had a particular resentment. A sturdy, good-looking boy, big for his age, aggressively unchildlike, a malicious, arrogant, insensitive extrovert. I can just see him drunk and red-faced and pulling up girls’ dresses at Legion Conventions, Mr. Steevers would think. And the worst of it was, his daughter seemed blind to Billy’s faults. The moment she saw him she forgot about their game.
“Hello, Billy-Boy,” she called and ran over to hug him.
“I want a cookie,” said Billy.
“Oh, yes, a cookie; some animal crackers, Daddy.”
She had her hostess face on and as he went into the pantry, he could hear the treble of her musical laughter against the premature baritone of Billy’s guffaws.
He swung open the pantry door with the animal crackers in his hand just in time to see it. She was poised on the edge of the table. Billy was standing below her, as he had seen her father do. “Jump and I’ll catch you,” he was saying.
Smiling, confident and unblemished, she jumped. But no hands reached out to break her flight. With a cynical grin on his face, Billy stepped back and watched her fall.
Watching from the doorway, her father felt the horror that possessed him the time he saw a parachutist smashed like a bug on a windshield when his chute failed to open. She was lying there, crying, not so much in pain as in disillusionment. He ran forward to pick her up and he would never forget the expression on her face, the new expression, unchildlike, unvirginal, embittered.
“I hate you, I hate you,” she was screaming at Billy through hysterical sobs.
Well, now she knows, thought her father, the facts of life. Now she’s one of us. Now she knows treachery and fear. Now she must learn to replace innocence with courage.
She was still bawling. He knew these tears were as natural and as necessary as those she shed at birth, but that could not overcome entirely the heavy sadness that enveloped him. Finally, when he spoke, he said, a little more harshly than he had intended, “Now, now, stop crying. Stand up and act like a big girl. A little fall like that can’t hurt you.”
A TABLE AT CIRO’S
A T HALF-PAST FIVE Ciro’s looks like a woman sitting before her dressing table just beginning to make up for the evening. The waiters are setting up the tables for the dinner trade, the cigarette and hat-check girls are changing from slacks to the abbreviated can-can costumes which are their work clothes, and an undiscovered Rosemary Clooney making her debut tonight is rehearsing. Don’t let the stars get in your eyes …
A telephone rings and the operator, who is suffering from delusions of looking like Ava Gardner, answers, “Ciro’s. A table for Mr. Nathan? For six. His usual table?” This was not what she had come to Hollywood for, to take reservations over the telephone, but even the small part she played in A. D. Nathan’s plans for the evening brought her a little closer to the Hollywood that was like a mirage, always in sight but never within reach. For, like everyone else in Hollywood, the telephone operator at Ciro’s had a dream. Once upon a time, ran this one, there was a Famous Movie Producer (called Goldwyn, Zanuck or A. D. Nathan) and one evening this FMP was in Ciro’s placing a million-dollar telephone call when he happened to catch a glimpse of her at the switchboard. “Young lady,” he would say, “you are wasting your time at that switchboard. You may not realize it, but you are Naomi in my forthcoming farm epic, Sow the Wild Oat!”
Reluctantly the operator plugged out her dream and sent word of Nathan’s reservation to André. André belonged to that great International Race, head waiters, whose flag is an unreadable menu and whose language is French with an accent. Head waiters are diplomats who happened to be born with silver spoons in their hands instead of their mouths. André would have been a typical head waiter. But he had been in Hollywood too long. Which meant that no matter how good a
“Hello, Billy-Boy,” she called and ran over to hug him.
“I want a cookie,” said Billy.
“Oh, yes, a cookie; some animal crackers, Daddy.”
She had her hostess face on and as he went into the pantry, he could hear the treble of her musical laughter against the premature baritone of Billy’s guffaws.
He swung open the pantry door with the animal crackers in his hand just in time to see it. She was poised on the edge of the table. Billy was standing below her, as he had seen her father do. “Jump and I’ll catch you,” he was saying.
Smiling, confident and unblemished, she jumped. But no hands reached out to break her flight. With a cynical grin on his face, Billy stepped back and watched her fall.
Watching from the doorway, her father felt the horror that possessed him the time he saw a parachutist smashed like a bug on a windshield when his chute failed to open. She was lying there, crying, not so much in pain as in disillusionment. He ran forward to pick her up and he would never forget the expression on her face, the new expression, unchildlike, unvirginal, embittered.
“I hate you, I hate you,” she was screaming at Billy through hysterical sobs.
Well, now she knows, thought her father, the facts of life. Now she’s one of us. Now she knows treachery and fear. Now she must learn to replace innocence with courage.
She was still bawling. He knew these tears were as natural and as necessary as those she shed at birth, but that could not overcome entirely the heavy sadness that enveloped him. Finally, when he spoke, he said, a little more harshly than he had intended, “Now, now, stop crying. Stand up and act like a big girl. A little fall like that can’t hurt you.”
A TABLE AT CIRO’S
A T HALF-PAST FIVE Ciro’s looks like a woman sitting before her dressing table just beginning to make up for the evening. The waiters are setting up the tables for the dinner trade, the cigarette and hat-check girls are changing from slacks to the abbreviated can-can costumes which are their work clothes, and an undiscovered Rosemary Clooney making her debut tonight is rehearsing. Don’t let the stars get in your eyes …
A telephone rings and the operator, who is suffering from delusions of looking like Ava Gardner, answers, “Ciro’s. A table for Mr. Nathan? For six. His usual table?” This was not what she had come to Hollywood for, to take reservations over the telephone, but even the small part she played in A. D. Nathan’s plans for the evening brought her a little closer to the Hollywood that was like a mirage, always in sight but never within reach. For, like everyone else in Hollywood, the telephone operator at Ciro’s had a dream. Once upon a time, ran this one, there was a Famous Movie Producer (called Goldwyn, Zanuck or A. D. Nathan) and one evening this FMP was in Ciro’s placing a million-dollar telephone call when he happened to catch a glimpse of her at the switchboard. “Young lady,” he would say, “you are wasting your time at that switchboard. You may not realize it, but you are Naomi in my forthcoming farm epic, Sow the Wild Oat!”
Reluctantly the operator plugged out her dream and sent word of Nathan’s reservation to André. André belonged to that great International Race, head waiters, whose flag is an unreadable menu and whose language is French with an accent. Head waiters are diplomats who happened to be born with silver spoons in their hands instead of their mouths. André would have been a typical head waiter. But he had been in Hollywood too long. Which meant that no matter how good a
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