Such a Dance (19 page)

“With a Song in My Heart”

L
ane couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a parade anything on this scale. It was worth leaving his worries behind for just a few hours if only to take a look at this spectacle. Confetti and streamers were everywhere, as were cars and ramshackle marching bands and people shouting. It seemed like everyone on the sidewalk was pushing forward, trying to see for themselves the man of the hour: Charles Lindbergh, back from his successful flight from New York to Paris.

“This is quite a blow, isn’t it?” Eddie said behind Lane. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this. Have you?”

“No.” Lane thought about that for a moment. “I guess there was that parade last summer for the woman who swam across the English channel, but even that wasn’t quite like this.”

“He’s touring the country,” Eddie said. “Lindbergh, I mean. I suppose he means to promote aviation, but I’ll tell ya, I can’t imagine ever going up in one of those things. I will stay here on the ground, thank you.”

“My brother wanted to fly airplanes in the war.” A sudden sadness struck Lane as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “He, ah, didn’t. The war ended before he got the chance.” After which time Robert had moved back home, and Lane had promised he’d marry Ruthie, and instead had run to New York with Scott.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie said, lightly touching Lane’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Lane shook his head. “Thinking about my brother made me realize I haven’t seen my family in five years. I don’t know if Robbie ever got to fly, or what he would think of Lindbergh, or if he ever got married, or . . .” Lane found he had to blink away tears.

He didn’t often think of his family. It had been more than three years since he’d had so much as a letter or any word as to how they were doing. Occasionally, some bit of news would trickle through the Mafia, but Lane’s father had wanted nothing to do with the less savory branch of his family. When Lane had first appealed to his cousin for a job, most of his “family” in New York had been strangers.

Still, for most of his life, he’d seen his immediate family daily. He and his siblings had been close. Robbie was to be the best man in the wedding that didn’t happen. Now he wasn’t allowed to see them at all.

Eddie gently tugged on his elbow. “Let’s get away from the crowd.”

Lane nodded and let himself be dragged away until they had ducked down a side street off Fifth Avenue.

And then everything just poured out. “I sent a letter,” Lane said. The street was shaded, but he was aware of the fact that they were still in public, so he blinked a few times to keep the tears at bay. “After Scott died, I sent a letter home. I told my family and Scott’s family what happened. Three weeks later, I got a letter from my mother which said, basically, not to come home. I might as well have pushed Scott off the bridge with my own hands. Sometimes I think I did.”

“Lane,” Eddie said softly. There was a surprising amount of warmth in his voice. “It wasn’t your fault. Believe me, and you know this better than anyone, but I understand that impulse, to jump off the bridge, and he must have felt he had nothing left if he went through with it. There was nothing you could have done.”

Lane schooled his face, not wanting to betray how that made him feel. Hadn’t Scott had Lane? He looked at Eddie, who seemed so serene, given the turmoil that Lane felt suddenly, like a whole thunderstorm had started in his chest. “Why didn’t you go through with it?” Lane asked.

Eddie looked down. Lane wished he could see Eddie’s face. After a long pause, Eddie said, “I wasn’t completely out of hope yet. You showed up to stop me, that was part of it, but I wonder sometimes if I could have gone through with it if you hadn’t gotten there. I don’t know.” He sighed and looked up. His eyes were red now. “But you did stop me. And if I’d jumped, it would have been a waste, no?”

Lane wanted to kiss Eddie but didn’t dare out in public like this. He took a step back to remove some of the temptation and looked back toward Fifth Avenue, where the parade continued to rage.

“I miss my family, is all,” Lane said.

“I know.” Eddie glanced both ways before he reached over and wiped a tear off Lane’s cheek with his thumb. “Are you all right now? Do you want to go back to the parade?”

“Yes, please.”

So they walked back. They pushed through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk as it erupted in delirious cheers. There, sitting on top of an open-topped automobile was the man himself, Charles Lindbergh, waving at the onlookers.

Eddie laughed. “Can you believe we got to see this in person?”

“No,” Lane said. “Quite an amazing moment, isn’t it?”

“It’s pretty swell, yes.” He glanced over at Lane. Under his breath, he said, “I’m glad I got to see it with you.”

Lane smiled. “I agree.”

 

It
was
the sort of feeling men wrote songs about, Eddie thought as he walked down the street. He felt bolstered, like Lane’s mere existence in his life was a cushion keeping him from falling too hard. He distracted himself by thinking up metaphors and song lyrics as he walked to the New Amsterdam Theater to meet with Florenz Ziegfeld. God knew thinking about the audition wasn’t doing him any good.

He’d been nearly immobilized with fear the night before, but Lane had talked him down and just held him while he panicked and sweated. Lane had been there that morning with a hug and words of encouragement, which Eddie was surprised to find had helped him calm down.

He walked in through the stage door, and, as he’d been told, he proceeded down the hallway to the staff offices. He was greeted by a woman in a very short dress who told him they were expecting him and that he could proceed to the stage, where Mr. Ziegfeld was waiting.

Eddie hadn’t anticipated having to dance on the stage at the New Amsterdam. If this went well, it wouldn’t be the last time, but it was intimidating all the same. He took a moment to stand in the wing and just admire the stage, the breadth of it, and the ornate beaux-arts flourishes in the dimly lit theater. He took a deep breath and walked out onto one of the greatest stages in the city. He saw a shadowy figure in the second row.

“Hello, Mr. Cotton,” said a voice—Ziegfeld’s. There was another man seated next to him who was not introduced.

“Good afternoon, sir. It is a great honor to audition for you.”

“Let’s see your act.”

Eddie had the whole routine committed to memory. It started with the grand entrance, so he walked to the side of the stage. In his act, he always wore a tuxedo, but for the audition, he’d worn a suit that he’d had tailored specifically for dancing. The wide-legged trousers that were currently in fashion were too heavy and tended to get in his way, so he’d purchased a pair of pants and had them altered so that they tapered at the legs. He did the steps out from stage left: left, left, right, right, step over, step over, pivot, turn, right, right. Every step had been agonized over and then memorized, so this was a dance he knew well. His feet made the steps without tripping or fumbling, and getting it right when he was this nervous boosted his confidence. He lifted his arms and posed to signal he was transitioning into the next part of the act.

He told a joke to get things started. “My wife Mildred came home the other night and told me there’d been a murder down the street. ‘A murder!’ I cried. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The police found several chickens at the scene.’ I thought that was pretty strange, so I asked Mildred, I asked, ‘What were the chickens doing there?’ ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But the police suspect
fowl play
.’” Eddie heard someone chuckle in the audience. That seemed like a good thing.

Eddie then launched into what he’d always thought of as his signature song, a number called “Skies over the City,” a little ditty about seeing the stars on a night when the lights of Broadway went out. It was mostly a comedic piece, light and perfectly suited to Eddie’s low tenor. Then he went back to dancing. The transitions between each part of his act were a little rough, but he was hoping this was something he or Ziegfeld would refine once he was hired. Or, even better, maybe Ziegfeld had a costar in mind for him. He always worked better with someone to play against, which was why his partnership with Marian worked so well.

As he finished his act and danced off the stage, he thought that it could not have gone better. He hadn’t made any major errors, he’d sung pretty well, and he’d pulled a few chuckles during the bawdier parts of the act. He came back out and bowed.

“Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Ziegfeld.”

“Yes,” said the voice from the audience.

Eddie wished he could see Ziegfeld better. He couldn’t see the man’s facial expressions at all, just the basic features of his face: his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth.

Ziegfeld said, “Tell me, Mr. Cotton, what has become of Miss France?”

“She’s still working for Jimmy Blanchard,” Eddie said. “As a solo act.”

No reaction from Mr. Ziegfeld, really. There was a long pause, and then he said, “Yes, I did read about what happened in the paper. Mr. Blanchard let you go from the show. Why did that happen?”

Eddie knew better than to bash Blanchard to Ziegfeld. “It’s complicated, sir,” he started to explain. Realizing that wouldn’t be sufficient, he added, “He wanted to promote Marian, to make her the star of her own act instead of part of a duo. As such, he didn’t feel there was a place for me in
Le Tumulte
anymore. So here I am.”

“You’re a talented dancer,” Ziegfeld said. “Your jokes are a little stale, though. I want things that are fresh for the
Follies
, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. The
Follies
are always ahead of everyone else.” Eddie stopped himself from laying it on too thick, though it occurred to him to really applaud the show. It wasn’t hyperbole at all to say that the
Follies
was the biggest and best vaudeville revue in town: the one with the greatest talent, the most elaborate sets, the most spectacle. Maybe it wasn’t live elephants at the Hippodrome, but it was always the talk of the city.

“Yes,” Ziegfeld said. “Your singing is also not the best I’ve ever heard.”

“I know, sir, but I believe the whole package . . .”

“I don’t think you can work solo. There’s not enough to catch the audience’s eye.”

“But, sir. Surely I can—”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cotton. Thank you for your time.”

Eddie found himself back on the sidewalk a few minutes later. Without really thinking about it, he walked to the Marigold. It wasn’t open yet, but the door was unlocked, so he walked in.

Julian was adjusting tablecloths and looked up when Eddie came in. He started to say, “We’re closed,” but then said, “Oh, Edward, darling.”

“Lane. I need to see Lane.”

Julian’s whole demeanor changed. He nodded and said, “Yes, he’s in his office. I’ll just go get him.”

Eddie stood and waited. The shock was starting to wear off, and as he stood in the middle of the floor of a tawdry queer club in the middle of the day, it started to dawn on him that he’d just lost a major opportunity, and he had no clue what to do now.

Lane appeared and said, “Eddie, how did the audition—” He stopped abruptly and they stood looking at each other for a moment. “Oh, Eddie.” Lane moved toward him quickly. “Oh, baby. Oh, no. No, no.” Lane hooked a hand behind Eddie’s head then pulled him close and into his arms.

Which was how Eddie came to be wrapped up in Lane in the middle of the Marigold in the middle of the day, and he caught several members of the staff looking on, and he would have protested more strongly if it hadn’t felt so good. He pressed his face against Lane’s neck and let himself be held for a moment.

“I didn’t get it,” Eddie murmured.

“I am so sorry.” Lane tugged on Eddie. “Come with me.”

Without losing their grip on each other, Lane managed to maneuver Eddie into his office and push him into a chair.

“What happened?” asked Lane.

Eddie shook his head. It barely made sense. “That was one of the best auditions I’ve ever done,” he said. That was the truth. Eddie couldn’t remember a time he’d been so technically good. “But Mr. Ziegfeld thinks I don’t work as a solo act.”

Lane knelt next to the chair and put his hands on Eddie’s knees. “Please don’t . . .” He trailed off and ran his hands up Eddie’s legs. “Please don’t let this upset you too much. I know you really wanted to work for Mr. Ziegfeld, but this does not mean your career is over. All right? Lately, there are a dozen new shows opening every week, it seems like. You can try out for one of those, can’t you?”

Lane was right, of course. “I could, yes.”

“So just—I don’t know what I would do if—” Lane was interrupted by a knock on the door. “What is it?” he called out.

“Mr. Carillo, Mook is here.”