“Yes, sir,” I said. It was a soft-shoe ballet number—thank God, because I wasn’t as confident on pointe—where three butterflies emerged from their cocoon to flit from one flower to another, a moment that, he explained, also signified their blossoming into women, until they fell asleep again on flower petals. The act was a bit ridiculous, really, but I just wanted to be onstage, to prove to myself that I could get cast right away, so I was willing to take anything I could get. “I could learn it today,” I said.
“This is where the two other butterflies leave the stage and you’d sing your solo.” He handed me the sheet music. I listened to the orchestra play the first half, then I walked onstage and sang the second half. When I finished, the director and stage manager clapped their hands in approval.
“Well, I think we’ve found our girl,” the director said. “The show goes on three times a week at sevenP.M., with practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Be here tomorrow for your first rehearsal.”
“Okay,” I said.
“We’ll just be running through the acts to get the orchestra familiar with the music and determine the order for the program.”
“Great!”
“What did you say your name was again?” He stood poised to scribble it down on his clipboard.
“Olive,” I said. I wished I’d given it some thought before I charged in there an hour earlier. He glared impatiently. “It’s Olive,” I said. “Olive Shine.”
The first few rehearsals and performances were quite exciting, just like any new show. It started with a newsreel so that anyone arriving late wouldn’t miss out on the live acts, followed by a singing baseball pitcher, a short drama and a return engagement by Sally Holland, an older performer I’d never heard of, whom everyone seemed to love. The headliners were a tap dancer named Lou and a singer named Cliff. And then there was our dance, my solo, and then it was on to the next act, each one lasting about twelve minutes.
I liked the girls in my act, but the show itself was disorganized and at times amateurish—a fact that we all seemed to know but no one acknowledged. It felt good, of course, to have somewhere to go, a purpose, a job, even though it paid next to nothing. But I certainly didn’t want my parents or my brothers to see it. The theater itself was shabby and the orchestra was often a few beats behind. It was on Broadway, just barely, but my father still wouldn’t approve. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want me performing for much longer, but even if I could persuade him, he’d see this mediocre performance as a reflection of his reputation. If only I could explain to him that this was just one steptoward something better, if only I could convince him that it was worthy, though at times with this show, I wondered that myself.
“Olive,” my mother said at dinner one evening, “your father and I want to have a word with you.”
I knew what was coming. “We’re happy that you’re settling in here, but you agreed that your last show in Minnesota would be your last. And now you’re telling us that you have a part in a new show.”
“Yes, but it’s on Broadway, it’s not some little show from back home.”
“Humph,” my father grumbled as he ate his meal.
“Well, then we at least want to see it, don’t we, Ted?”
“Ma, not yet. Honestly, the show will be fantastic—it really will—but we need a lot more practice. Give it another month or so and then come see me, all of you.” I looked to my brothers and then to my father to gauge his response to this, but he was intently cutting his pork chop, head down.
“But Olive,” my mother pushed on, “why would the show go on already if it isn’t rehearsed enough?” I knew she was speaking on behalf of my father, that they’d probably had an argument about it and she’d promised to set it straight. Now she was trying to smooth everything over by asking the questions sweetly, while letting him know he’d been heard and that something would be done about it. “Are you sure it’s reputable? We are concerned that it’s beneath you.”
“It’s not beneath me, Ma, it’s a wonderful theater and a stellar production. It’s the Olympia,” I said emphatically, knowing she had no idea if that was a top-notch theater or a hole-in-the-wall. “And the director is very well-known in the theater world, oh, he’s introducing me to all kinds of people.”
My father scoffed.
“What is it, Pa? Why are you so disgruntled by this?”
“I don’t like it, Olive. Where’s it going to take you, huh? Sure, we let you do those dance classes and singing lessons because you were a little girl, but you’re twenty years old, Olive. It’s time to find yourself a nice man and settle down, have a family—what do you think, you’re going to do all that and be on that stage?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You’re nuts.” He took a swig of his beer and set it down a little too hard. My mother and I both flinched. “We raised you well, you don’t need to be doing this, you don’t need the money. It’s crass—you off dancing at some place we’ve never even heard of.”
“For goodness’ sakes, Pa, this is my first show on Broadway, no one knows me here yet. Give me a chance to prove myself, prove that I can do this and do it well.” I tried not to let things get too heated, recalling the sting of his hand across my face the last time I tried to defend my performances. I considered telling him about the meeting with Mr. Ziegfeld and that my goal was to work my way up to one of his shows, or the Shuberts, but I didn’t know if that would make him see things any differently. “Just give me a few months, please.”
He shook his head, but I sensed he was easing up a little. “I promise,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “I promise I’ll make you proud.”
What I realized, soon after I started at the Olympia, was that there were thousands of girls like me in Manhattan. I saw them everywhere.Clean faced and perky, walking in groups of three or four to early morning rehearsals. I saw others a little puffy, eye pencil residue left from the night before, as they ran up the stairs of the subway station late, a hint of hooch in their wake. I had my own nineA.M.call time, but I couldn’t help wondering about their shows, imagining that they were bigger, more polished, their audiences more important.
As the show went on, it became very apparent that ours was a third-rate affair. On more than one occasion, Sally Holland showed up drunk but went on to perform anyway. Twice in one week we performed to a crowd of about five people and the director flew into a rage about it after the show, blaming the cast and their uninspired performances. My parents had been right to voice their concerns. I would definitely be tarnishing their reputations if anyone my father knew heard about his daughter performing in this dingy show. I knew I should walk away, but I didn’t know how. I could hardly go back to Moses Sherman and tell him I wanted to quit the first gig he’d helped me land, so I kept showing up.
Then one night, after a month of performing, a tall, slim man approached as I was going out the stage door. “Miss McCormick?” he asked. “Or is it Miss Shine?”
“It’s Shine now,” I said, looking around. There were crowds of people leaving the theaters half a block away on Broadway, but West Forty-fourth Street was relatively quiet.
“I’m sorry to startle you.” He put his hand out to shake mine. “Mr. Brock. Nice to meet you in person. I meant to arrive earlier and deliver a message to your dressing room, but I was needed at the theater.”
