The Winter of Her Discontent (23 page)

H
ERE'S SOMETHING
I
WOULD NEVER
understand about society: we are led to believe women are morally superior to men. Even the Office of War Information supported this idea by distributing propaganda aimed at convincing Nazi women of the error of their ways. I suppose it made sense: we women are the child bearers and the primary force on the home front. We are supposed to be the nurturers. But what this theory didn't point out was that women are also capable of great cruelties. They can shun their children, humiliate their lovers, and dismantle their friends more easily than men can, perhaps because everyone assumes it isn't in their nature. Especially at a time when our nation was at war, we wanted to believe that women could hold us together, keep the home fires burning, and all that nonsense. We didn't want to know that they are capable of spreading social diseases, committing theft, or using their misplaced jealousies to discourage others from doing good.

Such was the case with Ruby Priest.

“Have a good time last night?” Ruby cornered me on the stairwell the next morning as I was getting ready to leave for rehearsal.

“I've had worse,” I said.

“You spent an awful lot of time with that one man.”

“What can I tell you—he said I danced like an angel and it would break his heart to have to take a spin with anyone else.” I tried to move past her and down the stairs, but she checked me like a linebacker.

“Somehow I doubt that. I hope you're not planning on seeing him again.”

I wished I could find a way to bottle her contrariness so I could take a whiff of the stuff whenever I needed to change my mind. “I hadn't decided yet.”

She crossed her arms, and her enormous shoulder pads completed the football player effect. “It's against the rules, you know.”

“Only if it's outside of the Canteen.” If I couldn't move past her, maybe I could move past the subject. “How was your date by the way?”

Though her face was made up and her clothes immaculate, Ruby looked tired. Dark circles showed through the pale makeup she'd applied to hide them. Her eyes were red, not from crying but from a late night in a smoke-filled room. Despite this apparent exhaustion, she grinned at my question and pointed out these souvenirs of a late evening like they were badges she was proud to wear. “It was wonderful. Thank you for asking.” Her hand settled on a necklace I hadn't seen before. It was a small gold flower with a diamond at its center on a delicate, filigreed chain.

I tried to walk around her again, but she countered each of my steps until we were waltzing.

“I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she said.

“Wouldn't bother with what?”

“Meeting him again. Believe me, I know how these men operate. They're interested in only one thing.”

“And apparently you've been giving it out.”

She ignored me. “He'll insist you meet up with him outside the club, and the next thing you know he'll stop writing you and you'll be getting kicked out of the Canteen for violating the rules.”

“Is that the worst thing? You know what a terrible correspondent I am, and I'm not sure I want to spend my every waking evening washing dishes and chipping ham.”

“The theater community is small, Rosie. You saw all the muckety-mucks who were there last night. And that's a small percentage of the people who regularly work there. These aren't normal times and people take the Canteen very seriously. If a girl were to get kicked out, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it affected her career.”

Her rationale had so many holes I could've used it to drain spaghetti. “And apparently this rule doesn't apply to you?”

“Donald doesn't come to the Canteen anymore, and as far as anyone knows, he was never there to begin with. Everyone, however, saw you dancing with your navy captain last night, and if you meet him at the club again, you'll only further cement the idea that you two are fraternizing.”

“A fact that I'm sure you would be happy to remind them of.” My head spun. I'd given up any thought that Ruby and I were friends or that ill Ruby had been the true Ruby and this nasty person standing before me was a character she donned for self-preservation. Ruby wasn't a nice person; I could accept that. And yet I couldn't fathom why she would choose this issue of all things to make such a stink over.

“What am I missing here?” I asked.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Since when do you care about my reputation? I would think you'd be thrilled if I managed to get myself kicked out of the Canteen and blacklisted at every theater in town. After all, you didn't want me to go there to begin with.”

“I have no idea why you think so badly of me. I do…care about you.” She gagged on the words like they were drenched in ipecac syrup. “In fact, after the kindness you showed me when I was sick, I feel this is the least I can do for you in return.” Sure she did.

And then it hit me. She couldn't've cared less if I sold myself to the highest bidder and became this season's biggest scandal. What she couldn't stomach was the fact that I was friends with her friends and that by working at the Canteen and dating a man they encouraged me to see, I was further endearing myself to them. It was bad enough she had to treat me like an equal on stage, but socially? That was inexcusable!

“I appreciate your concern, Ruby. It's wonderful to know someone is looking out for my reputation, but I think you'll agree that during wartime, we must sacrifice. I'm willing to be misperceived as a harlot if it will help just one soldier get through his day.”

 

Garvaggio was back at rehearsal, watching Jayne the way a cat followed a fish in a bowl. She did everything she could to avoid making eye contact with him, but I imagine it felt like she was a magnet and he was north and no matter how hard she tried, he was the thing she was being led to. If Gloria noticed her boyfriend straying, she didn't show it. She greeted Vinnie with the same good humor she'd used the day before and fell into her dance moves with the same ill-placed gusto she'd previously demonstrated. Despite her lack of skill, the show was finally coming together. We all knew our lines, nobody slipped and fell, and the cast seemed, on the whole, quite healthy. Naturally, this made me suspicious. This was just the kind of calm one would expect before another major catastrophe.

During our morning break, Vinnie pulled Walter Friday aside and asked to speak to him out in the lobby. Most of the cast stayed in the theater, but I feigned a sudden need to use the bathroom and lingered just inside the women's room with the door slightly ajar.

“What time will you have everyone out of here?” Garvaggio asked him.

“It can't be before eight. We have too much work to do. The corps is a disaster.”

“We'll be back at seven and I don't want there to be another soul here.”

Friday's voice went up an octave. “I thought you weren't doing another delivery until next week.”

“The schedule's been moved up.”

“I got union carpenters who need to start on the new set.”

Garvaggio talked through a plastic smile. “So let 'em start somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“That's your problem, not mine.” Garvaggio started to walk away, ashing his cigar in his wake.

“Vinnie…” Friday's voice was pure desperation, his face bad
melodrama. He was in a pinch he knew he couldn't get out of. He couldn't make Garvaggio see his point of view; he couldn't make his show miraculously improve. In fact, the only thing he could do was make things worse. “I'm begging you here. You can't keep shutting rehearsals down like this. We've got less than two weeks.”

Vinnie walked back toward him, and though his pace was as slow as his body was large, he still seemed menacing. He kept his voice low and planted what should've seemed like a congenial hand on Friday's shoulder. The pain in Friday's face said otherwise. “You knew the deal, Walt. I held up my end of the bargain.” A man appeared at the theater's doors and poked his head inside. Vinnie nodded at him and pulled on his enormous overcoat. “The truck's here. Seven. Don't disappoint me.”

Friday didn't. At six thirty on the dot he ended rehearsal and dismissed us for the night.

“Ready?” Jayne limped to my side and momentarily shifted her weight against the stage's edge.

“What's with the bum pin?”

“You didn't see?” I shook my head. I'd found it easier to ignore those moments of rehearsal that didn't directly affect me. “Gloria's shoe flew off during the last number and sent us all tumbling like a row of dominoes.”

“Ouch.”

Jayne shrugged. She was beyond the point of caring what happened to her. “I'll ice it and it'll be fine by morning.” She glared toward the lobby, where we could hear Gloria's seal-like cackle. “I have no guarantee, however, that she'll live to see the next rehearsal. Mind if we take a cab?”

The stage manager turned off the house lights and clicked on the ghost light, a single bulb that would illuminate the stage overnight. “Why don't you go ahead without me,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I think now would be an excellent time to get to the bottom of what's going on downstairs.”

“In the murder room?!” she said. I shushed her with my hand. “I'm going with you.”

“Don't be silly, hop-along—there're too many stairs to conquer. The only thing you could do is slow me down. Trust me: there's nothing dangerous about this. Garvaggio is due here at seven. I'll hide out until then. I'll be in and out—one hour tops.”

“And then you'll come home?”

I drew an
X
on my chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Jayne's face made it clear that she didn't appreciate my choice of words.

While the stage manager finished locking down the building, I hid in the ladies' room. When I was satisfied everyone was gone, I made my way to the private stairwell and quietly descended into the basement. As before, I passed through the cross-under and arrived beneath the other side of the stage, where I'd found the bloodied room and locked doors. No one was there yet, so I rearranged some spare furniture until I had a comfortable little hut that masked me from view but gave me a clear view of anyone who might be coming in the load-in doors. To the casual observer I would look like just another pile of theater junk awaiting new purpose.

Forty-five minutes passed before anyone joined me.

I was about to abandon my hut and head home when the load-in doors began to rattle. A motor humned in the alleyway behind the building. The engine died and a number of voices replaced it, all unfamiliar to me. Garvaggio's men had arrived.

I shifted in my hiding place to make sure I had the best view possible of the entrance. Chains began to rattle and groan as the oversized metal doors lifted clear of the floor. The truck sputtered back to life, and a cloud of exhaust drifted into the corridor. They were backing the vehicle up so they could unload its contents as close to the theater as possible. This would make it impossible for anyone who might be in the alley to see what it was they were up to.

The truck died for a second time, and the men left the cab and entered the building. There were four of them, all large, dirty, and
clearly disenchanted with their work. They were tough and working class, their grammar loose and inconsistent. None of them used one another's names.

A man with a mustache and a voice like a scratchy 78 was the leader of the group. He barked orders and stomped about the basement unlocking doors with a ring of keys hanging from his belt. “Let's take care of 'em one at a time. We don't need no repeat of last time.”

“We'll be here all night,” whined a kid with a scar that ran from his temple to his chin. The boss ignored him. He had no time for malcontents. One of the other men unlocked the back of the truck. Mustache tossed him a shotgun and directed him to go inside the murder room. My legs started to shake so badly I was certain I was going to knock over my hiding place.

Mustache moved into my line of sight, preventing me from seeing the truck. I heard the doors open, heard the shuffling and whines of the hidden cargo, but I couldn't see the victim's face. Whoever it was, his steps were heavy, his voice mute. At last the man moved and gave me a clear view. I gasped as the prisoner appeared. A horse stood in the middle of the basement.

He was a pathetic specimen. His back was bowed; bald patches dotted his fur; his weight was half of what it should've been. The man with the keys led him by the reins. The restraint was unnecessary—the horse was too dazed to do anything but obey.

I couldn't reconcile what I was seeing. Why was there a horse here, and why did it appear there were a dozen more in the back of the truck? Sure, I knew the mob ran horses, but somehow I pictured that happening at Belmont Park, not in the basement of a Broadway theater. And I certainly expected more healthy-looking animals, not these spent beasts who could barely walk without assistance.

“I think I bet on this one once,” said one of the men. “Son of a bitch lost me a pair of c's.”

“Then maybe you should do the honors,” said the boss.

“Gladly.”

My mouth dropped open and stayed there as the horse made
its promenade into the room with the blood-smeared walls. They'd fixed the lights since my last visit, and from my angle on the floor I could just make out a number of implements I recognized from my corner butcher shop. So that was it. These horses…they were…and then they were going to…

I was breathing too rapidly and starting to feel lightheaded.

Did Vinnie know about this? Was it possible his men didn't realize those were horses, not cows? I'll grant you as a city girl myself I wasn't up on the distinguishing characteristics of the bovine, but surely these guys had at least seen one in a movie before.