in that theater behind closed doors? And was this the real source of the constant bickering and tension between Billy and Peg and Olive? Was their underlying argument not about money or drinking or control, but about sexual competition? (My mind raced back to that day at auditions when Billy had said to Olive, “How dull it would be if you and I always had the same taste in women.”) Could Olive Thompson—she of the boxy woolen suits, and the moral sanctimony, and the thin line of a mouth—be a rival to Billy Buell?
Could anybody be a rival to the likes of Billy Buell?
I thought of Edna saying of Peg: “These days she wants loyalty more than fun.”
Well, Olive was loyal. You had to give her that. And if you didn’t need to have fun, you’d come to the right place, I suppose.
I could not parse what any of it meant.
I walked back home around two thirty.
I eased open the door to the living room, but nobody was there. All the lights were off. On one hand, it was as if the scene had never occurred—but at the same time, I felt that I could still see a shadow of the two women dancing in the middle of the room.
I slipped off to bed and was awoken a few hours later by Celia’s familiar boozy warmth, crashing down next to me on the mattress.
“Celia,” I whispered to her, once she’d settled in beside me. “I have to ask you something.”
“Sleeping,” she said, in a gluey voice.
I poked her, shook her, made her groan and turn over, and said louder, “Come on, Celia. This is important. Wake up. Listen to me. Is my Aunt Peg a lesbian?”
“Does a dog bark?” Celia replied, and she was sound asleep in the very next instant.
SIXTEEN
From Brooks Atkinson’s review of City of Girls in The New York Times, November 30, 1940:
If the play is destitute of veracity, it is by no means destitute of charm. The writing is quick and sharp, and the cast is nearly universally excellent. . . . But the great pleasure of City of Girls lies in the rare opportunity to witness Edna Parker Watson at work. This lauded British actress possesses a flair for the comic that one might not have expected from so illustrious a tragedienne. Watching Mrs. Watson stand aside to appraise the clown show in which her character regularly finds herself is a marvel. Her reactions are so richly humorous and subtle as to make her walk away with this delightful little piece of lampoonery tucked tidily under one arm.
Opening night had been terrifying—and also contentious.
Billy had stocked the audience with old friends and loudmouths, columnists and ex-girlfriends, and every publicist and critic and newspaperman he knew by name or reputation. (And he knew everyone.) Peg and Olive had both objected to this idea, and strongly.
“I don’t know if we’re ready for that,” Peg said—sounding just like a woman who is panicked to learn that her husband has invited his boss over for dinner that night and expects a perfect meal on short notice.
“We’d better be ready,” said Billy. “We’re opening in a week.”
“I don’t want critics in this theater,” Olive said. “I don’t like critics. Critics can be so unsympathetic.”
“Do you even believe in our play, Olive?” Billy asked. “Do you even like our play?”
“No,” she replied. “Except in spots.”
“I cannot resist asking, though I know I’ll regret it—which spots?”
Olive thought carefully. “I might somewhat enjoy the overture.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “You’re a living tribulation, Olive.” Then he turned his attention to Peg. “We’ve got to take the risk, honey. We’ve got to spread the word. I don’t want the only important person in the audience that first night to be me.”
“Give us a week at least to work out the kinks,” said Peg.
“It doesn’t make any difference, Pegsy. If the show is a bomb, it’ll still be a bomb in a week, kinks or no. So let’s find out right away whether we’ve wasted all our time and money, or not. We need big gravy people in the audience, or it’ll never work. We need them to love it, and we need them to tell their friends to come and see it, and that’s how the ball rolls. Olive won’t let me spend money to advertise, so we need to ballyhoo the hell out of this thing. The sooner we start selling out every seat in the house, the sooner Olive will stop looking at