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.”)