City of Girls

As for Olive, she was not convinced this was a good idea in the least. As much as she loved Edna, it didn’t make sense to her from a business standpoint to attempt to put on a decent (or even halfway decent) show at the Lily: it would break formula.

“We have a small audience, Peg,” she said. “And they are humble. But they are the only audience we have, and they are loyal to us. We must be loyal to them in return. We can’t leave them behind for one play—certainly not for one player—or they may never come back. Our task is to serve the neighborhood. And the neighborhood doesn’t want Ibsen.”

“I don’t want Ibsen, either,” said Peg. “But I hate seeing Edna sitting about idle, and I hate even more the idea of putting her in any of our draggy little shows.”

“However draggy our shows may be, they keep the electricity on, Peg. And just barely, at that. Don’t chance it, by changing anything.”

“We could make a comedy,” Peg said. “Something that our audiences would like. But it would have to be smart enough to be worthy of Edna.”

She turned to Mr. Herbert, who had been sitting there at the breakfast table in his usual attire of baggy trousers and shirtsleeves, staring sorrowfully at nothing.

“Mr. Herbert,” Peg asked, “do you think you could write a play that is both funny and smart?”

“No,” he said, without even looking up.

“Well, what are you working on now? What’s the next show on deck?”

“It’s called City of Girls,” he said. “I told you about it last month.”

“The speakeasy one,” said Peg. “I remember. Flappers and gangsters, and that sort of fluff. What’s it about, again, exactly?”

Mr. Herbert looked both wounded and confused. “What’s it about?” he asked. It seemed that this was the first time he’d considered that one of the Lily Playhouse shows should be about something.

“Never mind,” said Peg. “Does it have a role that Edna could play?”

Again, he looked wounded and confused.

“I don’t see how it could,” he said. “We have an ingénue, and a hero. We have a villain. We don’t have an older woman.”

“Could the ingénue have a mother?”

“Peg, she’s an orphan,” said Mr. Herbert. “You can’t change that.”

I saw his point: the ingénue always had to be an orphan. The story wouldn’t make sense if the ingénue wasn’t an orphan. The audience would revolt. The audience would start throwing shoes and bricks at the players if the ingénue wasn’t an orphan.

“Who’s the owner of the speakeasy, in your show?”

“The speakeasy doesn’t have an owner.”

“Well, could it? And could it be a woman?”

Mr. Herbert rubbed his forehead and looked overwhelmed. He looked as though Peg had just asked him to repaint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“This causes problems in all aspects,” he said.

Olive chimed in: “Nobody will believe Edna Parker Watson as the owner of a speakeasy, Peg. Why would the owner of a New York speakeasy be from England?”

Peg’s face fell. “Blast it, you’re right, Olive. You have such a bad habit of being right all the time. I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Peg sat in silence for a long moment, thinking hard. Then suddenly she said, “Goddamn it, but I wish I had Billy here. He could write something smashing for Edna.”

Well, that caught my attention.

This was the first time I’d ever heard my aunt curse, for one thing. But this was also the first time I’d ever heard her mention her estranged husband’s name. And I wasn’t the only one who snapped to fullest attention at the mere mention of Billy Buell’s name, either. Both Olive and Mr. Herbert looked as though they’d just had buckets of ice poured down their backs.

“Oh, Peg, no,” said Olive. “Don’t call Billy. Please, be sensible.”

“I can add whoever you want me to add to the cast,” said Mr. Herbert, suddenly cooperative. “Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it. The speakeasy can have an owner, sure. She can be from England, too.”

“Billy was so fond of Edna.” Peg seemed to be talking to herself now. “And he’s seen her perform. He’ll understand how best to use her.”

“You don’t want Billy involved in anything we do, Peg,” warned Olive.

“I’ll call him. Just to get some ideas from him. The man is made of ideas.”

“It’s five A.M. on the West Coast,” said Mr. Herbert. “You can’t call him!”

This was fascinating to watch. The level of anxiety in the room had risen to an undeniably hot pitch, merely with the introduction of Billy’s name.

“I’ll call him this afternoon, then,” said Peg. “Though we can’t be sure he’ll be awake by then, either.”

“Oh, Peg, no,” said Olive again, sinking into what looked like leaden despair.

“Just to get some ideas from him, Olive,” said Peg. “There’s no harm done with a phone call. I need him, Olive. As I say: the man is made of ideas.”

—

That night after the show, Peg took a whole lot of us to dinner at Dinty Moore’s on Forty-sixth Street. She was triumphant. She had spoken to Billy that afternoon and wanted to tell everyone about his ideas for the play.