Broadway Baby (9 page)

Scene X

Ethan’s teacher, Stuart, was in his early forties. He was not what Curly would call “a man’s man.” A little portly but not fat, and always dressed impeccably, in blue blazer and bow tie, he was witty, attentive, courtly. “And how are you today, my dearest,” he’d always ask when Miriam arrived.
Th
en he’d take her hand and bow slightly. His voice, so articulate, so refined, reminded her of Mrs. Pinkerton’s voice, her high school teacher, though without the snootiness, without the poetry she hated. He knew everything about show business and Broadway, and had even worked with Buddy Greco a few years back,
the
Buddy Greco, one of Miriam’s favorite singers. He also played the piano like nobody’s business. She loved to watch his delicate and nimble fingers dance across the keys. And best of all, he had a way with Ethan, who would listen to him and never argue, never talk back. And he recognized Ethan’s great potential. He said he’d never had a student with talent like Ethan’s. Oh, the sky was certainly the limit.

Miriam looked forward to the Saturday and Wednesday lessons. She loved the bright lights of the studio, the musty smell of the place, the mirrors along one wall, and the floor-to-ceiling window that divided the office from the studio, the office where she’d sit and watch in rapture as Stuart taught the kids to “shuffle off to Buffalo” or step/kick/step, or sing a medley of numbers from
Bye
Bye Birdie, Carousel,
or
Oklahoma.
Watching Stuart, she felt a new connection to the theater, to show business and Broadway. And the excitement she had felt on that first visit to New York, the grandeur of the stage, the oversized emotions of the songs, the way even the saddest words were changed to joy and pleasure by the perfect voices singing perfect melodies—she felt it all again, with an overpowering freshness. Sometimes, during a dance number, Stuart would ask Miriam to sing along with him, and while she belted out a number from
Pal Joey,
or
Porgy and Bess,
or
Damn Yankees,
a happiness would overtake her, a sense of being right where she belonged, where nothing bad could ever happen.

E
THAN’S FIRST PUBLIC
performance was during the intermission of the New England Fashion Show at the Statler Hotel in downtown Boston. Everyone who was anyone, all the muckety-mucks, were there, even Joan Kennedy (Teddy’s adorable wife) wearing a smart blue suit dress with a short cropped jacket, accessorized with a pearl necklace and white gloves. Miriam was sitting right behind her, two rows from the stage where, cameras flashing, the stunning models paraded the latest styles, styles her mother would have carried had she not had to sell the business after getting sick. It was like the mannequins had come to life before her, in swing or poodle skirts, and pencil skirts; in dresses with bolero sleeves and Peter Pan collars “softening the neckline” and tapered waists to emphasize what the MC called the “hourglass figures of today’s American wife and mother,” figures not much smaller than Miriam’s, which could still turn a head or two on a good day.

And then Stuart, in an elegant white tuxedo, appeared on stage at a piano, then Ethan followed, in knickers and vest, a baseball cap turned sideways on his head, like one of the Little Rascals from the movies. He was leaning against the piano, arms folded, looking dreamily out at the audience as he sang, “Your smiles, your frowns, / Your ups, your downs, / Are second nature to me now . . .” Oh how everybody looked at her when he was finished, even Joan Kennedy when she realized who Miriam was; they congratulated her for having such a son; how proud she must be, how excited! What’s it like, they asked, to raise a budding star?

W
HEN ETHAN HAD
a new song to learn, he would listen to it on the stereo in the dining room, next to the kitchen, in the early evenings while Miriam made dinner. He’d stand next to the stereo with his eyes closed mouthing the words over and over until he learned them.
Th
en with the sound turned low, so Miriam could hardly hear the music, he’d sing in his pure high, steady voice. Miriam wasn’t a bad singer, but she couldn’t sing like Ethan. Who could? And she often wondered what it felt like to possess a voice like that, to sing so beautifully, with such emotion. How lucky her child was to have such a gift.

One evening, he was practicing “Over the Rainbow.” From the darkened dining room, he sang and sang, and it seemed to Miriam, as steam rose up around her from the big pot of soup she was stirring, that he sang more powerfully than Judy Garland herself, and he was younger than she had been when she had made that recording. When he finished, tears filled her eyes.

“Honey,” she said, “
Th
at was so beautiful.”

As he turned to the stereo to set the arm back at the beginning of the song so he could sing it again, Miriam asked him if he liked that song.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I like singing it.”

“And what do you like about it?”

“I like how it makes me sound sometimes,” he said.

“And what’s that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, “just good. Like when you wish for something that you think you’re gonna get.”

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “that’s just what singing was for me. A kind of wishing.”

“And did you get what you wished for?”

“Well,” she said, stirring the big pot with one hand, waving the steam out of her eyes with the other, “sort of. At least while I was singing.”

“Like you were wishing for the song?”

“Something like that. And for the happiness I felt when I would sing.”

“Weren’t you happy, Ma,” he asked, “when you were little?”

She stirred and stirred the soup.

“Weren’t you happy, Ma,” he asked again.

“Not like you, darling,” she said. “I couldn’t sing like you. You’re lucky. Your wish comes true every time you sing. Remember that next time you cry about not wanting to go to Stuart’s.”

He placed the needle back at the beginning of the song, and he sang in that beautiful, high, clear voice of his, and as he sang, she stirred and listened.

H
ALF-DRESSED, THE BOYS
were hurriedly slurping up the last of their cereal.
Th
ere was milk all over the table and little puddles of it on the floor. As always, Curly had left for the slaughterhouse at dawn, before anyone else was up. But his saucepan with dried egg in it was still on the stove, and his unwashed plate sat on the counter beside the sink. Miriam wanted them all out of the house so she could straighten up and get to Stuart’s. He had wanted her there early so she could help him work out a new tap dance routine for Ethan. But she was running late, and there were still the boys’ beds to deal with, and the kitchen to clean, which now looked like a war zone.

A piece of toast in one hand, her book bag in the other, Julie was heading for the door, leaving behind a trail of crumbs.

“I’ll be home late, Ma,” she said. “Cheerleading practice. Might miss supper.”

“Why should this day be different from any other day,” Miriam said. “But eat something more. You can’t learn on an empty stomach.”

She heard the door slam and Julie’s “Yeah yeah yeah” as she went down the front stairs.

“Ethan,” she said, “we have Stuart tonight.”

“Aw, Ma,” he whined, “not again. I don’t want to go. I got too much to do, I got a lot on my plate.”

“A lot on your plate,” she said, “like what?”

“You know, homework, and stuff.”

“
Th
at’ll take you what, fifteen minutes, a half hour at most?”

“Okay,” he said, “so it’s a small plate. I don’t want to go.”

“You’re going.”

“Shit,” he said, throwing his napkin down and stomping out.

“Don’t use that language with me,” she yelled after him, “or I’ll tell your father.”

Now Sam was leaving. His shoelaces were untied. “Wait,” she said. She bent down to tie them.

“Don’t touch my laces,” he said. “Don’t you tie them!”

“What do you mean, don’t tie them? If you don’t want me to tie them, learn to do it yourself.”

“I don’t know how,” he said. “And I don’t like the way you do it.
Th
ey always come untied at school. And I’m always tripping.”

“Get Mrs. Cunningham to tie them,” she said.

“
Th
en the kids’ll laugh at me.”

“So what are you going to do?” she asked. “I can’t let you leave with your shoes untied.”

“Mrs. Rosenberg,” he said.

“Sigrid? Down the street? What about Sigrid?”

“She’ll tie them. She said she would.”

“When did she say she’d tie them?”

“A while ago, ’cause I told her you didn’t know how to.”

“Why were you talking to Mrs. Rosenberg?”

“ ’Cause she saw me walking home from school and said I was going to fall on my head, and that would be it, caput, I’d die, just like that, if I didn’t tie my laces, and so she tied them for me, and they didn’t come untied until I went to bed.”

So now she couldn’t tuck in his shirts and couldn’t tie his shoelaces. He’d rather have a Holocaust survivor tie his shoelaces than his own mother? Plus, the neighborhood probably thought she neglected her children, and for all she knew maybe they thought she abused them, too. Who knew what crazy ideas that woman would put in Sam’s head? And Ethan wouldn’t go to Stuart without a fuss, and Julie—Julie was never home.

And then there was Curly to look forward to at the end of the day—angry as ever, full of complaints, wanting to know where Julie was and why Miriam couldn’t control her, and why did she have to push Ethan so hard, it wasn’t right for a kid to spend so much time singing and dancing with that “faygela” Stuart. “You want him to end up working for your father, too?” she’d have to say to shut him up. “
Th
ink that will make him happy?”

Same routine—morning after morning, night in, night out.
Th
e happy family in their happy home.

S
HE SPENT MORE
and more time at the studio, arriving early, staying late. She’d go on days when Ethan didn’t have a lesson. Stuart had such a way with children; one group would be tap dancing while another would be singing. He wrote music; he choreographed dance numbers; he was always busy, always doing a thousand things at once. His energy and exuberance were contagious. After a while, she found herself helping him with his books and making appointments. She had even begun helping him compose and arrange.

One day, during a break, Stuart put his hand on her shoulder.
Th
e gentle pressure of it made her blush.
Th
ere was trust in the pressure, and comfort, an undemanding intimacy she’d never felt before. And the pleasure she felt just then sent a jolt of fear right through her heart.

“Miriam,” he said, “you seem a little blue lately. Everything okay?’

“I’m just tired,” she said. “You know—the kids, my mother.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t know, being a confirmed bachelor and all.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” she said. “At least it can seem that way sometimes.”

“And Curly? You didn’t mention Curly.”

“Curly’s Curly,” she said.

“He’s quite a looker, though, that hubby of yours.”

“A real man’s man,” she said. “
Th
at’s him.”

“Well,” he said, “this is me; and I was wondering if you’d consider making our ‘relationship’ official.”

“Official?” she asked. “As in making an honest woman out of me?” She blushed again.

“Or me,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I mean coming to work here, being my assistant, what with all the reviews and performances I’m lining up, I could use some help, someone to fill in for me when I’m away, keep the place shipshape and all that. And it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for Ethan if you learned the business.”

“I’d have to check with Curly,” she said. “But I like your proposal.”

“Okay then,” he said, “let’s tie the knot, in a manner of speaking. And Curly can give you away.”

“
Th
row me away is more likely,” she said. “But yes, let’s do it—so to speak.”

C
URLY WASN’T CRAZY
about the plan.

“We have enough trouble managing,” he told her, “without you prancing around with Stuart.”

“We could use the money.”

“We’re doing fine.”

“When was the last time we took a trip?”

“Hey, I’m too busy working to pay the bills, to put food on the table.”

“What happened to easy street? All our big plans?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Forget it.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “What I mean is, with a little extra, maybe we could go somewhere for a change. Do something. It wouldn’t kill us.”

“I’m too goddamned tired.”

“All our friends go places.
Th
ey travel everywhere, they go on cruises. Harry and Gissy just got back from Israel.
Th
ey said it was beautiful.
Th
ey’d never seen such beauty.”

“Hey, listen, we live in the most beautiful country in the world.
Th
e Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, the Rocky Mountains—you name it we got it all right here in the US of A.”

“So why don’t we go to Vegas?”

“ ’Cause I don’t like to travel.”

“Listen, Curly, I’m taking the job, okay? Whether you like it or not.”

S
TUART WAS ALWAYS
delighted to see her; he never failed to kiss her cheek. Oh, she knew what he was, what he was saying when he’d refer to himself as “a confirmed bachelor.” Even to think the word
homosexual
or
fag
made her blush. Her whole life she’d heard the family, Curly’s as well as hers, refer to any man even a little different as a “faygela.” He doesn’t like baseball?—must be a “faygela”; plays tennis, not football?—“faygela”; loves opera?—“faygela.” Ballet?—light in the loafers. If it weren’t for Frank Sinatra, they’d think all singers, including Ethan, were “faygelas.” Faygelas were everywhere, it seemed, though she herself had never met one, so far as she knew. If Stuart was, big deal.
Th
at only deepened the bond between them. It made the intimacy safe.