33
A
ll things come into being through opposition, and all are in flux like a river.
Put simply, nothing stays the same.
Shan had memorized the philosophy—from Plato, was it?—for an exam during his high school years. Even so, he hadn’t afforded the concept much thought. Now proof of it glared in all things, and not just in his reflection—although the years of touring, booze, and girls had certainly left their marks.
The old philosopher had been right, too, about the tendency of humans to battle that change. He’d merely failed to mention that vaudevillians, more than anyone, would be leading the front lines.
“It’s just a slump,” performers asserted when ticket sales started to drop. “Folks out there still love a good variety act.” And to an extent they were right. But what did they love more?
Breasts.
Fellows all over the country just couldn’t get enough. No matter how rich or poor, educated or dim, once the curtains opened and the chorus girls appeared, every man in the theater traded his life’s worries for a glimpse of those heavenly melons. Some patrons would hoot and whistle; others sat glued to their seats, entranced by the jiggling and bouncing. And when it came to the twirling of tassels, even the ladies in the audience couldn’t hide their awe.
Shan had to admit, for his first few weeks as a comic in burlesque, it took fierce concentration to prevent his own arousal. A two-gal striptease had preceded his act, and Shan was, after all, a man. Who could fault him? But in time, the sexual luster faded—during the show, that was—and his focus returned to the crowd.
Performance-wise, the gig differed little from vaudeville, which he had first broken into with Mr. Cohan’s help. That was when Shan learned how unglamorous it all was. The grueling rehearsals and constant shows, up to eight a day in “small time,” left barely a moment to breathe. Each week folded into the next, same for the months, and ultimately the years. After traveling through snowstorms and rainstorms, he would slog into another hotel bearing no resemblance to the Plaza and find industrious ways to cook in his room and wash laundry in the sink.
But hell, it was a living. And there was no taking any job for granted after the stock market crashed in the fall of ’29. That was just over two years after Shan joined his first circuit. Back when he was willing to play the straight man in a two-man sketch with a gagman who’d hog the laughs. The one benefit was it drove Shan to diversify his skills, allowing him to stand on his own.
Then, after six years in the business, it became clear that the usual wheels, or tours, were dying. The fact was, most unemployed men had the good sense not to spend their last nickel to watch a terrier do the cha-cha, or a dwarf yodel while riding a unicycle; but given a chance to see a bare-skinned beauty, they would empty their pockets down to the lint.
When Shan first announced his decision to switch course, he was scorned—mainly by the vaudevillian ladies—for being lured by the carnal appeal. They were wrong. It was the dough he was after, nothing else. A hefty bankroll ensured he’d never have to rely on anyone again.
Which made his surprise act tonight that much more of a risk.
No doubt there would be a price to pay, in spite of his working for the famed Minsky brothers for the past two years. But there would also be consequences if Shan didn’t put Paddy O’Hooligan back in his place.
The recently added comic, the son of a Hungarian Jew, had adopted his stage name to match his role of an immigrant from Limerick, fresh off the boat. For a month Shan had suppressed his irritation. As if the guy’s ego alone wasn’t enough, his exaggerated brogue sounded more suited to a Scot in the Highlands. It was understandable that his attempts at Hollywood stardom had gained little traction.
Still, Shan had felt no personal affront until today.
Late this morning, “Paddy” had knocked on his hotel door, delivering news that the rehearsal for the censors had been delayed by an hour. In every city, Pittsburgh in this case, all of the acts required approval to perform for the public. Nothing lewd enough to warrant a raid was permitted. A typical list banned full nudity and vulgar movements, the use of “damns” and “hells.”
Of course, as went everything in life, there were ways around every rule. For cities that outlawed stripping onstage, for example, the gals would just step behind the curtain each time they shed a garment before coming back into view. What’s more, after passing the censors, most obscenities were simply slipped back into the show. This made the approval process a pitiful farce, but still participation was vital.
It was not well received, then, when Shan arrived at the tail end of the run-through today, which had been moved to an hour sooner, not later, than planned.
“I could’ve sworn I’d said ‘earlier,’ ” Paddy later told Shan, though a faint gleam in his eyes said otherwise.
The short, prune-faced director, Mr. Bagley, not one for excuses, blustered his displeasure, then moved Shan up in the order of acts, thereby shifting Paddy to a loftier slot. As billing went, the farther down, the more prestigious the performer. The one exception was the final number, reserved for a dreadful musical piece—such as a harpist who plucked away while tooting a kazoo—to help clear out the audience in time for the next show. “Playing to the haircuts,” they called it, since that was about all the entertainer would see.
Shan’s ranking certainly wasn’t that low. But it soon could be if he didn’t send a clear message, one that told Paddy he wasn’t as cunning as he thought.
Now, waiting offstage, Shan wiggled his feet and straightened the vest of his tux. Kitty Lovely was in the middle of her signature bath number, requiring a pair of chorus line girls to hide in the tub and blow Ivory bubbles for ten minutes straight—or till one or both passed out.
Shan knew how Kitty would view his plan. Always even-keeled, about her job most of all, she’d think it was a hotheaded mistake, and tonight in bed she would tell him so. Assuming the powers that be hadn’t ordered him to clear out …
The real possibility of this suddenly gave Shan pause.
Was he truly ready to leave, to go hunting for another wheel? Would his idea backfire and spread word that he wasn’t worth the trouble? Sabotaging another comic could label him petty and spiteful. Most important, a risk to ticket sales. In many eyes, burlesque was a step down from vaudeville. If washed up here, he could wind up scrounging for change in seedy pubs full of drunks.
The full circle of life—in all the worst ways.
Shan reached into his trouser pocket where he always stored his sixpence.
You’ve got real talent,
the woman had told him.
Don’t let it go to waste.
He’d kept the coin as a reminder. Yet was he about to waste it all?
“Capello,” whispered Carl, perched on a stool in the wings. Wearing a plaid scarf, the stage manager—resembling a basset hound despite his young age—waved Shan closer, a final cue.
The pit orchestra was wrapping up Kitty’s number. Seductively she snuggled herself in a towel, finishing the act with no less clothing than the robe she started with—another pointless law. She tossed back her long sandy-blond mane before blowing a kiss to the audience. Amid the applause, men groaned, begging for more.
Shan did his best to ignore his resentment over their drooling and ogling. On the subway, minus the dolled-up face and done-up hair, Kitty would barely rate a second glance. But shine a spotlight on her sculpted assets, watch the masterful way she moved them, and there was no questioning her popularity.
As the song came to an end, Kitty sauntered off stage left without looking back at Shan. After four months of casual courting— for lack of a better word—he knew better than to expect even a wink of assurance that his attention was the only one of import.
And yet, its absence now firmed his resolve.
If the likes of Mr. Bagley and old Paddy had come to consider him a two-bit to brush aside, Shan was well on his way to washing up regardless. The least he could do was maintain his pride. He dropped his coin back into his pocket and retrieved the tin whistle he’d borrowed from a house musician. On Carl’s signal, he headed for the microphone.
A heckler hollered some reference to the Pied Piper, but Shan stayed on track, not bothering to respond. For full impact, he couldn’t just steal Paddy’s routine, slated two acts from now; he would perform it better, earn noticeably more laughs. To do this, he would listen, as he always did, to the audience. Without saying a word, they would tell him when to pause, when to mug, how to deliver punch lines for full effect.
The room quieted, and Shan began.
“Top o’ the morning to ye,” he said with a flourish. Bagley would be blowing his toupee right about now.
Shan charged on, reciting Paddy’s jokes about leprechauns and ale and stories of “the Old Country.” A couple of minutes in, his accent regained a naturalness part of him missed, as he’d resurrected his brogue for only an occasional sketch over the years.
Through the crowd’s laughter, he heard Paddy’s voice before seeing him. Offstage and red-faced, the guy was ranting with large hand movements to poor, flustered Carl. The dilemma was clear: how could they give Shan the hook when he was slaying the audience?
Shan resisted a smile of satisfaction; there was still more to be done. Back while touring with the famous hoofing Nicholas Brothers, he had gained some modest tapping skills. He’d also played a flute here and there, but he had never performed both at once. It was a unique combination Paddy took great pride in. Or had, rather, until this moment. Based on his expression, that confidence was plummeting as Shan’s imitation earned another wave of laughs.
Now Paddy looked downright panicked. As he should be, Shan supposed, with an entire slot to fill after the next act, a contortionist number of three women in G-strings. Unlike Shan, who’d honed a diverse range of reliable routines to protect his career, Paddy appeared to have polished only one bit. The guy might want to rethink that after tonight.
Shan finished by striking a dramatic pose. Applause filled the theater, topped with whistles and gleeful shouts. He stood there a little longer, soaking them in. It could be a while before he incited those sounds again—if ever. No matter the outcome, he would remember this feeling. Savoring it like a sliver of toffee on his tongue, he bowed to all three sections. On his final rise, a person’s profile caught his eye.
His breath hitched.
Seated in the middle, the girl had the long ebony locks and olive skin of Lina Capello. It was a sight part of him always anticipated, mostly with dread.
Shan’s periodic phone calls to her and her parents had connected them through the years, but he had yet to see the family since the winter he’d left. Two days after it all had come to a head, with Mr. Capello safely at home, he’d issued his apologies to everyone but Nick—between them there was nothing left to be said—and against Mrs. Capello’s tender objections, Shan departed in time for the true family to celebrate Christmas together.
He had sworn to himself not to look back. But now his past was seated smack-dab in the center row.
That was his fear, anyhow, until the girl turned forward, and he realized once again he’d mistaken a face in the audience. Something that happened now and then, a trick of the eye, a haunting of conscience. Thankfully, this particular illusion caused less alarm than seeing Nick, or even Uncle Will.
Gathering himself, Shan hurried off the stage, anxious to outrun a life that never lurked far behind.
34
A
fter the show, Bagley’s reprimand was milder than anticipated. That wasn’t to say it didn’t entail screaming; there was plenty of that. The door of Shan’s dressing room might as well have remained open given the way the director’s voice carried.
But he made no mention of firing Shan, nor of docking his pay. He even reversed the billing changes in time for the midnight performance, though not without condition. “Don’t you be thinking this is a damn reward. Pull something like that again, and I’ll tan your hide before kicking it to the street. You got me?”
Secretly, he might have agreed that Paddy O’Hooligan’s arrogance had needed to be tempered. More than that, however, he was likely just desperate to avoid a repeat of Paddy’s ad-libbing.
Stripped of his brogue, Paddy had tried for a British accent that faded within a minute, the sole redeeming aspect of his bit. The worst being a string of knock-knock jokes fit for the birthday party of an eight-year-old. Laughs did arise from the audience, but mainly in response to clever slights from hecklers. At one point they rattled Paddy so much he forgot a punch line and pulled out a pocket-size comedians’ book in search of the answer. This marked the singular instance of the crowd laughing with, versus at, him—until they realized he was truly scanning the pages, then once again he was the brunt of the joke.
Carl would have normally given him the hook, but the headliner up next couldn’t find the oversize cork for her champagne number, and they needed to stall for time.
The second she was ready, Paddy scurried away with the look of a beaten pup. Shan almost felt sorry for the creep—but not quite. Besides, such lessons were essential for surviving the business. Shooting to be the top banana was all fine and good, but screw the wrong people and even the funniest comedian could find himself reduced to a candy pitchman, promoting the sales of penny treats at the start of the show.
Once Bagley had unloaded his moderate wrath on Shan, he’d wheeled and stormed out of the dressing room just as Carl entered. To cover a jawline burn from an old mishap with a stage light, the fellow always sported a scarf, indoors and out.
“This came for you during the show.” He handed Shan an envelope. Notes from fans had been more common during his vaudeville days but still arrived every so often. “You sure do have that brogue down,” Carl said with a smirk.
For an instant Shan wondered if his accent had come across as too authentic, raising suspicions of a long-buried history. But then the kid added, “Old Paddy had it comin’, if you ask me.” With that, he returned to the hall.
Shan sank onto his padded stool, its leather ripped at the seams. Harsh lightbulbs lined the mirror before him, deepening the tired shadows under his eyes. At twenty-eight, he was already battling some early gray hairs, wiry enough to defy his pomade. He drew a long breath. The smells of the room matched its look of a dusty attic, with a hodgepodge of costumes, walls weathered from the stories they could tell.
He turned his attention to the envelope, grateful tonight for an admiring boost. Yet what he found inside was a telegram. Every word—from the message to its sender—came as a shock.
EMERGENCY AT HOME =
PLEASE RETURN IMMEDIATELY =
LINA
Shan reread the wire, his mind abuzz. Was this the reason he’d imagined seeing her in the audience? A premonition of something to come?
They had chatted on the phone just days ago—on the first of June. It was his monthly check-in call, adhering to a promise he’d made to Mrs. Capello, which he had dutifully kept all these years.
He mentally reviewed the conversation. Lina, as she often did, had urged him to come home for a visit, but her tone suggested nothing unusual. “One of these days,” he had said, his standard reply, and after her sigh she’d switched to a safer topic: this time about her latest story published in
Woman’s Home Companion
. This only reinforced how well the Capellos were doing since he’d left. From what he had heard, unsolicited, Nick even joined them regularly for Sunday suppers.
Mrs. Capello had been next on the line. “Are you eating?” were her first words, as always; her last being, “Do not forget to eat.” In between was an update on the neighbors, the garden, a charity event at church. Likewise, Mr. Capello’s small talk centered on work and the weather and how the new president, FDR, would soon get the country back on its feet. “Any pretty girls in your show?” he had asked then, to which Shan answered, “A few.” Still seeing no reason to inform the family about his venture into burlesque, he’d instead diverted to details of his upcoming stops. In closing, Mr. Capello added, “Mama says you must settle down soon.” And Shan had agreed, with no plans to do so.
There had been nothing out of the ordinary. What could have possibly changed since then?
Shan gazed at the speckled mirror, struggling for an answer. Pop’s health had been doing well, they’d all said. If he had taken a sudden turn, wouldn’t Lina have wired as much? Perhaps it was something else, a topic she preferred not to put in writing.
His thoughts shuffled back to the days he and Mr. Capello used to spend together at the tracks. There was never cause for worry, with the man’s motto of never risking more than he was willing to lose. Of course, that was before a quarter of the country lost their jobs. With fewer folks able to pay for Mr. Capello’s services, how long could he and his wife have subsisted on trades of wine and paintings and shaves at the barbershop? Maybe to get ahead, he had placed a large bet on a surefire horse that didn’t come through. Or maybe it wasn’t the tracks at all.
On the phone, when Shan had mentioned the Yankees losing to the Red Sox—a disastrous 0–6 that day—Mr. Capello brushed past the subject and wrapped up the call. The reaction seemed typical, as he despised when his favorite team failed to cinch a win. But was there more involved? Had the game cost him something greater than pride?
Until Shan knew, in spite of himself, he would not be able to rest.
The next day, midmorning light slipped through the hotel room curtains, never opened before ten due to Shan’s late nightly shows. As he finished dressing, Kitty sat in bed enjoying her coffee and Parliament, her usual breakfast. A white sheet swathed her bare body from the chest down.
It always intrigued Shan that her flagrant immodesty onstage didn’t extend to the bedroom. Proof that even showgirls were impersonators.
“How many years since you seen ’em?” she asked.
He was about to say six but caught his error. “Almost nine, I guess.” Memories of the house scuffle, the blazing tree, the race to the hospital—they were still so vivid. It confounded him that so much time had passed.
Kitty set her mug on the night table and watched him pull a suitcase from the closet, several garments still inside. On the road, there was never a need to fully unpack.
“How long you reckon before you’re back?”
He shrugged. “Not sure yet.”
After he’d received the telegram, another phone call to Lina had yielded no details, just a plea for him to return, that she would explain in person. Her voice held such direness he couldn’t help but agree.
“Ought to be soon, though,” he added.
“It rightly better be.” Kitty rolled onto her side, her right hand propping her head, her cigarette poised in the other. Her sandy-blond hair cascaded onto the pillow. “If I get too lonely, I’ll have to find myself some company.” She flashed a smile to soften her honesty.
The specifics of whose body kept her warm at night came a far second to merely having one there. This was no secret about Kitty—nor about Shan, in truth.
As with all the girls he’d shared flings with on his tours, a common emptiness had drawn them together with the force of a magnet. In the heat of sex, they achieved a semblance of being whole. And for a moment they could forget about the pieces hidden inside, too broken to ever be fixed.
“Then I guess I’d better hurry,” Shan replied dryly, and proceeded to pack for his overnight train. The thought of the trip needled him with dread.
Once his suitcase was set—the rest he’d leave with Kitty—he shared the telegram with Bagley. The director agreed to the furlough, but with reluctance paired with a threat: while at home, if Shan got the notion to breach his contract by sneaking off to join another wheel, he’d sure as hell better hire a good lawyer.
Shan gave assurance he’d be back, not bothering to correct the reference to his “home.”
Home wasn’t Brooklyn anymore. It wasn’t any particular place these days.
No, that wasn’t true. His home was the road. Shan thought of this soon after, as he settled into the dining car of the train, its huffing and chugging providing the comfort of forward motion. This wasn’t the first time he’d returned to New York; tours had dragged him through the state over the years, but always for quick stops and with a cast of performers that created a protective shield.
This time he was on his own.
“Sir, would you care for a cocktail?” the waiter asked.
Despite the repeal of Prohibition two years earlier, Shan drank only during nighttime hours; half a glass of whiskey served as a reliable sedative after midnight performances. And to this day, he still didn’t smoke, not with a livelihood dependent on his voice.
But now, in light of tomorrow’s destination, he decided the day called for an exception.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Make it a double.”