The Winter of Her Discontent (8 page)

“Sure.” I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me. From the hallway I could hear the low rumble of his voice as he talked to the ghost he hoped was listening. I struggled to make sense of what he was saying, but the only phrase I could decipher was “I'm sorry. So, so sorry.” I couldn't tell from his tone if it was her death alone that he regretted or if George Pomeroy had done something that needed a dead woman's forgiveness.

He opened the door and I jumped.

“Thanks for that,” he said. “It's been swell meeting you.”

“You too.”

He turned back toward the window, and I imagined he was picturing Paulette looking at the same city view, wondering when the day would come that she could leave this dump and move on to something better. “Do you know there's a suitcase on your fire escape?”

“Yeah, but thanks for the reminder.”

He shook my hand, took one final look around the room, and then, with a tip of his hat, disappeared.

R
ESTING UP SEEMED LIKE A
foolish idea under the circumstances. As soon as I was sure Captain Pomeroy had left the building, I retrieved the valise from the fire escape, hopped back down to the lobby, and located Belle.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked. In one hand she held a tin of Surety Aspirin; in the other was
The New York Sun War Time Cook Book
, a culinary guide to such barely edibles as Victory Ham, liver and sausage loaf, and Norwegian prune pudding.

“I thought I'd save you a trip. I have a gift for you.”

She handed over the aspirin and eyed the suitcase suspiciously. “Thanks, but I already have one.”

“Not the case. Look inside.”

She popped it open and flinched at the sight of the bloody meat, as though they weren't steaks but disembodied limbs. “Are you off your nut?”

“It's steak, Belle. A friend gave them to me and I figured you and your cousin might want them.”

She lowered her gaze. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you give me something?”

This was the last time I was going to do something nice for anyone without a motive. “Because all in all you're a good egg and because it's not like I can boil meat in my teakettle. You either take it or I'm chucking it into the street.”

“Are they on the up and up?”

I put my hand to my heart. “How could you ask that?”

“If you're buying from the black market, you're stealing from the mouths of soldiers.”

“I've read the posters too. These are perfectly legit. I'd take it if I were you. Voluntary meatless Tuesday starts tomorrow and you know that doesn't bode well.”

“All right, I'll take it.
This
time.”

“What a gal.”

She picked up the steaks and started toward the kitchen.

“Any chance you can get me a hot-water bottle while you're in there? My knee could use one right about now.”

She gave me an irritated look that made it clear that despite any empathy she may have for my injured state, she didn't feel it was her duty to be my nursemaid. Still, she went into the kitchen and emerged a short time later with a red hot water bottle and a couple of dish towels to keep it from scorching me. I limped to the sofa and wrapped the bundle about my leg.

I wasn't sure how to approach the subject of Paulette Monroe, so I dove right in.

“Paulette must've been a pretty special dame for Captain Pomeroy to come all the way to New York. Did you know her very well when she lived here?”

Belle crossed her arms and cocked her head. The sour expression she usually wore clenched her features into a tight pout. “Well enough.” Belle wasn't in the habit of making friends with the Shaw House women. It's not that she was cold, but I think our habit of viewing her as the maternal warden, and the likelihood that any one of us could be gone tomorrow, diminished the desire on both of our parts to get to know each other. Plus, as keeper of the rules, she had to remain at a distance lest she be accused of favoritism. If Belle was anything, she was fair.

“How long did she live here?” I asked.

“Three years, on and off. She did some touring shows, but she always came back here when she was done.”

Three years was longer than most girls. The typical house stay was six months, just long enough for you to get on your feet or give up the ghost. I was at a year and a half myself and was beginning to wonder if I hadn't overstayed my welcome. It's not that I didn't love the place, but there was a big difference between choosing to leave and being forced to stay.

“And then she went to Hollywood?” I asked.

Belle turned away and focused on stacking newspapers that had been discarded on the sideboard. “She lived with some girlfriends for a while. Uptown. And then she went to Hollywood.”

“So why'd she come back?”

“Walter Friday's pretty big, isn't he?”

“Five years ago, sure. But you couldn't drag me out of Hollywood to work with him now.”

Belle shrugged. “Maybe she missed New York. She had a lot of friends here.”

“Including male ones?”

She forced the corners of her stack into precise right angles. “What happens outside of the house isn't my business.”

This was getting me nowhere. Belle signaled that we had reached the end of our conversation by attempting to haul the newspapers into the kitchen. The pile of twice dailies was more than she could handle and a few stray issues landed on the floor with a thump. Rather than attempting to pick them up, she gave the offending papers a kick and took what remained of her bundle into the kitchen.

I gathered up my hot water bottle and towels and decided to convalesce upstairs. As I hobbled past the papers Belle had dropped, two words from a headline caught my eye:
Broadway
and
slain
. I hopped closer and read the teaser: Johnny Levane, purported mob henchman, found slain in Broadway alley. The paper was dated March fourth, the day after Al went into prison. The article, in
The Times'
ongoing attempt not to glorify mob violence, had been relegated to the back page. There wasn't even a picture.

I picked up the paper and tucked it beneath my arm. I was prob
ably whistling in the wind, but if the story involved the mob and the theater, I was going to hang on to it just in case.

 

Jayne woke me up at a quarter after five. I was sprawled face-first across my bed, drowning in a pile of my own drool. Churchill kept dry atop my pillow, swinging his tail in time to the ticking of my bedside clock.

“How you feeling?” asked Jayne.

I rolled over and flexed my offending pin. Hours of immobility and the now cold hot-water bottle had left me stiff. I wasn't in any pain, but I didn't think I was going to be capable of graceful motion anytime soon either. “Better, I guess. Did I miss much?”

“Nothing I can't catch you up on.”

Somehow I doubted that.

“I brought you a present.” She passed me a thin paper sack. Inside was the latest issue of
Harper's Bazaar
with a young model named Lauren Bacall on the cover. Miss Bacall stood in front of a Red Cross Blood Service Center, looking forlornly at the camera, her lips carefully painted a bright, patriotic red. I flipped through the magazine. It was the spring fashion issue. For those folks who had enough cash and coupons, the tropical look was going to be all the rage. How better to forget about your man risking his life in the South Pacific than by wearing high Cuban platform shoes and carved Catalin bracelets?

“Thanks,” I told Jayne. “I needed some new reading.”

“Did you sleep all afternoon?”

My nap-induced fog slowly lifted. “No. Actually, I had an interesting visitor a few hours ago.” I filled Jayne in on my meeting with Captain Pomeroy.

“Poor guy. Widowed and cuckolded all in one week.”

“Almost widowed,” I said. “It's not like they were hitched. And remember: he doesn't know what Paulette was up to.” I sat on the edge of the bed and tested my knee. “I really felt bad for the guy. You could tell he loved her.”

“And maybe she really loved him.”

“And Al. And who knows who else.”

Jayne shrugged. “You can love more than one person, you know. Or maybe Pomeroy was her one true love and Al was…”

“A career move?”

“It's possible.” It didn't seem fair that we assumed Al couldn't have been the love of her life. He was a good egg, wasn't he? And from what he'd told me in the past, he could be a devoted boyfriend.

Jayne peeled off her leotard and tights and tossed them onto the floor. She plucked her kimono from its hook on the wall and wrestled with it before finally wrapping it around her body. “What's this?” Her eyes had landed on the
Times
I'd dragged up from the lobby.

“Probably nothing, but I ran across that downstairs. You ever hear of him?”

“Johnny Levane? It doesn't ring any bells.”

“Yeah, me neither, but I thought gangster, Broadway, murder…” My voice faded. I was looking for anything to exonerate Al and Jayne knew it.

She put the paper on the nightstand, where it would likely remain until the page was obliterated with coffee rings. “It won't hurt to hold on to it for a while. How's Ruby?”

I would've been less surprised if she asked me what I thought about Spam (for the record, I found it too salty but enjoyed it Aloha style with pineapple and avocado). There were certain topics Jayne never willingly broached. “Ruby? I would imagine surly and self-absorbed. You would know better than me.”

“Didn't she come home?”

“I'm two steps behind you. I've been unconscious, remember? Why don't you give me the lay?”

Jayne sat beside me. She vibrated with excitement. “Sorry—you really did miss out on something then. Ruby got sick and had to leave rehearsal.”

“How sick?”

“Mind you, I wasn't there, but apparently she went for her fitting
and everyone in the costume shop got to admire what she had for breakfast and lunch.”

This was too good. The only downside was that we'd missed it.

“Anyway, they sent her home and I just assumed that she would've been over here telling you how sick she was.”

It was a good assumption. There was only one reason Ruby wouldn't come to visit me and rub in how much worse off she was than me—she was actually ill. And if that were the case, the last things she'd want were witnesses.

“Can you handle a walk across the hall?” asked Jayne.

“If I can't,” I said, “I'll crawl.”

W
E KNOCKED ON
R
UBY'S DOOR
for a good minute before her weak voice responded. I pushed it open and found her royal highness hidden beneath a pile of blankets, one pale white arm lying across her stomach.

The only thing missing was the violin music.

Ruby lived alone, which was fortunate since I doubt she could've crammed a roommate into her Shrine of All Things Ruby. While we made do with the furniture that had come with the house, Ruby had brought in her own sticks, including a canopy bed that rose to within an inch of the ceiling. Everything was pink and white, like an over-iced cupcake. Her walls were covered with photos and reviews, not push-pinned into place like most girls would do, but each tastefully framed and matted. And, of course, where there weren't photos, there were mirrors, since gazing at the real thing was always better than a reproduction.

“We heard you were ill,” Jayne said. I had no idea how she managed to convey such an impressive depth of sincerity without drinking first. “We wanted to check on you.”

Ruby adjusted her position until we could see first the tangled, damp mass of hair at the top of her head, then the red, swollen face dotted with hives.

“Wow,” I said. “You look awful.” I hadn't meant for it to come out like that, but when you're expecting mink and greeted with mange, you're compelled to react.

“Thanks a lot.” Ruby burrowed beneath the quilt again. “Are they talking about me at the theater?”

I wanted to turn her malaise into misery, but Jayne shushed me with a wave of her hand and stepped forward. “Just out of concern. Everyone felt terrible that you were so sick.”

Ruby's head again emerged from its cave, her expression a curious mixture of gratitude and suspicion. She knew Jayne was lying, but she needed the lie if she ever hoped to show her face at the Bernhardt again.

“Do you need anything?” asked Jayne. Before Ruby could respond, the door opened behind us. Minnie, pitcher and glass in hand, emerged from the hallway. She abruptly interrupted her mission to quench the infirm when she saw us standing in the room.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn't realize you had visitors. I brought you some water.” She deposited the glass at Ruby's bedside and filled it.

“Did they cancel rehearsal after I left?” Ruby asked.

Minnie turned away from her mistress and concentrated on folding Ruby's hastily shed clothing. “No. Walter was concerned about another delay, so we went forward with the day as planned.”

“Oh.” If Ruby's face turned any paler, we would have to search for her pulse. “Who stepped in for me?”

Minnie turned back to her, her abnormally large eyes growing even larger. “I did. It was awful, Ruby. I know every time I said one of your lines everyone was thinking about what a miserable replacement I was for you.”

Ruby's cheeks pinked and she fought to hide a smile. “I'm sure it wasn't that bad.”

“No it was, it really was. I don't know why I ever thought I could be an actress.” Minnie looked down at her bitten fingernails and picked at a piece she hadn't yet devoured.

Ruby pulled herself up until she was propped by her pillows. “There's no reason for you to fret, Minnie. Your agony has ended. I'll be returning tomorrow.”

Minnie ceased damaging her digits. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Of course it is. I feel fine. I'm just having an allergic reaction to something.”

“But shouldn't you see a doctor before you go back? You know, to make sure it's not contagious?”

Jayne and I silently took one step backward.

“Don't be ridiculous. If it were contagious, I would think after days of rehearsal, everyone would have it.”

Minnie looked helplessly to Jayne and me for support.

I smiled at Ruby. That had to cue her that bad news was coming. “I think what Minnie's trying to say, far more tactfully than I'm going to, is that you'd really be doing everyone a favor if you didn't leave this room for a while. To be frank, Ruby, I don't think Walter Friday seeing you like this is going to do a thing to endear you to him.”

“It's a just little swelling. It will be gone by tomorrow.”

“And the war will be over, and butter will be plentiful, and I'll get a studio contract that will keep me fat and fancy for the next ten years.” I freed a hand mirror from her bureau and brought it to her. “But just in case those things don't happen in the next twenty-four hours, I think you need to come up with a Plan B.”

Ruby stared at her reflection, her thin, pale hands trembling just above the surface of her face. I wanted to enjoy the moment, but I found myself reluctant to find any pleasure in Ruby's situation. I was in a show where I had no talent, and she was in a mess where the one asset she could always depend on had been temporarily robbed from her. We were sisters in suffering.

“All right,” she whispered. “Tell Walter I can't make it tomorrow and please ask Belle to call Dr. Archway.”