Her voice sounded strangely serious on that last sentence, but maybe it was hard to tell on the phone. “Sure it is, you bet,” he enthused, wanting to buck up her spirits.
Milo didn’t dare tell Vivian, in case it didn’t work out, but if
The High Hat
was a hit, and he made some good dough off the royalties, he’d hire her as his own personal secretary. He might be the only person in Manhattan who understood her, maybe also the only one who cared.
So they talked a few minutes and then they made a date to meet in the park for this Water Carnival, where according to the
Times
, they’d built a stage right out in the lake, and all kinds of folk dancers were going to be hoofing it out there on the water.
Milo hadn’t noticed the lake yet, so busy was he looking for Vivian.
It was a husky alto shout of “Milo!” that drew his attention first, the voice with so much oomph it almost sounded like a man.
It was her swinging brown hair he spotted next, through the slanting golden light of the early autumn dusk. She was rotating her head this way and that, with a restless energy that seemed uniquely hers, even at that distance, through a crowd and with his squinty eyes.
“Vivian!” he called, and she turned and lit up like a photoflash. She barged her way through the crowd and threw herself into Milo’s chest. He caught her, steadied her. “You okay?”
“Never better. This is exciting! I’ve never been to one of these before. I can barely see the stage from here, but I got a glimpse. It’s amazing, it looks like a water lily, and there are reeds and bluebells made of wood… I hope no one falls off, and they have to fish them out! C’mon, let’s get closer.”
Vivian grabbed Milo’s hand before he could argue, and threaded through the mob. She kept up an animated chatter with the crowd as she went, “Lovely hat, could you excuse me please? So sorry, passing through, fine night, sir, isn’t it?” and people seemed to part willingly for her, as if she were moving up to her rightful place, which had been set aside by all of Central Park just for her.
As they approached the edge of the lake, the spectators were seated on blankets, or coats spread onto the ground for those unprepared, a small sacrifice on such a fine night, which still bore the faint tinge of summer, though it was closer to October, in truth.
Vivian somehow convinced a family to squeeze closer together to make room, and flung herself down on a square of trampled grass before Milo could get his own coat down.
“Vivian, you’ll tear your stockings, or muddy up your dress.”
“Oh, who cares? Sit down and enjoy. Oh look, they’re starting!”
Milo lowered himself to the ground, tossing his coat over the package for Vivian. It was just as well she hadn’t noticed it yet; it seemed a bad time to present it to her, in the throng. He should have guessed that free entertainment would have drawn them out in droves.
Milo propped himself up with his arm, positioned just behind Vivian so if she should tire, she could lean on him. She had the posture of a steel girder, though, and her face radiated interest with her grinning mouth open just slightly, with a childlike lack of awareness of her own appearance.
Following the singing was a modern ballet, then children who’d won prizes in a folk dancing competition: Russian, Polish, and Scottish dances. Milo felt himself watching something out of a fairy tale, all these dancers whirling improbably over a lake.
The fluid, rolling vowels of Italian spilled out into the night to finish the program, courtesy of the singers of Coro d’Italia.
The crowd began to move in concert, as if of one body, but Vivian seemed content to let them go on without her. As they sat, they were surrounded by a forest of legs on the move. Vivian brought her face close to Milo’s; she smelled of roses. “Thank you for inviting me here.”
“Here,” Milo said stupidly, and without preamble, thrusting the package into her lap.
She tore open the brown wrapper, and then cocked her head. “Oh,
Gone with the Wind
! You remembered.”
“Yeah, you told me that you wanted to read it, once, at your place. I mean… your friend’s place.”
“Oh! Look at this!”
Vivian was holding the Playbill up, trying to catch the ambient light from nearby lampposts. She began to tear through page after page so roughly Milo thought she’d rip it apart. He wondered at this voraciousness.
“Well, where am I?” she asked him, her green eyes round and questioning.
“Where are you? Kid, I’m confused, what are you getting at?”
“In the Playbill, for our song. It doesn’t say my name anywhere. Maybe just on the sheet music?”
Milo’s confusion gave to way to a sickening dread.
“It’s not, actually. It’s my name, and Allen’s.”
“I thought it was our song. I helped you.” She lowered the Playbill into her lap, carefully, as one might a sleeping child.
Milo hadn’t noticed how thoroughly Vivian’s normal jaded pose had been overtaken by her childlike delight in the folk dancing and music, until that delight melted away again, leaving behind a fierce, brittle hardness.
“Yeah, you helped me take notes, you helped me once or twice with a word maybe, but look, if I gave credit to everybody who threw in a word now and then, every song would be split ten ways. Hell, Gordon’s Negro cook gave us a rhyme once in
Hilarity
.”
“You told me I saved the song, Milo. You said that to me.” Had he said that? It seemed possible. The memories of that evening were fuzzed up by gin and the momentous occasion of his first time in a woman’s bed, not to mention the thought of that evening—however pleasant—was always mixed up with Allen on the couch that afternoon. These were not things on which he longed to dwell.
“I didn’t mean to confuse you, kid, but that’s not the way it works. It was my song. Mine and Allen’s.”
Vivian stood up roughly, unsteadily, in doing so stumbling out of one shoe. “I threw over Mark Bell because that song was partly mine and it was going to be a hit.”
While Milo’s panicky mind tried to understand what she was saying, he looked around on the ground for her shoe, as if the shoe was what mattered. It was all he could think to do.
“What are you talking about? You said you hadn’t been seeing much of him.”
Her laugh was harsh, like a slap. “Oh, Milo, I’ve been seeing
all
of him. All the time, too. Who do you think really paid for that apartment? Did you honestly think I’d know a girlfriend rich enough to have a place like that?”
Milo gave up on the shoe. Still on his haunches, he looked up at her, mouth hanging open.
Vivian smirked. “I thought you were just pretending along with me, so we didn’t have to admit it out loud, but you really bought all that? Poor little Milo. You grew up in the greatest city in the world and you know so very little.”
Milo rose unsteadily, wondering why he felt ashamed when she’d been the one living as… Bell’s concubine. A kept woman. He thought back to her fine dresses, the short fur jacket she liked to wear. The morning after the night they spent together, she’d given him the bum’s rush with some story about a nosy landlady… Bell was probably on his way over, right then.
Milo still couldn’t find his voice, so Vivian filled the silence. “Look at you, like you’re going to be sick. Well anyway, it’s over now, like I said. I’m not a fool, Milo. I knew that was no way to live, not forever. I knew he’d get tired of me soon enough when a dewy-eyed chorus girl turned his head. But it didn’t matter, because I’d helped you write a hit song. And you said I saved the song. I know you did.”
“I don’t remember that… We didn’t even talk about credit…”
“I didn’t know we had to talk about it. I didn’t know I’d have to plead for what’s rightfully my share.”
Milo took off his hat and scratched his head. It wasn’t exactly fear of Vivian that was running him through with such a sick, scary feeling. It was a sense that something in the world had tilted sideways, bizarre, like that weird painting where clocks were melting over trees that he saw once at the MoMa: everything was going crazy wrong and he didn’t know why.
“Vivian, it’s just not the way it’s done. I’m sorry, but—”
“It’s Allen, isn’t it? That bastard said no. You always do everything he wants, don’t you? Loyal Milo who just hops-to at his word.”
“I do not!”
“You quit your Harms job because he said so! You took the
Hilarity
job because he said so! You took on this show because he said so! Why don’t you stand up and be a man for once?”
“I am a man!” Milo bellowed. “Don’t you ever say that to me again!”
Vivian’s expression flashed fear. Milo noticed his posture then, he was leaning forward, his finger was out and he’d apparently jabbed or shaken it right in her face. He drew back, and stared at his own hand in wonder.
Stricken, Milo looked up in time to see Vivian’s face go from slackened fright to hard bright anger. Something about her eyes glinting in the yellow lamppost light made him think of a dark, many-faceted jewel.
“And a man doesn’t share credit with a girl, then? He steals her work and takes her to bed and then he’s off to live his life and to hell with the broad anyway.”
“I’ll help you get a job, I swear I will, if this show does great, how’d you like to come work for me, huh? You can be my secretary, and you won’t have to worry about getting fired—”
Vivian laughed then, shrilly, so loud that people whipped their heads around to stare. “You want to buy me. Same as Bell did, only you’re doing it smarter, aren’t you, Short? Heaven forbid you just marry me, no, I have to
earn my keep
with you?”
“Vivian, but I already said—”
“I know what you already said! But that was before you boffed me like I was the last woman on earth, and I was stupid enough to believe that meant… But to you I’m just a
shiksa
whore and not worth wiping your shoes on.”
Milo stepped close to her so maybe she’d stop shouting, his heart thrashing around in his chest, feeling like he was at Coney Island on a ride gone crazy. “I would never say that about you, but look, I hardly think you can talk to me about it considering whose bed that really was. How did this all get so confused?”
“When you practically tear a girl’s clothes off I don’t see how there’s much room for confusion.”
“You weren’t exactly shy yourself!”
She ripped the hat off her head, balling it up in her fist. Her hair stood up like a crown. “So what, you’re through with me, then?” She began smacking his chest with her hat, her voice sliding into a sneering parody of an office girl: “Unless I want to take your dictation, Mr. Short? How would you like your coffee, Mr. Short? I’ll type it up right away, Mr. Short!”
He seized her wrist. “Stop! People are staring! Look, I didn’t mean for this to get so crazy, can’t we just cool off a minute?”
“Cool off? Honestly.”
She yanked her wrist so hard out of Milo’s hand that he stumbled forward. She took three limping, one-shoe strides away, then whirled back around and shouted through the night.
“You’re a vine is what you are! You twisted into all my spaces, wrapped around all my branches! We are trapped together, Milo Short, we’ll never be rid of each other now, and I don’t mean as your
office girl
, typing your letters and doing your bidding so you can give me money in a way to ease your conscience. You and your ‘I have to marry a Jewish girl’ and yet you kept coming back.”
Milo opened his mouth to retort: Vivian was the one who kept coming to him! Kept quitting jobs, following him around, so of course he felt responsible… But the panting Fury in front of him now wouldn’t hear these words. It would be all useless noise to her, now and forever.
So he stood there, dumb and pathetic in the face of her wrath. He had a sense of shadows in the distance, shocked murmurs from a gawking few reaching his ears on the autumn breeze.
Vivian stepped backward, awkwardly, lopsided, and then she was beyond the circle of lamppost light. The stage lights had by now been extinguished, and the darkness and dispersing performers swallowed her retreating figure.
Milo bent down to pick up his coat, and in so doing, saw
Gone with the Wind
lying in the grass. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d been so tickled that morning, walking out of the Strand on Fourth Avenue with the book for Vivian and a fan magazine for Leah. Stupid, ignorant Milo, not knowing what he was about to step into.
And Vivian, once again putting herself in trouble on his account, without him ever asking her to do so. Walking out of Harms, and that was a good job, too, with the ever-diligent and reserved Mrs. Smith typing away on her Corona while keeping one eye on Vivian, on all the girls. And now Vivian again gave up her security supposedly on his account, well, who asked her to do that? And why was it his fault? Sure they spent a night together, but she spent all kinds of nights together with Bell and why wasn’t this his problem, then?
Seemed like he’d spent his last two years keeping tabs on this crazy dame, who was always dashing off someplace she shouldn’t be, and for that matter following him around from place to place like some kind of puppy. Well, someone else could chase her this damn time because Milo Short was good and tired of it.