Entr'acte by Frank Juliano Page A

it, she thought. I’ve broken through somehow.
    “What’s all this talk about settling down? Are you getting tired of this life?” There was genuine concern in Muriel’s eyes.
    “You could go back, you know. Everyone knows you mostly followed me here to keep me company. You haven’t even seemed interested in theater work since you hooked up with those people in New Jersey.”
    Joyce’s mind raced. This was the second time New Jersey had come up, and she couldn’t ask directly about it because she would be expected to know what Muriel was referring to.
    “It’s not like it’s a job,” she tried, tentatively.
    “It damn well better be, with all the money you’ve been bringing in here. You’ve practically been supporting me lately.
    What I make at the candy counter doesn’t even cover the food.”
    Aha! Muriel is not performing at a theater at this particular moment, she’s working the concessions. Joyce felt like a sleuth.
    “So, what’s running at this theater of yours?”
    “”Gunga Din’ for the fourth straight week.” Muriel sounded disgusted. “Goddamn scratch house. They never change the picture. “Gone With the Wind’ is coming out soon, but by the time we play it, everyone will have seen it twice.”
    Muriel worked in a MOVIE theater. “What’s going on with your career?” Joyce tried to sound casual.
    “My career?” Muriel hooted with laughter. “We’re getting mighty high-falutin’, aren’t we? I’m up for a part in the new Cole Porter show, I’ve been called back twice—you know that. It’s just the chorus, but it’ll be a hit, with Merman set to do it.”
    “So, when do you hear?”
    “I don’t know. It probably won’t get going until the fall, because the season’s nearly gone and Merman’s still in a show she has to finish.
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    “But we were talking about you, Connie. I don’t think you’re happy here. You’re definitely mixed up with the wrong kind of boyfriends—don’t you ever ask anybody where they get their money?”
    Joyce decided to take a wild stab. “What do you really think of Eddie?”
    “That hood?” Muriel snorted. “You told me he’s no good, and if he doesn’t even meet your standards, well…I’ve never met him.”
    Her mind raced. “What do you think of my friends in New Jersey?”
    “Your friends? That’s a hot one. You told me you were helping out in some business over there. What is going on? Why do you have to be so damn secretive? We’re all each other has, dearie. I love you, you know that?”
    Joyce nodded, her eyes misting over.
    “Then why won’t you talk to me about these things? You come and go without a word to anybody. Twice this year the cops have come here asking questions about your boyfriends. And most important, Connie; you just don’t seem happy.”
    The two were locked in a delicate dance, each wanting to ask questions the other couldn’t answer.
    “I’ll be fine,” Joyce murmured.
    “When I get home tonight we’ll do something about that hair of yours,” Muriel said. She got up, picked up her purse and went off to work, leaving Joyce to do the dishes.

    * * * *
When she finished, Joyce went back into the bedroom she had figured out was Connie’s, across the hall from the one she had seen her grandmother come out of.
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    She picked up things on the vanity and handled them like lab specimens. There was a beautiful ivory-handled brush and comb set, and several bottles of perfume. The elaborate glass bottles were in all shapes and sizes, but most had thick, clear glass with deep-set ridges.
    She pried through desk drawers and in her great-aunt’s nightstand, not sure what she was looking for. There was a copy of James Joyce’s “Ulysses” in the nightstand.
    Connie had not been known in the family as an intellectual; this was a queer choice of reading material. Joyce knew that the complex but haunting Irish novel had been banned for many years in the United States.
    She