“Hold your horses, Ab,” I said, with a plaintive sigh. “I want to get a couple of newspapers before we go.” I turned and stepped toward the open door to the candy store. “You want anything?”
“That’s a definite yes, Bess!” she whooped, following close on my heels as I entered the tiny shop. “I want a Tootsie Roll. A great big one!”
Abby headed straight for the candy counter while I checked out the news rack. I picked up the last copy of the
New York Times
, and also a copy of the
Journal American
, thinking Dorothy Kilgallen had probably written something about Gray in her daily column, “The Voice of Broadway.” I would have grabbed the
New York Daily News
as well—just to take a look at Ed Sullivan’s “The Toast of the Town” column—but there weren’t any left.
Abby and I reconnected at the cash register and paid for our items. Her giant-sized Tootsie Roll was half-eaten already. I folded the newspapers, cradled them in the crook of my elbow, and led the way out of the store. Abby joined me on the sidewalk, then we strolled in total silence around the corner and up the block toward the Sheridan Square subway stop. It was too hot to walk fast, and Abby was too busy chewing to chat.
It was a bit cooler underground and the train came almost immediately. We got on, sat down, and I handed Abby the
Journal American
, telling her to search for write-ups about Gray. I opened the
Times
and looked for the article Blondie had mentioned.
I found it in the middle of the second section, near the theater listings and movie ads. There, under the headline A STAR IS BORN, was a short article by Brooks Atkinson, and a small photo of Gray. It was an extreme close-up, and the rapturous, ecstatic smile on Gray’s face led me to believe that the picture had been taken just the night before, in the star dressing room, while the very much alive, but unsuspecting, understudy was reveling in the triumph of his stellar Broadway debut.
The article accompanying the photo was brief and to the point. An unknown actor by the name of Gray Gordon had played the lead in last night’s performance of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, and his portrayal had been so brilliant he would not remain unknown for long. Mr. Gordon was—according to the famous
Times
theater critic, and as the title of his article proclaimed—the brightest new star in the Broadway firmament.
Although the Atkinson piece was full of praise, it was sadly short on information. Aside from the fact that Gray had come from the Carnarsie section of Brooklyn, and that he was currently studying his craft under the “admirable tutelage” of Lee Strasberg at the “renowned” Actors Studio in Manhattan, there were no useful (for me) revelations. I dropped the paper to my lap and heaved another mournful sigh, wishing with all my heart that Gray were alive to read this fabulous review, but sickened by the knowledge that tomorrow’s
Times
could very easily (and very truthfully) run the headline A STAR IS DEAD.
“Look,” Abby said, shoving the
Journal American
under my nose. “Kilgallen gave Gray a rave. She says he’s handsomer than Marlon Brando and James Dean put together. A lot more talented, too. She says if Gray doesn’t become an even bigger star than Brando or Dean, she’ll eat the chic new sunbonnet she bought for her upcoming Mediterranean cruise.”
I hope Dorothy enjoys her lunch
, I thought, keeping my bitterly sarcastic reaction to myself. Abby seemed to be in an equable mood, and I didn’t want to upset it. “Brooks Atkinson gave Gray a good review, too,” I told her. “You want to read it?”
“Absolutely not!” she said emphatically, emphasis on the
not
. “My heart’s broken enough as it is. Life’s so freaking unfair! I can’t stand reading these bubbling accolades. They would have made Gray so happy—but they make me want to kill somebody.”
So much for equable.
I refolded the newspapers with the articles about Gray on top, then set them down on the seat beside me, hoping other passengers would pick them up and read about Gray’s success. If more people read the reviews, I reasoned (i.e., intentionally deluded myself), it would be like keeping Gray and his budding career alive just a little while longer.
“We should have changed our
focockta
clothes, you know!” Abby griped, still worrying about the wardrobe. “It isn’t proper for us to go uptown like this. We should have put on dresses. Or at least skirts.”
“Since when do you care about being
proper
? I never even heard you use that word before. And besides, this is the hottest Fourth of July weekend in history. The way I see it, all clothing rules have been suspended until Tuesday.”
“Have it your own way,” she said, with a disparaging sniff. “But when everybody stares at us like we’re creatures from another planet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When we emerged from the subway at Times Square and began walking up Broadway toward the theater, I saw that Abby was right. All of the women were wearing summer dresses, seamed stockings, and heels. Some even had on hats and white gloves. I’d have bet my last dollar they had on girdles, too. (From the stiff and snooty way they were glaring at Abby and me, you could tell they weren’t too comfortable.)
“See?” Abby said, smirking. “You should have listened to me. If we ever get inside the theater and get to talk to anybody in the show, they’re gonna wonder why the hell we’re dressed like this. Nobody wears capris and halter tops on Broadway! They’ll probably think we’re streetwalkers from 42nd Street, or lowly extras from the
Bus Stop
cast.”
Bingo.
“Hey, that’s a great idea!” I yelped. “I’ve been wondering what kind of cover we could use—what we could say to make our sudden appearance backstage, plus our nosy fixation on Gray, seem logical and reasonable. And this is it, Ab! It’s like somebody wrote the script just for us. It’s so perfect I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
“Have you flipped your wig, babe?” Abby gaped at me as if I’d just turned into a unicorn. “You think we should pretend to be streetwalkers? Ha! That’s a total crack-up! I could probably carry it off, but you—you look more like a peach-picker than a prostitute.”
“No, you’ve got the wrong idea!” I took her by the arm and pulled her off to the right of the crowded sidewalk, under the overhang of a souvenir shop entryway where we could talk. The Morosco Theatre was just two blocks up and I wanted to get our stories straight before we got there.
“We’re going to be
Bus Stop
extras!” I crowed, flushed with excitement. “It’s the best of all possible disguises. Thank God you thought of it!
Bus Stop
is playing at the Music Box Theatre, you know, and that’s right across the street from the Morosco. Did you ever hear anything so ideal in your life? We can say we’re in intermission or between scenes or something, and that we just hopped across the street to see our good friend Gray and congratulate him on his fabulous performance last night.”
Abby frowned, then arched one of her eyebrows to a peak. “I don’t know, Paige. Sounds pretty sticky to me. How do we know the people in the
Cat
cast don’t know all the people in the
Bus
cast? And what if they’ve seen each other’s shows? Then the
Cat
people would know that the outfits we’re wearing aren’t real
Bus
costumes.”
“So what? The styles are pretty similar, so if anybody wonders about the costumes, we can say we just got new ones. And if anybody questions our place in the cast, we can say we just got hired to replace a couple of extras who just got fired.”
“But if we’re supposed to be Gray’s good friends, how can we go around asking a bunch of questions about him? Won’t that seem just a dinky bit suspicious?”
“Okay, okay!” I said, hooking my arm through Abby’s, tugging her back out to the sidewalk, and urging her onward toward 45th Street. “You’ve got a point,” I admitted, “but it’s really easy to fix. We don’t have to be Gray’s good friends. We can be more like fans, or recent acquaintances from his acting class. That way our curiosity will seem totally natural.” I quickened our pace, but kept on talking. “Don’t you see what a slick strategy this is? It’s so tight it’s right. I’m telling you, Ab, this plan is foolproof!”
“That depends on who the fool is,” she said, still skeptical. “And in this case, it could be you.”
WHEN WE ARRIVED, STILL ARM-IN-ARM, at 45th Street, I tried to pilot Abby around the corner toward the Morosco. But she suddenly started straining in the opposite direction. “Come across the street for a second,” she insisted, charging like a bull for the Loew’s State movie theater and dragging me along with her.
“Stop!” I hollered. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you before—I’m not going to the movies!”
“Don’t be a goose, Paige. This isn’t about that!” she said, steadily pulling me toward the brightly lit marquee.
The Seven Year Itch
was playing. Even if I hadn’t been able to read the title on the signboard, I would have known what movie it was from the enormous banner hanging above. The four-story-high image of Marilyn Monroe—standing legs apart on the subway grate while a blast of air blows her skirt up past her panties—was a pretty good clue.
Abby drew me into the shade under the movie marquee and then backed me up against the exterior wall of the theater, next to a large glass-enclosed poster display case. Inside the case was another big image of Marilyn. She was wearing a low-cut dress and leaning over in such a way as to expose yet another amazing aspect of her celebrated anatomy.
“Stand still,” Abby ordered, opening her purse and taking out a tube of lipstick. “If you’re going to pass for a
Bus Stop
extra, you have to wear a hell of a lot more makeup than you’ve got on. You need some greasepaint, baby!” She mashed her fingers against my face and began smearing a thick coat of red lipstick on my stretched-out lips.
“Ith thith reewy nethethary?” I whined—well, tried to, anyway. (I’m not a big fan of heavy cosmetics. And I didn’t like the way people were gawking at us.)
“Of course it’s necessary,” Abby insisted. “Now, shut up! Stop moving your lips.” She finished applying the lipstick and then started to work on my eyes, slathering the lids with bright blue shadow and blackening the lashes with gobs of mascara. After that came the eyebrow pencil and the face powder and the rouge. And when she was through with me, she added a few finishing touches to her own makeup.
“There!” she said, dropping the last weapon in her arsenal of cosmetics back into her purse and snapping the clasp closed. “All done. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Ugh,” I said, checking my reflection in the glass of the poster display case. “I look like a clown.”
“Better to
look
like a clown than to
be
one,” Abby huffed. “Trust me. If you tried to masquerade as a showgirl with that schoolgirl face of yours, they’d kick you in the seat of the pants and then shoot you out of a cannon.”
Chapter 9
NOT ONLY WERE OUR CLOTHES, MAKEUP, and cover story perfect, but our timing couldn’t have been better. As we rounded the corner and headed across the street for the Morosco, the doors to the theater flew open and the audience began pouring out onto the sidewalk. The matinee was over! We wouldn’t have to search for a back entrance to sneak into, or beg some doubtful stage door custodian to let us inside. All we had to do was push our way through the exiting crowd, slip past the ushers into the slowly emptying theater, and then make our way to the side door we had used the night before—the door that led to the stairs leading up to the dressing rooms.
“We have to stick very close together,” I whispered to Abby as we huddled in the dark, deserted passage just inside the door. “And you’d better let me do all the talking. That way, we won’t tell any conflicting stories or ask any incongruous questions.”
Or attract too much attention
, I said to myself—but not to Abby. (I didn’t want to offend my wildly attractive, attention-grabbing friend . . . or give her any wild ideas.)
“Okay, chief!” Abby said, surprising me with her quick and easy compliance. Was she really deferring to me or just humoring me? There was only one way to find out.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The scene in the hall outside the dressing rooms was more subdued than it had been the night before. There was a light flurry of activity, but nothing at all like the hullabaloo inspired by Gray’s knockout debut. Some of the children from the play were chasing each other down the hallway, and a few well-dressed people were milling around in the vicinity, smoking and chatting, probably waiting for their friends or family in the cast to change their clothes and join them for an early supper before the next show. But that was the extent of it. There were no gossip columnists and photographers. No shouts and cheers and popping flashbulbs. No champagne, either.
I studied the arena before me (i.e., cased the joint), trying to decide which target to hit first. I knew I didn’t want to talk to any of the show’s main stars. Their status and success would, I figured, make them the candidates least likely to know much about the personal life of a mere understudy. I believed I’d have better luck talking to the more “humble” members of the cast and crew—other understudies, or stagehands, or technical assistants—people who, until last night, were on a parallel professional level with Gray and, therefore, more inclined to know him well.