“Archie, he doesn’t want a family?” Alberto seemed struck by this.
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak of it; the thought of it all made me want to curl up in shame.
“Olive, if Archie wants the babies, then I understand. Of course there is no way to be Ziegfeld girl and have the babies. But if he doesn’t, then why you have to stop—why? You can go on, Olive, you don’t have to waste this talent.”
“It’s complicated, Alberto,” I said. “It’s just far more complicated than that.”
“I don’t understand, Olive. Why can’t you have your love and also have your life, why you have to choose?”
“Because he doesn’t want me dressing that way. I think it will be an embarrassment to his family if I am this show girl, entertaining other men when we are man and wife. Most of the girls leave the show when they marry.”
“I understand, but you are not those other girls. I just worry that you will be unhappy. When I don’t sing I aminfelice, miserabile. I might as well go away andmorireif I cannot sing.”
I felt the same way. All summer I’d been putting on a show, hosting as many people as possible, inviting all my theater friends so that we could re-create the thrill of performing at the camp, so I could feel that camaraderie that I felt in the dressing room and backstage. I’d been drinking and drinking to make everything louder, more rambunctious, to make the everyday moments spectacular. I knew I should stop, but I wanted to shock people, I wanted people to talk, I wanted word to travel back to the city about what fun everyone was having, just as word had traveled about the shows when I was in Manhattan. But I knew it was all a farce, something I was doing to trick myself into believing that everything was going to be okay, that everything wasn’t going to change.
“Just being a wife, Olive, it’s not enough for you. I’ve seen it before, you won’t be happy. Maybe you should have the babies, at least it will keep you occupied.”
“Alberto,” I snapped, “can we please stop talking about it?” But as soon as I said it, I regretted it. I’d offended him with my outburst.“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so brash, but can we change the subject?”
He nodded and went back to reading his paper.
“Well,” he said after a few moments, “maybe it won’t even matter. If this country’s economyva in bagnothe way my friend Roger tells me, then the theaters will be first to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here.” He tapped the page he was reading.
A CRASH IS COMING AND IT MAY BE TERRIFIC, the headline read.
“I’ve met him,” Alberto said. “Roger Babson, he’smolto intelligente.”
“I’ve heard Archie and his friends speak of him recently—he’s the statistician, right? They said he’s full of baloney. Apparently he’s been saying the same things for years and years.”
“‘Sooner or later a crash is coming, and it may be terrific,’” Alberto went on. “‘Factories will shut down, men will be thrown out of work, the vicious circle will get in full swing and the result will be a serious business depression,’” he read out loud.
“Yes,” I said, “that is quite depressing. Can we talk about something more uplifting?”
“‘There may be a stampede for selling which will exceed anything that the Stock Exchange has ever witnessed,’” he continued reading. “‘Wise are those investors who now get out of debt and reef their sails.’” Then he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Alberto, please, you are boring the pants off me.” I sighed.
“If he’s right, we are in big trouble,” he replied, showing me with his hands just how much trouble. I couldn’t help smiling at his lovelyItalian way. “No one goes to the theater or the opera when men are losing their jobs, I can promise you that.”
I leaned in and read the article over his shoulder. “President Hoover doesn’t seem concerned. Look,” I said, “he says the market is sound, and he’s the president of the United States of America.”
“After your wedding, I will go to Europe and I will stay some time. I fill my schedule with European tours for the next year or more. You should try the same. If you want, I arrange a meeting for you and my European booker next time he’s in town.”
“Alberto, I told you,” I said. “This is my grand finale.”
The words hung heavy in the air between us. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, and we both stared straight ahead, the gravity of my statement sinking in. After a while he turned his eyes back to his paper, and I looked out of the window, filled with a sense of dread.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
What a wonderful feeling it was to walk through those familiar heavy glass theater doors and into the dressing room. Relief swept over me when I saw my mirror and dressing table in the corner—someone had decorated it with flowers and even made a banner with my name on it. I’d been gone for two months already, but mercifully they didn’t let me see if my corner had been assigned to one of the other girls. At least on the surface, it was as if I’d never left.
“She’s baaack!” Gladys called out the moment she saw me, then Pauline, Lillian and Lara ran to me as if I were a long-lost friend.
“You silly girls,” I said, loving the attention, wrapping my arms around them, “I just saw you at the camp.”
