The Winter of Her Discontent (17 page)

I
SHOULD'VE BEEN RELIEVED THAT
my contact with Jack's shipmates hadn't been completely severed, but the rational part of my mind reminded me of how terribly selfish it was to make a man's death all about me. Corporal Harrington was gone, and while I'd never met him—or even known his first name—he showed me a great kindness in alerting me to Jack's condition. Right now there was inevitably a mother or wife or sister who was crying herself to sleep over his absence, still not believing the news that he wouldn't ever return home again. Had they heard from him lately? Or had he used his brief free time to write to me instead?

I tossed and turned all night, unable to comfort myself enough to let my mind rest. By the time the sun rose, it was clear I wouldn't be sleeping that night so I tried to retreat into an old issue of
Photoplay
to keep my mind from the war. The slick featured an interview with Bette Davis, who was running at the mouth about male/female relationships. She was excited that men and women were becoming equals in society, but she worried that they weren't protecting their reputations in the process. “Good sports are dated every night of the week—prudes are saved for special dates. Good sports get plenty of rings on the telephone, but prudes get them on their fingers.” It was obvious she'd said these things before we'd entered the war. There was no such thing as a prude now, just women who regretted valuing their reputation over the happiness of the people they loved.

Jayne remained asleep beside me, her mouth open so she could greet the morning with a zither squeal. For the first time in months
I could hear birds squawking outside, not blue jays and robins but street-toughened pigeons who hibernated like bears until the weather warmed up. Spring was coming. For some reason I thought it might pass us by this year.

I put on my robe and slippers and toted a copy of
Weird Tales
I'd exchanged for
Photoplay
downstairs to the lobby. It was against house rules to walk around semi-dressed, but I figured it was early enough that Belle wouldn't care. To my surprise, there was coffee percolating in the dining room. I poured myself a cup and nestled with it and my pulp in front of the fireplace.

“Couldn't sleep?”

The voice came from the parlor sofa. Minnie was sitting there, also still in her nightclothes. She was wearing glasses and had her fingers jammed into a copy of
Forever Amber
.

“I got some bad news about a friend,” I told her. “I decided sleeping wasn't worth the effort.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” Ruby's yellow roses were in a vase in the middle of the coffee table. The smell was overwhelmingly sweet. “What about you?”

Minnie frowned and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Ruby hasn't come home yet. I guess I was too worried to sleep.”

I felt terrible for her. Here Ruby was giving her the brush-off and she either hadn't realized it or didn't want to accept it. “Didn't she have a date?”

“Sure. At eight o'clock last night.”

“I'll bet guys like to stay out to all hours when they're on leave. Trying to cram as much fun as they can into a short period. I wouldn't worry about it. Ruby can take care of herself.”

Minnie looked unconvinced. “She barely knows him.”

“You can pack a lot of conversation into nine hours. Besides, Zelda and Izzie thought he was a right gee.”

She looked like she was going to dispute that claim, but she stopped herself. “What was your bad news?” she asked.

“A friend was killed in action.”

“Your boyfriend?”

I stiffened. “No. Someone else.”

I was worried she'd ask me for details—ones that I couldn't provide, but she seemed satisfied with the information I'd given her. She nodded and her eyes drifted back to her book. I took that as a sign that our conversation was over and turned back to
Weird Tales
. Exhaustion was finally returning. I would stay for five pages, then try to go back to sleep.

“I lost my brother last year.”

I wasn't even halfway through the first page when she spoke.

“I'm so sorry, Minnie.”

“He was shot down over France.”

Someday someone would create a manual of things to say to those grieving war losses, and when they did, I would be the first to buy it. As it was, I could only apologize as though I'd been personally responsible for the death. “I'm so sorry. This was your twin brother? Mickey?”

She talked to a pillow emblazoned with needlepoint of the American flag. “The one and only.” She shook her head as though she was trying to free her thoughts from whatever bonds held them. “Anyway, I wanted you to know that I understand what you're going through. If you ever need to talk, just let me know.”

“Thanks. That's very sweet of you.” I wanted to say more—that I didn't think it was fair the way Ruby was treating her, that I hated how isolated she was in our show—but I had no idea how to broach either subject.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she said. “It's great that you got Olive's part.”

I'd forgotten that there'd been discussion of her being a contender for the role. “Thanks. Friday was desperate and I was there.”

“Oh, I'm sure that's not true. After all, if he was desperate, he always could've cast me.”

We shared an awkward grin, neither of us certain of where to take the conversation from there. Gradually, I returned to
Weird Tales,
though I can't say I read one word on the page. Something was sticking in my craw.

Until we had proof otherwise, we were assuming that Garvaggio was trying to sabotage
Goin' South
and that those actions were separate from Paulette's murder and Olive's accident. But what about Ruby's getting sick? Was her illness another example of someone attempting to queer the production, or did her allergy attack just happen to occur at the same time as everything else? Could it have been something even more menacing, not an attempt to make her sick but another attempted murder?

I stole a look at Minnie. She was the one who would've benefited the most from Ruby's being put out of commission. And given Ruby's treatment of her, she certainly would've had a motive for seeking revenge on her. But was she capable of doing something like that?

I didn't have time to figure it out. Scratching noises outside warned us that someone was unlocking the front door. It swung open with a thump, though neither of us could see who our guest was. We could hear her, though, as she drunkenly informed her escort that she “had to go.” This was followed by a sound similar to the one Churchill made when he was cleaning himself. Minnie and I looked at each other, her face red with embarrassment, mine frozen with amusement. The slobbering outside continued, and I wondered if I should remind the participants to come up for air. It turned out that my advice was unnecessary. Ruby finally untangled herself from her suitor, bid him farewell once again, closed the front door, and glided into the lobby singing “My Devotion” loudly and surprisingly off-key for someone starring in a musical. Vaughn Monroe had nothing to worry about.

“Good morning,” Minnie and I told her in unison.

She stopped mid-waltz, looked at both of us, and burst out laughing. I had no idea what she found so amusing, and I don't think she did either, since as soon as she was able to catch her breath, she quieted her laugh and frowned at us. “What are you two doing up?”

“I couldn't sleep,” I said. “And Minnie was worried about you.”

Ruby attempted to hide her drunkenness by straightening her posture and removing her navy blue gloves. It wasn't working. “I'm fine as you can see.”

“Good date?” I asked.

Maybe it was the booze or the early hour or her genuine affection for this particular soldier, but instead of telling me to go chase my thumb she smiled a dopey grin and wrapped her arms about her chest. “Wonderful date. He took me to dinner and dancing and was a perfect gentleman.” She sighed dramatically and stared at a point just past my head. “He said I reminded him of Gene Tierney. Have you ever heard a more lovely compliment?”

Of course I had, but now wasn't the time to mention it. Her lipstick had put up a noble fight but had lost the battle to remain where she applied it. The Victory Red cream darkened the skin around her mouth so that it looked like her rash had returned. I had a feeling her soldier was facing the same malady.

Ruby closed her eyes and swayed from side to side. Was she drunk, goofy, or finally experiencing genuine affection for someone? It was hard to believe Ruby could love anyone but herself, but then so were half the things the papers told us these days. We were living in the age of the impossible.

“I take it you're going to see him again?” I asked.

She sang her answer to a tune I didn't recognize. “Oh yes. He's on a week pass and I intend to be with him every moment I can.” She unpinned her hat and ran a hand through her hair. “I suppose I should get some beauty sleep.” She turned toward the stairs and paused. “I'd recommend the same for both of you. Staying up to this late hour has made you both look downright…haggard.”

It wasn't the worst insult she could've levied at me, but it was bad enough. Ruby Priest was back.

 

I eventually returned to bed and racked up three uncomfortable hours of sleep before Jayne roused me and reminded me that I had rehearsal.

“I'm never going to make it.” I threw on a pair of gray wool trousers, a white silk blouse, and a cardigan. None of the items were fashionable, and it was doubtful that they were even clean, but their handiness made all of that irrelevant.

“Take a cab,” said Jayne.

“Sure, let me just rip out one of my solid gold teeth to pay for it.” I ran a brush through my hair and shoved everything I might possibly need into my pocketbook. “Toodles,” I told Jayne, and then I rushed out the door.

Izzie, Zelda, and Ruby were sprawled about the stage, recapping Ruby's date in minute detail. While they obsessed over what she'd eaten (braised ox tongue in raisin sauce) and what they'd danced to (Ruby swore she couldn't remember any of the songs—the moment he touched her all she could hear was the beating of her own heart), Minnie sat in the house, looking over her script with furious concentration. I was about to go to her when Zelda called out my name.

“Rosie! There you are. We were starting to think you weren't going to show.” I dumped my things in an auditorium seat and pulled myself onto the stage.

“I overslept and forgot that the only person who's getting anywhere on time today is J. P. Morgan.” The surly financier's funeral was that morning, and judging from the traffic, everyone in the city wanted to bid him farewell. I waited for Ruby's inevitable biting comment, but it didn't come. She seemed wary of me, as though she'd forgotten precisely what she'd said in the wee morning hours and was hoping I wasn't going to recount it for her. As I took my seat beside her, she rose from hers and excused herself. “Where's Walter?” I asked.

Izzie shrugged. “Beats us. Zelda and I got here an hour ago and there's been no sign of him.

“By the way,” said Zelda. “I've got a present for you.” She tossed me a small booklet.
The Stage Door Canteen Volunteer Handbook
landed on my lap with a
thwap
.

“Thanks, but I didn't get you anything.”

“Izzie and I are going the day after tomorrow. We thought you could join us. They're always thrilled to have another set of hands.”

I put my thumb against the edge of the book's pages and watched the contents fly by. “I'm not sure if Thursday night is so good.”

“Why not?” asked Izzie.

I couldn't bear to admit that Ruby had been right: I didn't want to meet another man. I wanted the safe return of the old one. “I might have stuff to do.”

Izzie and Zelda exchanged another one of their patented looks. It wasn't hard to read this one. It was full of scorn.

“Well, if it's something more important,” said Zelda.

“What could be more important?” asked Izzie.

Zelda nudged Izzie with her knee. “Hush, Izzie.”

Izzie stood up. “No, I mean it. I want to know what's more important than spending an evening entertaining a bunch of men who may well be dying tomorrow. I'm sorry, but I'm sick to death of all these girls beating their chests about how they want to do something good, and when they're offered the chance, suddenly they're not interested because it's inconvenient. War's inconvenient, and I bet every man at the Canteen wishes he could be somewhere else. They don't have that choice and I don't think we should either. It's the least we can do.”

It was a rousing, angry speech that instantly managed to diminish me. Of course I'd go. They weren't asking me to do anything more than what I should've been willing to do since Pearl Harbor. “You're right,” I whispered. “My evening just opened up.”

Izzie responded with a radiant smile.

 

After we'd talked through the details and determined what I should wear (something appropriate for both dancing and washing dishes) we still had fifteen minutes before Walter Friday appeared. He rushed into the auditorium like he was propelled by a hot foot, and once he'd caught his breath, he addressed the crowd with a solemn shake of
the head. It didn't take Einstein to figure out that something else had gone wrong.

“Sorry for the delay, ladies. There was a problem in the scene shop.” That problem, it turned out, was a water leak that had destroyed a large portion of the flats that had been painted for the set. How this “accident” occurred was another story: the scenery had been nowhere near the water pipes. “It's criminal,” he said under his breath. “They should've made provisions for something like this.”