“You want me to give Ziegfeld a call, tell him I think you’d be perfect for the show?”
“You’d do that?” When I spoke, my voice didn’t sound like my own.
“Of course—better than that, I’m going to tell him he’s a fool to wait for you to show up, that he needs to get you a train ticket and a place to stay lined up immediately, along with a generous contract, or you’re going to get snapped up by the Shuberts.”
“You’d really tell him that?” I said, gasping, then reaching out to the wall to steady myself. This was the most exciting news I’d heard in my whole life.
“I’d do anything for that pretty little face of yours,” he said, leaning in and kissing me on the lips. I cringed at the feel of his moist mouth on mine; it was uninvited and unwanted. I tried to pull away, but he held my face tight in his hands. I held my breath. He’d said something about being in the pictures. I imagined being in front of the camera. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, pulling back, holding my face a little too firmly in his hands. “Anything at all, if you’d do something for me.”
I never did see theHOLLYWOODLANDsign. I just stared up at the white, swirling ceiling in his hotel room, then squeezed my eyes tightly shut and forced myself to think about my first night onstage at the New Amsterdam Theatre.
When I got back home to St. Cloud, Pa felt guilty as hell for slapping me across the face, I could tell. He didn’t mention it, but he was sugary sweet for a few days. I continued with voice lessons and my part-time job as salesgirl at the local women’s clothing store, but I was repulsed with myself. I couldn’t believe I’d let myself get drunk off that man’s hooch and that I’d let him do what he did. It was a blur, the rest of the night; I didn’t even remember how I got back to my hotel room. I vowed to never let myself think of that night again.
Over the next few weeks, I read up on Mr. Ziegfeld in magazines and looked for auditions for every play and traveling performing group that could end up as an excuse to get me to New York City,where I could pay him a visit on Broadway. But nothing came up to send me east.
And then, a little over a month after returning home, after my father had been traveling for business, my parents sat down with me and my brothers George and Junior and told us we were moving. Erwin, the oldest, was already out of the house by then. They’d bought a Victorian house in Flatbush, Brooklyn, and just as they’d hoped, Pa was going to leave his job in banking to be a grain and stock broker in Manhattan. He’d been waiting for the opportunity, and it had finally presented itself.
I couldn’t believe it. My brothers complained like hell, but I could barely contain myself. I didn’t have to lie, cheat or run away to make it happen. I kept quiet, shocked by my unbelievably good luck, since I didn’t think any of us had ever thought it would happen.
Keeping my excitement at bay, I obediently organized my things and helped my mother pack up the house with such determination that my father held me up as an example to my brothers. If only they could be more like me, he told them for the first time in my life, helpful and cooperative instead of sitting out on the front porch sulking. As far as I was concerned, the faster we packed up our old life into boxes, the faster I could start my new life in New York City.
One morning, while my mother and I carefully wrapped the china in newspaper, our hands blackened with ink, a wave of nausea came over me.
“Ugh,” I said, setting down a stack of teacups and rubbing my stomach.
“What is it, honey?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know, the smell of this ink. Or maybe I’m hungry.”
“Do you want me to fix you something? I just got eggs at the market today, I could fix you fried eggs with the runny yolks the way you like them.”
The very thought of runny yolks made my stomach lurch toward my throat. I stood up and ran to the bathroom, making it just in time.
The same thing happened every day for a week, the same time, right around breakfast, and my mother thought the stress of moving was making me ill. I assured her it couldn’t possibly be that, because I was quite looking forward to the change of scenery—a slight understatement if ever there was one—but she insisted that we see a doctor. And that’s when we got the news.
“Pregnant!” my mother’s voice screeched as she stared at me in disbelief.
I stared right back at her, speechless, then she marched out of the office and slammed the door behind her. The shock of what he’d told me didn’t sink in until the door made me jump.
“I don’t understand,” I said, staring dumbfounded at the doctor, who tidied up his instruments and scribbled something onto his notepad.
“Really?” he said harshly. “I think you do.” And he walked out, too, leaving me there on the cold metal examination table, seeing my hopes and dreams shatter around me.
Outside, my mother was pacing.
“How could you do this to us, Olive? How could you do this to your father? We’ve given you everything, everything you’ve everasked for, and this is how you repay us? Good God, what have you done?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to sob.
“Oh, save your tears and pull yourself together, there’s no time for this. Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, Olive, what does that mean? Tell me the truth.”
I’d never seen my mother so angry.
“I honestly don’t know. His name was Ricky, I met him in California. He said he worked at a cinema studio in Hollywood. I don’t know anything else about him. He gave me a lot of rum and said he’d help me get into show business.”
