Chapter 3
three
On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . three French hens.
In the gymnasium, three trios of ladies rotated in three circles, fingertips touching high in the center of each circle.
“That’s lovely.” Maggie noted the choreography on her clipboard. “Glide for three more bars, skirts held to the side, then break into a line and pirouette.”
For the “nine ladies dancing” number, the nine women would dance to “Silent Night” in long silvery gowns bedecked with sequins.
On the far side of the gym, laughter flowed as the ten men practiced the “ten lords a-leaping” number. The men would sing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” while breaking into solo leaps—balletic, acrobatic, athletic, comedic.
Prescott performed a tour jeté punctuated by uppercut punches. Elegant yet manly. As the magazines had proclaimed him, “Noble as a duke, but tough enough to put up his dukes.”
Two of the men clapped Prescott on the back. He laughed, all shyness gone, and Maggie’s heart warmed.
“Miss Oliver?” Ria entered the room with a stiff smile.
On her heels came Bernard Anderson, the Camp Shows regional director and Maggie’s boss.
Maggie wore a short dance skirt and a cotton blouse knotted at the waist. She silenced a groan and put on a sheepish smile. “Welcome, Mr. Anderson. I apologize for my attire. We’re choreographing.”
“As is expected.” Mr. Anderson’s long face crinkled as a smile bent his gray mustache. “I had a meeting in town with a donor and thought I’d check in, seeing as how we gave you a difficult assignment with short notice.”
“It’s coming along marvelously.” Maggie led Mr. Anderson and Ria to the rolling chalkboard at the side of the room. “Ladies, keep working on the choreography. Prescott, would you come here, please? Mr. Anderson, I’d like you to meet Prescott Duke.”
“An honor.” Mr. Anderson shook Prescott’s hand. “I’m a big fan.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Anderson.” Mrs. Laverne marched into the gym. “I was told you were here. I’d like to lodge a complaint about the inappropriate use of the YMCA.”
Maggie’s cheeks burned. Inappropriate? How could she say such a thing?
Across the gym, the women tried a step, failed, and broke into laughter.
Mrs. Laverne waved toward the girls. “My club has been invaded by these—these cackling hens. And their indecent costumes and loose morals.”
Maggie gasped. “Loose—”
Ria clamped a hand on Maggie’s arm.
“Loose morals?” Mr. Anderson said with a concerned frown. “Have there been any incidents?”
“None, sir,” Maggie said in a taut voice. “And we wear street clothes when we arrive and leave.”
Mr. Anderson leveled a gaze at Mrs. Laverne that said he was open to complaints—but only reasonable ones. “Any incidents?”
“Well, no, but I don’t see why our boys need this Hollywood hoo-ha. It would be seemlier to have the cast sing Christmas carols.”
“Your concerns are noted.” Mr. Anderson gave her a firm look. “Remember, the Advisory Board approved this use of the club. If any incidents do arise, please inform me. Good day.”
“Good day.” Mrs. Laverne averted her gaze and left the gymnasium.
Mr. Anderson turned that same firm look to Maggie. “I know the cast will follow the standards in the Camp Shows contract. Now—what do you have?”
Maggie smiled away her annoyance and showed off her chalkboard.
After she introduced the grand outline of the show, she pointed to the first square.
“First number, a solo with our leading lady, Violet Lane, in a swing on a pear tree in a gown flowing with white feathers, singing ‘White Christmas.’ Second, a tap dance number to ‘Winter Wonderland,’ with the whole cast in pairs, the men in top hats and tails, the ladies in red coats. Then the first of five acts of Twelfth Night. Mrs. Fernandez is working with the San Diego Community Theater to borrow Shakespearean costumes.”
Mr. Anderson held up one hand to silence her, and he stepped closer to the chalkboard and shifted his eyeglasses. “It’s an ambitious plan.”
Maggie met Prescott’s gaze and smiled. “It’ll be spectacular.”
A grumble from Mr. Anderson. “Too ambitious. Opening night is December 10, just over a month away. Twelve numbers? A Shakespearean play?”
“A short one,” Maggie said. “Everyone in the cast is a professional. We’re already choreographing and memorizing lines.”
“Movie professionals or theater?”
“Movie.”
“I’ve worked in theater for decades.” Mr. Anderson tapped the line between the second number and act 1 of the play.
“All the men are in this dance number—then immediately after, in the play. Costume changes, set changes, props—they take time. How can you keep the show under two hours? And you do have a budget, Miss Oliver.”
The floor shifted beneath Maggie’s feet, and her mouth flopped open. Couldn’t he see how spectacular it would be?
Ria shot Maggie an apologetic look. “I’ve been concerned about the budget and how to procure the costumes, even if we borrow from the movie studios as Mr. Duke suggested.”
Mr. Anderson planted his hands on his hips and shook his head at the board.
“On opening night, we’ll have admirals in attendance, city leaders, USO luminaries—luminaries who were reluctant to hire a single young lady in this role, even on a trial basis.
If this show fails, many of us could lose our jobs. ”
A great churning rose in Maggie’s stomach, and she pressed her hand to it. Her job. Grandpa’s home.
“Cut it down.” Mr. Anderson slashed a hand through the air, through Maggie’s grand design. “I’ll be in town again next Wednesday. If you can show me a sensible plan, we’ll proceed. If not, we’ll follow Mrs. Laverne’s suggestion and put the cast on risers singing Christmas carols.”
“No,” Maggie whispered. “The men—they want the spectacle.”
“I agree. But only a professional spectacle. I’d rather have a choir than a Keystone Cops fiasco. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Whether a choir or a fiasco, Maggie would lose her job.
No bright side shone in Maggie’s eyes after Mr. Anderson left.
Prescott knew dashed dreams, knew how the shards of them carved you up inside.
“I’m sorry, Maggie.” Ria grimaced. “I—”
“No, no. You’re right.” Maggie waved off her assistant’s apology. “I hadn’t given much thought to the cost.”
“Okay.” Ria’s jaw firmed. “Let’s make a plan.”
Prescott studied the board, looking for a solution.
Maggie traced a finger along the chalkboard. “I have one week to convince him this will work.”
“Uh-uh.” Ria shook her head. “You heard him. Cut it down or you’ll be singing ‘Good King Wenceslas.’”
Maggie’s nose wrinkled. “I can’t cut it down. It’ll be simple and boring.”
The numbers and costumes and songs ran through Prescott’s head, heavy and encumbered. “Don’t think simple. Think streamlined. A streamlined locomotive has sleek lines. Nothing slows it down. Streamline your show, and the idea will fly.”
“Streamlined?” The wrinkles in her nose smoothed into something closer to acceptance.
“Yes,” Ria said. “Streamline your sets. One backdrop for the whole show.”
“But—”
“I see it,” Prescott said. “Add a few props.”
“I suppose . . .”
“Everyone!” Ria strode around the room like a train conductor. “Over here. Maggie needs your help. Unless you want to sing in a glee club, we need to streamline this show.”
Footsteps and protests closed in around them.
Prescott analyzed the board. “Maggie, Mr. Anderson is concerned about the quantity of acts, but we’ve all learned movie scripts, with songs and dances, in less time than this. We can pull these acts together.”
“I know we can.” Defiance and confidence sparked in the blue of her eyes.
Prescott ran a finger on the line between numbers. “His main concern is the transitions. Here, the men are in top hat and tails. Right after, we’re in Shakespearean garb. Since I need to change too, I can’t serve as emcee to cover the transition.”
The defiance leaked out. “Oh no.”
“What if we wear one costume for the whole show?”
“Oh no,” Maggie said.
“We can’t do that,” Vi said. “How could we dance in those heavy long dresses?”
“Yeah,” Freddie said. “Besides, the fellows want to see some leg.”
“But not ours.” His twin brother, Ferdy, slapped his thigh. “I’m not prancing around in those silly pantaloons.”
Greta sprang to the chalkboard, peeked on the opposite side, then spun it around. “May I draw, Maggie? I’m good with costumes.”
Despite her dazed appearance, Maggie waved for the redhead to proceed.
“Skirts for the gals, above the knee. Trousers for the guys.” Greta sketched a feminine form on the board.
Prescott nodded. “What if the costumes had a Shakespearean look about them?”
Light dawned through the haze in Maggie’s eyes. “The V-shaped waistline—the Basque waistline. Those full sleeves gathered above the elbow with a ribbon.”
“Yes. Scoop neckline, fitted bodice, flared skirt for movement.” Greta’s chalk flew across the board. “Red velvet dress, white sleeves, red ribbons. Add sequins for sparkle.”
Maggie stepped back. “Why, that—that’s cute.”
“Black trousers for the men?” Prescott said.
“Yes.” Greta dashed off a masculine figure. “White shirt, the same sleeves, green ribbons.”
“And that vest the men wear.” Freddie stroked his chest. “What’s it called?”
Ferdy whapped his brother in the arm. “Jerkin.”
“Who’re you calling a jerk?”
“The vest is called a jerkin.” Ferdy whapped him again. “And I’m calling you a jerk.”
Greta drew the jerkin. “Green velvet. High round neck, a V at the waist, extensions over the shoulders.”
“Oh!” Vi pointed to the men’s sketch. “When Viola is dressing as Cesario, I can wear the green jerkin over my red dress. The audience knows Cesario is a woman in man’s clothing—only the characters are fooled. This would play into the joke.”
It would. Simply by slipping on one piece of clothing. “What do you think, Maggie?”
Her gaze darted between the male and female figures, wonder growing with each dart. Then she looked Prescott full in the face. “I think a streamlined locomotive is a thing of beauty.”
So was Maggie Oliver.
Thursday, November 4, 1943