It was two weeks before the wedding. The sunbathing roof deck was complete, the cabins freshly painted, seven of the sixteen bathtubs had been shipped and pulled up the banks to the cabins by some thirty men, then installed. The rest would have to wait. A steamboat full of orchids would arrive from Manhattan a few days prior to the wedding, along with a shipment of hooch. The only thing left for me to do was go for a final fitting of my wedding gown in Manhattan and bring it back to the camp.
That and my final performance.
Archie had been at the camp with us for the past two weeks, rolling up his sleeves and working with the staff to ensure that everything would be perfect. While he’d originally planned to join me in Manhattan for my final send-off, he now needed to stay behind and await the special delivery by way of Canada to ensure that our wedding wouldn’t be dry. I understood the precariousness of the situation; it would be a middle-of-the-night delivery and Archie felt he should be there in case of any mishaps. So I asked Alberto to accompany me to the city, and we’d be back before the guests arrived for the wedding.
We took Archie’s railcar—it had been put to great use that summer, shuttling our friends back and forth. Alberto’s friends Chester and Michael also rode back to town with us. We were all dog-tired from the week’s activities. As soon as the first leg of the trip was complete, Chester said he planned to sleep the rest of the way. I probably could have benefited from the sleep, too, given all the wild parties I’d been throwing, but I was too eager for my performance. I’d have three days to rehearse and then, showtime.
Alberto and I sat at the table and chairs by the window. I tried to read a story in an old issue of McClure’s, but I kept reading the same few lines over and over.
“Archie is a good man, Olive, very welcoming,” Alberto said. “Nice of him to put up with all of our canto forte.”
“I know, he’s very patient.” I thought of all the late nights by the fire, Alberto, his friends, and me singing our lungs out. “Though he has to allow me to let it out somewhere, especially now that I’m giving up the stage.”
Alberto shook his head. “You told me when we first met on the lake, that you would never give it up, you said he would never ask you to.”
“I know.” I nodded. “I didn’t think he would.” I looked out the window and sighed. “But things are different now. I didn’t know back then that I would be in love with him the way I am now. I didn’t know that I’d want this life, companionship. Until I met Archie, I honestly thought it wasn’t for me. But now I can’t imagine my life without him.”
Just this week Archie had spent two full days pitching in with the workers, painting the guide boats, repairing loose boards on the deck and making sure all the chairs at the boathouse were in good shape for picnics. He told me he wanted everything to be perfect for me and all my guests.
“I don’t want a lifetime of flings, Alberto. Now I know what’s possible, and I don’t want to lose him. Don’t you want that kind of companionship, especially as we get older?”
Alberto looked thoughtful. I followed his gaze to the sleeper carriage, where Chester was resting. We’d never spoken of such things, but I knew there was more than a simple friendship between them.
“Sometimes you can’t have everything that you want,” he said.
I understood what he meant, but it wasn’t my place to press him to tell me more.
“Will you have children, Olive?” His question got my attention, and I turned, silent, to face him. Alberto waited patiently for me to answer.
“No,” I said in a whisper.
“Archie, he doesn’t want a family?” Alberto seemed struck by this.
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak of it; the thought of it all made me want to curl up in shame.
“Olive, if Archie wants the babies, then I understand. Of course there is no way to be Ziegfeld girl and have the babies. But if he doesn’t, then why you have to stop—why? You can go on, Olive, you don’t have to waste this talent.”
“It’s complicated, Alberto,” I said. “It’s just far more complicated than that.”
“I don’t understand, Olive. Why can’t you have your love and also have your life, why you have to choose?”
“Because he doesn’t want me dressing that way. I think it will be an embarrassment to his family if I am this show girl, entertaining other men when we are man and wife. Most of the girls leave the show when they marry.”
“I understand, but you are not those other girls. I just worry that you will be unhappy. When I don’t sing I am infelice, miserabile. I might as well go away and morire if I cannot sing.”
I felt the same way. All summer I’d been putting on a show, hosting as many people as possible, inviting all my theater friends so that we could re-create the thrill of performing at the camp, so I could feel that camaraderie that I felt in the dressing room and backstage. I’d been drinking and drinking to make everything louder, more rambunctious, to make the everyday moments spectacular. I knew I should stop, but I wanted to shock people, I wanted people to talk, I wanted word to travel back to the city about what fun everyone was having, just as word had traveled about the shows when I was in Manhattan. But I knew it was all a farce, something I was doing to trick myself into believing that everything was going to be okay, that everything wasn’t going to change.
“Just being a wife, Olive, it’s not enough for you. I’ve seen it before, you won’t be happy. Maybe you should have the babies, at least it will keep you occupied.”
“Alberto,” I snapped, “can we please stop talking about it?” But as soon as I said it, I regretted it. I’d offended him with my outburst. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so brash, but can we change the subject?”
He nodded and went back to reading his paper.
“Well,” he said after a few moments, “maybe it won’t even matter. If this country’s economy va in bagno the way my friend Roger tells me, then the theaters will be first to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here.” He tapped the page he was reading.
A CRASH IS COMING AND IT MAY BE TERRIFIC, the headline read.
“I’ve met him,” Alberto said. “Roger Babson, he’s molto intelligente.”
“I’ve heard Archie and his friends speak of him recently—he’s the statistician, right? They said he’s full of baloney. Apparently he’s been saying the same things for years and years.”
“‘Sooner or later a crash is coming, and it may be terrific,’” Alberto went on. “‘Factories will shut down, men will be thrown out of work, the vicious circle will get in full swing and the result will be a serious business depression,’” he read out loud.
“Yes,” I said, “that is quite depressing. Can we talk about something more uplifting?”
“‘There may be a stampede for selling which will exceed anything that the Stock Exchange has ever witnessed,’” he continued reading. “‘Wise are those investors who now get out of debt and reef their sails.’” Then he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Alberto, please, you are boring the pants off me.” I sighed.
“If he’s right, we are in big trouble,” he replied, showing me with his hands just how much trouble. I couldn’t help smiling at his lovely Italian way. “No one goes to the theater or the opera when men are losing their jobs, I can promise you that.”
I leaned in and read the article over his shoulder. “President Hoover doesn’t seem concerned. Look,” I said, “he says the market is sound, and he’s the president of the United States of America.”
“After your wedding, I will go to Europe and I will stay some time. I fill my schedule with European tours for the next year or more. You should try the same. If you want, I arrange a meeting for you and my European booker next time he’s in town.”
“Alberto, I told you,” I said. “This is my grand finale.”
The words hung heavy in the air between us. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, and we both stared straight ahead, the gravity of my statement sinking in. After a while he turned his eyes back to his paper, and I looked out of the window, filled with a sense of dread.