The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (41 page)

And suddenly I noticed to my surprise—Pearl, instead of being devastated at the mention of Solly’s name, was nodding, her eyes soft. “I was always ‘His Pearl’. Always. He put this night together for me, you know.”

“Remember that while you’re out there,” advised Mrs. Risk.

Pearl, her eyes suddenly alive and energetic again, said, “Yes.”

“All the rest is not important any more. Just remember that one thing,” finished Mrs. Risk. She leaned back on her heels as if satisfied.

Pearl said softly. “Thank you.” And her face shone with gratitude.

Mrs. Risk’s comment replayed in my mind, ‘good friends bring good things.’ Mrs. Risk had known what her friend needed to hear. She understood more about Pearl than the rest of us.

Vivian moved to the dressing bench and leaned on it. Not surprisingly, she had a drink in hand. She said loudly to Eddie, “Better get a move on.”

“She’s right,” said Eddie. “Ilene’ll be a smash as always, and you, lady, break a leg. Afterward I might just let you break my heart—again.” He kissed and hugged Pearl carefully, accommodating her makeup and sequins.

When we reached our table again, the lights dimmed. After a blessing, some announcements and greetings by the emcee (that was not televised), including a special mention of Eddie’s presence—received with whistles and applause—and with explanations about the television cameras that hovered about on cantilevered dollies, the orchestra filed in and the house lights went completely dark.

Over the sound system, reverberating throughout the cavernous room, boomed the emcee’s voice. “Krasner’s is pleased to present on this happy Thanksgiving weekend, Miss Ilene Fox!”

Not knowing what to expect, I found myself unable to breathe. Then, serene and with a glowing smile, Ilene strolled onstage.

The music started.

W
HEN THE APPLAUSE BROUGHT
on by Ilene’s entrance began to break up, the violins hovered on a single note in anticipation. The spotlights settled on her slim form and she moved to the brass star embedded into the stage. Her place.

She gave us all a slowly broadening smile. Slipping the waiting microphone from its stand, she extended her other arm in welcome and breathed a husky, throbbing ‘Hello, everybody. Happy Thanksgiving,’ at the crowd. They went wild.

A stage genie in black tights scrambled in from offstage, bringing her a stool on which to perch. She wore creamy white loose satin trousers and collarless jacket. Lacy white feathers touched here and there with sparkles draped across the deep vee neckline, drooped down one arm, and then edged down one trouser leg. An elemental vision. She stroked back one dark curtain of hair where it draped across a cheek and smiled at the crowd as if they were all old friends. Gradually, the room settled.

The band picked up the tempo, launching a melody, and she began an upbeat ballad. If her anguish showed, it was only in the throaty catch in her voice, the underlying sadness that exposed depths of feeling no matter the words of the song. I caught myself blinking back tears.

The room closed around us, no longer enormous, no longer full of strangers. She connected us all within her magic. Her voice was low and pure emotion, no frills, only living notes pulled up from her heart. She must’ve lived through her music all these years, because here she opened herself, offered herself up for us all to share.

Her love songs gave me goosebumps and when Charlie put his arm around me and pulled me a little closer, I nestled after only the slightest hesitation. If damaged, frightened Ilene could take risks at this moment, so could I.

Speaking little, she moved from one song to another, slowly, no rush. She seemed to be showing us that we had all night in which to take pleasure in the music and each other,

But eventually I began to wonder, if she could live so richly, so thoroughly through her songs, wouldn’t that keep her from reaching the explosion point where she could kill … again? I turned to ask Mrs. Risk.

Her expression told me she wasn’t hearing anything but the machinations of her own mind. Her figure lounged in her chair in a graceful slump, Eddie’s arm draped negligently over her shoulder. She’d extended her long legs into the aisle. Fortunately, the waiters had stopped serving when the show started, otherwise she might’ve tripped one. Her face was a study in distraction, her eyes unfocused, that ringed forefinger tapping her lips.

As I stared, I suddenly saw her eyes flick a glance to the right. I looked that way, too, and was chilled to spot Michael leaning against the wall near the stage wing entrance, a long manila envelope jammed under one elbow. A grey suited man and a plump uniformed policewoman stood close behind him, looking nervous. They commented to him from time to time to which he occasionally replied, speaking to them over his shoulder. He, to my surprise, was attired in a tuxedo. Then I remembered his unofficial status. Maybe the outfit was to reassure the minds of local authorities, who might’ve been defensive of their jurisdiction.

I had difficulty breathing.

This unholiday-ish trio was obviously poised to grab Ilene the second she exited the stage. Could Michael’s envelope contain her arrest warrant? How big were such things?

I could no longer hear Ilene’s music, either, now. With fists clenching and unclenching on my lap, I watched the trio against the wall stare unwaveringly at Ilene. Then I watched Mrs. Risk brood and glance at the watchers.

Charlie’s hand touched my shoulder, making me jump. “You okay?” he whispered.

I turned around and, gazing up into those warm, only faintly mocking hazel eyes, felt suddenly alone again.

“Fine.”

He tilted his head toward the wing of the stage. “Michael,” he whispered.

I nodded and turned away. After a moment, I felt him relax in his chair again.

More minutes passed. Ilene finished another song I hadn’t heard.

It shouldn’t be too long to the end of her set, surely? I wavered, then made a decision. At least I could get closer to Ilene. I darted from my seat. Mrs. Risk seized me by the forearm and swung me back into my chair. I dropped with a jolt. I heard Charlie hiss something but ignored it.

“Not yet,” she growled at me. Mystified, but keyed even higher by this unexpected collaboration, I waited, vibrating impatiently in my chair. Then the emcee stepped up to the edge of the curtain.

She pricked me painfully in the shoulder with her fingernail and I bolted.

Threading through the tables and descending the last tier, I whisked past Michael and his company by ducking my head and twisting my body so that they saw mostly my back.

Maybe the tumultuous applause following Ilene’s finish distracted Michael, and maybe in my unfamiliar clothes, he didn’t notice who I was. Or maybe Mrs. Risk put an invisibility spell on me. Regardless, I slipped past the trio unnoticed and was through the curtained opening in a flash.

If I’d thought chaos reigned backstage before the show, now the uproar was complete. Of course, with the racket the audience was making, no one needed to worry about noise back here.

Musicians, stage managers, and people who did things I’d never understand in this lifetime, were hustling, shouting, shrieking, knocking, hooting, pushing levers, tuning instruments, and hoisting bandstand equipment. Television technicians (identified by labeled baseball caps) seemed to be everywhere.

Ilene gained the backstage area in the next moment.

Afraid to touch her, not wanting to startle her in her fragile state, I inserted my body in her path and called out in a gentle tone, “You were marvelous. You were amazing, Ilene.”

She looked at me as if surprised to be spoken to, but pleased by the words. Her eyes were faintly unfocused as if she still heard violins in her mind. “Did you really like me?” she asked.

“I loved you. I hope I get to hear you sing over and over again.” Tears scalded my eyes.

She blinked, seemed to realize who I was for the first time. “Thank you.” She turned away.

“Uh, where are you going now?”

She looked around. “Isn’t Pearl out yet? Someone should tell her I’m off.”

A passing young man who heard her shouted, “Commercial break. She’s been told.”

“You’ll watch Pearl’s act, won’t you?” I forced myself to appear casual, unable to imagine what was keeping Michael, unless it was Mrs. Risk. I thought hard. Ilene looked too exhausted to be hurried anywhere. Where could I take her to be safe? I wasn’t sure whether I meant safe from her own distorted reactions or from Michael. And safe until when? Until Pearl’s act finished? Until Michael took her away, to install her in some lockup? He’d still get her in the end, wouldn’t he?

Instincts. Mrs. Risk trusts my instincts. She says they’re differently-honed than normal people’s. It would be nice to think so, I thought to myself dryly.

Okay, so follow my instinct to delay things. Get her somewhere out of Michael’s immediate reach. Maybe a solution would present itself later.

“Did you know we’re with Eddie Miller? His table’s probably the best seat in the house. Come join us. He’d love to see you.”

She looked at me, considering. Standing there enfolded in her beautiful clothes, she looked like a rare flower that could be damaged by a slight breeze. “Well, but I’d like to see her get onstage first. And I’d like some water. I’m thirsty.”

“Okay,” I said, suddenly inspired. “Pearl’s got plenty. Let’s go there. And then you won’t miss her coming out.”

I heard a familiar voice lift over the babble. Michael.

“That’s a good idea, isn’t it?” I chattered, covering up my nerves. “You’ll see her, and then you can sit with Eddie and us.”

“Sure,” she said, eagerly.

Michael’s voice could be heard again. He sounded questioning. Asking directions to Ilene’s dressing room?

With an extended arm, I forged a path to Pearl’s dressing room, maneuvering Ilene in front of me. Before I could knock, the door whipped open. I shoved Ilene inelegantly through the opening and slammed the door shut behind us. Zoë fell back in amazement. The rest of the room was empty.

“Ilene!” she exclaimed. Then she said, smiling warmly, “You were wonderful, gal! A Grammy’s breathin’ down your neck, I know it. A female Perry Como, I heard one altekaker say.”

I said, “She’s dying of thirst, Zoë. Can she have some water? Is Pearl still here?”

Zoë hustled toward the makeup bench. Food, fruit, juices and bottles of various liquids littered most of it. “Here, baby. Have all you want. Pearl’s in the john, be out in a sec.”

I shifted around the room restlessly while Ilene gulped at the water in obvious relief. I said, “Everyone else must be out in the audience, huh?”

“Nah. They mostly hover around backstage, get in the way. Can’t drive ’em away, although I’d like to.” Zoë sounded sour, as usual. “The lure of the greasepaint, ever heard of it?” she finished without amusement.

“I’ve heard of plenty of lures, guess I missed that one.” I didn’t care what I said. My thoughts raced furiously, trying to guess Mrs. Risk’s plan, for she surely had something in mind. I counted heavily on her having something in mind. Why else give me her blessing by shoving me on my way?

Pearl’s emergence from the bathroom coincided with a sharp rap at the door. I jumped at the noise, then gaped at Pearl’s damp green complexion.

“Time,” boomed a deep male voice through the closed door. I breathed again. “Drink up, Ilene,” I said brightly.

Pearl shifted her costume around her waist and licked dry lips. She looked like she might faint at any moment.

“How do I look?”

Zoë rushed to her side, patting and tucking. She dabbed a tissue at the damp spots on Pearl’s face, careful not to dislodge makeup. “Like a queen. Wait until you get out there. It’s home, honey. It’s home, and they’re your family. Breathe, baby.”

Pearl looked like she needed the reminder. She breathed deeply. “Ack!” pantomimed Zoë, waving it away.

Pearl dove back into the bathroom, emerged a moment later exuding mouthwash aroma. “Better.” Zoë grinned.

Ilene stood quietly glowing at her. Pearl noticed her suddenly, and rushed over to grasp her hands. “You could hear a pin drop, they were listening so hard back here. You were better than I’ve ever heard you.” She beamed, then suddenly reverted back to a nerveless wreck. “Get me out there, Zoë,” she croaked.

Zoë hustled to the door, jerked it open. I lunged in front of Ilene, in a futile attempt to shield her from outside view. I needn’t have bothered. Michael was nowhere in sight and a herd of mustangs couldn’t have gotten through, the chaos outside was so complete, but oddly subdued, mindful now of the listening audience. The emcee was speaking.

“Go, if you’re going.” Zoë flapped her hands at us as I hesitated on the threshold.

Remembering Mrs. Risk’s statement that Pearl’s well-being would be supremely vital to Ilene’s stability, I suddenly grabbed Pearl by the arm, nearly yanking her off balance. “Listen, uh, Pearl, when you go out, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let anything distract you. Go straight to the stage.”

Zoë froze at my warning. She looked suddenly stricken as she stared at me. After a short silence, she instructed, “She’s right, Pearl. Focus on the act, the audience. Don’t let anybody talk to you before you start. Don’t worry about being rude. I’ll be right behind you, I’ll explain.”

Pearl hardly listened. Tension swelled, grew in her visibly. “Sure,” she said, maybe not even knowing what she said.

We followed her out. Head down, first went Pearl, then Zoë, short arms extended ludicrously around Pearl’s waist from behind, as if her tiny figure could block any opposition to her tall friend’s progress. Ilene went next. And helplessly following wherever Ilene led, came myself.

As we neared the stage, I began to understand the emcee’s patter. He’d spun out Pearl’s introduction, filling it with illustrious references. Eddie Miller’s name was mentioned again, mixed in with a small joke. A very small joke, if the audience reaction was any indication.

When Pearl was about eight feet from the lip of the stage, Michael stepped out of nowhere and intercepted our group. We had no choice but to stop. His associates hovered close behind, peeking around him as if intimidated by their proximity to a ‘star.’