“Who’s the owner of the speakeasy, in your show?”
“The speakeasy doesn’t have an owner.”
“Well, could it? And could it be a woman?”
Mr. Herbert rubbed his forehead and looked overwhelmed. He looked as though Peg had just asked him to repaint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
“This causes problems in all aspects,” he said.
Olive chimed in: “Nobody will believe Edna Parker Watson as the owner of a speakeasy, Peg. Why would the owner of a New York speakeasy be from England?”
Peg’s face fell. “Blast it, you’re right, Olive. You have such a bad habit of being right all the time. I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Peg sat in silence for a long moment, thinking hard. Then suddenly she said, “Goddamn it, but I wish I had Billy here. He could write something smashing for Edna.”
Well, that caught my attention.
This was the first time I’d ever heard my aunt curse, for one thing. But this was also the first time I’d ever heard her mention her estranged husband’s name. And I wasn’t the only one who snapped to fullest attention at the mere mention of Billy Buell’s name, either. Both Olive and Mr. Herbert looked as though they’d just had buckets of ice poured down their backs.
“Oh, Peg, no,” said Olive. “Don’t call Billy. Please, be sensible.”
“I can add whoever you want me to add to the cast,” said Mr. Herbert, suddenly cooperative. “Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it. The speakeasy can have an owner, sure. She can be from England, too.”
“Billy was so fond of Edna.” Peg seemed to be talking to herself now. “And he’s seen her perform. He’ll understand how best to use her.”
“You don’t want Billy involved in anything we do, Peg,” warned Olive.
“I’ll call him. Just to get some ideas from him. The man is made of ideas.”
“It’s five A.M. on the West Coast,” said Mr. Herbert. “You can’t call him!”
This was fascinating to watch. The level of anxiety in the room had risen to an undeniably hot pitch, merely with the introduction of Billy’s name.
“I’ll call him this afternoon, then,” said Peg. “Though we can’t be sure he’ll be awake by then, either.”
“Oh, Peg, no,” said Olive again, sinking into what looked like leaden despair.
“Just to get some ideas from him, Olive,” said Peg. “There’s no harm done with a phone call. I need him, Olive. As I say: the man is made of ideas.”
—
That night after the show, Peg took a whole lot of us to dinner at Dinty Moore’s on Forty-sixth Street. She was triumphant. She had spoken to Billy that afternoon and wanted to tell everyone about his ideas for the play.
I was there at that dinner, the Watsons were there, Mr. Herbert was there, Benjamin the piano player was there (first time I’d ever seen him out of the house), and Celia was there, too, because Celia and I were always together.
Peg said, “Now, listen, everyone. Billy’s got it all figured out. We’re going to put on City of Girls after all, and we’re setting it during Prohibition. It will be a comedy, of course. Edna—you will play the owner of the speakeasy. But in order for the story to make sense and be funny, Billy says we’re going to have to make you into an aristocrat, so that your natural refinement will make sense onstage. Your character will be a woman of means who ended up in the bootlegging business somewhat accidentally. Billy suggests that your husband died, and then you lost all your money in the stock market crash. Then you start distilling gin and running a casino in your fancy home, as a way of getting by. That way, Edna, you can keep the gentility for which you are known and loved, while at the same time being part of a comic revue with showgirls and dancers—which is the kind of thing our audience likes. I think it’s brilliant. Billy thinks it would be funny if the nightclub was a bordello, too.”
Olive frowned. “I don’t like the idea of our play being set in a bordello.”
“I do!” said Edna, shining with glee. “I love all of it! I’ll be the madam of a bordello and the owner of a speakeasy. How pleasing! You can’t imagine what a balm it will be for me to do a comedy, after so long. The last four plays I’ve been in, I was either a fallen woman who murdered her lover, or a long-suffering wife whose husband was murdered by a fallen woman. It wears on one, the drama.”
Peg was beaming. “Say what you want about Billy, but the man is a genius.”
Olive looked as though there was a lot she wanted to say about Billy, but she kept it to herself.
Peg turned her attention to our piano player. “Benjamin, I need you to make the music exceptionally good for this show. Edna’s got a fine alto, and I would like to hear that voice filling up the Lily properly. Give her songs that are snappier than those mushy ballads I normally make you write. Or steal something from Cole Porter, the way you do sometimes. But make it good. I want this show to swing.”
“I don’t steal from Cole Porter,” said Benjamin. “I don’t steal from anyone.”
“Don’t you? I always thought you did, because your music sounds so much like Cole Porter’s music.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure how to take that,” said Benjamin.
Peg shrugged. “Maybe Cole Porter’s been stealing from you, Benjamin—who knows? Just write some terrific tunes, is what I’m saying. And be sure to give Edna a showstopper.”
Then she turned to Celia and said, “Celia, I’d like you to play the ingénue.”
Mr. Herbert looked like he was about to interrupt, but Peg impatiently waved him into silence.
“No, everyone, listen to me. This is a different sort of ingénue. I don’t want our heroine this time to be some little saucer-eyed orphan girl in a white dress. I’m imagining our girl as being extremely provocative in the way she walks and talks—that would be you, Celia—but still untarnished by the world, in a way. Sexy, but with an air of innocence about her.”
“A whore with a heart of gold,” said Celia, who was smarter than she looked.
“Exactly,” said Peg.
Edna touched Celia’s arm gently. “Let’s just call your character a soiled dove.”
“Sure, I can play that.” Celia reached for another pork chop. “Mr. Herbert, how many lines do I get?”
“I don’t know!” said Mr. Herbert, looking more and more unhappy. “I don’t know how to write a . . . soiled dove.”
“I can make up some stuff for you,” offered Celia—a true dramatist, that one.
Peg turned to Edna. “Do you know what Billy said when I told him that you were here, Edna? He said, ‘Oh, how I envy New York City right now.’”
“Did he?”
“He did, that flirt. He also said: ‘Watch out, because you never know what you’ll get with Edna onstage: some nights she’s excellent, other nights she’s perfect.’”
Edna beamed. “That’s so sweet of him. Nobody could ever make a woman feel more attractive than Billy could—sometimes for upwards of ten consecutive minutes. But, Peg, I must ask: Do you have a role for Arthur?”
“Of course I do,” said Peg—and I knew in that moment that she did not have a role for Arthur. In fact, it was pretty clear to me that she’d forgotten about Arthur’s existence entirely. But there was Arthur, sitting there in all his simpleminded handsomeness, waiting for his role like a Labrador retriever waits for a ball.
“Of course I have a role for Arthur,” Peg said. “I want him to play”—she hesitated, but only for the briefest moment (you might not have even noticed the hesitation, if you didn’t know Peg)—“the policeman. Yes, Arthur, I plan for you to play the policeman who’s always trying to shut down the speakeasy, and who’s in love with Edna’s character. Do you think you could manage an American accent?”