Chapter Fifty #2
Everyone in the audience hollers their approval, except for Hal.
I know what he’s thinking, in his misery: in spite of everything he’s done, everything his mother has done, to rout the sins of Evelyn Talbot of Broadway, replacing her with the pure and obedient Evelyn Thorne of Pittsburgh, this wicked genie has slipped from her bottle.
Defying him, deceiving him, humiliating him. He is betrayed.
I ignore his glower and banter with the rest of the crowd: “Now I’d like to slow it down, just for a moment.”
They clap approvingly, and I carry on. “I’d like to offer this one up as a gift. To the one man who was always there for me. The man to whom I owe everything. I’d like to sing one of my favorite songs. And one of his, too, if I remember correctly. I’d like to sing ‘To You, I’ll be True.’ ”
The crowd is cheering again. Again I raise my hands, sweeping my gaze out over the audience before I land my eyes on the center of the crowd, looking at him for the first time. “Won’t you please come up and join me on this stage, Mr. Stanley Pierce?”
Gasps from the entertained crowd. I see the surprise, and then delight, bloom across Stan’s bloated face.
Just a few tables over, Hal’s face changes yet again, as well.
It’s a look I’ve never seen before, in spite of the fact that I’ve seen my husband frighteningly angry more times than I can count—Hal’s expression now appears as though a living snake is writhing across his features, desperate to strike.
The audience offers up riotous applause for Stan as he lumbers toward me, all too willing to participate in this impromptu circus. I am fully embodying my role now; I await him on the stage, as if utterly delighted to see him. He seems to feel precisely that same way.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Pierce,” I croon in my sultry stage voice as he huffs his way up onto the raised platform, coming to a halt right before me, his features upturned in a giddy and flushed smirk. “It’s good to see you, sir. It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”
“Too long, Miss Talbot,” he agrees, his voice thick and self-satisfied.
Up close, I see how he has aged. It’s been two years since I last saw him, but it looks more like a decade.
His brow is rutted with new wrinkles; his thinning hair is almost entirely leached of its copper color.
He is heavier and his steps are a bit labored.
But he’s thrilled to join me, that much is evident.
When he speaks, the audience is hollering so loudly that I suspect only I can hear him as he asks, “It was you, then? The secret admirer?”
I quirk an eyebrow, and he goes on, “I got the invitation with the ticket to dine on this boat tonight, but never in a million years would I have suspected…”
“It’s good to see you again,” I say, hopping down and grabbing a nearby chair, which I slide onto the stage as I climb back up to stand right beside him. “Take a seat.”
“Anything you say, Kitten.”
I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat, keeping the showgirl smile plastered across my face.
Then I give the orchestra a nod, and they take up the slow, crooning tune.
I close my eyes, and I begin to sway. As the music surrounds me, I allow myself to be picked up by the song.
By the words, by the tune. I start the steps.
This song, being slower, calls for a sultrier, more fluid set of movements, and so here I am, dancing onstage for all these men.
But as I sharpen my focus and look down at Stan, I make it clear that, most of all, I’m dancing for him. And he’s drinking it up.
So is the audience. When I shimmy out of my feather wrap, tossing it toward the front table, the audience goes wild. All except my husband, whom I catch out of the corner of my eye, looking wild with rage.
It’s you. It’s you.
It’s always been you.
To you alone,
I will be true.
The words come slow and smooth, like warm honey, and so do my dance steps.
When I writhe my hips right at his eye level, Stan chortles, nodding appreciatively.
I can’t look at him; I cannot allow myself to wonder whether he’s remembering those nights we spent together.
I’m sure he is. But what matters more is that Hal is thinking of all those nights that Stanny and I spent together.
I pour myself even deeper into the music—into the role.
It’s you. It’s you.
It’s always been you.
The other fellow,
he’ll only be blue.
And then I do something that no one is expecting.
I bring my hands to the buttons down the front of my dress and then slowly, languidly, begin to undo them, one by one.
This was never part of the routine. Scandalized gasps, a few spurts of bawdy applause.
The audience is titillated—they bought their tickets for a boat ride and a variety show of middling performers, and here they have Evelyn Talbot onstage, coming out of retirement and shedding her clothes for Stanley Pierce!
The newspapers will go wild. And yet I’m only getting started.
I unclasp the final button and writhe out of my white silk dress, allowing the material to fall like water from my shoulders, catching for just a moment on my hips before I give them a quick shake, and the silk lands in a puddle on the floor. I stand onstage in only the skin-colored slip.
Stan is not even attempting to hide his lewd gape, but I do not allow myself to become distracted. Not by him, not by the enraptured audience, not by Hal fidgeting in his seat. I continue to sing; I continue to dance.
I am Salome, dancing the king to my bidding.
I am Cleopatra, charming the snake.
I am Helen, launching the ships full of jealous, lustful men.
I am Eve, offering the apple that shall be his undoing.
I dance them into desire, the bonds of their own doing.
I dance myself to freedom.
And just like that, as if I have been holding a string and I’ve now given it the final tug, my husband rises from his seat.
“It’s you. It’s you. It’s always been you.” I keep dancing, but I can see it all out of the corner of my eye. Hal slowly walking toward us, his steps plodding, a predator with his quarry in sight.
“That other fellow can never be you.” I keep crooning, swaying my body in front of Stan, who remains seated, thrilled by the unexpected turn this night has taken.
One beat more and now Hal is right before us, at the foot of the stage, close enough for me to lean over and touch him.
But I do not even acknowledge his presence.
The song is almost over. Keep going, I think. I keep dancing.
And then I see Hal reach to his hip. Keep dancing. An instant later I hear his voice, hoarse and rasping. He raises his arm as he shouts: “You ruined my wife! I know what you did! She’s mine! She’ll never be yours!”
And then Hal points his revolver at Stan.
Startled gasps rise from a few in the crowd, only those close enough to see what is happening.
This is the moment. I stop dancing. I step in front of Stan, putting my body between my husband and his target.
As I lean forward to wrest the weapon from Hal’s raised hand, gunfire rips through the languid musical notes, three times.
Three shots. All aimed for Stanley Pierce, seated in a chair right behind me.
Not one of them hitting its intended mark.
The orchestra halts, the instruments falling silent, as the crowd sputters with confused exclamations and then horrified shrieks.
I look down, first at my husband just below the stage and then at my midsection. A red blossom seeps across my thin slip, and I brush it with my fingers before I hold up my bloodstained hand.
More shrieks as understanding takes hold of some in the audience. This is not part of the performance. Hal Thorne, intending to shoot Stanley Pierce, has hit his beautiful wife instead.
I gasp. It’s not pain I feel; it’s triumph. Several audience members look around in bewilderment, some asking if this is an act. Surely this cannot be happening. They all seem paralyzed in their shock and confusion.
I clutch my waist as I stumble across and off the stage, away from Stan and Hal, and I don’t stop until I’ve reached the far railing of the ship. In one hand I’m still holding my husband’s gun. The other hand I raise, showing the smear of scarlet across my palm and fingers.
“You did this.” I make eye contact with Hal first, then Stan.
I hold their stricken, stunned gazes. Then I turn from them, tipping forward over the railing as Lady Liberty reaches skyward before me, her island perch rising up dark and close.
I fall. And I don’t stop falling until, gun in hand, I’ve tumbled into the water.
As I slip into the cool and quiet embrace of the waves, I am certain that everyone on the cruise saw my final scene: Hal shot to kill. And he’s killed me.