I recognized this lady; I’d seen her before in a Sunday comic section along with “Bringing Up Father,” “Petey Dink,” “Doc Yak,” and “Der Captain und Der Kids.” This was a genuine “Lady Bountiful,” an actual type of this time, I felt sure. Lady Bountifuls really and truly existed here, superbly certain of themselves and their goodness, and the cop knew it. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered her quickly. “If you will stand here beside the curb, I’ll call them out two at a time. And very kind of you, ma’am; what is your name?”
“I had rather not give it; names won’t count at this party! Send over the first two.” The cop gestured, and two dirty-faced young men at the head of the line came over, pulling their caps off. “My friends,” said Lady Bountiful, her tone compassionate, “I want you to have dinner with me!” She reached into the satchel held open by the older woman, brought out two half-dollars, and gave one to each of them, who took them, ducking their heads, muttering their thanks. “This is a birthday party!” cried Lady B, “and I wish you well.”
At the cop’s signal, the waiting men came over two at a time for their half-dollars; actually a fairly large gift, I had to remind myself. When the satchel was empty, the older lady brought out another full one.
Standing there watching, I made a rough count: there were maybe four hundred men waiting here in the night at Fleischmann’s, and each got his half-dollar. And each thanked Lady Bountiful politely, a lot of them in a foreign language. She turned graciously to the cop then. “It’s been quite a birthday party,” she said, “and I thank you very much for assisting us. I don’t know what we would have done without you!” The cop touched his cap, and she glanced at me; for a moment I thought I was going to get a half-dollar. Then both women got back into the car, and as it pulled away I saw that a uniformed chauffeur was driving.
Fleischmann’s had opened up a door at the head of the line, light edging out onto the walk, and the line began inching forward. “What do they get?” I asked the cop, and he said, “Coffee and bread.” I said good night then, and walked on to the Plaza thinking of what I’d just seen. And of the vaudeville people out on their front stoops in their own tight, cozy, dangerous world.
At the hotel a pink-slip message lay in my box: Phone Madam Zelda. I knew she’d be up, still out on the front stoop, most of them, still talking vaudeville, vaudeville, vaudeville, so I phoned from my room.
Her call time for tomorrow’s performance had been changed; someone had just phoned her. Vera of Vernon and Vera had been taken to the hospital from their boarding house, apparently with appendicitis. And Madam Z had phoned me immediately because the replacement act coming in tomorrow from Albany was called Tessie and Teddy. If I was going to see it, Madam Zelda’s act was scheduled to follow; would I stay and see her? And I said that I certainly would.
22
I WAITED OUT THE MORNING in Central Park, walking around, sitting on a bench, getting up, following the sun: Tessie and Ted, Tessie and Ted. And arrived at the matinee far too early, no more than eight or ten other early birds, down here on the big main floor; all men, some of them reading newspapers. And because the houselights were on full, I saw that the fancy plasterwork, elaborately painted, was—not quite shabby, not yet, but getting there. And my red plush seat and those around me were worn, not quite to the nub yet, but getting there too.
Now a few women coming down the aisle, young, mostly alone, careful to pick seats with plenty of room on each side, then busy with their hats. Finally the orchestra coming in fast, up out of a black cave under the stage, heads ducked for the tiny doorway, carrying instruments. Settling to just below our eye level behind their little green curtain. Little music-stand lights coming on, tootlings and tuning and violin scraping beginning. And then lots of people, a rush of them, moving down the aisles, mostly single men, and now the women in pairs. Houselights lowering, then abruptly out, footlights sliding up the green curtain folds. On each side of the proscenium, a glass panel lighted up: A, it read, and I looked at my program: Orchestral Selections. The program began with a fast march tune; plenty of fife and snare drum. On the next page Vernon and Vera were listed as E. But Vernon and Vera now meant Tessie and Ted, didn’t it?
A went out, and B lighted up for The Hurleys. A baton tap, then the orchestra, soft and with a definite beat, footlights winking out, curtain rising fast on . . . this was a garden, wasn’t it? Yes. A formal garden. Two shallow marble steps at stage front led up onto a balustered terrace the full depth of the stage back to a painted drop of gardens extending in perspective to a far-off horizon. Beside the steps, standing on two short newel posts, a pair of life-sized bronze statues of men with folded arms as though on guard, bronze bodies shining under spotlighting from far overhead.
What was coming? Music soft, beat strong, the stage stood empty through a well-timed moment. Suddenly a human figure flew across the stage in a descending arc: a man in tights standing on a flying trapeze that nearly brushed the floor of the verandah. He rose to the top of his arc, stepped gracefully off onto a pedestal, and turned to face the direction he’d come from. And in that instant a girl in tights flew past him to rise to her pedestal across the stage, and the pair, facing each other, stood smiling.
Then, to the music, they began a kind of aerial ballet: not dangerous but wonderfully graceful. He’d catch her wrists as she released her trapeze to turn toward him in the air . . . they’d swing out on one trapeze, two other trapezes swinging in toward them from the wings, each stepping onto one . . .
It was fun to watch, charming really—except that people were still coming in, walking down the aisles, sidling into the rows, banging seats down. In the semidark one girl called to another, “Edna, here’s two!” If this was customary, and it seemed to be, bothering no one as far as I could tell, I could understand why this first act was entirely silent.
Onstage the two aerialists finished, dropping to the stage, bowing to applause, smiling, gesturing one to the other with open palms, wrists turning upward. And when they skipped off hand in hand I thought—was supposed to think—the act was over.
Then my mouth actually popped open in real astonishment because—orchestra swinging into a fast tempo—the two motionless statues stepped forward down onto the stage and into a marvelous clog. Not tap but wooden-soled sandals clacking away in effortless rhythm, arms swinging, bronze faces grinning out at us. It was great, just great, and when they’d finished and the aerialists came out again, the four of them took their bows to a huge wash of applause, my hands smacking away with the rest. It was a fine finish, the green curtain up and down three times before the footlights again slid up onto the folds and gilt of the swaying curtain.
Now the audience was alive, pleased, eager for whatever came next. B had gone dark, and now C lighted up, but I didn’t bother checking my program, just waited to see.
Curtain rising on—what was this? Before a backdrop of mountain scenery stood a long something extending across the stage. Cages. It was a long row of foot-high cages with wire-mesh fronts, standing up there side by side on spindly wooden legs. Movement in the cages . . . animals . . . They were cats. Ordinary cats, each in its own small cage, so narrow they had to face front, though they didn’t seem unhappy; one sat washing its face with tongue and paw. But the tail of every single cat hung straight down behind the cage—well, of course: now I saw it; the tails were artificial. A row of artificial tails hanging straight down behind the cages. And walking on fast, here came a small thin man in evening clothes: thin pale face, thin trimmed black line of mustache. Coat with a swallowtail to his ankles. A single low bow, arms swinging up, then sweeping down to almost brush the stage. Then he walked quickly backward—skipped, really—to stand behind the first cage at the right.