CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Late that Summer, Silky Morgan began rehearsals for Mavis!, which was now called (temporarily) The Love Ticket. The first time she saw Dick was on the first morning of the first line reading, in a hot, bare room where they all sat around a long table. He gave her a warm smile and shook her hand. She almost choked to death.

“You’ve lost weight,” Dick said.

She nodded.

“It’s becoming. Don’t lose any more, though.” Then he introduced her to the cast, which was mixed, and to the author, a middle-aged white cat who looked as if the only black person he’d ever known was his maid. She figured he was just trying to get on the bandwagon with this musical because black was in, but after a while she discovered he wasn’t so bad; he had an impish sense of humor, humility, and he owned every record she’d ever made. Two really old white guys had written the songs, and they weren’t even there. Silky had always thought that Broadway was very exciting, but now she began to think it was like the stock market, full of old guys selling blue-chip stocks, with gambling reserved for the wild and the crazy. The only decent thing the show had, it seemed to her, was Dick Devere.

She tried to do everything she had learned from Simon Budapest, and felt very dissatisfied with the first day of readings, but Dick said nothing to criticize her. Afterwards she hung around hoping he would talk to her, but he patted her on the shoulder and told her to run along home as he had to talk to the author about changes. She went into the hot street, feeling lonely and sad, trying to pretend she was in a hurry so no one in the cast would try to be friendly to her and ask her to go for coffee or anything.

Dick had given her the script in a beautiful dark-red leather folder, from one of those fancy leather stores, with her name embossed in gold on the front. That was evidently what a star got. She was a star. It seemed unreal. She stroked the smooth leather and tried to think of herself as a star, but all she felt like was a scared kid who was going to make a disgrace of herself in front of a lot of strangers.

That night she had a cup of tea and studied her lines in her room. She’d been working with the choreographer for a couple of weeks now, and the play made more sense than the first time she’d seen it. She thought the songs were square, but she’d only heard them played on a piano and croaked out by the two ancients who wrote them, so that was no way to judge. She wished she had someone to discuss things with. She couldn’t go to Mr. Libra; she was afraid of him. She couldn’t go to Mr. Budapest; she was afraid of him, too. She was more afraid of Dick than of anybody. It was ridiculous—here she was, a star, and she had nobody to ask about anything. On impulse she dialed Gerry at home.

Gerry was out, and her roommate Bonnie, who sounded like a scared mouse who’d just been awakened, said she’d give her the message if she saw her. The world seemed deserted.

Silky took a bath and went to bed at nine o’clock. Her muscles hurt from the dance routines—it seemed as if they had always hurt now and would hurt for the rest of her life. Was this what dancers did for a living? They must be insane. Who wanted to be in pain all the time?

The phone rang at midnight and woke her up. It was Hatcher Wilson, in town for a few days. Silky was unaccountably glad to hear from him. He seemed like an old friend. See, just when you thought you had nobody in the world, someone always turned up …

“I’ve got so much to tell you,” Silky said.

“Me, too.”

“You first.”

“I’m getting married, baby! How do you like that?”

Married? Him? She couldn’t believe it. She tried to keep the surprise and disappointment out of her voice. “Hey, that’s groovy. Who is she?”

“A chick I met on the road. We’re getting married this weekend in Connecticut. She’s a dancer and a singer. We’re going to do a single together. I wrote it myself for us. You want to come to the recording session on Friday?”

“I have to rehearse. I’m going to star in a Broadway musical.”

“I read about it. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she lied. “It’s exciting and fun. A lot of work, but you know …”

“Everything’s work, baby. You don’t get anything for nothing in this business.”

“I know. Well, I’m sorry I won’t be able to go to your recording session … and I’d like to have met your fiancée.”

“You’ll meet her. How about you? You still going with that director or whatever he is?”

“He’s directing my show.”

“Mmm hmm.” He gave a dirty grunt.

“We’re just friends. I haven’t time for any of that now.”

“When did you ever?” Hatcher said, and laughed.

“Well,” Silky said. “It was nice talking to you. I have to go to sleep now; I get up very early.”

“Okay. Catch you later.” He hung up. She realized she hadn’t asked him where he was staying, and he hadn’t volunteered the information. The girl probably wouldn’t understand that they’d always been just friends.

Friends … had they even been friends? Now she realized they had been, and that all these months when she was eating her heart out for Dick she should have taken time to look at Hatcher and see that he wasn’t just a bum, that even he could fall in love and get married. Maybe she could have married him, if things had been different. But would she have wanted to? Now she would never know. He was the only guy she really knew, except for Dick, and now he was in love and getting married and lost forever. Well, lost for the first year, anyway. She’d never paid one bit of attention to Hatcher Wilson, but now she felt rejected. Time went by so fast and she did nothing. She’d be an old maid for sure, and being a famous old maid wouldn’t help at night when she was all alone in a hotel like somebody who didn’t belong anywhere … like somebody’s old suitcase … transient … ready to go at a moment’s notice … where?

She slept badly, had a piece of gum for breakfast, and was at rehearsal early. She hoped she’d have a chance to see Dick alone, but he arrived when the rest of the cast was already there. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before and needed a shave.

The weeks blended into one another, work and panic. They got into the theater and started blocking the show. Now Dick yelled at her when she did something wrong, screamed as if offended that she’d once been his girl and now was only someone stupid who kept doing things wrong. Gerry came to a couple of rehearsals and told her she was marvelous.

“Dick doesn’t think so,” Silky said.

“He does so. He told me. The only reason he yells at you is this is his first Broadway show and he’s more scared than you are. You’re going to be wonderful.”

“What do you think of the show?” The show was now called (temporarily) Movin’ On.

“I think it’s pretty good. The songs are good. I can see three right now that are going to be hits. I hate the title, but they’ll change that.”

“Do you really think I’m okay?”

“You’re more than okay.”

“Well, I just wish I knew for sure.”

“You’ve been working awfully hard,” Gerry said, looking her up and down. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Eight hours every night, sometimes more.”

“You look kind of skinny. Do you eat?”

“Sure,” Silky lied.

“Well, maybe you should take vitamins or something.”

“I do.” That was true, anyway.

“You really look skinny,” Gerry said. “How much do you weigh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, maybe you should drink Tiger’s Milk or Gorilla Milk or something. If you get run down you’ll catch a cold, God forbid, and that’s the worst thing that can happen in rehearsal because you never get rid of it. Eat steak. That gives you energy. Tartar steak, if you can stand it. I don’t want to sound like your mother, but if Mr. Libra sees you looking like this he’ll yell and scream worse than Dick ever did, and you know it.”

“Okay,” Silky said. That night after rehearsal she went to Alexander’s, which was open late, and bought a padded bra, a padded panty girdle, and a lumpy-looking wool sweater and a thick tweed skirt. They made her look like she’d gained ten pounds.

She wore them to rehearsal the next day, which was a lucky thing because Mr. Libra showed up. He didn’t seem to notice anything and he told her that she was coming along fine and if she needed anything to come to him. That was a laugh. She just needed a new heart, one with courage, that didn’t have a crack in it that couldn’t seem to heal.

Dick had acquired an assortment of interchangeable girls who came to rehearsals at night to pick him up. They all had long hair, big busts, and tight dresses that showed a lot of superior leg. They also had false eyelashes and the same face: vapid, self-consciously pretty, and smug. Since she never did see the same one twice, Silky knew that smug look didn’t last for long. This was a funny new scene for Dick—he used to stay with one girl for a while, but now he had turned into Mr. One-Night Stand, like he wanted to make it with every girl in the world. She wondered why.

One evening Gerry came to rehearsal and brought her roommate, Bonnie Parker. Bonnie was a beautiful girl but Dick paid no attention to her after giving her a falsely hearty greeting, and Silky wondered why. She would have thought Bonnie would be just the sort of girl Dick would want to go to bed with. Maybe he already had, and was through with her, just like with that long string of rehearsal girls. Bonnie certainly didn’t seem to mind; she looked perfectly pleased with herself and flirted outrageously with the stage manager.

A new girl picked Dick up after rehearsal and Silky went home alone. She was exhausted and she had to get her clothes together to decide what to take to Boston next week when they opened there. It seemed as if she was so exhausted lately that she could hardly move by five o’clock, much less the late hours they finished torturing her. She was tired at night and tired when she got up in the morning. She had missed her period, more than a month ago, and she couldn’t understand why, because she hadn’t been near a man in months. It was probably nerves. She felt more nervous than anyone on earth.

In her room she took off her clothes and padded underwear and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a Halloween skeleton! She was drenched in sweat from wearing those hot clothes in the hot theater, and she felt faint. It was September and still hot, and those layers of clothes she padded herself with were just like a sweat suit. She took a cold shower and forced herself to put on a clean cotton dress and sandals so she could go downstairs and eat something. There was a coffee shop on the corner and she went in and ordered a bowl of soup because it was the only thing she thought she could get down. As usual, she had two spoonfuls and felt her throat close. She was hungry, but she couldn’t eat. I’m going to die, she thought in terror. I’m going to die before we even open.

She looked at herself in the mirror above the counter and saw only eyes and mouth, like a caricature. Her cheekbones stuck out like little knives. She must have lost thirty pounds. Could you lose ten pounds a month? Why not? And it had been more than three months since Dick had dumped her; it had been forever. Forever … she was drying up, disappearing … vanishing. She ordered a Coke, drank a third of it, and paid the check.

Silky liked Boston because it was a change from New York and she’d gotten to miss traveling now that she and the girls didn’t go on the road any more. She was sorry she didn’t have more time to walk around and look at the city, but they were working day and night. The show was now called Mavis! again. There wouldn’t be any more big script changes until after the Boston opening, just some cuts. The first time she played to a real audience, at the first run-through, she was surprised that she had only one moment of panic; then suddenly the audience seemed just like the people in her night-club audience (except she was wearing a body mike) and she could see the faces in the front row just as if she were playing a club. When she sang, as always she forgot the people were even there. Their applause rose up to her like waves of love. It was real! She was real!

Then, the night of the next-to-last run-through, during her second song, she felt herself blacking out. She was freezing cold and sweat was pouring down her face; she saw black and green lights in front of her eyes, there was a buzzing in her ears, and she couldn’t feel the stage under her feet. When she came to, she was lying on the cot in her dressing room and everyone was shouting.

Dick was leaning over her, his face pale and very concerned. Behind him, she saw Mr. Libra, who had come down to Boston for the week, and who was now fading away and coming back right in front of her eyes like a surrealistic movie. She tried to get up.

“I have to go back there … what happened?”

“Lie down, you little fool,” Dick snapped. He pushed her down on the cot. “The show’s over.”

Suddenly, Mr. Libra was there, shoving Dick away, suddenly nice, a different Mr. Libra than she had ever known. “You really are a horse’s ass,” he said to Dick. He put his hand on Silky’s forehead. “You don’t have any temperature,” he said, mildly. “Were you scared?”

“No,” she said.

“Maybe you ate a bad clam. I told you not to eat tourist food.”

“She doesn’t eat anything,” the wardrobe mistress said self-righteously. “I told her. She’s killing herself.”

“What do you mean, ‘the show’s over’?” Silky said. She started to cry.

“Just for tonight,” Mr. Libra said. “You’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ve sent for Ingrid, the Lady Doctor, she’s flying down. She’ll be here in less than an hour. Shell fix you right up. Don’t you worry, we’re not going to lose our star, or our show either.”

“Look … I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Dick said.

She held out her hand for a Kleenex and Mr. Libra gave her the box.

“Do you think you can make it to a cab now, or should I get an ambulance?”

“No ambulance!” She blew her nose. “What did you do with all the people?”

“They went home,” said Mr. Libra, “where they’re probably screwing for the first time in years. I will hold you personally responsible for the population explosion in this town. Here, put your arm around Dick’s shoulders; he’s stronger than he looks.”

Dick was carrying her in his arms, she had her head on his shoulder just as if she was a little girl again and he was her papa. She hadn’t thought the name “Papa” in years. It was always: her father, as if he were somebody abstract. Dick even had a bony shoulder like her papa. His arms were strong and gentle. She had loved him once, so much, so long ago … Dick … but this wasn’t Dick, it was just somebody named Dick, who was directing her show. He was holding her at last, the way she’d dreamed for so long, and he wasn’t the man Dick she’d loved, he was just something kind and strong and gentle she needed. She was more afraid of being sick or maybe dying than she was of losing Dick. She came first. She had to get well. They had sent those people away who had come to see her show and maybe they would come back and try again, or maybe other people would come, and she had to be ready for them. They were waiting to try to love her and she had to make them love her. Imagine—they had sent all those people away! Just because she was sick, they had sent away a whole theater full of people! Oh, how she loved those people … how she loved Dick’s arms around her … strong arms she knew at last she was strong enough to go on without.

They took her back to her hotel, which was a block from the theater, and put her to bed. They left one lamp on, on the dresser, and the door open a crack, while Dick and Mr. Libra waited in the living room for Ingrid.

“… house doctor,” Dick was saying. “I don’t see why we can’t send for the hotel physician, who is perfectly capable …”

They were trying to talk softly, but she could hear them. She heard someone pacing the floor: Mr. Libra? Dick?

“I don’t want someone perfectly capable, I want the best,” Libra said angrily. “You’re a son of a bitch lately, do you know that? I knew you whored around, but this is getting ridiculous. And you’re a grouch. I think I’m going to have Ingrid give you a shot, too, give everyone a shot. God knows, I need another one. Jesus, did anybody remember to call Lizzie?”

“I thought you’d remember that,” Dick said.

“I need Gerry,” Libra said. “Where the hell is Gerry? I can’t get along without Gerry.”

The doorbell rang.

“Thank God, Room Service,” Dick said.

“I need Ingrid, not Room Service,” said Libra.

The door closed.

“Have some Scotch,” Dick said. “You’ll feel better.”

“Watch Nero tipple while Rome burns.”

“Christ, they brought the wrong kind of gin.”

“I hope you don’t think Silky’s paying for that booze,” Libra said. “I hope you had the decency to charge it to your room.”

“Of course I did.” Dick sounded insulted.

The doorbell rang.

“Dear Sam! I came as fast as I could.”

“Ingrid, thank God. The kid collapsed on stage. She’s asleep now, I think. In there.”

“I just wash my hands first, please.”

A large woman in a black coat came clumping into the room on her way to the bathroom. Silky pretended to be asleep. The woman put a black doctor’s bag on the chair and went into the bathroom and shut the door. The doorbell rang again.

“Gerry!” Libra cried.

“I registered us both for the night,” Gerry said. “I thought you might need me, too.”

“I don’t need you, but as long as you’re here I’m glad to see you,” Libra said calmly.

“Hello, Dick,” Gerry said. Her voice was very cool.

“Hello, Gerry.”

“I thought you two were over that foolishness,” Libra said.

“It’s nothing personal,” Gerry said. “I just don’t like seeing this selfish, egotistical, insecure, hostile turd driving a friend of mine to suicide.”

“What suicide?” Libra said.

“Silky,” said Gerry. “I saw it coming, I should have done something, but I didn’t know what to do. It’s my fault too. The poor kid was so scared and miserable she tried to starve herself to death.”

“Suicide?”—Libra, unbelieving.

“I don’t know what else you’d call it.”—Gerry, cold.

“What suicide?”—Libra. “Spades don’t commit suicide. Statistics show they have the lowest suicide rate in the country.”

Silence.

“All right.”—Libra, conciliatory. “If you want to think Silky tried to starve herself to death, I guess you know more about young girls than I do.”

“I just don’t understand how you could sit there and let her do it, Dick.”—Gerry. “I watched you in rehearsals. You drove that girl up the wall. She’s still in love with you. You could have gone easier on her. She took everything you said personally.”

“Would it have been better if I had told her she was wonderful and then let her wake up to lousy reviews?”—Dick. “I did it for her—I wanted her to be a success. Maybe I did it the wrong way, but it’s the only way I know how.”

“What do you think, Dick? Seriously.”—Libra, dead earnest.

“I think she’s going to be a smash. I think she’s going to be a star. I didn’t think so at first, but I knew she had a chance if she worked her ass off. Now I know it.”—Dick. Oh, Dick, Dick said it! And it was clear he meant it. He knew she was going to be a smash, a star!

The woman, Ingrid, came out of the bathroom, wearing a white nylon nurse’s uniform and snapped on the overhead light.

“Wake up, my dear.”

Silky pretended to wake up, and Gerry and Mr. Libra came peering around the doorway. Gerry smiled hello, and Silky smiled back. She was really glad to see Gerry. Ingrid took a small glass vial out of the doctor’s bag, and then a paper strip of disposable hypodermic needles. Silky didn’t like the look of the bottle or the needles.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Just vitamins and some other things to make you feel better and stronger right away,” Ingrid said in a foreign accent.

“I don’t want it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Libra said.

“Tell me what it is.”

“I told you,” the woman said.

Silky didn’t like that the bottle didn’t have any label on it, and she didn’t like the look of the woman, either. The woman grabbed her arm and swabbed it off with a piece of cotton dipped in alcohol.

“Why doesn’t that bottle say anything?” she demanded.

“Because Ingrid makes it herself,” Mr. Libra said triumphantly. “It’s her secret love potion. I have one every day. You’ll feel wonderful in a few minutes, never know you were sick.”

“Vitamins don’t make you feel wonderful in a few minutes,” Silky said. “What else is in it?”

The woman had her arm in fingers like steel. Silky tried to pull away.

“You’ll have to hold her, Sam, she’s hysterical.”

Then Silky really did get hysterical. She didn’t know why she knew, but she knew it was dope. She had always suspected, without really thinking about it, that Libra was on something, but she had always thought it was his business and none of hers. But now it was her business. “Stop it!” she screamed, struggling to cover her arm with her other hand, to get away. “Stop it! Gerry, don’t let her give me dope, don’t let her, I’ll get hooked like him!”

Ingrid stuck her with the needle. Apeface Libra was holding her arm, and he looked sorry for her, as if she was just having a paranoid fit. Gerry’s eyes were wide open in shock. Silky could see from her face that she knew, too. The only one who didn’t know was Libra. The junkie fake doctor’s eyes were like tiny, black holes. She knew, all right. Her mouth looked as if it had been basted together with stitches.

“There, there,” Libra said kindly. He let go of her arm.

“What a display,” Ingrid said. “It is childish to be afraid of needles.”

Silky had never taken speed, but she knew what to expect because a lot of her friends back home had tried it, and some were hooked; she knew more about that scene than she wanted to … so, when the trip started she was not surprised, just frightened and desperate under the up that made her feel so strong and happy. Funny how a cat who had the bread could be a junkie all his life and nobody ever had to know about it. He didn’t have to steal, he didn’t have to hustle, he didn’t have to go through the bad times when he needed a fix because he never had to need a fix. Libra had the bread and Ingrid was ready. And the damn fool didn’t even know he was hooked.

“There, don’t you feel better already?” Libra said. “You look better. A few more of those before the show opens in New York and there’ll be no stopping you.”

“Can I please talk to Gerry?” Silky said.

“No talking,” Ingrid snapped. “Rest.” She tossed the hypodermic and bottle into her doctor’s bag and snapped it shut.

“Why don’t you throw the needle away?” Gerry asked, too sweetly. “It’s disposable, isn’t it?”

“The maid probably has a bad enough impression of show business people as it is,” Ingrid said.

Libra laughed. “Come on, Ingrid, I’ll show you to your room. Did you have dinner?”

“I brought some organic vegetables with me,” Ingrid said. She went into the living room with Libra.

“Come on, Gerry,” Libra called.

“Just a sec … I’m helping Silky change into a nightgown,” Gerry called. She shut the door fast and locked it. Then she sat on the bed. She didn’t say anything.

“It’s speed,” Silky said.

“Amphetamine?”

“Yeah. I can feel it. I’m really up there with the little birds. They ought to put that whore in jail and throw away the key.”

“I always thought Libra acted funny,” Gerry said. “What do you think is going to happen now?”

“Nothing, if I never take it again. Gerry, you got to stop them. I don’t want her to give me any more.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“He won’t listen.”

“I know.”

“He’s hooked,” Silky said. “And if she keeps giving it to me I’ll get hooked. I didn’t fight all my life to get where I am to turn into a junkie, man. Shee-it, what the fuck am I going to do?” She knew she was stoned because she was talking like the old Silky. She was going to fight like the old Silky, too. But she couldn’t think; her mind was going in fifteen directions at once and none of them made any sense.

“How many times do you have to take it before you get hooked?” Gerry asked.

“Four, five, maybe.”

“Not less?”

“Sometimes less. Depends on the person and how much you want it.”

“We can’t start accusing people,” Gerry said. “You don’t need that kind of publicity, not right now, not you, a pop singer. Nobody will understand. And it’ll wreck Mr. Libra’s career, too. It’s just too chancey right before a show opens, and you can’t take the time … you have to spend every minute getting well and getting strong so you can take care of your own life.”

“You’re a real company girl, aren’t you? And I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. Do you want to open in that show or do you want to be out of work forever just because people think you’re taking dope?”

“It’s not fair, dammit!”

“I know it’s not fair, but we just don’t have time. I’ll call off that Ingrid somehow … I don’t know how, but I will. I want you to promise me to eat like a horse and stop acting silly. I’ll get you a real doctor tomorrow and he’ll give you some real vitamins.”

“The funny thing is …” Silky said. “Right now I feel as if I could get right up and do that show just fine.”

“I bet you do,” Gerry said. She got up. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. I promise. I promise.” She smiled and unlocked the door.

Then she looked back at Silky and she was no longer smiling. Her face was scared, like a little kid.

“What is it?” Silky said, scared now, too.

“Libra,” Gerry said. “Oh, wow. I feel just like someone punched me in the stomach. I feel like … I suddenly have an addict in the family. Silky, you have no idea how fond I’ve gotten of that man. Now I’ve got to tell him he’s got some terrible disease. Oh, wow.” Her eyes were full of tears.

How could Gerry like him so much? Silky couldn’t stand him. Oh, well, to each his own.

She was really beginning to like the feeling the shot gave her. She didn’t like that her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking and her mouth had gotten dry, but she liked feeling on top of everything, as if she could cope with anything that happened now. She didn’t love Dick any more; he was just another guy she’d once known. She loved the show, weak as it was, and she loved the songs. She loved her audience, every one of those dear people who’d paid all that money to come to see her and applaud for her and laugh at the phony schticks she’d rehearsed so hard until they seemed spontaneous. She loved singing, and she loved her voice. No one in the business sounded like her when she really let go. She prayed to God to make her hate this powerful, carefree feeling, to give her the courage to remember it and recreate it when she hadn’t had the shot. She’d even go back to the misery if she could only stay off the speed. It was so easy to have the speed … she could have it all the time, free, with Libra’s blessing. Help me, Jesus, she prayed. Help me do it on my own. Help me hate Mr. Libra.

She’d almost forgotten why she’d always hated Mr. Libra, but she knew she’d remember in the morning. She had to remember, now.