“I’m not sure there’s anything playing in London at all right now, darling,” corrected Edna dryly, “except maybe ‘Bombs Away’ . . .”
The cast laughed again.
“Thank you, Edna,” said Billy. “You’ve reminded me to mention you. Listen to me, everyone. If you get nervous or unsettled onstage, look to Edna. From this moment on, she’s your captain and you couldn’t be in better hands. Edna is the coolest-headed performer with whom you will ever have the privilege of sharing a stage. Nothing can shake up this woman. So let her steadiness be your guide. Stay relaxed by seeing how relaxed she is. Remember that an audience will forgive a performer for anything except being uncomfortable. And if you forget your lines, just keep talking gibberish, and Edna will somehow fix it. Trust her—she’s been doing this job since the Spanish Armada, haven’t you, Edna?”
“Since somewhat before then, I should think,” she said, smiling.
Edna looked incandescent in her vintage red Lanvin gown from the Lowtsky’s bin. I had tailored the dress to her with such care. I was so proud of how well I’d dressed her for this role. Her makeup was exquisite, too. (But of course it was.) She still resembled herself, but this was a more vivid, regal version of herself. With her bobbed, glossy black hair and that lush red dress, she looked like a piece of Chinese lacquer—immaculate, varnished, and ever so valuable.
“One more thing before I turn it over to your trusty producer,” said Billy. “Remember that this audience didn’t come here tonight because they want to hate you. They came because they want to love you. Peg and I have put on thousands of shows over the years, in front of every kind of audience there is, and I know what an audience wants. They want to fall in love. So I’ve got an old vaudevillian’s tip for you: If you love them first, they won’t be able to help themselves from falling in love with you right back. So go out there and love them hard, is my advice.”
He paused for a moment, wiped his eyes, and then spoke again.
“Now listen,” he said. “I stopped believing in God during the Great War, and you would’ve too, if you’d seen what I saw. But sometimes I have relapses—usually when I get too drunk or overly emotional, and right now, I’m a little of both, so forgive me, but here goes. Let’s bow our heads and have a prayer.”
I couldn’t believe it, but he was serious.
We bowed our heads. Anthony took my hand again, and I felt the thrill that I always got from his attentions, no matter how slight. Somebody took my other hand and gave it a squeeze. I could tell from her familiar touch that it was Celia.
I’m not sure I’d ever had a happier moment than this.
“Dear God of whatever nature you are,” said Billy. “Shine your favor on these humble players. Shine your favor on this wretched old theater. Shine your favor on those bums out there and make them love us. Shine your favor on this useless little endeavor of ours. What we’re doing here tonight doesn’t matter a bit in the cruel scheme of the world, but we’re doing it anyhow. Make it worth our while. We ask this in your name—whoever you are, and whether we believe in you or not, which most of us don’t. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all said.
Billy took another swig off his flask. “Anything you’d like to add to that, Peg?”
My Aunt Peg grinned, and in that moment she looked about twenty years old.
“Just get out there, kids,” she said, “and kick the living shit out of it.”
—
From Walter Winchell, writing in the New York Daily Mirror:
I’m not bothered about whatever play Edna Parker Watson is in, just so long as she is in it! She stands head and shoulders above other actresses who think they know how! . . . She looks like royalty, but she can bring the ham! . . .
City of Girls
is a masterpiece of flapdoodle—and if that sounds like a complaint, folks, believe me, it is not. In these dark times, we could all use some more flapdoodle. . . . Celia Ray—and boo to whoever has been hiding
her
all these years—is an iridescent minx. You might not want to leave her alone with your boyfriend or your husband, but is that any way to judge a starlet? . . . Don’t worry, chippies, there’s something tasty for you in this show, too: I could hear all the ladies in the audience sighing for Anthony Roccella, who oughta be in pictures. . . . Donald Herbert is hilarious as a blind pickpocket—and that’s what I call some politicians these days! . . . Now, as far as Arthur Watson goes, he’s way too young for his wife, but she’s way too good for him—so I bet that’s how they make things work! I don’t know if he’s as wooden a fellow offstage as he is in the spotlight, but if he is, I feel sorry for his cutie-pie wife!
—
Edna got the first laugh of the show.
Act 1, scene 1: Mrs. Alabaster is at a tea party with a few other opulent ladies. Amidst the general chatter of idle gossip, she casually mentions that her husband was hit by a car the night before. The ladies all gasp in shock, and one of them asks, “Critical, my dear?”
“Always,” replies Mrs. Alabaster.
There’s a long beat. The ladies stare at her in arch confusion. Mrs. Alabaster stirs her tea calmly, with one pinky raised. Then she looks up in purest innocence: “I’m sorry, did you mean his condition? Oh, he’s dead.”
The audience roared.
Backstage, Billy grabbed my aunt’s hand and said, “We got ’em, Pegsy.”
—
From Thomas Lessig, in the Morning Telegraph:
The high-battery sex appeal of Miss Celia Ray will keep many a gentleman glued to his seat, but the wise audience member would do well to train his eyes on Edna Parker Watson—an international sensation who announces herself in
City of Girls
as a star whose big day in America has finally come.
—
Later in Act 1, Lucky Bobby is trying to convince Mrs. Alabaster to pawn her valuables in order to finance the speakeasy.
“I can’t sell this watch!” she exclaims, holding up a large gold watch on a handsome chain. “I got this for my husband!”
“Good trade, lady.” My boyfriend nods approvingly.
Edna and Anthony were hitting their punch lines like badminton birdies right over the footlights—and they did not miss a single shot.
“But my father taught me never to lie, cheat, or steal!” says Mrs. Alabaster.
“So did mine!” Lucky Bobby puts his hand over his heart. “My pops taught me that a man’s honor is all he’s got in this world—unless you get a chance for the big score, and then it’s okay to fleece your brother and sell your sister to a whorehouse.”
“But only if it were a quality whorehouse, one hopes,” says Mrs. Alabaster.
“You and me come from the same kind of people, lady!” says Lucky Bobby, and then they launch into their duet, “Our Dastardly, Bastardly Ways”—and oh, how hard we had fought Olive for the right to use the word “bastardly” in a song!
This was my favorite moment of the show. Anthony had a tap-dance solo in the middle of the number, during which he lit up the place like an emergency flare. I can still see his predatory grin in that spotlight, dancing as though he aimed to tear a hole through the stage. The audience—the handpicked cream of New York City theatergoing society—was stomping their feet along with him like a bunch of apple-knockers. I felt like my own heart was going to explode. They loved him. Then, somewhere underneath my joy at his success, I felt a pinch of dread: This guy is about to become a star, and I am about to lose him.