Broadway Baby by Alan Shapiro Page A

all.”
    “Ignorance is bliss,” she said. “At least it can seem that way sometimes.”
    “And Curly? You didn’t mention Curly.”
    “Curly’s Curly,” she said.
    “He’s quite a looker, though, that hubby of yours.”
    “A real man’s man,” she said. “ Th at’s him.”
    “Well,” he said, “this is me; and I was wondering if you’d consider making our ‘relationship’ official.”
    “Official?” she asked. “As in making an honest woman out of me?” She blushed again.
    “Or me,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I mean coming to work here, being my assistant, what with all the reviews and performances I’m lining up, I could use some help, someone to fill in for me when I’m away, keep the place shipshape and all that. And it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for Ethan if you learned the business.”
    “I’d have to check with Curly,” she said. “But I like your proposal.”
    “Okay then,” he said, “let’s tie the knot, in a manner of speaking. And Curly can give you away.”
    “ Th row me away is more likely,” she said. “But yes, let’s do it—so to speak.”
    C URLY WASN’T CRAZY about the plan.
    “We have enough trouble managing,” he told her, “without you prancing around with Stuart.”
    “We could use the money.”
    “We’re doing fine.”
    “When was the last time we took a trip?”
    “Hey, I’m too busy working to pay the bills, to put food on the table.”
    “What happened to easy street? All our big plans?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Nothing. Never mind. Forget it.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “What I mean is, with a little extra, maybe we could go somewhere for a change. Do something. It wouldn’t kill us.”
    “I’m too goddamned tired.”
    “All our friends go places. Th ey travel everywhere, they go on cruises. Harry and Gissy just got back from Israel. Th ey said it was beautiful. Th ey’d never seen such beauty.”
    “Hey, listen, we live in the most beautiful country in the world. Th e Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, the Rocky Mountains—you name it we got it all right here in the US of A.”
    “So why don’t we go to Vegas?”
    “ ’Cause I don’t like to travel.”
    “Listen, Curly, I’m taking the job, okay? Whether you like it or not.”
    S TUART WAS ALWAYS delighted to see her; he never failed to kiss her cheek. Oh, she knew what he was, what he was saying when he’d refer to himself as “a confirmed bachelor.” Even to think the word homosexual or fag made her blush. Her whole life she’d heard the family, Curly’s as well as hers, refer to any man even a little different as a “faygela.” He doesn’t like baseball?—must be a “faygela”; plays tennis, not football?—“faygela”; loves opera?—“faygela.” Ballet?—light in the loafers. If it weren’t for Frank Sinatra, they’d think all singers, including Ethan, were “faygelas.” Faygelas were everywhere, it seemed, though she herself had never met one, so far as she knew. If Stuart was, big deal. Th at only deepened the bond between them. It made the intimacy safe.
    One afternoon, after everybody had left the studio, they were “debriefing” in his office about the progress of the kids—whose dancing needed work, whose voice was strongest. He was reaching across his desk for some sheet music to show her when he knocked over a coffee cup.
    “Fuck me,” he shouted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
    Miriam looked on, too startled to say anything.
    “Oh honey,” he said, “forgive the potty mouth, but my psychiatrist says if I don’t say fuck at least four times a day, I’ll get colitis.”
    He laughed, and once she started laughing, neither of them could stop. Th eir arms around each other, they laughed till tears were streaming down their faces.
    Th en he took her by the hand over to the piano; he handed her the words to what he said was his favorite song, and he had her sing it, as if she really meant it, while he played the tune. It