Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
“You will remember yourself!” Mamma hisses, but I don’t turn to face her. Stan’s face has gone pale. I’ve gotten to him—or Thorne has. Or we both have, together.
When Stan speaks next, his voice sounds thin and quiet, but his gaze is intense. “Evelyn, take care. I’m warning you, you’re playing with fire, and I’m trying to save you before you get burned.”
“Don’t worry, Stan,” I say. “I know how to rise from the ashes. I had to learn as a girl, when someone I loved set fire to everything I thought I knew.”
—
Among all the things Stan has tried to pull over the years, his claims of Mr. Thorne’s depravity are a new low.
Predation of young girls. Sexual promiscuity.
Insinuations of depraved morals or closeted abuse.
Why, Stan is hurling the precise insults that he doesn’t want sticking to his own face.
All this when Mr. Thorne is a well-known benefactor of the Society for Prevention of Vice.
The man is a choirboy beside Stanley Pierce.
It would be far cleverer for Stan to take the tack that Mr. Thorne is too boring, rather than trying to convince me he’s a lech.
But he’s not boring, not at all. From the letters Mr. Thorne writes from Paris, I see what a grand time he’s having.
Tours of the Tuileries Gardens, the finest meals beside the River Seine, shopping sprees along Paris’s chicest boulevards.
Not only does it all sound grand, but he continues to amaze me with his thoughtfulness and care.
Mr. Thorne writes of the gifts he’s purchased for me: chocolates, silk kerchiefs, elegant baubles like ivory combs or fans.
All this emboldens me to write to him: “I wish I were there with you.”
He responds to this with boyish glee. “I wish you were here, as well, Miss Talbot. Your presence would be the one thing that would make this trip even more enjoyable. May I be bold in making a request? Would you please do me the honor of calling me Hal?”
I smile as I read his words, and then I write back: “If you say so, Hal. And you may call me Evelyn.”
“Evelyn!” He writes back in his next missive. “Your invitation filled me with the greatest joy. Evelyn, the most beautiful name ever uttered. Oh, but I would call you Angel, if you would allow it.”
An angel, I think, pondering his words as I lower Mr. Thorne’s most recent letter, posted just after his visit to the country estate of the famed painter Mr. Claude Monet.
The letter swirled with colorful descriptions of the painter’s fragrant gardens, his studio filled with priceless tableaux, his cozy rustic kitchen stocked with crockery and blue dishes.
But only one word grips me, and I could weep as I stare at it. Angel.
Hal would call me Angel.
A fallen angel, that’s what I was for Stan. But Hal Thorne sees me as good. I can be good with him. Hal makes me feel good.
As I devour his daily notes, as Penny and I delight in his delicious packages of chocolates backstage before the show, as I admire his daily bouquets in my hotel bedroom, their arrival as predictable and steady as a clock, I realize that I can also feel safe.
Life with Hal could be safe in a way I have never been allowed to imagine.
This spring, I’ve been thinking more and more about how shaky the ground is on which Mamma and I currently tread.
Yes, I’m employed in Sweet Cherri Pie for now, and my salary as a showgirl can support my mother and me well enough.
But it would never sustain our lifestyle.
No, as much as I hate to admit it, the funding to maintain all of that still comes from Stan.
But I would be a prize fool to assume it will continue forever.
I’ve seen Stan’s book, and he’s seen my coldness.
As much as Mamma insists that we continue to visit with him and allow him in when he calls, Stan knows that I can no longer bear to look at him, let alone think of touching him or carrying on the way we once were.
I’m no longer Stan’s pliable or innocent plaything. He’ll find his fresh new prey, and soon. He’ll move on, and so will his money.
The theater will move on, too. Showgirls shouldn’t be much older than twenty—I’ve known that from the start.
I’m almost twenty now. I was young when I began, but now I’m one of the oldest girls backstage.
I’ve seen the story play out so many times at this point, I know there is only one happy ending: a showgirl marries and moves on as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
I’ve had a few good years, but how many more can I expect?
There’s an inexhaustible crop of fresh young things knocking on the stage doors each and every day, girls with big dreams and hungry hearts, girls who will kick higher or sing louder—because their lives depend upon it.
I know, because I was one of them. I know how motivating their desperation is, because I carried it in my own broken heart and empty belly.
The theater and the audience, do they love me? For now. But just like Stanley Pierce, Broadway will eventually find my replacement and show me my exit. And then I’ll be hungry and desperate, just as I was before.
Unless I have my next role lined up. Unless I have a friend like Hal, a man who will love me even after the theater lights have gone dark.
That spring, with Hal gone but paying earnest and attentive court, even from an ocean away, I begin to seriously consider: Could my next role be Wife?