day, I have never seen a mightier woman.

I knocked on the dressing-room door with a hand that felt, itself, like a piece of wood.

“Come in,” she said.

My head had a cottony feel.
My ears were stuffed up and numbed. My mouth tasted like cigarette-flavored cornmeal. My eyes were dry and sore—both from lack of sleep and from crying. I had not eaten for twenty-four hours and I couldn’t imagine ever eating again. I was still wearing the same dress I’d worn to the Stork Club. My hair, I’d left unattended all day. (I hadn’t been able to confront a mirror.) My legs felt curiously
unattached to the rest of my body; I didn’t understand how my legs knew how to walk. For a minute there, they didn’t. Then I pushed myself into the room like a person jumping off a cliff into the cold ocean below.