Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends Page 19

  “Anytime, hon,” she said.

  Peter emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, wove his way to Sixth Avenue and Fiftieth Street and let us out in front of Radio City Music Hall.

  “Give me a call when you’re ready to leave,” he said to Tina. “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “We might only be here a short time, Peter,” she said. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll take the train home.”

  “Call me anyway,” he said. “I can usually work something out.”

  I wished George had such a flexible schedule in his firm as Peter had. George never seemed to be able to “work something out” even though he was the founder of the firm.

  We thanked Peter and followed Tina into Radio City.

  “May I help you?” the ticket taker said.

  “We’re the Happy Hoofers,” Tina said. “We’re looking for Glenna Parsons. We’re going to be working with her.”

  The ticket taker, who looked about fifteen, said, “You’re going to be Rockettes?” He tried, but he couldn’t hide his disbelief that women our age could possibly be Rockettes. We’re only in our early fifties, but to him, we must have seemed ancient.

  “You bet we are,” Gini said. I love Gini. She always says what the rest of us don’t have the nerve to say. “They’re begging us to join them. Want to tell Glenna we’re here?”

  He fumbled with his phone and clicked a button.

  “M-m-m-s. Parsons,” he said. “They’re here.”

  “Them,” he said after a pause. “You know, those Happy Hookers. They’re here.” People often call us that to tease us, but this boy just made an honest mistake. I think.

  Tina gently pried the phone out of his hands.

  “Glenna?” she said. “It’s Tina. I brought my gang as you requested. We’re dying to meet the Rockettes. Where do we go next?”

  Tina listened to the answer and then said to us, “She’s meeting us on the stage. We ought to be able to find that without any problem.”

  She handed the phone back to the flustered young man and motioned to the rest of us to follow her into the theater. My first sight of that magnificent foyer brought back the memory of coming to this theater when my children were little. I used to come here when they were in school. In those days, you could see a feature movie, some cowboy short films, a stage show—with the Rockettes of course—and a comedy skit.

  I would go into the theater about eleven o’clock and snuggle down in my comfortable seat. I’d pretend I didn’t have to go back to my housewifey world. That I could just stay there totally immersed in the feature movie, dancing with them, singing with them, worrying about some incredibly silly problem that of course was solved in ninety minutes. Then I’d stumble out of there around two o’clock and go back home in time to greet my children when they came home from school.

  It was heaven. I always came back home refreshed, entertained, calm and ready to cook some more meals, wash some more dishes, pick up stuff all over the house, and drive my children wherever they needed to go after school. I had two boys and a girl and raising them was the best job I ever had and the hardest work.

  Two of them are in college now and one in law school, but I wouldn’t have traded those years for anything. Radio City was a blessed respite. I still felt that way as I looked at the huge mural on the wall next to the staircase leading up to the balcony showing a man searching for the fountain of youth. Or at least that’s what I always thought he was doing.

  I followed Tina and the others through the impressive gold doors up the long aisle to the huge stage. Someone once told me the stage was meant to represent the sunrise, with enormous gold arches framing it. Everything in this vast theater produced by Samuel L. Rothafel, which seated six thousand people, was planned to suggest joy and a new day full of promise and fun.

  We clambered onto the stage and an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a twist, long legs, and a wide smile, hurried out of the wings to greet us.

  “Welcome, Hoofers,” she said. “I’m Glenna. We are so glad you’re going to join us for our Christmas show.”

  “Hello, Glenna,” Tina said and introduced her to each of us.

  Glenna looked us over, and we could see her mentally planning makeup, hair arrangements, costume sizes for each one of us. She seemed happiest when she turned her attention to Janice, but we’re all used to that. She wouldn’t have to do much for Janice because she was so beautiful. Effortlessly beautiful. We’d all hate her if she weren’t one of the world’s nicest people. Kind, loving, totally unimpressed with her beauty. She just thought of it as something she inherited—like good teeth or nice hair or young skin. Nothing she should be proud of or ashamed of. Useful in the theater. It was just there. And it got us lots of jobs, to be crass about it.

  We’re all pretty good-looking. Because of the hours we spend dancing, we’re slim and in good shape. We also have great legs, but that wasn’t really because of dancing. We just inherited them from mothers or grandmothers with smashing gams.

  “The Rockettes do their own hair and makeup,” Glenna said, “but I thought you might like a little help since you’re not used to our system. The girls only wear lipstick, fake eyelashes, and put their hair in a French twist. They’re used to it and can do it really fast. Are you OK with a little help?”

  We all nodded vigorously, me especially. I couldn’t imagine turning into a Rockette with “lipstick, fake eyelashes, and a French twist.” My own hair pretty much resisted being pulled back and tied up. Was she kidding?

  “That would be great, Glenna,” Tina said, speaking for all of us. “What about our costumes?”

  “Well, as you know, you’re going to do the Santa bit, and the costumes weigh about forty pounds! Think you can dance with that?”

  “Forty pounds!” Gini said. “What the heck are they made of—lead?”

  Fortunately Glenna laughed. We’re never sure how people are going to react to Gini. We’re used to her, but not everyone appreciates her comments.

  “It has a fat round ball inside it so you’ll look like Santa,” she said. “But maybe we can work something else out and get lighter costumes for you guys.”

  “That would be good,” Tina said. “Anything you can do to make it easier for us would be wonderful. We want to be like the Rockettes, but I don’t think we can ever actually be the Rockettes.”

  “Not to worry,” Glenna said. “We’ll get you as close to them as we can. Mostly it’s rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, and exercise, exercise, exercise. Are you ready for that?”

  “You bet,” Tina said. “When do you want us to start?”

  “Not till tomorrow,” Glenna said. “Today, I want you to meet the rest of us Rockettes.”

  “How many are there?” Pat asked.

  “Eighty all together, but we have two separate groups of thirty-six so there are only thirty-six on stage at any one time. With you, there will be forty-one.”

  Glenna clicked a number on her phone and said, “Send ‘em in please, Annie.”

  The sound of all those tap shoes clickety-clacking down the stairs and onto the stage sounded like an army lining up for inspection. We were soon surrounded by what seemed like thousands of pretty young women, even though there were only eighty. They were smiling and friendly and amazingly lively for that hour of the morning.

  “Ladies,” Glenna said, “I want you to meet Tina, Gini, Janice, Pat, and Mary Louise. They’re the Happy Hoofers. They’re going to dance the Santa Claus number with us.”

  “Lots of luck dancing in jackets that weigh forty pounds,” one woman said.

  She was one of the taller Rockettes. I knew that you had to be between five feet six inches and five feet ten and a half inches tall to be one of the Rockettes. She must have been about five ten. Her legs looked about five eight by themselves. She had blond hair, highlighted with lighter streaks. She must have been about twenty-five years old, but her face was hard. She didn’t smile when she commented on the Santa costumes.

  �
��Knock it off, Marlowe,” Glenna said. “I already told them we’d take that fat suit out to make the costumes lighter. Stop trying to scare them.”

  “If we have to dance in those things, they should have to wear them too,” Marlowe said, still unsmiling.

  “Audiences are used to seeing us like that,” Glenna said. “It’s a tradition. But our Hoofers here can probably get away without the extra addition.”

  She looked around at her whole group of Rockettes. “Can I count on you guys to help these Hoofers become temporary Santas?”

  Loud shouts of “Sure,” and “You bet,” and “Of course,” made us feel great. I noticed Marlowe didn’t join in the general helpful shouts.

  “OK,” Glenna said. “Let’s show them what we’ll be doing. Line up and do your stuff.” She switched on the music that would be played by a real orchestra for the actual performance.

  “When we perform,” she continued, “we wear little microphones attached to our shoes to make the tapping louder. You will too. Otherwise people in the back row would miss that great sound.”

  Microphones on our shoes! I could see this would be unlike any other dancing we had ever done in our lives.

  We moved off the stage to watch as the Rockettes lined up and swung into the routine for “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” They kicked higher than I could ever imagine doing. This was going to take a lot more work than I ever dreamed. But we were going to be Rockettes! Or as close to them as we could manage.

  When they finished we jumped to our feet and applauded.

  “Think you can do that?” Glenna asked.

  “We’ll knock ourselves out trying,” Tina said.

  We all had questions for Glenna.

  “When do we start?” Gini said.

  “How long will it take us to learn how to dance like they do?” Pat asked.

  “What time will we finish rehearsing?” I asked. The memory of George’s “Just be sure you’re back here in time for dinner,” echoed in my mind.

  “Do we get a lunch break?” Janice asked. Somehow she always managed to eat all the time and never gain an ounce. I could read her mind, though, and knew she wanted to plan some lunches with her boyfriend, Tom, in her favorite city in the world. I sort of hoped I could sneak in some time with Mike when he wasn’t delivering somebody’s baby.

  “We rehearse every day—not weekends—from ten in the morning until six in the evening,” Glenna said. “But we have a lot more routines than you have. We have eight costume changes with every performance and we do five shows a day. You only wear the Santa outfit, and you’re all through after that part of the show.

  “But you won’t spend the whole rehearsal time dancing. We have an hour-long workout of push-ups, leg raises, running in place—lots of things like that. Then we spend the rest of the time practicing the dancing. It’s not easy what we do.”

  “Do you want us to start today?” Tina asked.

  “No, today was just a meet-and-greet,” Glenna said. “We start tomorrow. Can you get here by ten again?”

  “Absolutely,” Tina said.

  “See you tomorrow then,” Glenna said and walked us to the entrance of the theater.

  Outside, Tina said, “Want me to call Peter to take us home? Or do you want to spend the day in the city now that we’re here?”

  We all talked at once telling her we wanted to stay in New York for the day.

  “I’m going up to the Frick to start making arrangements for my wedding reception after we finish the Christmas show. Sometime in January maybe,” Tina said. “I’ll see what’s available.”

  “Think I’ll run over to the Times and see if Alex is free for lunch and find out what’s going on in the city today,” Gini said. Alex was a reporter at the New York Times and Gini had met him when we danced on a cruise ship in Russia. He had been working in the Moscow office at that time, and the two of them hit it off right away.

  Alex loved to travel as much as Gini did. He was impressed with the prize-winning documentary she made about the hurricane in New Orleans. Gini had divorced her husband several years before she met Alex because he wanted her to stay home and clean. That wasn’t for our adventurous friend so she left him. Alex was perfect for her. When he heard she was trying to adopt a little girl in India, he volunteered to help her.

  The Indian government made it very difficult for a foreigner to adopt a child in their country. Alex promised to use his resources at the Times to find out how she could do that. Gini was obviously in love with Alex, but she was wary of getting married again. For now, they did everything together except say “I do” at the altar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gini so happy.

  “Guess what?” Janice said. “It’s Wednesday! I’m going to get in the TKTS line and go to a matinee this afternoon.”

  “What are you going to see?” Gini asked.

  “Tom’s in an off-Broadway play that I want to see. He plays some romantic guy who loses his girlfriend. Or something. I want to see it before it closes. I might decide to stay in town and have dinner with him. I’ll call you if I do that, Tina, so you won’t wait for me.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Tina said. “Enjoy, Jan.”

  Pat said she would have lunch with Denise, the woman she lived with in New Jersey, who commuted to her job at a public relations firm in New York.

  “I don’t often get to see Denise during the week because she’s in the city and I’m home counseling clients,” she said. “This will be a special treat for us.” She clicked on her phone to make the call.

  “What about you, Weezie?” Tina said. “Want to come to the Frick with me? I know you love that museum.”

  “No, thanks, Tina,” I said. “I want to eat in some restaurant by the water.”

  I really wanted to have lunch with Mike, but I didn’t mention it to my friends. It didn’t seem right to see him again, but I knew I would call him. I loved talking to him and I wanted to tell him about the Music Hall.

  “Bye then, everyone,” Tina said. “Let’s meet here around five and Peter will take us home.”

  “See ya,” Gini said, heading toward the Times building.

  When they had all scattered in different directions, I called Mike.

  “Hey, love,” he said. “When’s your baby due?”

  I laughed. He always makes me laugh. He never starts a conversation asking me why I didn’t do something I was supposed to do.

  “Hi, Mike,” I said. “I’m in New York. Any chance you’ve got a free minute or two to meet me for lunch or a walk or something?”

  “I have more than a minute or two,” he said, his voice reflecting his pleasure in hearing mine. “Let’s meet at The Boathouse restaurant in the park for lunch.” How did he know I wanted to eat by the water? The same way he always guessed what I really wanted to do.

  “Sounds lovely,” I said. “When?”

  “Immediately,” he said. “Grab a cab and meet me there as soon as you can. I can’t wait to see you.”

  I found a cab right away and it took me through Central Park to the entrance of The Boathouse restaurant with tables on the veranda outside that looked out on the water and people paddling rowboats away from the shore. It was a beautiful fall day, and the trees were in full glory, reaching their colorful leaves toward the sun.

  Mike was already there when my cab pulled up. He scooped me out of my seat, paid the driver, and held me tight until we were seated by the railing next to the pond. The Boathouse had formerly fulfilled the function suggested by its name, but now its gracious proportions were the home of a popular restaurant.

  “Don’t you have any babies to deliver or new mothers to advise or something medical you’re supposed to be doing?” I said when we were sitting across from each other, separated only by a white linen tablecloth and a small vase of yellow chrysanthemums.

  “Nobody is even due today,” he said. “Why haven’t you called me, Mary Louise?”

  “Oh, Mike, you know why,” I said.

  “I kno
w why, but I don’t accept it,” he said. “You know I love you. I’ll always love you. And if you won’t leave George, I still want to see you because you love me, too, even if you won’t admit it. You told me you loved me in Spain.”

  “Mike,” I said, “try to understand. George and I have been married for thirty years. I can’t throw those years away just like that. And it would hurt my children if I left him.”

  “They’re grown. Or almost grown,” he said. “They would learn to accept it.”

  “Don’t ask me to leave him, Mike,” I said. “Please don’t. It’s unfair of me to keep seeing you like this when I know I’m not going to leave George, but I can’t help it. I love being with you, talking to you. You make me laugh. You make me feel good about myself. George has forgotten how to do that.”

  “For now, I’ll settle for a lunch whenever you’re in New York,” he said.

  I smiled.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Well, the truth is, I’m going to be in New York every day until January,” I said. “We’re dancing with the Rockettes in their Christmas show.”

  He grabbed my hand. “You’re kidding,” he said, obviously delighted. “We can have lunch every day.”

  “What if some woman decides to have her baby in the middle of the day?” I asked.

  “She’ll just have to wait,” he said. I knew he was kidding. He was the most caring, conscientious doctor I had ever met. He truly cherished the women who came to him to have their babies.

  “I don’t even know if they’re going to give us time to eat a real lunch,”

  I said. “We’re going to be rehearsing and exercising and Rocketting for hours every day.”

  “Just the fact that you’re in the city every day,” he said, “means that we can have some time together, babies and rehearsal times permitting.”

  The waiter hovered. “Want a drink?” Mike asked me.

  “Maybe a glass of white wine,” I said.

  “Let’s make it a Kir Royale,” he said, remembering my favorite drink of champagne and crème de cassis.