I dreamed I was showing off my high kicks down a staircase while Fiona Belle sang a medley of Irving Berlin tunes in harmony with Bert Williams. At the bottom of the stairs a grandfather clock opened and out popped Savanna, accompanied by three fat fairies wearing Prohibition browns. She pointed to her Mickey Mouse wristwatch, yelling, “Time to come in, Mel!” She held out a bouquet to me and I bowed to the sounds of staccato applause that resembled door-locks clicking more than hands clapping.
“Melody. Saree. Wake up, girls.”
I opened a lid. Mrs. Donovan stood in the doorway of my room holding a vase full of some sort of Japanese lotus blossom.
“What?”
“They’re for you. Arrived a few minutes ago. I brought 'em right up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan. Who are they from?”
She ignored the question, trotted over to the bed and handed the flowers to me. “Ya don’t see a lot of lotus blossoms as gifts.”
“Damn straight.”
There was no card. Anonymous lotus blossoms. The disappointment that swept over me was almost tangible. I knew they weren’t from Briley. A few dances do not a love affair make. I should have that one plastered on a T-shirt. Briley had future plans that meant working full and overtime hours. He was serious. He was also surrounded by gorgeous women who received bouquets on a daily basis from multitudes of interested men. Probably thought sending flowers to be insulting.
I had not convinced myself. I glanced over at Saree. Still out cold. My new roomie was a champion sleeper. I’d tossed most of the night but she’d smiled and snored.
I sighed, got out of bed, grabbed a robe and headed for the community bathroom. Fifteen minutes later with the stench of smoke gone from my freshly washed hair, face scrubbed clean of the remnants of the night’s make-up I was ready to face the morning. Or afternoon, which I suspected we’d reached an hour or so ago.
Mrs. Donovan had plopped the lotus flowers squarely on the dresser in their clear crystal vase. My bed had been made. She was still there, fluffing pillows.
Saree was just opening her eyes and looking around with an expression that said, “How in hell did I end up here?”
Mrs. Donovan glared at me. “Stinks, don’t it?”
“Pardon me?”
“That them flowers aren’t from Briley.”
“How did you know I even . . . ?”
I stopped. Stupid question. Of course she knew.
“Don’t you worry none, Mel. The lad’ll come around. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Nothin’ to fret about.”
She tossed the pillow on the bed then left the room, banging the door shut behind her.
Saree looked suspicously at the flowers. “What are those?”
“Lotus blossoms.” I handed them to her.
“Wowie! They’re different.”
She sniffed. “They smell nice. Much nicer than me. There are at least five distinct cigarette brands on five different areas of my body. From five different men twirling me around the floor if I remember correctly. Are there showers in this joint?”
“Down the hall. You used the community bathroom last night, remember? The showers are behind the big door next to the sinks.”
I threw my robe at her and wondered how we were going to squeeze her into one of Bettina’s outfits so she could trash the smoke-filled dress she’d had on from last night. Saree was a good deal shorter than I - and probably Bettina - but she was also good deal more - well - stacked. In a borrowed Bettina shirt she’d look like a hooker on 8th Avenue after a long but successful night.
Saree was back in twenty minutes, wrapped up in the robe and looking her age - which she’d told me was twenty-two - now that her make-up had been scrubbed off. I’d found her a skirt that probably would fit and a lightweight sweater that would doubtless be a little snug. I tossed them to her.
“. . .with Bettina’s regards.”
She preened. “She’s due in next weekend. I’ll just be sure they’re cleaned before them. Oh damn my garters! Look at the time.”
It was close to noon. I was surprised it wasn’t later.
“Mel? I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“Because the Count will start calling my place and when I’m not there, he’ll start calling every man I’ve ever dated. He gets jealous. I don’t want him to go around Manhattan beating up old boyfriends.” She sighed. “Something tells me this romance will be ending soon. I’m getting very bored with the possessiveness.” She grinned. “But the limo is terrif!”
I laughed at her. “You, Saree Goldman, remind me so much of my best friend back in Memphis." I didn't tell her she was actually in Manhattan. No way to introduce them. "She dumps guys faster than speeding bullets, loves to party, and thoroughly enjoys the perks that come with dating wealthy men.”
Saree giggled. “Smart cookie! Maybe I’ll get to meet her sometime and we can exchange war stories about our various flames.”
I didn’t attempt to explain that meeting Savanna could prove difficult unless Saree made it to the ripe old age of hundred and twenty or so. Shame. They’d adore each other.
Saree dressed with the speed only a dancer can perfect with quick changes offstage, hugged me and was out the door before I realized I’d wanted to tell her I’d appreciated having a roommate after Briley had brought up the topic of Francesca Cerroni. Since I figured only one ghost haunted #413, if two possibles stuck together we should stay safe.
I had about seven hours before I had to be at the theatre. It was spitting rain outside so playing tourist didn’t look enticing. I headed down to the lobby to look for Mrs. Donovan. Not there. The girl behind the desk introduced herself as Della Lowder, one of the boarders who lived on the first floor of the house. I explained my request and though she seemed surprised she said she’d see about finding me some plain paper to draw on. I’d decided to make use of my free time by sketching some costumes for Frolic. Eyeing the funky outfits at the two parties had inspired me.
By the end of the day I had six nice sketches done. Whether they ended up on stage in the 21st Century, or even somewhere in the 20th, it didn’t matter. I’d been productive and managed to dodge thinking of ghosts - or Briley McShan. Well, part of the time.
Briley himself showed up at the rooming house at 6:30 to escort me to the theatre.
“Hey, Briley. How was your day?”
“Fine. Yours?”
I couldn’t resist. “Lovely. Started this morning when lotus blossoms arrived for me.”
He glowered. “Lotus blossoms? From whom?”
“Oh, an admirer.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Don’t get too thrilled. There are more stage-door Johnnys sending junk to every Follies chorine after shows than there are pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s Delicatessen. Peter Herzochevskia always sends the new girls something after opening night. As do Grady Martel, Robert Samson, Lawrence Vassily, Lloyd Ellingsford - shall I go on?”
“Oh.”
I felt myself deflate.
Briley kindly jumped to another subject. “Have you seen the reviews?”
“No. They’re out?”
“Yes, indeed, they are. And they’re terrific. I’d say John Steele got the lion’s share of the praise, as did Bert Williams. The Times critic raved about Berlin’s music. On the whole, it was a theatrical triumph.”
“And did that redhead with all that talent get a mention?”
“You mean Jessie Reed?” he chortled.
I lightly tapped him on his chest. “No! I mean Mel Flynn from Memphis, Tennessee.”
“Sorry. After all, you did come in too late to make the program, much less catch the eyes of the critics.”
I gave a mock sigh. “I suppose I shall just have to bear the disappointment of not being an instant star.”
He laughed then grew serious. “Is that what you want? To be a star in the Ziegfeld Follies? Then go on to the moving pictures?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve never had aspirations to be on camera. Or even on stage. I’m much more comfortable designin' costumes than wearing them. I needed this job and I’m lovin' it but my goal has always been to design for Broadway. Win a Tony someday.”
“A Tony?”
I hadn’t had an anachronistic slip for at least twenty-four hours. This was major. The Antoinette Perry Awards would not become a fixture of American Theatre until sometime in the mid-Nineteen-Forties. I frantically began to come up with a really good whopper to cover.
Briley took my elbow and guided me across a busy intersection that had remained waterlogged from the day’s rain. “Never mind. I can see your brain churning to fabricate some some ridiculous answer. I don’t want to force you to lie.”
I rapidly changed the subject while I had the chance. “So, is there another party scheduled for tonight? Seems like frivolity is the password for the Follies group.”
“I believe tonight there’s a smaller soiree. Just the cast and crew and a few dates of either back at Francy’s. No press, no money people; only the extended Ziegfeld family.”
“Sounds nice.”
I held my breath wondering if he’d ask if I were planning on going. Of course, since I’d been the one to bring it up in the first place, he probably hadn’t intended to tell me anything.
“Do you think you’ll be going, Mel?”
The comment was slightly off-handed and definitely formal, but he seemed to be looking a bit too intently at the sidewalk. I wasn’t so delicate that I couldn’t step into a puddle without it causing injury and I’m sure he was well aware of that fact.
“I’m considering it. If no one notices my clothes which apparently aren’t the norm.”
I was wearing the gaucho pants again.
Briley smiled. “I like them. They show off your, um, figure, without being obvious.”
I’d just been given a compliment. I had to accept it lightly or I’d never see another one.
“Thanks. I predict in the future this type of pant/dress will become all the rage. Women will buy them along with cuffed cargo pants at funky stores called The Gap and Old Navy.”
“Ah! You can foretell the future?”
“Of course.”
“Great! Want to tell me who’ll win the World Series this October so I can bet properly?”
I smiled. “No, no. No predictions for evil monetary gain. There’ll be enough trouble with this Series without my help. How about I just tell you that in 1969 men will walk on the moon?”
He roared. Five people on Broadway buying food from a vendor turned to stare.
“You’re too funny! And we have only fifty years to wait to see if you’re correct.”
“Okay, wise guy. How about if I tell you that the Follies will be forced to close down for a couple of weeks this comin' August?”
He exhaled. “What?”
“Yep. Actors Equity Strike.”
I couldn’t believe I’d remembered that. But the TV program about Irving Berlin had mentioned that fact and I have an audio graphic memory- especially for ridiculous bits of trivia.
Briley’s face held a mixture of suspicion and humor. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I can foresee the future.”
“Or you’re making a big guess since you’ve doubtless heard about the various shows going on strike since this past spring.”
I winked at him. “Or that.”
We’d reached the theatre by this time and I was glad to put an end to this conversation about my psychic abilities before I really got into trouble.
I plopped down into my chair in the dressing room and began applying stage make-up.
Saree tapped me on the shoulder. “So?”
“So, what?”
“Briley. He walked you to the theatre tonight, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“Jeez, Saree, you’re nosy! So - nothing. We walked. We talked. Nothing.”
“He likes you.”
“He tolerates me. I mean, we’ve been talkin' but there’s too much hurt in his past to let me into his life as anything more than a friend.”
She took my powder puff and playfully thwapped me in the face with it. Powder sailed everywhere. “He likes you.”
“Go away, Saree.”
She laughed, turned then whirled back around “Are you going to Francy’s tonight?”
I groaned. “No. How do y’all keep up this schedule of partyin' one night and dancin' on stage the next?”
“You get used to it. I can’t sleep anymore unless it’s past 3:00 a.m.”
“Well, I’m still a beginner in this. Maybe after a few weeks I can keep up. But I’m the new baby in the crowd and I need my naptime. As for tonight? I may just go home. Hey! You look cheerful. Did you find the Count?”
Saree sighed.“Oh yeah. Waiting for me at my apartment with a dozen roses. Briley called him last night and told him where I was. So he’s thrilled I’m safe and not out with someone else. So we’re back on. “She paused, then chuckled. “For another day or two anyway.”
“Hmm. Got anyone in mind for your next conquest?”
She winked. “Maybe. Mister Issac Rubenovitch has always been really sweet to me. And I like the fact that Izzy has never written about the Follies girls. Stood up for me when Clow slandered me. Plus he’s kinda cute!”
“I’m sorry I asked. See you onstage in a bit. I’m going to finish gettin' ready. Then I’m going to get on stage and be a dancing tulip and shimmy my little behind ‘til ‘I can’t shimmy no more.’ Then I’m going to go back to my rooming house and commune with my pillow.”
She snickered. “You’ll change your mind once the show’s over. You’ll be too excited to sleep. Trust me. It happens to all of us.”
My second show with the Follies went off without a hitch. I felt a bit more comfortable on stage now but still watched the other girls closely for my steps and the sequences. Last evening I’d been acutely aware of every person on the stage; tonight my mind wandered to thoughts of a certain person offstage and what he was doing.
We received another standing ovation. I pulled off the bonnet that went with my finale costume as I headed toward the direction of the dressing room. Saree was right about the excitement. Still, I fully intended on just changing clothes, grabbing a hot dog from a vendor near the theatre then crashing at East 12th for a long sleep. But life took a different turn.