Death of a Showman Read online

  Her views on education were probably quite rudimentary.

  2

  The household was made aware: I had been disappointed and was to be treated with kindness. In vain, I assured the Tylers I was fine. Yes, it had been a surprise. But my heart was not chipped nor cracked in the slightest. William and Louise nodded sympathetically. Of course I was fine—and I wasn’t to think about it a moment longer. Never mind that I didn’t think about it at all except when someone else raised the subject.

  Then Louise surprised everyone by announcing that rather than traveling on to her mother-in-law’s summer home in Oyster Bay as planned, she preferred to stay in the city. William was expected to return to work at her father’s firm and Louise declared that she, too, wished to stay put.

  “I feel I’ve only just got home. The thought of rushing off somewhere else gives me a headache.” She gazed at me in the mirror. “You don’t mind, do you, Jane?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Tyler.”

  “Only you did see a great deal of Mr. Hirschfeld last summer. I thought you might want to get away.”

  I was more concerned as to where to store the resort clothes made in Paris—and how Louise would keep herself occupied in a city that was deserted for the summer. Even her fellow members of the Dumb Friends committee for animal welfare were out of town. True—she was no longer weeping from seasickness or tearing around the house in a rage over beverages. But to me, she seemed more weary than content. With William at the office, she spent long aimless hours gazing out the window. Occasionally, she resolved to address household matters—fresh curtains or moving the piano to the other side of the room. But all such projects floundered after brief effort and were forgotten. The senior Mrs. Tyler, not used to her plans being countermanded, called daily to demand Louise’s presence on Long Island. At one point, I suggested a visit to Louise’s mother, now visiting family in Scarsdale—only to receive a look that said had Louise Tyler been the sort of woman who slapped servants, my cheek would sting.

  The best part of Louise’s day was breakfast, as husband and wife began their day together. Dining room and kitchen were separated by a short pantry hallway, which meant the staff ate in discreet silence, maintaining the pretense that we didn’t hear everything William and Louise said. When they first started married life, there hadn’t been much to hear beyond “Good morning, dear,” and “Did you sleep well?” But after two years, there was a nice uxorial hum of conversation along with the tinkle of silverware on china and companionable flap of newspaper.

  One morning, William’s raised voice cut through the quiet. “Dear God, we met him.”

  “Met whom, dearest?”

  “The … duke, no, archduke.” He read aloud, “‘Heir to Austria’s Throne Slain with His Wife by a Bosnian Youth.’ You remember, we were presented to him at Welbeck.”

  “Yes,” said Louise with sudden enthusiasm. “His wife didn’t often travel with him because his family thought her unsuitable. They have children,” she added sadly.

  “He was shot at Welbeck, too. A loader fell down and the gun went off. Imagine surviving that, just to get killed in … Sarayevo. Gevo? Yevo. I think.”

  There was a silence. Then Louise asked, “Is it bad? Will something happen?”

  “I don’t know,” said William. “Oh, look—there’s going to be an aeroplane race for July Fourth, right here in the city.”

  “How exciting,” said Louise.

  * * *

  “An annual carnival of noise, smoke, and bloodshed,” was the ungenerous assessment given by some to the celebration of our nation’s independence. This year, the mayor had banned all fireworks and declared the city would have a “safe and sane” July Fourth. Instead of unnerving pops, cracks, and booms, City Hall would be illuminated with electric lights. There would be baseball games, public concerts. Eight aeroplanes and flying boats would race from Governors Island to Spuyten Duyvil. Having spent the last several months in rarefied company, the younger Tylers were keen to “be among the people.” The newly hired cook, Mrs. Avery, would be persuaded to pack a picnic lunch. The staff would be given the day off. But when William and Louise learned that I intended to spend July Fourth on my own, they insisted I come picnicking with them. No, I would not be intruding! Of course they wished to spend their holiday with me. Anyone, they said, eyes solemn, would want to spend time with me.

  Happy to be behind the wheel of his beloved new vehicle, William was eager to see the start of the race, and so we chose Battery Park as our picnic spot. The Tylers’ enthusiasm for the masses was tested by the enormous crowds gathered at the tip of the island. Finally, we managed to find a postage stamp of grass on which to set the blanket. (Columbus-like, William stood astride the few meager feet and announced he claimed this land in the name of Tyler. Adding “And Prescott!” after a beat.)

  Still, the sky was blue, the crowds merry, and the pom pom of the tuba lively enough that we managed to enjoy a good meal of ham sandwiches, tomato salad, and walnut cake before the crowds began to shift toward the river for the start of the race. I packed away the dishes and folded the blanket, returning them to the car before joining William and Louise in the throng.

  A man was watching Governors Island through binoculars, barking updates through a megaphone. It was about to start, ladies and gentlemen, any moment, it would happen, keep a lookout! The crowd swayed this way and that as people craned necks and jockeyed for view. Pressed and jostled from all sides, Louise grew anxious. William put his arm around her, and she said, “I’m so silly, I don’t know why I feel nervous.” She tried a smile, but it faded the moment he looked away.

  I was about to offer my own reassurance when I heard the thrum and pop of engines starting. The rattling buzz grew louder and all of a sudden, two monoplanes sped into view, with a great cheer from below that seemed to lift them even higher. As the planes swooped around the Statue of Liberty, I heard a gasp and turned to see that Louise had gone white. Her jaw was rigid, her breath erratic, and she was trembling violently. “It’s madness,” she whispered. “Complete madness.”

  Alarmed, I met William’s eye and without speaking, we began to make our way out of the crush. When we were free of the crowd, Louise apologized. She had ruined everything. She didn’t know why, what had come over her. She had simply felt … terrified.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said William. “We’ve seen the best part. I say we go home.”

  On the ride back, William said he hoped it wouldn’t distress Louise too much, but he might not want to work for her father for forever. Louise pronounced herself delighted and we had a humorous conversation about the many careers he might pursue, from circus performer to senator. Then Louise announced a desire for ice cream, and William declared that she should have it. She announced a desire for a dog. He declared that she could have that, too, only he should be called Alfonso, because someone should be. Which left me dwelling on what other new arrivals to the family there might be one day and the profound hope that they not be named Alfonso.

  “Cards!” shouted William as he pulled the Ghost to a halt outside the house. “I want ice cream and dogs and a magnificent tournament of—”

  Louise gasped. Puzzled over the break in mood, I looked where she was looking, and saw Leo Hirschfeld standing at the front door. A weight I had not known I carried suddenly lifted. A mistake, it had been a mistake …

  Removing herself from the car, Louise said, “Mr. Hirschfeld. You must be here to see Jane.”

  Leo gave me the briefest glance before taking off his hat. “Actually, Mrs. Tyler, I’m here to see you.”

  * * *

  As my presence had been rejected, I took myself upstairs to my room. There was, I reminded myself, a great deal of work to do. Really, I should never have gone picnicking, it had been tremendously presumptuous, a waste of time, and if I was miserable now, it was no more than I deserved.

  Why? Why had I felt so happy on seeing him? Because I was foolish, that was why. I had been a fool
and now it was time to stop being a fool and get on with work. The hem of Louise’s favorite day dress, yellow with black piping, had come loose. Taking up the dress, needle, and thread, I set myself to the task as if the day had just begun, banishing all other events from memory.

  There was a knock at the door. Louise offering sympathy, I thought with dread. “Please don’t worry on my account, Mrs. Tyler…”

  The door opened. I heard Leo say, “Hello.”

  A quick glance affirmed he was no longer a singing waiter in apron and shirtsleeves. He wore a seersucker suit with a light gray stripe and a paisley tie. His dark springy hair was neatly trimmed, his oxfords polished. The straw boater turning like a wheel in his hands was fresh, with a snappy black band. He had done well in the time I was away. Become a successful songwriter as he had predicted. Was about to have his own show, as he had also predicted. Other things had not turned out as predicted.

  I offered my congratulations. He looked puzzled. Then said, “Oh, that.”

  For a moment, we watched each other. Sticking the needle through the cloth I said in a rush, “It’s just so odd because I thought you were going to marry Clara.”

  “I told you I wasn’t going to marry Clara.”

  “You told me you weren’t going to marry anyone.”

  “I…” He was stuck. “… forgot.”

  Yes, that sounded likely. For all his ability to predict the future, Leo had a habit of getting lost in the present, especially when it was female. It was why, I reminded myself, I had ended our friendship before leaving for Europe.

  “Poor Clara,” I said lightly. “Was she upset?”

  “Very. So upset she married her philosophy professor the month before.” Holding up a hand to forestall sympathy, he said, “Violet and I were acquainted well before then.”

  Violet. That’s right, she had a name. She had Leo and she had a name. Leo’s name in fact.

  He said, “Well, I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Surely, that isn’t why you came all the way here on July Fourth, to ask my forgiveness.”

  “No. I was wondering if you wanted to see the show.”

  Starring the stunning Mrs. Hirschfeld. The words “not on your life” were on my lips, but he added, “I’ve invited Mrs. Tyler to tomorrow’s rehearsal. She’d like to come, but she won’t do it unless she knows you’re not mad at me.”

  At first I was baffled by Louise’s interest. Then I recalled one summer afternoon when Leo had entertained a luncheon gathering on the Tyler piano. He had been charming, the ladies charmed. Louise especially. Now that I thought of it, Leo had always made a point of keeping her abreast of his plans to one day have a show of his own. But Broadway shows cost money. Perhaps his visit today should not have been a surprise. Perhaps even his interest in me …

  “And I want to know you’re not mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you.” I presented the statement as you would a receipt. “And beyond her attire, how Mrs. Tyler spends her afternoon is none of my concern.”

  Wretched silence followed. I sewed. Leo’s clasped hands bobbed between his knees. Then he stood up and said, “Please come? I want you to see … it’s what we talked about and it won’t feel…”

  The discussion having turned to feelings, Leo lapsed into awkward silence. Then he added, “Besides, it has your song in it. It’s the best thing in the whole show.”

  Leo had always insisted he wrote “But on Fridays” for me. For a moment, I saw the boy I had splashed on the beach, who had then chased me down the sand, who argued over the last piece of coconut candy before surrendering it with a sigh in exchange for one kiss, two kisses, oh, let’s not count. The boy who had devised schemes and dreams as he ambled along the shore, the Atlantic Ocean framing the scope of his ambition: he would do this tomorrow, then that next week, and then I should, then we would …

  “If Mrs. Tyler wants me to accompany her, then of course, I’ll go.” Struggling for manners, I added, “It will be a pleasure to meet Mrs. Hirschfeld.”

  At that, he grinned. “If you say so.”

  * * *

  The next morning I awoke to discover that despite the absence of fireworks, the Fourth had not been entirely safe and sane. A bomb had gone off, destroying a building and killing four people. The bomb, the papers explained, had been meant for Rockefeller. Revenge for the deaths of two women and eleven children at Ludlow. But the bomb had exploded before it could be delivered, killing the would-be assassins. The Industrial Workers of the World was said to be responsible.

  When I left for Europe, Anna had been working for the IWW.

  Heart pounding, I looked for the address. It was uptown, nowhere near the Gorman Refuge run by my uncle, nowhere near … anyone I knew. I scanned the names of the dead: Berg, Caron, Chavez, Hanson. Three men. One woman.

  One woman. Not Anna.

  The chief assassins might be dead, but the police thought other plotters were still at large. They were particularly interested in finding a Michael Murphy, but he was presumed on the run. Had Anna ever mentioned the names Berg or Caron? Hanson or Murphy? I couldn’t remember. I had talked to her so little before leaving. When had I last seen her? Not since … summer. No—had I seen her in the summer? My days off had been spent mostly with Leo. It had, I realized with a pang of guilt, been some time.

  Before leaving for the theater, I made a hurried telephone call to Anna’s uncle’s restaurant. In the past, that had always been the best way to reach her. When her uncle answered, I said I was Anna’s friend, yes, the girl from the neighborhood. Did he know, by any chance, where she was staying? I had been away and had not heard from her.

  No, said her uncle, he didn’t know where Anna was living. But she was working hard. No, he wasn’t sure where. Implied in that statement was that he was also working hard, and after asking him to give my love to his wife and her sister, I let him go. Then I sat with the knowledge that my oldest and dearest friend was angry with me.

  3

  My uncle, having fallen out with one church, was not inclined to set foot in another ever again. Sunday services at the refuge were held in the parlor, a side table serving as the altar. My first employer, Mrs. Armslow, was wealthy enough that God came to her, in the form of a pink-cheeked bishop. And so it was not until I saw St. Paul’s in London that I found myself in a space created to encounter the divine. For an hour, I had wandered in a state of awe, jaw loose, eyes wide. Everything about the cathedral drew your gaze up and made you feel a speck, nothing more significant than the dust motes that floated for a brief time in the sun. I stood transfixed beneath the dome, newly certain that God existed, because here was His abode in all its majesty. When I came out blinking into the daylight, I felt I had had a mystical experience. Although it could have been dizziness from tilting my head for so long.

  I recalled that memory as I walked into the Sidney Theater with Louise that afternoon. As with church, there were outer circles you traversed as you got closer to the chamber of worship: the box office, the lobby, then through gilt doors and into the theater itself. Here, too, the gaze was drawn up to the altar. Here, too, that sense of vastness and mysterious purpose. But unlike church, how the miracles were achieved was not a mystery. You heard it in the plink of a piano, the hammering and shouts of the stagehands, sudden bursts of song, and just as sudden bursts of complaint.

  Only seven years old, the Sidney Theater was equipped with the most modern advances—hydraulics, a lighting board, and set workshops on the lower floors with an elevator to carry the results up to the stage—as well as the most lavish of interior design. Its creator had said he wanted the audience to feel as if they were in someone’s home, and so they might, if that someone were a Vanderbilt. Glossy oak paneling shone as red brown as a setter’s coat, alongside Tiffany stained glass and murals of the more titillating Greek myths. The seats were covered in red velvet; swaths of velvet hung at the balconies and doorways, bolstering the impression that this was a temple where the miraculous
would be revealed to the worthy and chosen few.

  Leo explained to Louise that as some things were not yet decided—“like the ending”—we would be seeing just a few of the big numbers. As we sat in a middle row, I noticed another gentleman sitting in one of the balconies. He was diminutive, with high, graying hair and protuberant eyes. A silver-topped cane rested against his chair, and he watched the stage with a proprietary gaze. If the theater was a church, he clearly considered himself God. This, I realized, must be Sidney Warburton, the man who had raised Leo from singing waiter to score composer.

  The lights dimmed and a plump young woman called everyone to places. Louise whispered, “What is the show about, Mr. Hirschfeld?”

  “What all good stories are about, Mrs. Tyler. Love.”

  A slim, dark-haired man stepped into the center of the stage. From his air of command—or was it preening?—this would be Claude Arden, half of the celebrated dance team, with a voice that could “melt maids’ hearts from Brooklyn to Bugtussle.”

  “Meet our hero,” said Leo. “A man in love. Deeply, sincerely in love.”

  Blanche Arden whirled in from the wings, a vision of blond hair and white chiffon. Hand to his heart, Claude inclined toward her. She extended a long, graceful arm and they glided rapturously around the stage. Claude returned to center. Blanche stepped back.

  Louise made to applaud, but Leo held up his finger. A second actress burst onto the stage like a pinwheel firework. This had to be Nedda Fiske, the ragtime dancer with a face of rubber who had mugged and pratfalled her way to stardom. Physically, the former Ziegfeld star was small, not above five feet. But every facial feature, from her endless mouth to perennially rolling eyes, was so vivid as to be visible at the back row. No chiffon for her, she wore a plain dark dress, not unlike my own. She circled Claude with long, loping strides, before sticking out her hand as if to seal a bargain. Galvanized, Claude slapped his hand into hers and the pair set off in a raucous cakewalk.