Chapter Fifty
Aboard the cruise, I finally take Hal’s hand, and I pull him toward the far side of the deck.
I waste no time in ordering him a double whiskey from a passing waiter.
Then I say, “Let’s watch as the lights flicker on behind Lady Liberty,” and I fix my attention on him until I feel the ship pushing off from the shore.
The low bellow of the whistle is answered by a cacophony of seagulls that scatter before us.
The floor rumbles beneath our feet, and it feels as though I don’t fully exhale until I am certain that we are well and truly on our way, trapped aboard this thing, with only water all around.
I lean on the railing. “It’s grand, isn’t it?
” I ask, making my best effort to keep my tone breezy.
Crisscrossed strings of light flicker over our heads, mirroring the lights of the city all around us.
Slipping ever farther away, Manhattan shimmers like a mirage in the sultry summer heat.
The soft notes of the orchestra waft over the crowd, and then a gong sounds.
“Time for supper,” my husband says.
“And time for the show,” I reply.
I take my husband’s arm, and he weaves us through the crowd toward the grouping of dinner tables covered in white linen and fresh flowers.
When Hal pauses, mid-step, and his grip locks around mine like a vise, I feel my entire body go rigid.
I follow his stare. I know precisely what he’s seen. Who he has seen.
Stanley Pierce is taking his seat at a table, front and center. Stanny is always front and center, best seat in the house. Heart in my throat, I throw a quick look toward my husband and see that his face has paled to a sickly white.
Nearby, the orchestra is still offering its jaunty notes, the lively crowd thrums all around us, but Hal stands silent and still as a stone. “Let’s take a seat,” I say, giving his arm a gentle tug. “Where’s our table?”
“The Beast,” Hal says, unmoving. His voice is low, more like a snarl than speech, but I’ve heard what he said.
“Oh?” I follow the jerk of his chin, pretend that I’m only now seeing Stan for the first time. I make a clucking sound. “So it is. Best seat in the house, like always.”
Now Hal turns to me with a horrified look, and I can see that his eyes are ablaze. “But…doesn’t seeing him…? Aren’t you…?”
“Not surprised,” I say with an unaffected shrug. “It’s his town, after all.”
“Precisely why I did not want to come back here,” Hal growls, not even helping me into my seat. Meanwhile, I’m doing all I can to avoid meeting Stan’s eyes. It might spoil everything if he feels I’m giving him an opening. Not now, not yet.
Hal has bought the entire table for the two of us, so there we sit, at a table set for ten, a silent pair.
A steady stream of well-wishers approach Stan, just a few tables away, but no one approaches us.
We must make an odd tableau, Hal stewing in a wordless fury so palpable that I can practically feel the heat seeping off his skin.
And me beside him, his young showgirl turned bride, clad all in white.
I do my best to appear happy, perhaps even a bit giddy.
The servers bring Hal another drink, and then they bring our food, and even though my stomach feels as though it’s been yanked into knots, I eat as though my appetite is as lively as ever opposite Hal, who declares he has none, asking only for drink after drink.
As we dine, the showgirls file out and strut past the tables to admiring applause, all legs and feathers and sequins, before taking their places in two columns on the small raised stage before us.
I watch them with apparent interest, and in truth I am impressed at how they manage to sing and move through their steps as the ship sways beneath us.
The mood on board grows ever more festive.
All around us, revelers are enjoying their food and drink beneath the thatch of twinkling lights.
The air has cooled a bit now that the night has darkened and the breeze has picked up.
We have made our way out into the middle of the water, with the Hudson flowing to meet the opening of the Upper Bay, and Lady Liberty rises up just before us.
The ship hugs the coastline around the harbor, the nearby shores dark and empty.
My husband orders yet another drink as the girls take a bow and trot off for a quick break, having completed their first set.
It’s showtime.
My heart hammering, I push back my chair and throw a sheepish smile toward Hal. “I’m feeling awful sentimental.”
He looks at me askance, and I can see his distracted confusion. He’s been deep in his own brooding—and his cups. But now he speaks to me for the first time since we’ve taken our seats. “What?”
I stand, keeping my body far enough away that he can’t snatch my arm. “I think I’ll put on a little show for my admirers.”
“A show?” I can see it—the horror that grips his features. Hal is more shocked than if I’d just suggested we strip bare and jump in the harbor.
But I force myself to carry on, shrugging. “I guess I’ve still got the bug, after all.”
“Evelyn Thorne, you will not play the dancing harlot as though—”
“How about if I play Evelyn Talbot for a little?”
Rage twists his face. And then, through pinched lips, he spits, “Sit down this instant.”
I do the exact opposite, sliding another step away from the table. “Come on, now. You can take me from Broadway, but you can’t ever take Broadway out of me.”
“Sit down. I’m warning you.”
“You fell in love with me up on that stage. You and everyone else, right?” And then I slip away before he can grab me and undoubtedly leave me bruised yet again.
I know it’s the confirmation of his worst fears: I’ll eventually slip out of his grasp.
No matter what he does to follow me or pray for me or lock me up or even hurt me, he will never in fact be able to hold on to me.
I saunter up toward the stage, fully in my role now, beaming at the revelers as I pass. I must win them over, and quickly. To my immense relief, many gasp in delight as I step up onto the empty stage. The orchestra pauses, and hundreds of eyes are turned on me, confused and expectant.
I raise my arms wide, flashing my most beguiling smile out over the eager crowd. “Good evening, all.” I sweep the audience with my gaze. “Some of you may recognize me. I am—”
“Evelyn Talbot!” someone shouts before I can say my name.
“The Gibson Girl!” The crowd erupts in applause.
“The peach is back from Pittsburgh!”
“Ripe for only one night,” I parry, offering them all a playful wink as I bring my hand over my mouth and flash a coy smirk.
Laughter, more applause. They are eating this up.
I’ve got them; they are game. I raise my arms high.
“Let’s keep that champagne flowing, shall we?
” I place a hand on my hip and give a coquettish shimmy. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
Patrons hoist their glasses, cheering me on.
“I was hoping I might be able to do a little number for you. Would that be all right?” More applause, cries of hearty approval.
I’m doing my best not to look toward Hal, who I know is seething, or Stan, who I’m sure is watching all of this, highly amused.
Instead, I turn my gaze toward the orchestra musicians and ask, “Who remembers Grande Dame Champagne?” The musicians nod.
It was one of my most popular shows. “Let’s hear ‘Can’t Keep Me Down. ’ ”
And as they begin the first brisk notes, I close my eyes and allow the familiar song to wrap itself around me.
I tune out the delight of the crowd, the bright lights, and the movement from all of the tables, and slip back into the role that I played so popularly for so many nights.
I remember the words—of course I remember the words—and the steps come to my feet with the familiarity of muscle memory.
As we build toward the crescendo of the song, I begin to bounce lower and lower until I bend my knees deeply and then pop up, raising my arms and my feather bolero overhead.
Just as I used to do from out of the massive papier-maché champagne bottle each night.
I kick my legs high, finishing off with a playful sashay of my hips as I strut across the stage.
This is a scene that Hal came to watch often, though he later confessed to me how horrified he was at the fact that others saw me behaving in such a way.
I know he’s incensed now, but still I do not look toward him.
The audience remembers it, as well. They are hooting and hollering.
A few tables away, Stan is joining in the din. As I did the famous move, looking like I’d just been shot from out of a champagne bottle, I heard Stan guffaw, saying aloud to anyone who would listen, “There’s never been another one like her.”
The audience is rapt, and I’m feeding off their energy. The dinner service carries on, with the handsome servers in their dark tuxedoes and starched aprons moving about, refilling glasses and clearing plates, while everyone else seems fixed in their seats, eyes on me. My husband more than anyone.
As the song finishes and they erupt with fresh applause, I raise my hands toward them, appearing to all as though I’m basking in their adoration when, in reality, I’m summoning from them the strength I know I’m about to need.
My breath is ragged, and my heart is pumping; it’s been a while since I moved like this—but I can keep this up.
I must keep this up. After a moment, I summon a breezy tone and tell them all, “It feels good to be back with you! Thank you, thank you.” I blow a kiss over the crowd. “Can I do one more?”