Beaches Page 4

  Three packs of peanuts. A Cee Cee Bloom autograph on the open market was worth three packs of peanuts.

  The plane dipped and Cee Cee clutched the armrest. Fuck. This had to be a joke. Some sort of gag. Bertie calling. Telling her it was urgent or pressing or some other Bertie word with exclamation points. Anyhow, whatever it was, it worked. It got Softie the Schmuck to walk out of her own rehearsal.

  In fact, Cee Cee remembered, maybe Bertie had even been crying a little on the phone. Of course with all those loud mouths in the rehearsal hall yakkin’ so loud it was hard to tell for sure. But right after she told her to hurry up and get to Carmel, it seemed like Bertie’s voice got real weird and mysterious and then she said, “Cee, you have to come because I’m dying to see you.”

  Maybe Cee Cee should have asked Bertie more questions. Maybe she should have called her back from a quieter room. Maybe even from home. Because now she was confused and afraid and wondering if what she thought she’d heard wasn’t what Bertie had said at all.

  BEACH HAVEN, NEW JERSEY

  1960

  The pictures of the singers were already up on the bulletin board. The dancers’ pictures would go up today. That’s the way John Perry hired them. Singers and dancers. Then he hoped they could act. Actually, it didn’t matter much; the tourists loved them, no matter what. Picked out their favorites, not by talent, but by personality and looks, or sometimes just because they resembled someone familiar. A grandchild, a child, whatever.

  This year would be Perry’s best season. That’s what he told Marilyn Loughlin, his assistant, and the choreographer. That’s what he told her every year. But this year he had that young boy dancer, Richie Day, and that crazy loud-mouthed girl singer, Cee Cee Bloom. She got to him. Even at the audition in New York, she got to him. She stood out in that room full of nervous girls with a don’t-give-a-shit attitude he admired, even though her fat mother was sitting there the whole time eating a stinking lunch, which two of the girls had complained privately to him, made them nauseous.

  Then the girl sang, and it was all he could do to contain himself. Christ, if she knew how good she was, she’d ask for money. He even liked her choices of songs. First she sang “I’m Going Back” from Bells Are Ringing—and he believed her.

  One minute before, she’d come clomping in in those big ugly shoes, wearing that brown Dynel coat that was ripped up near the shoulder, looking like some whacko off the street. Then she’d handed her music to Jay Miller, sat down on the stool, and in just the time it took for Miller to play the arpeggio, somehow, magically, she’d become the girl from the answering service, in love, and rejected.

  The second song was even better. The choice was perfect. That sexy oldie, “Daddy.” A totally new character. Slinky, sexy, dynamic. Mother of God. The girl was only nineteen. But when he watched her work, John Perry was gone. He had to hire her for his stock company before anyone else heard her.

  He’d never hired anyone on the spot like that. Summer kids were a dime a dozen. He tried to seem casual, but his heart was pounding as he laid it all out for her. Non-Equity, tiny salary, room, board, transportation, and laundry. Some weeks leads, some chorus. Maybe she could play Annie in Annie Get Your Gun. Maybe Adelaide in Guys and Dolls—did she dance? Yes, great. No, he didn’t need to see that. Accommodations were small. Ten or eleven girls in two rooms. No scenery to build; he had apprentices to do that.

  She’d go get her mother and ask. That mother. The kid would probably take the job just to be away from her. Leona—she called her by her first name—was still sitting in the reception room with the girl singers. Now she was reading a movie magazine she must have been keeping in that Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag. When had she ever shopped in Saks Fifth Avenue? The girl took her mother into the corridor outside the reception room, and John closed the door to the rehearsal hall, turning to look at Marilyn and Jay.

  “Jesus Christ,” Marilyn said. “Where’d she come from? Think we’ll get her?”

  “Honey, I’d go down on Godzilla if we could have that one,” Perry exclaimed.

  Jay Miller laughed and wiped his eyes. He loved John Perry. The little scamp was only thirty-one years old and the owner of the most successful nonunion summer stock theater in the East. During the year, he directed and produced industrial shows, not yet able to make it in the real mainstream of show business. But in the summer, John Perry was a star. On the little island forty miles north of Atlantic City, in the town of Beach Haven, New Jersey, the locals idolized his flamboyant lifestyle and the tourists fell in love with his theatrical charm. At the Sunshine Summer Theater, his baby, he introduced the shows, directed the shows, and somehow managed to convert an unruly, moderately talented group of stagestruck young kids into a functioning repertory company that delivered a different musical comedy every week.

  The door opened slowly. It was Leona; Cee Cee stood behind her, almost timidly. John led them into the room. No one said a word as Leona sat down on the rickety folding chair that creaked in protest against her enormous weight.

  “When does she start?” Leona asked.

  Perry tried to conceal his excitement. “June fifteenth.”

  And now she was here. In the house on Ohio Avenue with the rest of his summer kids, each of whom would pale in comparison to Cee Cee Bloom. Of course, they all had something to offer, Perry thought. Two of the dancers, Annie and Kaye, had separately confided to Marilyn that they’d never played leads and would do anything to play Louise in Gypsy. One of them would inevitably approach him. She’d wait until the others were asleep, walk over to his house on the beach complaining of insomnia, pleased to find him receptive to her visit. Then it would be a glass of wine, a walk on the beach and some sidelong looks, and he would have her. John loved making love to pretty little dancers; their tummies were so flat. And even though they were all small-breasted, they made up for that by being limber. God, were they limber; as they climbed all over him—not telling him what they wanted until he had come and was stroking their long straight hair.

  “A dancer could play the part in Gypsy,” they would say as though they weren’t campaigning for themselves, but for the entire dance community at large. “There’s really only one song and it’s pretty easy.”

  It was odd, Perry thought. Because it was usually the girl he would have given the part to, anyway, even if she hadn’t lured him to bed. But performers were so insecure.

  CEE CEE TOOK HER time unpacking. In fact, she folded everything so neatly, she was sure Leona would have laughed her ass off and asked her who she was trying to impress. The room looked like a goddamned reformatory with those five metal beds stuck into corners, each next to some crummy unpainted dresser and a rod for hanging clothes instead of a closet. Chintzy.

  Cee Cee was the last of the company to arrive on “the island,” as they called it. The others were already unpacked, organized, and downstairs giggling and getting to know each other, and she was nervous. If only there was one familiar face. One person she knew from home, even someone she didn’t like, she would feel better. Instead, there was a blur of new people she couldn’t sort out. A few girl dancers with big calves and straight hair, a tall skinny boy dancer, an older guy (very faggy), Peggy somebody or other, who was vocalizing in the bathroom when Cee Cee first arrived—or at least that’s what she said she was doing, even though Cee Cee knew she was just showing off her high notes—and some others she couldn’t remember. She hadn’t seen John Perry yet, and maybe seeing him would make her feel better. He’d adored her audition in New York. She could tell, even though he tried to be real calm about it. She knew he would make a big fuss over her this afternoon when they all went down to have their first look at the theater.

  “The theayter,” as Leona would call it. Leona. Poor Leona. Jeez, she was a wreck at the Port Authority. You’d think she was the one who was going away. She must have gone into the ladies’ room six times while they were waiting for the bus. And when the voice finally came over the loudspeaker announcing
departures, she started fanning herself and taking real deep breaths as if she was maybe going to faint. Acting as if Cee Cee was running away from home, like it wasn’t her own idea to begin with.

  Subscribing to Backstage, and every time it came, sitting at the kitchen table with her half-glasses that Cee Cee’s dad said made her look like she was Benjamin Franklin’s mother; and then he had to apologize because Leona got pissed off at him (for a change). Always Leona turned to the page where it said “Casting” at the top, and read it very carefully and slowly, going through the breakdowns, sometimes reading a few words out loud so Cee Cee could hear, while she was eating her breakfast. “Woman, early twenties—young Jean Harlow…no,” she’d say, moving her chubby finger down the page as Cee Cee hoped there would be nothing that sounded right for her to try for, again, and be disappointed, again. And mainly disappoint Leona again.

  Eventually, something would be right, and Leona would make Cee Cee call in sick to her receptionist’s job, which she liked a lot, at her cousin Myra’s father-in-law’s dentist’s office. Even though the others at the office always knew the truth, which was that Cee Cee and Leona were going to schlep into Manhattan so Cee Cee could audition for another Broadway musical, they always said, “Okay, Cee. Hope you feel better,” before they hung up.

  And it was the same every time. Without an Equity card, Cee Cee could only go to cattle calls. She would stand in the cold waiting rooms, waiting to go into a rehearsal hall or onto a work-lit stage, clutching her music and shivering, trying to look grown-up even though her mother was with her, wondering why all the other girls in slinky outfits weren’t cold enough to wear their coats or jerky enough to bring their mothers along. At least, it had been the same until now. She had to get it into her head that she really had the job. And she was excited. She loved telling her cousin Myra (with the three kids in Riverdale) she’d have to leave the phones at Dr. Jacoby’s office to someone else because she was off to do summer stock. She even wrote it in a letter to her friend in Pittsburgh, Bertie White.

  Bertie had been excited for Cee Cee. Bertie was always excited. At least, she used a lot of exclamation points in her letters, which made her seem excited. She told Cee Cee she was proud of her, which nobody had ever told Cee Cee before, except maybe her dad once when she got a strike, by accident, when he took her bowling. Bertie also said she loved Beach Haven and maybe, only maybe, she might be there herself sometime this summer!! Her Uncle Herbie, who was a bookie, had walked out on her Aunt Anita (Bertie called her Neetie) for a younger woman, and this Neetie was talking about going to the beach at Ship Bottom, one town away from Beach Haven, probably to cry her eyes out, and maybe she would bring Bertie along!!!!

  Christ, it would be weird to see Bertie, after all those years of just looking at those dumb school pictures she sent in her letters, with her hair in that God-awful ponytail.

  A voice downstairs yelled, “Car leaving for the theater.”

  Cee Cee tried to relax. She wouldn’t be afraid. She’d act real strong. John Perry would like that. He’d probably tell the others how great her audition had been and give her a starring part right away. She folded her yellow leotard, placed it neatly into the drawer, and headed for the stairs.

  THE CARS PULLED UP outside the theater at noon and John Perry smiled to himself. It was like watching children on their first day of school. Everyone nervously looking everyone else over, checking out the group to see how he or she fit in. The doors opened and the new company piled out and filed past him.

  “Hiya, Mr. Perry.”

  “Wow, look at this place.”

  As each one walked into the theater, Perry remembered their respective auditions. The wrong notes, the trembling, the falls in the middle of difficult combinations, the ecstasy when he had told them they’d been chosen. His eyes followed the two little dancers, Annie and Kaye, as they walked together, already friends, and both avoided his look. Richie Day, the boy dancer, had been befriended by Moro Rollins, that old queen singer. Rollins had a good voice and had worked for Perry in two industrials. He could easily handle the Ezio Pinza role if they did South Pacific. Perry would overlook the way Rollins seduced the boys unless Rollins tried touching the boys at the company parties. The locals were always at those parties, and they would never understand.

  “Hiya, Mr. Perry.”

  It was Cee Cee Bloom.

  “Place looks like a goddamned airplane hangar,” she said.

  Perry had to laugh. The theater actually had been a warehouse before he bought it; the curved metal roof that held the heat and drove the dancers rehearsing in the afternoon to take salt pills made it look exactly like an airplane hangar.

  “Welcome, Cee Cee,” he said. “Did you get all settled at the house?” Why hadn’t he noticed her body at the audition? Maybe because when she sang she was all face and hands, with those long red fingernails. But now, in that burgundy leotard with the wrap skirt and mesh stockings…

  “Yeah. What a dive!” she said, grinning. “You got some nerve packin’ ten of us in those two attic cells. Boy, if I didn’t need to sing so bad, I’d tell you to shove it, pal.”

  The audacity! He loved her. The others would never have had the balls.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  The theater was cool, and the house lights were on. Cee Cee sat in the last row away from the others and lit a cigarette despite the four rather large NO SMOKING signs, one of which was hanging right next to where she sat. Perry took a folding chair and sat in the center of the small three-quarter thrust stage. He had given this speech so often that it bored him, but…

  “Welcome to the Sunshine. I hope you’re all settled in your accommodations at the house. For those of you who haven’t forgotten, I’m John Perry. For those of you who have forgotten, you’re fired.” Beat. Laugh. “I own and operate this place. I produce and direct the shows. I make the policy here and I decide on the casting. If you have any problems, come to me. Don’t bitch and moan among yourselves.

  “This is a repertory company. That means one week you may have a lead in a show and the next week you may have a lowly chorus part, but I expect the same enthusiasm, punctuality, and professionalism from you no matter what your standing in the cast is.

  “Marilyn Loughlin is my choreographer. She is also the assistant manager here and she runs the cast house. The rules are—beds made daily, personal areas kept clean. Every Saturday morning there is a major cleanup, and each of you will be assigned a task. The bathroom, the kitchen, the yard, the laundry, et cetera. If you don’t do your job, I’ll personally drive you to the bus. Apprentices will do the cleanup jobs in the theater. Meals will be at seven-thirty at the house, twelve-thirty at the theater, and six-thirty back at the house. If you like the food, tell old Mrs. Godshell, the cook, and she’ll give you an extra portion. If you don’t, keep it to yourself. No singing in the house, no television, no radio, and no sex.

  “The first show, which will begin rehearsal tomorrow, is Carousel. The cast list will be on the bulletin board as you leave here. Today, I suggest you go down to the beach and enjoy yourselves. You probably won’t have much time for that after we start rehearsals. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  The kids got up and made their way into the lobby to check the cast list. Only Cee Cee, now with her feet crossed and up on the chair in front of her, still sat, puffing on her second cigarette. Perry folded his chair and placed it against the wall. It bothered him that she didn’t even seem to feel the need to have the others like her. To stay with the group so she’d be in on it. He started out through the curtains.

  “Where do you live?”

  “What?”

  “You. Where do you live?”

  “I have my own house on Marion Avenue. It’s on the ocean about six blocks from the cast house.” Again he started out.

  “Nice?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Is it nice?”

  “I like
it.”

  “Good.”

  Jesus Christ, she was pushy. He turned to walk into the lobby where the kids were congratulating and commiserating on the casting of the first show, but Cee Cee’s voice stopped him.

  “I’m in the chorus. Right?” she asked coolly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause the Julie part’s a soprano, and the Carrie part’s an ingenue and I’m not either one of those.”

  “Yes. You are in the chorus, Cee Cee—but it’s just the first week and there’s eleven other shows, and…” Why was he apologizing to her?

  “I’m not a chorus singer.”

  “You are now.”

  Her green eyes flashed with anger and Perry steeled himself for an attack, but it passed.

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess so.”

  This was a real nice clambake

  And we all had a real good time

  We’ve said it afore

  And we’ll say it agen

  We all had a REAL-GOOD-TIME!

  The applause was loud, and the summer people were loving the show. They had arrived in droves, some new, some old favorites of Perry’s, to buy season tickets and to stand around the bulletin board looking at the eight-by-ten glossies of the kids, wondering which of them would play what part in the list of shows Perry had posted for the season. The lucky ones who attended the opening night performance would come to the party and meet the amusing young crew of dancers and singers Perry had brought to the island this year.

  Bertie White was in the third row next to Aunt Neetie. Bertie was afraid she’d never recognize Cee Cee. It had been so long. It was funny to see Cee Cee’s name in the program next to the words SINGERS’ CHORUS. Cee Cee’s name was first, probably because her last name started with a B, and there she was on stage. In that funny puffy-sleeved dress, trying to look like she lived in New England and enjoyed clambakes. She stood out. At first, Bertie thought maybe it was because she knew Cee Cee and not the others, but that wasn’t why. Something else about Cee Cee made Bertie unable to take her eyes away from her. A confidence that didn’t fit with the others, who seemed to be working so hard at pretending that it showed.