The Winter of Her Discontent (21 page)

T
HURSDAY'S REHEARSAL BARRELED PAST US,
broken up now and again by breaks that lasted half as long as they should've. I was a nervous wreck all day, using what little downtime I had to fret and worry. Given that Jayne was the one with the undeniably unpleasant evening in front of her, I couldn't quite pinpoint where my own sense of dread was coming from. I'd like to think I was such a kind and intuitive friend that I was merely suffering her anxiety with her, but as rehearsal ended and Jayne went off to powder her nose and bolster her courage, a voice reminded me that I had plenty to fear on my own.

“Ready, Rosie?” asked Izzie.

“For what?”

“You're coming out with us. Remember?”

Ruby appeared to Izzie's left just as I was working up the courage to invent a reason why I couldn't join them.

“I hope you don't mind,” said Izzie. “But Ruby wants to tag along too. I thought it might be fun, all of us girls hanging out together.”

Ruby offered me a smile, the first one she'd given me that day. It wasn't a welcoming grin, but a tooth-filled reminder that she could make my life miserable if she wanted to.

“I thought you had a date tonight,” I said. “With your pilot what's-his-name?”

“
Captain
Montgomery and I aren't meeting up until later tonight. He had a family engagement.” Ruby's eyes bored into my head, silently ordering me to back out of my plans and leave her in peace.
Any desire I'd had to put a kibosh on the evening evaporated. If Ruby didn't want me there, then I was definitely going.

“I'm ready if you are,” I told them. We headed toward the doors as Jayne emerged from the ladies' room. She mouthed the words
ten o'clock
to me to remind me that I had to rescue her from our predetermined location. Jayne was going to insist Vinnie take her to the Tap Room, a supper club that was as far away from Tony's usual stomping grounds as the moon was from the sun. Not only that, but the joint was well lit, since the owner believed dim lighting encouraged pick-pockets and other flimflammers.

As we passed through the door and onto the street, I noticed Minnie hoofing it in the opposite direction from us. Her head was tilted toward the pavement and her pace suggested that while she was moving, she didn't have a particular destination in mind.

“Do you think we should ask Minnie along?” I asked.

“She wouldn't come,” said Zelda. “I've asked her to do things a thousand times and she never takes me up on it.”

“I feel bad for her. She seems like she's in her own little world during rehearsal.”

“It's her choice,” said Izzie. “We've invited her out, attempted conversation, and each time we did she gave us that sour puss and a lame excuse. Life's too short to beg for friendship.”

“I bet she'd come if you asked her,” I told Ruby.

“I'm sure she would, but I have no desire to ask her.”

“Because she was good enough to be your nurse, but she's not good enough to be your friend?”

Ruby glowered at me. She didn't want to be reminded that there was a time when her head was swollen by any means other than her ego. “No, because she's no fun.”

“You've got that right,” said Izzie. “That one's uppity. And a bit of a prude.” I found that hard to believe. After all, Minnie had been reading
Forever Amber,
one of the raciest books on the market. “I offered to hook her up with a pen pal and she acted like I'd just suggested we watch a stag film. I don't think she wants to associate with women like us.”

We passed by a group of women trolling for the Women's Action Committee for Victory and Lasting Peace. We each took one of the flyers they offered and shoved them into our pockets. “And what kind of women are you?” I asked.

“We're not V-girls, if that's what you're worried about,” said Izzie.

“I would be if I knew what that was.” The war had given new prominence to the letter
V,
tacking it on to any number of things to link them with the Allies' goal for victory.

“You don't know what a V-girl is?” asked Zelda. I shook my head. “Think whore without the money.”

Izzie gave her a gentle push. “Zel!”

“Well, it's true. V-girls are young girls trolling for soldiers. They'll put out for anyone in a uniform.”

“I doubt Minnie thinks any of you are like that,” I said. I had a feeling Minnie was like me, mourning one man so deeply that she couldn't consider meeting another. Could anyone blame her if she didn't jump at the chance to write to a stranger looking for romance? “I've talked to her a little,” I told them. “She had a brother who died recently. If I were her, I'm not sure I'd want to spend my nights at the Canteen either.”

“And yet here you are,” mumbled Ruby.

“We all know someone who's died,” said Izzie. “That's no excuse. Every one of those men at the Canteen has lost someone they cared about, and it seems to me that her time would be better spent sympathizing with them rather than sulking. I mean, look at you: your boyfriend's missing in action, and rather than making yourself miserable over it, you're doing something worthwhile.”

Was I? It was hard to say anymore.

“So what do we do when we get there?” I asked.

“You like to dance?” asked Izzie.

“When a German masquerading as Irish isn't yelling steps at me, sure.”

“After we're done with the food prep, we go out and dance with the servicemen. They've always got great bands and far too many
men for us to handle. You'll love it—it's like being the prettiest girl at the ball.”

The Stage Door Canteen was a joint effort of the USO and the American Theater Wing. Part dance hall, part supper club, it had become
the
stop for servicemen visiting our fair city. The best local restaurants donated food for the soldiers to eat, and the prettiest actresses on Broadway volunteered their time to serve them dinner and trip the light fantastic. Even big-named stars got involved, no doubt aware of how carving up ham for our boys in blue was the perfect PR opportunity. There were shows, too, put on by headliners like Tommy Dorsey and Glenn Miller, and “showlets” that gave the latest Broadway productions a chance to do a scene or two to lure servicemen to come see the real thing. Every week thousands of men—and women—in the armed forces flooded the joint, and its popularity was only going to grow. RCA was filming a movie about the Canteen and Bette Davis had opened a similar spot in Hollywood.

We arrived at the infamous blue door, where hundreds of servicemen were already lined up, anxiously awaiting five o'clock when the Canteen opened. A sign posted outside greeted them with the words A
N
A
LL
-A
MERICAN
P
LACE FOR THE
A
LL
-A
MERICAN
B
OY
. Of course, it wasn't just American men who were welcome; foreign serviceman had been invited as well. As we passed them, they hooted and hollered at us in accents that told of hometowns in England, Australia, and even France. Zelda, Izzie, and Ruby took it all in, replying with promises to dance with each man, followed by blown kisses the soldiers eagerly caught in their hands. On New York's stages they may have been up-and-comers, but at the Canteen they were already superstars.

The Canteen was located in the basement of the 44th Street Theatre, west of Broadway, where
Rosalinda
(a revival of
Die Fledermaus
) was taking up the main stage. A burly doorman greeted Izzie with a grin and listened as she introduced me. He let us pass, and we entered the building and followed the narrow stairs down to a surprisingly small space crammed full of cocktail tables that ringed a
miniature dance floor. Our sky was a slanted pipe and beam ceiling. Our stage barely contained a motley crew of musicians who struggled to set up and tune their instruments. Young women with heavily made-up faces and enviable figures wore white aprons atop bias-cut dresses they'd chosen for the way the skirts fanned out when they danced. They carried platters of donated food and put bottles of Coca-Cola on ice. Alcohol wasn't served at the Canteen, but it didn't seem like anyone cared. The men didn't come to drink away their sorrows—they intended to dance them into oblivion.

The Canteen was a hold-over from World War I and had an impressive pedigree: Lee Schubert had donated the space (a former speakeasy) and paid for the heat; Irving Berlin had made a gift of the piano. And all about the space were signs of other people's generosity, including vibrant painted scenes contributed by Broadway's best designers, furniture cobbled together by stage carpenters, and lighting as theatrical as anything you might see on the 44th Street main stage, which had been rigged up by the electricians' union free of charge. It was an amazing monument to cooperation in an industry whose members weren't known to try to promote anything but themselves.

Of course, doing their bit wasn't the only reason women like us came to a place like this. In addition to the actresses staffing the kitchen and the buffet, there were a slew of other Broadway types donating their time and services to the Canteen. Agents, producers, directors, and reviewers worked with the rest of us poor schlubs, picking up plates, refilling drinks, scooping out chow, and stirring the punch.

Zelda went up to an older woman with jowls like a bulldog and explained whom she had with her and that we'd be happy to help out wherever we were needed. The gal's name was Elaine DeVincent, her rank Canteen Hostess. She was the ultimate arbiter of who got into the Canteen and who was sent packing. “It's good to see you again, Ruby,” Elaine said. Ruby gushed an insincere response. “I'm all out of handbooks—does the new girl know the rules?” Zelda replied that she'd given me her copy and with a wink let me know she'd give
me the real scoop in a minute. We were sent into the kitchen and each given an apron to wear. There we worked elbow to elbow with a dozen other men and women, washing and drying dishes, slicing ham, brewing coffee, plating doughnuts, slicing cakes, making sandwiches, folding napkins, and exchanging gossip about who was supposed to be there that night (Dinah Shore and Charles Coburn had been sighted moments before).

“Here's how it is.” Zelda moved close to where I stood, spreading mayonnaise on bread, and lowered her voice. “You can dance with whoever you want, but it's better not to turn anyone down. They encourage us to pay extra attention to the black fellows—Elaine wants to make sure everyone feels welcome, no matter what their color.”

“Gotcha.”

“Don't share personal information. Don't ask a soldier where he's been or where he's going. And under no circumstances are you to date anyone you might meet here.”

I couldn't believe I'd been worried. I didn't need to fear that I was trying to replace Jack. I couldn't date someone I met there even if I wanted to.

As though she heard my thoughts, Izzie elbowed me in the back and joined our conversation. “That last bit is a whole lot of hogwash. Everyone here dates; they just don't get caught. Isn't that right, Ruby?”

Ruby didn't respond. Instead, she turned the same shade as the ham and began sawing at it like it was a tree she was hoping to fell.

“What Izzie means,” says Zelda, “is discretion is everything. If you want to meet up with someone outside of the Canteen, you better make it far from here, where there's no chance of any of the other girls seeing you. They're a real nosy bunch, and if they even suspect you're doing something you shouldn't, they'll report you to the hostess. After that, your ticket's revoked and the only way you're getting back into the Canteen is if you join up yourself.”

“So then why do it?” I asked.

“For the men, of course,” said Izzie. “Everything we do, every risk we take, is to make them happy.”

A horrible rumbling sounded from outside the kitchen. I wasn't sure if I should run or duck for cover. Zelda pointed to a clock suspended above the stove. “Five o' clock on the dot. Let the fun begin, ladies.”

Once we were finished preparing the food, Zelda and I hauled the heavy stacks of dishes into the main room and deposited them on the buffet table. With our task done, we hovered near the wooden rail that separated the tables from the dance floor. For the next hour and a half the packed club was entertained by cast members from
New Faces of 1943,
followed by three numbers from the Dorothy Fields–Cole Porter show,
Let's Face It!,
both of which were rumored to be closing soon.

I was transfixed by both of the performances. They weren't anything extraordinary, but the men's reactions to them were. They watched with open mouths, laughing harder at the jokes than they deserved and clapping until their hands were red.

“It's something, isn't it?” whispered Zelda.

“Absolutely. I'm glad I got a chance to see it.” I turned to her and found tears welling up in her eyes. “Are you all right?”

Zelda wiped her face with the back of her hand. “This place gets to me sometimes. I have a brother in the navy, and tonight every sailor I see is wearing his face.”

“I know the feeling.”

Zelda smiled. “I'll bet you do.” She rummaged through her pockets until she found a handkerchief. “I'm sorry Izzie was so hard on you the other day.”

“Don't be. Sometimes that's the only thing I respond to.”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Izzie and Olive can be very persistent, but if you're uncomfortable with something, you're not obligated to listen to them.” One of the performers stepped into the spotlight, and the music swelled. Zelda's lips kept moving, but I could no longer hear her. She elbowed me in the ribs and shouted, “Come on—bathroom duty.”