Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1940)

still holding his hat. "Do you remember me?" he asked. "I should, don't you think?" Then, more seriously, "What are you doing here?" "Oh, I — I just happened along with the crowd." "This is the second time you happened along when I was in trouble. What's your name?" He walked up the steps, then, "Alexander Moore," he said, bowing a little. "I'm glad to know you, Mr. Moore. And I'm glad to see you again — " She sat on the top step, then, saying, "Won't you sit down?" "I'd like to, if you don't mind." Suddenly conscious that the door behind them was ajar, they looked back into grandma's face. "How-do, young man," she said, nodding. "Glad to see you again." He stood and bowed shyly. She smiled and gently closed the door. Grandma, Helen thought, understood. She would keep the family quiet, maybe long enough for her to get acquainted with Alexander Moore. "You were sort of brave, facing that crowd all alone," he said, sitting beside Helen. "Oh, I knew they were only celebrating," she said. "It won't do them any good — the women will win some day." Then, seeing his smile, she added, "Do you believe in equal rights for women?" "Well, yes — I guess I do — sort of — " "What do you mean 'sort of about women's rights?" Helen asked. "I think a woman has the right to everything a man can give her," he dropped his voice and looked into her misty blue eyes. "Don't you think she's also entitled to her own success?" "It all depends on what she calls success." "What do you call it?" she asked. "Happiness." "Happiness is a state of mind — but it's not always success." Crossing his long legs, he smiled down at her and asked, "What is your ambition?" "Well, first of all, I want everybody to love me . . ." Hesitating there, she held his eyes, and added, as if her words were expressly said for him, "and yet, I want to love one person so madly that nobody else matters." His eyes pulled from hers, then. He uncrossed his legs and looked away, ignoring any opportunity for himself in her remark. "That's selfish, isn't it?" "You don't understand. I want everybody to love my work — my work on the stage, I mean." Turning to her quickly, "Are you an actress?" "I hope to be, some day." Smiling, she asked, "What's your ambition?" "A job." "What kind?" "Any kind right now. I'm aiming to get on a New York paper." It was easy to tell her about leaving his job in Pittsburgh, because he wanted to try New York. "Oh, maybe my father could help you. He used to own a paper in Clinton, Iowa, that is, until we moved away." But she didn't want to tell him about how disappointed Dad had been in New York — he'd broken his heart, almost. "That's what I hope to do myself some day — own a paper." "I'll bet you will, too." "Thank you. But if I don't, I won't mind. I can always go back home — although I wouldn't like to — I don't want to get hurt too much trying here. And that's what I'm hoping for you, too." Helen drew back, puzzled. Sometimes she felt she had known him always — then, he seemed stranger than anyone she had ever known. They had told each other so much, sitting there, unafraid of expressing the things nearest their hearts. What did he mean about getting hurt? 1 HE door behind them opened just as she started to ask. Grandma's grey head poked out. "Helen, it's very late, dear." "I'm coming, Grandma." But she didn't get up then. She turned to him again, looking at the soft curve of his lips, conscious of his nearness, feeling again the rush of warmth through her body. His mouth softened and his dark eyes were like large, spreading ink spots near her own. He focused on her carefully, as if he could look down into her thoughts and know — and know that she wished that he would kiss her. She was glad he could not see her flush or the swift mist of tears in her eyes. He couldn't know that since she had seen him that first day she had thought of him long and often — longed for this moment . . . when he might hold her again — kiss her. "Don't go yet," he said — "I mean, until you tell me your name. What is your name — beautiful?" Helen sighed, "Helen . . . Helen Leonard." They rose, then, from the step, almost as one. His eyes met hers without self-consciousness. She put her hand in his and he held it, his fingers wrapping her palm were strong and warm. "I guess we'll have to say good night," Helen said, almost whispered. "I — I hope you find your job." His fingers pressed closer. "When I do, may I come around and tell you?" The grip of his clasp made her quiver. Her eyes touched his forehead, broad and white in the moonlight, caressed his unruly, black hair. "Do, please, come tell me . . . and," brightening with an idea, "let's make a pact. If you get on a newspaper before I get on the stage — you take me out and we'll celebrate." "But what if you get on the stage before I get on a paper?" "I'll take you out! Isn't that fair?" she smiled. "Well, not exactly. A girl can't very well take a fellow out." "Why? I thought you believed in equal rights." "Well, I do — but that doesn't sound right. However, it's a deal — but I'm going to do my best to beat you to a job." Relinquishing her hand, she backed against the door — heady from his touch, "I hope you do — but, if you don't — remember, I'll expect you to keep our pact just the same." He stepped toward her, leaned down, held her eyes. The current shot down through her body. This man wanted to kiss her. She knew it, felt it. Somehow, she raised her hands and then let them float down to her sides in a surrender, which perhaps frightened him, even more than it did her. He heard her sigh, looked deeply into her eyes, bright with emotion. "Good night . . . Helen." Then she saw him turn from her and walk down the steps, heard his heels echo fastly up Ninth. Listening until they were lost in the sound of the orchestra from the garden next door, she finally let herself into the house. Closing the door behind her she looked right into grandma's eyes. Helen met her knowing look and could not control the bright flush. "Oh . . ." Grandma nodded wisely, knowingly, and shared Helen's smile. PART II ELEN chose the noon sunshine in which to ^^^J dry her heavy golden hair. She was too blissful to be indoors and, besides, she could practice her scales out in the bright ' air of the backyard while the wind dried her hair. She was even more pleased when her father came out and became her audience. With her hair blowing, she stood near the fence, which separated the Leonard's plot of yard from Mrs. Rose's garden next door. With her heart so full of memories from last night, she could reach the very highest note she aimed for. Then she even sang through "The Band Plays On," giving it every rich, full note in her throat. Her rich, warm voice lifted over the fence — to where a small, squarish man wound spaghetti to his mouth. The singing made him lay his fork aside. His dark Latin eyes sparkled. Looking up at the stout Rose, who stood waiting with her arms akimbo, Tony Pastor nodded. The movement of his grey head was most expressive — the way he nodded when spaghetti was flavorful. "You were right, Rosa — her voice is as magnificent as your spaghetti. Who is she?" "Helen Leonard — daughter of the suffragette, you know. But the daughter, she is all right. Believe me, Tony — she is beautiful." "If she is half as beautiful as her voice, Rosa — " "Come, I show you — here, stand on the chair." Grabbing a chair, she held it steadily while the little man stood and looked over the fence. He saw Charlie Leonard, sitting on the back steps, applauding, crying "Bravo! Bravo!" While a tall girl, with golden hair, smiled and bowed. "That's her father," Mrs. Rose explained. "They play theater like that lots of sunny days. Maybe we could go over, yes?" "Yes!" Tony climbed down from the chair. "There's a gate — this way." Helen, in the bright shadows, not unconscious of the picture she made, greeted Mrs. Rose gayly. "Pardon," Tony Pastor bowed, when he had been introduced to the Leonards. "I did not mean to intrude, but I could not resist the sound of your voice — nor the praise of your neighbor Mrs. Rose, in whose garden I have been dining." "Are you — you're not Tony Pastor's Theater on Fourteenth Street?" Helen asked. "I am not the theater — but it belongs to me," smiling at her. "And that is where I should like to see you — at noon tomorrow — if you are interested in going on the stage." "Interested?" Charlie said. "As this young lady's one and only audience, I'm in a position to tell you, sir, she is a star!" "Dad — please," Helen gasped. Smiling, Tony said, "Tomorrow at noon, yes?" "Yes, sir. I'll be there," Helen answered. "Mr. Pastor — " she called as he turned back through the gate, "thank you so much." AFTER what seemed full minutes, at best, enough time for a girl to wake thoroughly from a dream, Helen turned to Charlie. "Dad, do you think that really was Tony Pastor? Because he's the biggest producer in New York." "I know it is. I've seen his picture enough to know — he's the one Nat Goodwin works for — and May Irwin and Pete Daily. All the big stars. And when you're a hit at Tony Pastor's — you're a star from then on." Helen came over to the steps and sat down beside her father. "Then, do you think I should really go there tomorrow?" "Don't you want to be a star?" Charlie smiled. "More than anything else in the world, Dad — " "Well?" "Mother. She doesn't want me to go on the stage." "I know. . . ." "It's because she's afraid I won't be happy — or maybe she's afraid I won't be a success." "Nonsense! You'll be a success in whatever you do, Helen, because you're all woman. And there's nothing finer than that!" Helen gave his cheek a grateful pat. "That's where your mother's suffragettes are all wrong — they're still going to get equal rights ultimately, and the chance to act like men — maybe — but they're going to lose a lot of femininity. And when they do, they're going to lose more power than they'll get back by voting." Then, with a sly grin, "However, you needn't tell your mother I said that." YT HEN Helen went to Tony Pastor's the following noon, she wore her hair in a single braid, tied with a huge blue bow. Her dress was a paler blue taffeta, with an elegant bustle and a deep flounce. Her wide-brimmed dark hat, with the added bouquet of bright pink roses, was, indeed a frame for her peaches-and-cream face. Helen was eighteen when she walked out on the stage, with her golden hair shining, and held up head to sing. The theater was empty except for the orchestra and its leader, Edward Solomon (they called him Teddy), a tall, dark man with a thin, intense face. It was to his interested face, to his kindly eyes that Helen sang "Evening Star." The shirt-sleeved musicians down in the orchestra pit, the stagehands and the partlydressed performers, hearing her voice, came from their dressing rooms just to listen. An audition was not unusual in Tony Pastor's where auditions happened every day — but they didn't happen like this one! And as she sang, Tony Pastor himself, standing in the aisle of the semidark auditorium, smiled as he watched the reaction of the stagehands and performers. He also watched Edward Solomon's eyes follow Helen. When she neared the end of her song, Tony turned and walked up the aisle, went to his office. He stood there, listening to the wild outburst of applause and shouts of praise. "Helen Leonard," he muttered to himself. "That's no name for an actress. I've got to think of something better." Going into his office, Mose, a colored man who had served Tony for many years, came over and poured him a glass of claret. "Mose, what is your favorite flower?" "My flower — the one I like best is a lily, boss." "Lily? — Lillian . . . that would be good . . ." Tony mused. "I never saw Edward Solomon listen like that before — Lillian made him listen." A knock sounded on the office door. That would 32