I heard her croaking voice in my head. It’s not just the feet, it’s the arms, it’s the neck, it’s the goddamn elbows and the goddamn knees. Keep your face strong. Don’t simper like an idiot beauty queen. You’re a dancer. A dancer. Got it? You can’t forget about your pinky finger, for godsake, you’ve got to know what every muscle is doing, even your eyebrows. You’re a dancer.
I’m a dancer, I told myself.
“No time to be late,” the heavyset woman said. “He’s waiting to see how fast you dress. Around here, the clock hands move for Ted.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the shoes.”
I hurried back onstage, but I was careful to slow down as I got close. I knew he’d be watching how I walked.
The trick to auditions? You’ve got to not mind that they’re bored, or that they’re thinking about the last girl, or that they’re dying for a smoke. You’ve got to think about your own joy.
So I danced. He threw combinations at me, and I kept up. It was like he wanted a reason to flunk me, just like old Mrs. Babbitt back in American History.
But he couldn’t. There’s nobody I can’t please. Nobody.
Finally, he signaled for Greg to stop playing.
“So,” Ted Roper said, “you can dance.”
I waited.
“Three shows a night — I presume you know that? You come at six thirty and you get out at three a.m. And you have to be available for promotional pictures during the day, or special shows. You’re a replacement, so you’ve got to catch up fast. You’ll work with me for the rest of the week.”
“Yes, Mr. Roper.”
“You might as well see Sonia now — she’s the wardrobe mistress. She’ll tell you about your fittings. And hair. Every girl wears an upsweep. You’ll have to handle some headpieces in that dance.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It better not be. Dress rehearsals on Saturday — look at the schedule in the dressing room after you talk to Sonia. If you’re late for dress, even a minute, I dock your pay.”
He looked at me over his eyeglasses. I didn’t see contempt anymore, just … what? Like he felt sorry for me? “One more thing. I don’t stick my nose into the personal lives of my girls. But there’s no special treatment, no matter whose friend you are. Got it?”
“I’ve got it, Mr. Roper.”
“All right, Miss Corrigan, you’re hired.”
When I walked out of that place an hour later I wasn’t just another pretty girl. I was a Lido Doll. I was somebody in New York City. I could feel my whole body adjust to the change. I used my hips in my walk now, challenging every man on the street not to notice me. They all did. When I smiled at a businessman walking by, he couldn’t stop looking and slammed right into a mailbox.
I’d made it. It seemed impossible, glorious. I thought of all the dancers sitting at drugstore counters, out of work. That wasn’t me anymore.
Would it have happened without Nate Benedict making that call? I knew I’d danced well, but the fact that someone had paved the way took some of the pleasure out of it. That was the thorn on the stem of the flower, the lemon in my dish of cream.
Five
Providence, Rhode Island
September 1950
This was how the act at the Riverbank Club had gone: Tony Carroll would call for a glass of water in the middle of the act, and I would bring it. He would make eyes at me, and I’d ignore him, and then he’d say, “What you need is a love song,” and I’d say, “What you need is a muzzle.” He’d act offended and stomp off the stage (straight for the bar to down a drink) and I’d be alone up there. After a beat, I’d take a sip of the water, cue the orchestra, and sing “Powder Your Face with Sunshine.” Right after the applause, he’d come back and say, “No need to steal the show, kid,” and together we’d sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” More applause.
I even got a mention in the paper:
CORRIGAN TRIPLET GROWS UP SWELL CROONER
One night as I carried the glass of water up to the stage, I saw Nate sitting at the corner table, alone. Probably there to check out that I could actually sing, I figured, or maybe that my material was clean. He slipped out after my number with Tony, without saying a word.
It was a hard September rain that night, but it didn’t stop people from