It was one of those bright, gladdening spring days in New York that tricks you into thinking that perhaps summer has come. I hadn’t been in the city long enough not to fall for the trick (never trust the month of March in New York!), and so I allowed myself to feel a burst of joy at the appearance of the sun.
It was a Monday. The theater was dark. I got an invitation in the morning mail for Edna. An organization called the Ladies BritishAmerican Protection Alliance was hosting a fund-raiser that night at the Waldorf. All proceeds would go toward lobbying efforts to convince the United States to enter the war.
Late notice as it was, the organizers wrote, would Mrs. Watson consider gracing the event with her presence? Her name would bring such prestige to the occasion. Furthermore, would Mrs. Watson be kind enough to ask her young costar Anthony Roccella if he would join her at the event? And would the pair consider singing their celebrated duet from City of Girls, for the entertainment of the ladies gathered?
I turned down most of Edna’s invitations without even running them by her. Her demanding performance schedule made most extracurricular socializing impossible, and right now the world wanted more of Edna’s energies than she had available to share. So I almost declined this invite, too. But then I gave it a second thought. If there was any cause that Edna cared about, it was the campaign to involve the United States in the war. Many nights, I had heard her talking with Olive about just that concern. And it looked like a modest enough request—a song, a dance, a supper. So I brought the invitation to her attention.
Edna instantly decided to attend. She’d been made so stir-crazy by the dreadful winter, she said, that she welcomed the chance to go out. And of course, she would do anything for poor England! Then she asked me to call Anthony and see if he would escort her to the benefit and sing their duet with her. Somewhat, but not entirely, to my surprise, he agreed. (Anthony could not have cared less about politics —he made even me look like Fiorello La Guardia by comparison—but he adored Edna. If I haven’t mentioned before that Anthony adored Edna, please do forgive me. It would become tedious if I had to keep up a thorough list of everyone who adored Edna Parker Watson. Just assume they all did.)
“Sure, baby, I’ll haul Edna over there,” he said. “We’ll have a gas.”
“Thank you awfully, darling,” Edna said to me, when I confirmed that Anthony would be her date for the evening. “Together we will defeat Hitler at last, and we’ll be back at home in time for bed, no less.”
—
That should have been the end of it.
This should have been a simple interaction—an innocent decision by two popular entertainers to attend an ultimately meaningless political event, hosted by a group of well-heeled, wellintentioned Manhattan women who could do absolutely nothing about winning the war in Europe.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Because as I was helping Edna to get dressed for the evening, her husband, Arthur, walked in. Arthur saw Edna putting herself together so smashingly, and asked where she was going. She told him she was dropping by the Waldorf to perform a song at a small political benefit that some ladies were putting together for England. Arthur got sulky. He reminded her that he’d wanted them to go see a movie that night. (“We only get one night off a week, blast it!”) She apologized (“But it’s for England, darling!”), and that seemed to be all there was to this little marital tiff.
But when Anthony showed up an hour later to pick up Edna, and Arthur saw the young man standing there in his tuxedo (rather overdressed, if I may say so), Arthur became angry again.
“What’s this one doing here?” he asked, eyeballing Anthony with naked suspicion.
“He’s escorting me to the event, darling,” said Edna.
“Why is he escorting you to the event?”
“Because he was invited, darling.”
“You didn’t say you were going on a date.”
“It’s not a date, darling. It’s an appearance. The ladies want Anthony and me to perform our duet for them.”
“Why don’t I get to go to the event, then, and perform a duet with you?”
“Darling, because we don’t have a duet.”
Anthony made the mistake of laughing at this, and Arthur spun around to face him again. “You think it’s funny to take a man’s wife to the Waldorf?”
Always the diplomat, Anthony cracked his gum and responded, “I think it’s kinda funny.”
Arthur looked like he might lunge at him, but Edna spryly leapt between the two men and placed a petite, well-manicured hand on her husband’s broad chest. “Arthur, darling, keep your wits. This is a professional engagement, and nothing more.”
“Professional, is it? Are you being paid?”
“Darling, it’s a benefit. Nobody is being paid.”
“It doesn’t benefit me!” Arthur cried, and Anthony—once more, with his native tact—laughed.
I asked, “Edna, would you like Anthony and me to wait outside?”
“Nah, I’m pretty comfortable right here, baby,” Anthony said.
“No, you may stay,” Edna said to both of us. “This is nothing of concern.” She turned again to her husband. The patient, loving face she’d been showing him thus far was now replaced by an icier expression. “Arthur, I’m attending this event and Anthony is escorting me. We shall sing our duet for some harmless, pewter-haired old ladies, raise a spot of money for England, and I’ll see you when I get home.”
“I’ve about reached my limit with this!” he cried. “It’s not enough that every newspaper in New York forgets I’m your husband, but now you forget it, too? You’re not going, I say. I refuse!”
“Get a load of this guy,” said Anthony helpfully.
“Get a load of you,” retorted Arthur. “You look like a waiter in that tuxedo!”
Anthony shrugged. “I am a waiter, sometimes. At least I don’t need my woman to buy my clothes for me.”
“You get out of here right now!” Arthur shouted at Anthony.
“No dice, pal. The lady invited me. She decides.”
“My wife goes nowhere without me!” said Arthur—somewhat ridiculously, because as I had witnessed over the past several months, she went to many places without him.
“You ain’t in charge of her, bud,” said Anthony.
“Anthony, please,” I said, moving forward and putting my hand on his arm. “Let’s step outside. There’s no reason for us to be involved in this.”
“And you ain’t in charge of me, sister,” Anthony said, shaking off my hand and throwing me a vicious look.
I recoiled as though I’d been kicked. He’d never snapped at me before.
Edna looked at each of us in turn.
“You’re all infants,” she pronounced mildly. Then she threw another rope of pearls around her neck, and collected her hat, her gloves, and her handbag. “Arthur, I’ll see you at ten o’clock.”
“No, you bloody well won’t!” he shouted. “I won’t be here! How will you like that, I wonder?”
She ignored him.
“Vivian, thank you for your assistance in dressing me,” she said. “Enjoy your evening off. Anthony, come.”
And Edna walked out with my boyfriend, leaving me alone with her husband—both of us shaken and cowed.
—
Ihonestly think that if Anthony had not snarled at me, I would have brushed off this entire incident, dismissing it as a meaningless
squabble between Edna and her childish, jealous husband. I would have seen it for what it was: a problem that had nothing whatsoever to do with me. I probably would have left the room immediately and gone out for drinks with Peg and Billy.
But Anthony’s reaction had shocked me, and I was rooted where I stood. What had I done to deserve such vitriol? You ain’t in charge of me, sister! What had he meant by that? When had I ever tried to be in
charge of Anthony? (Aside from constantly urging him to move to a new apartment, that is. And wanting him to dress and speak differently. And encouraging him to stop using so much slang. And asking him to style his hair in a more conservative manner. And trying to convince him to stop chewing gum all the time. And arguing with him whenever I saw him flirting with a dancer. But apart from that? Why, I gave the boy nothing but freedom.)
“That woman is destroying me,” Arthur said, a few moments after Edna and Anthony had left. “She is a destroyer of men.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, once I’d found my voice.
“You should keep an eye on that greasy mutt of yours, if you like him. She’ll make a meal out of him. She likes them young.”
Again—if it hadn’t been for Anthony’s flare-up, I would not have paid attention to a word that Arthur Watson was saying. The world, as a collective habit, never paid attention to a word that Arthur Watson said. I should have known better.
“Oh, she wouldn’t . . .” I didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.
“Oh, yes she would,” said Arthur. “You can be sure of it. She always does. You can be sure of it. She already is, you blind little ninny.”
A cloud of black particles seemed to pass over my eyes.
Edna and Anthony?
I felt dizzy, and I reached for the chair behind me.
“I’m going out,” Arthur declared. “Where’s Celia?”
This question made no sense to me. What did Celia have to do with anything?
“Where’s Celia?” I repeated.
“Is she in your room?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s bloody well go get her, then. We’re clearing out of here. Come on, Vivian. Get your things.”
And what did I do?
I followed that fool.