Marjorie hesitated. “I’m busy almost every evening, Wally. I’m with a theatre group, the Vagabond Players, at the Ninety-second Street Y. We’re rehearsing Pygmalion.”
“Really? I’m in the theatre too, now, you might say. I’m the author of the Varsity Show this year at Columbia.”
“Well, congratulations! That’s a great honor—”
There was a buzz at the stenographer’s desk. She called, “Miss Morningstar—”
Marjorie jumped up. “My father is Arnold Morgenstern, Wally, first Morgenstern in the Manhattan phone book. That Central Park West address is wrong, we’ve moved.”
“Okay.” Wally seized her hand, dropped it as though it were hot, and went stumbling out.
Greech looked much less like Satan than he had on the grounds of South Wind, Marjorie thought. In the flat yellow light of a Manhattan office, with snow falling past the window behind him, with a brown muffler around his neck, he was just another drab little businessman like her father. The big flashlight seemed a bit silly, lying on a desk in New York. “Take off your coat, my dear. I keep this room too hot, I know—confounded draft from the window on my neck all the time—”
“Thank you, Mr. Greech.” She slipped out of the coat, glad she had worn her tailored gray-blue tweed, the best outfit she owned.
Greech was astonished at the way the girl had matured. She had seemed hardly more than a child last summer, trailing in the wake of the unsavory Marsha, and then coming to his office by herself at the end of the season with her stammered inquiry about working as an actress. “How’s Marsha?” he said.
“All right, I guess, I haven’t seen her for months. She’s working in Lamm’s department store.”
“Oh? Doing what?”
“Corset department, I think.”
“Well, now,” said the camp owner, “it seems you’re still determined to work at South Wind, eh?”
“It’s what I want to do more than anything in the world.”
“But you still can’t sing and dance, can you?”
“Well, I can be in a chorus, I think. But I’m a dramatic actress, mainly—”
“I told you, though, my dear, that we only do one dramatic show every couple of weeks, and so we don’t have much use for—”
“I remember everything you told me, Mr. Greech. I’ve learned shorthand and typing.”
Greech sat forward with a squeak of the swivel chair. “You have!”
“Well, you said that sometimes if a girl could make herself useful around the office, you took her on as a dramatic actress.”
“Why, that’s so, but—” He stared at her. It was much more than he usually expected or hoped for. His practice was to staff his office with would-be actresses. They cost him nothing, and they filled out the dancing chorus in the revues; and around the office they did unskilled chores like tending the front desk and the switchboard, keeping the files, and running errands. For stenographic work he had the wives of the headwaiter and the golf instructor, both trained secretaries who worked for nothing in order to spend the summer with their husbands. Greech had never before encountered an actress who had taken the trouble to learn stenography.
He said after a moment, “Well, of course, we expect that. But you understand that we can’t afford to pay our secretaries, it’s a question of whether the dramatic experience is worth it to you—”
“Oh, certainly. I didn’t expect you’d pay me.”
Her clothes, he saw, were not only fetching, they were expensive; and he began to scent possibilities in the situation. “How about taking a letter right now, to show what you can do?”
“Well—” He did not miss the fleeting consternation on the lovely young face. “I’ll try. I’m pretty raw, you know, Mr. Greech, but I’m still studying, you see. The course doesn’t end till June.”
He gave her a pencil and pad, and dictated a little faster than his usual rate. She tried desperately, became more and more flurried, and stopped. “I’m horribly sorry, Mr. Greech, I can’t—I know it’s not too fast—I just need practice, I’m taking two hours of dictation a week, I’ll be much better—”
He shook his head sadly. “Well, my dear, at the moment you’re not a professional stenographer, and not a professional actress, and still—of course you’re a very bright and pretty girl, but I’m in business here.”
She was groping in her wide black purse. She pulled two letters out and gave them to him. One was from Miss Kimble at Hunter and the other from the director of the Vagabond Players, a Mr. Graub. Both stated that Marjorie Morgenstern had a brilliant future as an actress. “Very nice, my dear, but this is all amateur stuff.”
“The Vagabonds charge admission,” the girl said faintly.
Greech smiled, and handed the letters back to her. “Now, Margie, I admire your spirit. But you have to consider that a three-month vacation at South Wind, which is what you’d be getting, costs something like eight hundred dollars. Sometimes in unusual cases we do work out a sort of compromise arrangement. Sort of split the difference, you see. Now if you could pay four hundred dollars for the summer, why I think, seeing that you do have a lot of promise for the future, we might—What’s the matter?”
The girl put her hand to her face for a moment, bowing her head, and when she looked up and tried to smile her eyes were wet. “I—nothing’s the matter, I’m a little disappointed. I appreciate what you say. But I haven’t got four hundred dollars. I haven’t got any money.” She stood and picked up her coat, wilted, awkward.
He said in a fatherly tone, “Well, of course, you’re a little young to have much money, but surely your parents are interested enough in your acting career to help out—”
“My parents!”
“Conceivably we could work something out for two hundred fifty, three hundred, something like that—”
“Mr. Greech, my parents don’t want me to act. They don’t want me to go to South Wind.” She put on her coat, adding in a shaky voice, “Thanks anyway. Maybe next year.”
Greech stood. He had a divining-rod instinct for small sums of money, and he was certain that at least a hundred dollars could be wrung out of this girl. But her charm had softened him, and anyway, even with her limited shorthand ability, she was a better bargain than most of his office actresses. “Marjorie, if you promise to keep it confidential between us,” he said, “I’m going to gamble on my intuition. I think you’ll be a fine actress some day. I’m just not a businessman, I guess. I’m going to give you the job.”
The girl peered at him mistily. “I don’t have to—to pay?”
“Well, just your own railroad fare, naturally, but that’s a mere trifle, some thirty dollars round trip—is it a deal?”
She grasped his outstretched hand tightly. “You’ll never be sorry! God, I can’t believe it—”
He patted her hand and released it. “Now then. I thought your name was Morgenstern. What’s all this Morningstar business?”
She smiled shyly at him. “Well, that’s my stage name. Might as well start with it now, I thought. Is it all right?”
Greech shrugged; she was a child, after all. “Yes, dear, it’s very pretty.”
She went out, leaving in the hot yellow-walled office a faint fresh scent like lilac; quite different from the heavy theatrical perfumes of the usual actress applicants.
Actually, his instinct had been right. Marjorie did have a hundred seventeen dollars in the bank, the remains of Klabber’s pay. She had been on the verge of offering it to him when he cracked.
Marjorie went home in a cloud of joy which even the cramped dark West End Avenue apartment could not dispel. She shut herself in the little bedroom, hardly as large as the maid’s room had been in the El Dorado, and spent the rest of the afternoon curled on her bed with a novel, often dropping the book on her lap and drifting into dreams of the coming summer.
They had been in the new apartment for half a year. The Morgensterns had been forced out of the El Dorado the previous October by a catastrop
he in the millinery market, a sudden wild seesawing in the prices of felt and straw which had all but wiped out the Arnold Importing Company in a month. The details of the collapse were vague to Marjorie, although her fourteen-year-old brother seemed to understand it, and tried to explain it to her at the time with a grasp that seemed highly precocious. All the girl really knew was that the golden days at the El Dorado came to a stop in funereal family conferences, an extraordinary rush of telephoning, and then a horrid invasion of grunting furniture movers with grimy slings and barrels, their brutal voices echoing through the stripped, gutted apartment.
It seemed to her at first that this was the end of all her hopes, that she could never face any of her friends again, that she was cut off from decent society. But a week after the family was installed in the small back apartment on West End Avenue she was quite used to it and thinking of other things. Making beds and washing dishes came naturally to her after a Bronx childhood; she did not particularly miss the maidservant. Mrs. Morgenstern declared that she was happy with the decreased housekeeping, and had never really liked having a stranger in the kitchen. She also insisted that Marjorie had a lovely view of the Hudson. It really was possible to see a blue patch of river from the girl’s bedroom by leaning out far enough to risk falling ten floors to a concrete yard. Otherwise the view was the usual New York one: window shades, bedrooms, and dirty bricks. But Marjorie decided it didn’t matter much what one saw out of the windows. The lobby of the building did have marble pillars, plenty of gilding, and Persian rugs in good repair. They were still far from the Bronx.
In fact, the net effect of the shock was bracing. Marjorie felt that she was in a Spartan time of life, that her grasshopper days were over. Her parents were amazed and delighted by her announcement that she had added stenography to her program at Hunter. “My God,” said Mrs. Morgenstern, “watch out or you’ll wind up useful.” Marjorie did not mention that her goal was South Wind, of course, and she was very casual about the dramatic group at the Y which she joined.
The Vagabonds were a hard-working group, putting on a new play every three or four weeks, and Marjorie rose rapidly to be a minor leading lady. She loved the rehearsals, the theatre talk, the late sandwiches and coffee; and though none of the men in the company interested her, she was kept buoyant by the attention they paid her, and by the consequent coolness and sarcasm of the girls. The men were mostly college graduates struggling for a foothold in business, teaching, or the law. A couple of them, handsomer than the rest and with long well-oiled hair, called themselves professional actors, and accepted parts in each new play with the express understanding that they might be called off at any instant to Broadway or to Hollywood. Such an emergency never arose, however, during Marjorie’s entire association with the Vagabonds.
What she particularly valued was the freedom the theatricals gave her. “I’m going to rehearsal” was a simple unchallengeable password out of her home in the evening. Mrs. Morgenstern’s opinion of her daughter had risen sharply when she saw her at her shorthand homework, actually making pothooks on a pad. Perhaps the disappearance of Marsha from Marjorie’s life, though it was never discussed, also made a difference. Anyway, the mother discontinued her cross-examinations almost entirely. For the first time in her existence the girl tasted privacy, and she relished it.
One evening in November Marsha telephoned her, and after a cold exchange of greetings she said, “I know you have no use for me and that’s okay, but I’d like to see you for just a few minutes tomorrow. I’ll meet you anywhere. It’s very important to me.” Marjorie couldn’t quickly think of a gracious phrasing for a refusal, and so she made the appointment.
She had not seen Marsha since the end of the summer; the friendship of the two girls had been quenched by the uncovering of Marsha’s affair with Carlos Ringel. Marjorie’s first amazement had soon worn off, and she had been pleasant in her dealings with the fat girl for the rest of their stay at Camp Tamarack. But in New York, Marsha having graduated from Hunter, their paths did not cross; and they did not seek each other out. Marjorie knew it was mainly her fault. She spent a great many hours thinking about Marsha, often regretting the end of the friendship, which had left a painful hole in her life. Sometimes she tried to condemn her own attitude as old-fashioned, prudish. There was no such thing as an adulteress any more, she told herself. People had affairs if they wanted to, observed a few precautions and decencies, and that was all there was to it. But her attitude was not a matter of reason. It was as instinctive as the humping-up of a cat at a dog, and she could not change it.
Marsha walked into the drugstore near Hunter looking puffy and pale, with marked shadows under her eyes. There were bald patches in her old squirrel coat and the seams in her blue kid gloves were split. She said cheerily, dropping into the booth where Marjorie sat, “Gad, this brings back memories. I’ll be conjugating Latin verbs any second. Let’s get some coffee fast.”
The first thing she did was to press fourteen dollars and twelve cents on Marjorie, the exact sum she had owed her at the end of the summer. Marjorie tried hard to demur, but at last took the coins and the crumpled bills. Next Marsha asked about the change of address and expressed sympathy at the reverses. “I guess things are tough all over,” she said. “Compared to my folks, yours are still millionaires. We’re really getting it this year. Pop’s so sick of it he hardly goes down to the Street any more, and Mom can’t even get the piano lessons these days. I’ve got to find work, Margie.” She paused and gulped her coffee. “And not just work for me. I want enough money to take care of my folks. They broke their backs getting me through college, God knows. They’re wonderful and I love them, but neither of them all their lives ever learned how to hang on to a dollar long enough to see whose picture was on it, and they’ll never learn now. It’s up to me. I just want one thing now, money, money for my folks and for me, and I’m going to get it.”
Marjorie said, fumbling at her purse, “Why did you give me this money then? I told you I don’t need it.”
Marsha sharply pushed her hand away from the purse. “Sugar bun, develop some antennae some day, will you? That was my great symbolic act—for myself—Marsha taking the vows and the veil. I don’t want your pity, kid, I want help. Do you see Sandy Goldstone much these days?”
“Hardly ever. Just once this fall.”
“But you’re still friends.”
“Well, we never had any fight, but—”
“Give me a letter of introduction to him.” She grinned at Marjorie’s astonished look. “It’s just a handle, baby, a shoehorn, you always need something like that to get started. Once I’m in his office as a friend of yours I’ll get me a job at Lamm’s, don’t you worry.”
“Marsha, a letter from me—I’d feel so silly writing it—it wouldn’t mean a thing—”
“It’ll get me past doors.”
Marjorie agreed to write it.
When they were out on the street, and about to part, Marjorie said, “Did you and Carlos see Noel Airman after the summer?”
Marsha said, with an amused narrowing of the eyes, “What makes you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Why yes.” Marsha thrust her hands in her coat pockets in a coquettish pose. “We saw quite a bit of him. He lives at II Bank Street, you know, real cosy Villagey kind of apartment. Lot of fun. Matter of fact I still see him now and then. Maybe you’d like to come one afternoon and—”
“Oh no, no, my God,” Marjorie said. “It’s just that—well, you can’t help being interested in a celebrity you’ve met.”
“What are you doing for a love life if you don’t see Sandy?”
“I haven’t any.”
“What? Aren’t you dying of boredom?”
Marjorie told her about the Vagabonds. The fat girl nodded approvingly. “Good practice for you. I still think you’re going to be a great actress, Margie. So do my folks. They talk about you all the time. They miss you…. And none of the guys in that acting crowd mean anyt
hing to you?”
“Well, I run around with them, but they’re bores.”
Marsha said briskly, “You know what, sugar bun? I think you’ve got a case on Noel Airman.”
“That’s ridiculous.” But Marjorie’s heart began slamming and her face became hot.
“Oh, stop blushing and looking as though you’d dropped a garter. It’s perfectly all right. In fact something might come of it.”
“Marsha, he’s thirty—”
“What if he were? It happens he’s twenty-eight.”
“A man who sleeps around with everybody—”
“Oh yes, you and your Old Testament upbringing. Well, he does nothing of the kind. One at a time, and choice.” Marsha cocked her head, looking Marjorie over. “It’s hard for me not to think of you as a baby, but really, honey, you look older and prettier by the month. Maybe you could handle Noel at that. I’ve seen queerer matches, God knows. What can a girl lose by trying? It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to get you two together in an accidental way—”
“Good heavens, Marsha, will you forget it? You’re spinning something out of thin air. I haven’t the faintest interest in Noel Airman.”
“Okay, okay.” Marsha laid her hand on Marjorie’s arm in the old gesture of patronizing good humor. “When do you think I can have the letter?”
Marjorie was so flustered that it took her a few seconds to realize what Marsha meant. “Oh, the letter. I’ll write it as soon as I get home.”
Before starting her homework that night Marjorie mailed the letter off. Then she found she couldn’t concentrate on her textbooks. Marsha’s remarks about Noel haunted her. The plain fact was—though strangely she had not faced it until now—that from the start she had been unfavorably comparing all the men in the Vagabond Players to the social director of South Wind. She could recollect doing so. Airman had somehow become for her the image of an ideal man; and it had happened so quietly, so naturally, that he now seemed always to have been the measure. To Marjorie, indeed, he was still more than half an abstraction. She had seen him in all for less than two hours. She dimly remembered a tall man with red-blond hair and crackling blue eyes; a man whose conversation was all wisdom, whose tones and gestures were all gentlemanly grace, and who could do anything in the world better than anybody else. Even at the height of her worship of George Drobes, her glamorizing of Sandy Goldstone, she had remained aware that they both fell rather short of perfection. Noel Airman actually did seem a perfect man.