Songbird (12 page)
“That'll be fun. You think they'll get me a real Hollywood costume?”
“No way. Not those cheapskate s.o.b.s. If you want to look good you girls better come up with something on your own.”
Me, Luella, and Anita designed a doozie.
When we hand-sewed the last sequin on the night before the scheduled shoot, we actually threw a party there at Luella s. The kids made a big pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid. I brought some squirt cheese, pepperoni, and Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers. And Anita Reasin made her famous no-bake peanut butter fudge.
What a time! The kids pooped out long before we did. Anita left to marinate the chicken legs she was throwing on the grill for the Memorial Day party they were giving the next day. Teriyaki chicken legs! So Luella and I stood at the doorway to the older two's room. Isabel was a charming little beauty back then. Sweet nose, brown eyes, black bobbed hair, and big old,
crooked teeth. In the bed next to her Esteban slept, his head of hair like a wild mane. Guadalupe slept in Luellas room in the toddler bed at the foot of her own double bed, her dark hair feathering like spin art across her cheeks.
“I feel so sorry for them,” Luella said. “What kind of people will they be growing up without a father?”
I shrugged. If she wasn't making the connection to me, I wasn't about to remind her.
What kind of people would they be?
Empty?
Sad?
Scrappy?
Lonely?
Alone?
Wanting?
Scared?
Apprehensive?
Blue?
What kind of people would they be?
O
n
Bowl-O-Rama
night I almost did't make it out of the ladies’ room I felt so nervous and scared and bereft of talent, but Luella and Mrs. Reasin literally carried me out and when I realized my embarrassment at being forcibly delivered to the set would far surpass a flat note or please Lord no, the inability to hit the high note, I said, “All right you two, all right!” And set my high heels upon the industrial strength, grayish-gold carpet. “Just give me a minute to compose myself.”
So I leaned up against the faded white lockers and said a prayer in my mind that might have lasted two minutes if said verbally, but only lasted twenty seconds as the thoughts didn't really even get the chance to become actual words, just pleadings and emotions. Although, the words “help me” did manage to appear quite frequently.
I stood before the director, Bart Lake, and tried to listen to his instructions.
“Now you'll only be on-screen for a couple of seconds, but we'll want to shoot you for at least half the song.”
Talk about a weirdo, this guy!
So I sang in my green dress, my red hair dressed almost in an Afro by the hairdresser on the set, my makeup completely overdone, not that I dared to say anything. And do you know they let me and Billy Noekowski do the whole song because Mr. Lake forgot to yell “Cut!” halfway through.
They all clapped when I finished.
And I bowed. Regal and queenlike, hair vibrating like a hive of bees, I bowed.
Now I’ve never taken drugs. In fact, given the circumstances of my life, I’ve emerged relatively unscathed as far as vices, thanks to that bunch of oddballs in Vermont. But acclaim is like a drug.
I felt their approval.
I felt their admiration.
And it covered my desperation like a combed sheepskin all the while snaring me like the purest powder of cocaine.
Bansy struck then, slowly inching his way toward me like a giant snail, secreting a trail of promised silver and maybe even gold.
“You don't need to be here at Suds ‘N’ Strikes, Charmaine. Bigger things await you.”
Mr. Lake overheard. “He's right. Although, not much of this kind of singing going on these days, Bansy. You don't sing disco, do you?”
“I can sing anything, anytime, anywhere.”
“Is keeping your clothing on a requirement?”
I gasped.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bansy said. “How old are you, anyway?
“Nineteen,” I lied.
“Twenty-one would be better.” Mr. Lake reached into the pocket of his bowling shirt for a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. From what I heard from the crew, Mr. Lake liked to dress for each shoot to fit into his surroundings.
“Then I’ll be twenty-one. Shoot, mister, with this much makeup on, I look twenty-five if I look a day.”
Two weeks later, I found myself on a bus to New Jersey.
The same Greyhound station that welcomed me to Baltimore, bid me good-bye, along with Anita, Frank, and Luella.
But I had to keep movin’ on. Just like the song says.
I
first sang at a sorry old club in Atlantic City, after they legalized the casinos again. My first real live nonbowling alley gig and it occurred at some sorry old club with nothing but alcohol, some little round tables sprouting like mushrooms from a floor that looked completely capable of producing honest-to-goodness fungus. Of course, without a gambling license, that club was destined for a quick slope downhill and I slid right along with it.
That stupid Bansy man.
Mr. and Mrs. Reasin tried to warn me, but I saw film stars swirling all around my head like little Tinkerbells with wands trailing Stardust, or maybe I should say
starlet-
dust.
I might have known better.
I suspect that some Divine protection was in the works at the Satin Dahlia as well as some Divine workings-in-general.
Maybe it was just dumb luck, Myrtle Charmaine.
The night that impacted my life the most as it now stands, years later here with Harlan and all, was a particular Friday night in June of 1977. I followed another act, an act called the Gemstones.
One girl named Ruby, the other named Grace.
We went out for drinks afterward at a more respectable club and that summer we lazied through the afternoons, lying out on the beach. Well, I lay under an umbrella, not only due to my pale skin but because in the city that puts on the Miss America pageant year after year, I still didn't have too much to be proud about with my bustline. I got a view of Dorothy Benham who was to become Miss America 1977, and was thankful I never had to stand next to her because, let me tell you my white trash roots would have clearly shown! And not only that, she sings opera. Opera always wins out over any other type of singing on the singers’ scales.
But the talking sure was good there on the beach with Ruby and Grace! As girls do, we learned all about each other the first day.
Grace lay in the sun, bronzing away. “I’m from a regular family, I guess. Got parts in the school plays and all and tried Broadway, but the only job I ever landed lasted an hour and led me to this gig. Ruby here's the one with the story.”
Grace turned over and fell asleep.
And Ruby went on. Foster homes, too. We connected over that. But Ruby wasn't able to lock the door to her room like I did, so Ruby eventually ran away and involved herself in all sorts of things, and all sorts of guys. “I could tell you some tales about the kind of losers there are out there. Makes you want to become a nun or a lesbian.”
I gasped.
Ruby laughed. “You are straight off the farm, aren't you?”
“You'd be surprised.”
I told her my tale. But I told her Mama died. Even then, it wasn't anything I wanted anyone new in my life to know.
By mid-July the Songbirds took flight. I designed and sewed us some classy costumes and we found a couple of lower-order casino gigs. Together we rented a room at a boarding house and I held down the fort on nights that Ruby and Grace had dates. Shades of Vermont still lingered in that I felt too young and inexperienced to get involved in that sort of thing again.
Thank the Lord for that!
W
hile Ruby never stayed out all night during our time in Atlantic City, Grace sure did. She'd pick up men after shows and we wouldn't see her again sometimes until the next gig. There Ruby and I would be waiting in the casino dressing room, costumes in hand. I’ve got to give it to her, though, she was only late once and Ruby and I covered beautifully with her alto and my melody going. We even decided that night that if Grace should ever up-and-at-’em we'd do just fine as a duo. We figured we'd add a couple of little dance steps if she ever did leave because we could do that sort of thing and Grace couldn't. We weren't talking major tap or jazz ¡moves, just some dips and swirls like those girl groups in the ‘60s used to do.
But we knew we'd never kick Grace out and we knew she would never leave, because she needed people. Grace needed people to parent her, and Ruby and I didn't.
One night Ruby and I sat on the bed sewing sequins on the costumes I decided to make since December was coming. Little Santa outfits. Spangled and sparkling and something more out of a Christmas wine TV advertisement than anything to do with the real meaning of the holiday. I hadn't thought of the real meaning of Christmas for a while now.
“You know that ‘people who need people’ song?” I asked.
“Of course. Sappiest darn thing I’ve ever heard!” Now Ruby could take her beautiful features and contort them into the ugliest faces known to mankind when she felt deeply or had an opinion, which was a lot because Ruby was a thinking type of girl with rubbery type of skin.
“Those words make me think, though.”
“What about? How sappy it is?”
“Oh, shush, Ruby. Think about it, people who need people are the luckiest people in the world.’”
“You think so?”
“Well, why wouldn't that be the case?”
“I don't know. But it feels wrong to me.”
“So how would you write those lyrics?”
“People who love people are the luckiest people in the world.”
“So, it's more of an ‘I choose’ type of thing?”
Ruby tied off the line of thread she'd been attaching the sequins with. “Definitely. It's on your own terms.”
“Hmm.”
“I tell you what, girl, I don't
need
anybody. And you don't either. And look at Grace.”
“Yeah. Out with all sorts of guys, night after night.”
“Exactly. That's a people that needs people.”
I handed her the red thread. “I see what you mean.”
“I’m insightful, Charmaine. You are, too. Lives like ours either wear you down to the bone or give you calluses, thoughts, lessons.”
“You think Grace is wearing down to the bone?”
“With her upbringing, she's just starting lessons you and I learned by the time we were twelve, I’ll bet.”
I reached for the embroidery scissors and snipped off a length of white to begin attaching the fake fur to our little caps, á la
White Christmas.
“So let me ask you a question, Ruby.”
“Shoot.”
“If we're so great, why are we sitting here sewing Santa-helper costumes and Grace is out on the town?”
“We choose, Charmaine. We choose to be here.”
I shrugged. “Well, okay, I guess. Sounds a little hollow to me, though.”
Ten minutes later, I threw down my handwork. “I’m tired of sitting around. Let's go out.”
“Where to?”
“Who knows, Ruby? But we need to have a little adventure. Besides, I could use a little fresh air. This place is awfully small.”
I swear a camper van had more room than that apartment.
“Well, all right. Just promise me we don't have to set foot in a club or a casino.”
“That's an easy promise to make. Talk about the saddest places on earth.”
We shrugged into our winter coats, locked up the apartment, and headed out toward the boardwalk.
“This is going to be a chilly stroll,” Ruby said.
“I don't care.”
“Me either, I guess.”
“You know, Ruby, I always though casinos were supposed to be fun places.”
She sideglanced me. “Just come straight to the point this time, baby.”
“Nobody sitting at those tables or at the slots ever smiles.”
“You know, you're right. I never thought about it before. You're really something, Charmaine.”
And I remembered Mrs. Evans then and how she'd always tell me exactly the same thing. I couldn't say I was really ashamed of my life at that time. Singing was fun, I didn't feel it was wrong. We sang clean songs, dressed modestly albeit with some flash and sass. But I knew I could do more with that gift box still sitting there in my throat. And did singing in casinos count as burying your gift in a napkin? Well, if it did, that napkin was most definitely a cocktail napkin.
“You ever think we could be doing more with our lives, Ruby?”
“All the time, girl. All the time.”
R
uby and I heard loud singing and stomping and clapping coming from a sidestreet off the boardwalk.
“What in heavens name is that?” I asked.
“Sounds like revival to me, glory to God!”
“Oh, my lands, you tickle me, Ruby!” I tied my scarf more tightly about my neck. “Does that fit in with the definition of a club?”
“As far as I’m concerned … yes, if you define it by how likely you are to get hit on. But let's go in anyway. It's warm and there's no boozers.”
We turned right, hopped down the stone steps and headed toward the music and noise. A couple of drunks wafted by like two old hamburger wrappers, balled up and smelling of yesterday's grease.
The older one wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Ha! Ha! We did it again. Got the meal and didn't stay for the preaching!”
Oh, my Lord, the other one was a woman! I could hardly believe the soft voice that came out of her. “You're going to ruin it for the both of us, Glen.”
“Shut your trap, Gina. Just shut it up right now.”
And poor Gina did.
Ruby's eyes met mine. We continued toward what I guessed then was a rescue mission or something. So much for no boozers being present. A cross, outlined in bluish-white neon tubing swung in the breeze on rusted hinges. “Do you think they're married, those two hobos?”
“Beats me.” Ruby shook her head. “Bet they've got kids all through the New Jersey foster system.”
“Yeah.”
“We're real people, Charmaine.”
“Who, foster kids?” My lands, that was out of the blue for Ruby