The Winter of Her Discontent (18 page)

We went through rehearsal like tentative children who fear at any moment Pop is going to call them out for something. When we broke for lunch, the other gals headed out while I decided to hang back and catch up with Jayne. I waited outside her rehearsal room, where Maureen was continuing to torment them by making them go through whatever they had been working on one final time before being dismissed for lunch. I tried to watch them from the small glass window set into the door, but the spectacle of seeing Gloria simultaneously trip over her own feet while toppling her partner was too much to bear. I may have been glad to no longer be part of the corps, but that didn't mean I wanted to see the others suffer.

I moved away from the door and filled my time by looking at the handbook Zelda had given me.

“What's that?” Jayne appeared at my side, her face flushed from dancing.

“
The Stage Door Canteen Handbook
.”

“Let me guess: men and women must remain four inches apart and skirts must be two inches below the knee.”

“More like no one's faithful in a foxhole and you can't spell virtue without
T R U
and
E
.” I tipped my head toward the rehearsal hall. “Did it get any better?”

“I've got only a half hour for lunch. What do you think?”

We opened the door to the stairwell. Ruby's voice filtered up from two flights below. “I'm just surprised you asked her is all. Rosie isn't very reliable, and she's a mess on the dance floor—to say nothing
about how she's treated that ex-boyfriend of hers. Did you know she didn't write him once after he shipped out?”

I clenched my jaw until I tasted blood. I was in no mood to face her comments about how inappropriate my decision to go to the Canteen was, and I certainly couldn't stomach her opinions about my past behavior. I grabbed Jayne's arm and steered her toward the other corridor, the one that housed Walter Friday's office. We'd cut through the other rehearsal room and hit the stairs just as Ruby was leaving them.

We opened the doors and stepped into the empty corridor. The musty, manly odor of cigar smoke lingered, telling us Garvaggio had recently been there. The smell wasn't the only thing he'd left behind. The door that led to the basement stairwell was also open, and as far as we could tell, the path was clear.

“This seems remarkably fortuitous,” I said. “Shall we see where they go?”

“What if Garvaggio comes back?” asked Jayne.

“I don't think the question is ‘what if' so much as ‘when.' Maybe one of us should stay up here as a lookout.”

A clamor came from down the hall. Jayne and I flattened ourselves against the outside wall so anyone who appeared wouldn't see us. Our subterfuge was unnecessary. The noise turned into a sound like a seal barking.

“Gloria,” Jayne whispered.

“You sure?”

“Believe me: I'd know that laugh anywhere.”

We remained frozen as Gloria's voice filled the hallway with its yelping cackle. It faded and she lisped, “Oh, Vinnie—don't you want to see me dance? I've gotten real good.”

Garvaggio grunted something we couldn't decipher, but which I was pretty certain was a prelude to something we should be grateful we couldn't see. “Sounds like Vinnie decided to eat in,” I said. “Shall we go down?”

“I'm staying up here,” said Jayne. “If he's a fast eater, you're going to need me to help clear the way for your return.”

I took off my shoes and soundlessly made my way down the stairs and into the bowels of the building. The boilers groaned and belched, filling the space with far more heat than ever reached the theater. The scent I thought came from the deli was stronger down here: a burnt pungent smell that simultaneously disgusted me and left my stomach begging for food. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, providing me with just enough light to keep me from walking into things. A large room off to my left was filled with paintbrushes and cans. Next to this room was a space full of tools, most of which I couldn't identify. A half-assembled flat leaned against the wall, waiting for the legs that would allow it to stand on its own. Drawings prepared by the show's designer were tacked onto a bulletin board, each dissected by penciled lines indicating how high and wide something would need to be in relation to something else. From here I entered the cross-under, a long hallway that passed beneath the stage floor so that during scenes when there was no scrim or drape to hide behind, actors could exit one side of the stage and enter on the other without the audience seeing them.

It was a lonely, scary place, the cross-under. Here discarded furniture and props awaited new purpose, though the deeper I got into the tunnel, the less likely it seemed that any of those items would ever be given a new life. They'd been buried here and forgotten. I emerged into the other side of the basement, where rooms fanned off the catacombs to store supplies and materials. The biggest one was taken up by the costume shop, a space filled with the entire history of man's existence rendered in clothing. Roman tunics hung beside Elizabethan gowns, which made acquaintance with a flapper's flirty, tasseled dress. Hundreds of pairs of pants were arranged by color and size, as were enough white shirts to outfit an army. There were also shoes, hats, corsets, wigs, and bins filled with all kinds of costume jewelry reduced to the categories of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and crowns.

Beside this room was one filled with lighting instruments. Dozens of ash cans hung from a pole, waiting for someone to put them to use.
Cables were wound into neat packages and heaped into a tremendous pile that looked, in the dim light, like a nest of sleeping vipers.

Everything was as it was supposed to be. The Bernhardt was a well-stocked, well-outfitted theater.

Except for our set, that is. The dozen flats destroyed by the mysterious leak leaned against the passageway wall, their canvas covers rippled and warped by the sudden downpour. Scenes of a realistic southern landscape had been transformed into a Salvador Dalí painting. Pools of water still rested beneath the flats, the liquid turned oily and multicolored in the fluorescent light. I searched for the source of the water and couldn't find one. This was the work of someone who had to extend some effort, connect and drag a hose, fill a few buckets.

The catacombs continued on, and I went with them. While the other rooms had been left wide open, these doors were closed with no indication as to what they hid. I tried one handle and found it locked. I tried a second knob and found it equally immovable. A mechanical humming sounded behind this door, constant and familiar. I moved toward a third closed door and stumbled. The floor was slick. There was an antiseptic smell to the place. Bleach, maybe? Somebody had been cleaning something, and if Walter Friday was to be believed, they hadn't done a very good job of it. I followed the wetness to the last door and put my hand on it, expecting to find it unyielding. It turned on the first try, and I stared into the darkness trying to figure out what it contained. There was a smell in there I knew too well, the same smell I'd gagged on the day I found my former boss's body. I fumbled for a light switch in the dark. My hand made contact with one that felt cold and wet, but when I flipped it on nothing happened. I stepped back into the hallway and tried to decide what to do. Was there a flashlight somewhere? A candle? My hand fell into my line of sight. It was tinged red with blood.

I
GASPED AT THE SIGHT
of red on my hand and stumbled backward. I tested each of my fingers and searched for the source of the blood. It wasn't coming from me. Before I could enter the room a second time, a noise like a car door slamming grabbed my attention. It was coming from the load-in doors, an oversized entrance just to the right of me. A man's voice barked incomprehensible instructions. The lever used to keep the doors in place began to shake. Keys jangled outside.

I ducked back into the cross-under and ran to the other side of the basement. The men were in the building now, but unless they were coming my way, I was safe. I slipped off my shoes and took the stairs two at a time. The door came into sight, and so did the small window set in its center; only instead of glowing with the dim light of an empty corridor, a shadow was blocking my view. I slowed my pace and snuck up on the window so I could see out, but no one on the other side could see me. Garvaggio was back, twice as big as I remembered him.

I squatted like a hen about to lay an egg and tried to think of a perfectly good reason for why I was coming up those stairs. Lost? Unlikely, unless I was a boob. Jayne might be able to pull off the wide eyes and big chest game, but I would be unconvincing. Could I have been sent there by someone to retrieve something? That could work, though who and what better make sense and not be easily verifiable.

“It's amazing,” said a voice. It was Jayne. “I never knew how much work went into making a single cigar.” I stood back up and carefully looked out the window. Garvaggio had his back to me and was il
lustrating something with his stogie. I caught Jayne's eye and with a flutter of hand movements begged her to get Garvaggio out of the way. She nodded at him—and me—and smiled that brilliantly coquettish smile of hers, the one that could mince meat and butter bread.

“I've always wanted to try one,” she said. “Do you think it's wrong for a woman to smoke a cigar?”

“Nothing wrong at all, doll.” I couldn't see Garvaggio's face, but the tone of his voice made it clear: the idea of seeing Jayne smoke a cigar was as exciting as seeing Salomé do the Dance of the Seven Veils. “You want a puff of this one?”

“That's yours. I couldn't take it.”

“Suit yourself.” He returned the cigar to his mouth.

“Though if you had another one, I might be willing.”

Garvaggio turned until I could see his face in profile. He put a bejeweled hand into his lapel pocket and pulled out a cigar still wrapped in cellophane. He was smiling a wry little grin as though he believed Jayne was doing exactly what he wanted her to do when, in fact, he was the one being manipulated. “As a matter of fact, I got one right here.” He stripped it of its wrapping and held it beneath his nose. “Now this ain't no ten-cent smoke. This is the finest Cuban tobacco. You ain't going to have a better cigar than this.” He held it out to Jayne like he was offering a scepter to the queen. She picked it up and looked at it. His hand disappeared back into his coat and emerged with a sterling silver lighter. “Need a light?”

“Absolutely.” Jayne's eyes drifted to the window, and she shrugged. This was it? He was going to bend over to light her cigar and I was supposed to open a squeaky door, stomp through the corridor, and disappear without his knowing I was there? I shook my head to let her know her plan was unsatisfactory. I wasn't moving an inch until Garvaggio was dust.

He struck the flint and leaned toward her with the lighter cupped in his hand. She put the cigar in her mouth and matched his lean. Right before the flame met the tip, she backed up and removed the Cuban. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

“What's the matter?” he asked in that strange sideways way of his.

Jayne spoke too quickly; her voice crackled with nerves. “What if Mr. Friday comes through here and sees me smoking? I doubt he'd be too happy about that.” It was a weak excuse and Jayne knew it. Walter Friday wasn't the kind of man who wanted his women to refrain from anything.

“Don't you worry about Walter.”

She wagged the cigar in front of Garvaggio's face. The gesture tantalized him as thoroughly as the sight of a bare thigh. “Still, I'd feel better with a little privacy. Isn't there someplace we can go?”

He gave her a knowing smile. “How about my office? It's as private as private can be.”

Jayne agreed with a nod and tossed a terrified look my way before following him down the hall. I waited until their footsteps died and the door closed before slipping out of the stairwell and entering the corridor. I tiptoed toward the rehearsal room, banged open the door, and walked back into the private corridor as though I'd just entered it.

“Jayne? Are you up here?” I called. “You told me you'd meet me downstairs at one.” I whistled for her and called to her in a variety of exasperated tones. When that didn't grant her release, I went door by door, knocking and calling Jayne's name to at least give the impression that I had no idea where she was.

Garvaggio's office was silent, though the odor coming from it made it clear someone was smoking in there. Rather than knocking and giving him the chance not to respond, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

“Oh, sorry,” I said.

Jayne was sitting on his desk, or rather she was cowering on it. Garvaggio's mitts sat on each side of her and the man himself leaned forward until Jayne, with nowhere else to go, was practically lying on the desktop. The cigars sat smoldering in a crystal ashtray, forgotten the minute Garvaggio realized there was something tastier on the menu.

“What's the problem, sweetheart?” Garvaggio straightened up and returned the cigar to his mouth.

“I'm awfully sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I was looking for Jayne.”

“No kidding?”

Jayne straightened up and tried to replace what had to be terror with irritation. “Well, you found me. What do you need?”

I looked at the floor, hoping a good explanation would rise out of the worn oak boards. Instead, I saw my hand, still stained red with someone else's blood. I lifted the arm and held it limp at the wrist. “I cut myself and I was wondering if you had something to wrap it in.”

Vinnie took a step backward lest I decide to use his suit as a canvas. Jayne leaped off the desk much more quickly than the injury—had it been real—would have merited and took my wounded hand in hers. “Oh, you poor thing. Sure. We'll get you taken care of.” She smiled sweetly at Vinnie. “Thanks for the cigar. I'm sorry I can't stay.”

“That just means you've got to come back again.” He winked at her. “You know where to find me.”

As Vinnie set about creating a cloud of smoke, Jayne and I escaped into the corridor and into the rehearsal hall. Just in case he was still within earshot, Jayne pulled me down the public stairwell and we disappeared into the ladies' room off the lobby.

“Thanks,” I said when the coast was clear. “I'm eternally grateful for whatever you just had to endure.”

She turned on the faucet and gargled with a handful of water for a good thirty seconds before spitting it into the sink. “I feel like I've been licking a fireplace grate.”

“I hope that was the only thing near your mouth.”

Jayne mopped at her face with a towel. “I gave him one kiss. It was either that or keep smoking.”

“I think you made the wise choice. So he's not faithful?”

“I thought we already established that with the wife and the mistress.”

“You know what I mean: if he's willing to share cigars with you, who knows how many other women he's done favors for.”

Jayne retrieved a tube of lipstick from her pocket and repaired her face. “You mean like Paulette?”

“Why not? We know she was a popular girl without too much regard for commitment. And we know she was willing to do whatever was required to get ahead. Maybe Garvaggio pulled her aside for a private smoking session, and she was less than pleased with his manners.”

“Anything's possible.”

I turned on the water and put my bloodied hand beneath.

“What did you do to yourself?” asked Jayne.

“It's not what I did; it's what someone else did and forgot to clean up.” I told her about the dark room on the east side of the basement, the one that had been carefully scrubbed except for whatever someone had left coating the wall.

“Creepy.”

“You're telling me. I was actually grateful I couldn't turn the lights on. So I guess we can rule out black market storage.”

Jayne grimaced. “Does that mean we have to reconsider the idea that he's using the Bernhardt as a place to murder and dispose of people?”

I waved my still-red hand at her. “It seems like a reasonable assumption.”

Outside, the bell at St. Mary the Virgin's chimed that it was one o'clock. It was time to go back to rehearsal. With empty stomachs. Not that touching a bloody wall had increased my appetite.

“Be careful,” said Jayne.

“Don't worry about me. But if I were you, I'd steer clear of Gloria.”

“Why?”

“She strikes me as the kind of gal who isn't too forgiving when another skirt shows up smelling like her boyfriend's cigar.”

Rehearsal zoomed by that afternoon. It was the last time it would be just the actors. Starting the next day, the dance corps would join us full time, and our cozy little family would be extended and changed. Then, in two brief weeks, the production would open.

While everyone concentrated on using their rehearsal time wisely, I was imagining what was in that room in the basement. Like Lady Macbeth, I couldn't get the image of the blood on my hand out of my mind. Who had died down there and who were the men who were entering the basement just as I was leaving? Were they there to finish cleaning up?

It didn't make sense. Garvaggio was a pro, the kind of guy who killed someone at four and showed up for dinner at five without even having to change his shirt. Whatever had happened in that room must have been a scene of tremendous violence, a death so ill-planned or so grotesquely carried out that even after a careful scrub, there was still gore left behind. Either that, or the person who committed the crime hadn't been mindful about the mess he had made.

No. There had to be more. Literally more. One person hadn't died down there. Several had. That was the only explanation for the state the room was left in. If several people were killed, it was inevitable there was mess. Maybe one of them had attempted an escape while the other one was meeting his end.

I closed my eyes against the image and opened them in time to rejoin rehearsal and make my entrance. I wasn't at the point yet where I knew my lines, so I had to concentrate on everything around me to pull the pages from the places they currently occupied in my brain. I stumbled over a word here and a song melody there, and while Friday was accepting of the fact that the new girl was a step behind, Ruby was anything but.

“You do know we open in two weeks, don't you?” she hissed at me under her breath.

“You do know I've had the script for two days,” I replied. I resented her tone, not just because it was unfair to expect me to already be on par with everyone else but because her attitude toward me had changed so drastically since the week she was sick.

Focus, I told myself. Act circles around her. Show her that you can do more with two days of rehearsal than she could with two months. I tried, but instead of being the world's greatest actress, I became the world's hammiest, overacting each line until the words could've
sprouted feet and been given their own equity cards. I may have succeeded in humiliating myself, but at least my ineptness got Walter Friday's undivided attention.

“Let's rein it in, Rosie,” he said, which set off a twitter of giggles behind me. Zelda and Izzie had to be regretting any kindness they'd shown me, to say nothing of how my lack of talent must've made Minnie feel. “Do like you were doing yesterday. That was perfect.”

We started back at the top of the scene, and I tried to think about the words I was saying and nothing else. I was feeling much better when a clatter downstairs made it impossible to continue.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Friday. “They know they're not supposed to use the loading dock during rehearsal. I can't hear myself think in here.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “All right—let's call it a day. Tomorrow afternoon we start the circus. All songs, all choreography. Be on time.”

We gathered our things, and I bolted before Ruby could offer any further words of wisdom on my abilities. I set up camp outside Jayne's rehearsal hall and read the
Canteen Handbook
while Maureen tormented the dancers.

“Any questions?” Zelda entered the hallway and paused before me.

“I think it's pretty straightforward.” In my anxiety over the trip to the basement and my embarrassment over rehearsal, I'd forgotten about Izzie's lecture that morning. It came rushing over me now. “I want to explain about before. About why I tried to back out of the Canteen. I'm not like those other women Izzie mentioned. At least I hope I'm not. I'm feeling a bit…conflicted.”

“About what?”

I closed the manual. “The boyfriend Ruby mentioned. My ex-boy-friend? He's missing in action.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I wasn't sure where he and I left things before he shipped out and now…even though there's a good chance that he's not coming back, I feel like it's wrong for me to…” I couldn't find the right words so I let the sentence die on its own.

Zelda crouched down and joined me on the floor. “It's all right, Rosie. Moving on is difficult. It has to be so much worse when you don't know for certain what's happened.” She put her hand on mine and gently squeezed. “Don't think of it like a betrayal. You're just going to the Canteen to help out for a night. Izzie's right—those guys need us. And if it helps, think about how you'd like this ex of yours—”