Arts and Artists ...For the Love of It
— John Updike
“Loved your performance, Miss Bernstein—could I get an autograph?”
Frankie was pacing. “C’mon already, Lil—they’re waiting at El Patio.”
Lillian smiled at the fan and then, turned back to her boyfriend. “You go ahead, Frankie—I’ll catch up later.”
He grumbled, got into his Trans Am and roared off into the darkness.
She managed a brave smile and resumed signing. Frankie would be waiting for her fuming as always. Some things were more predictable than New York traffic and about as stressful.
An hour later she found Frankie and the gang at the El —a high-end bar, but a watering hole, nevertheless.
She hated the ambience—the chi chi décor, the snooty wait help and the fake patrons, including her. She expected more—wanted more, but for Frankie—this was his life.
Frankie loved the action, the spotlight and the highlife. He was mad about the Big Apple.
As he often said quoting, the words of another, albeit more famous, Frankie—“if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, Babe”—the latter term of endearment being the only original addition to his otherwise clichéd paean of praise.
“He’s not in your class Lil.” That was Arthur’s take on the matter, but then, Arthur unabashedly adored her.
Nevertheless, despite his avowal, she instinctively knew the truth. Their relationship was coming to an end.
Frankie was oblivious to Lillian—to anything, for that matter—He was on a roll, fuelled by being part of something larger than him.
“Man, did you hear that applause?—the dance routines were flawless tonight.”
She could have added they should have been flawless—they were the same routines he danced for two years and they were growing stale for her, as was the entire musical.
She knew what she wanted, but knew it wasn’t what Frankie wanted.
If she told him what was really bothering her, it would mark the end of their relationship. So she went on telling the lies that had to be told—for the time being.
“Hey Babe!” He finally noticed her arrival. “Pull up a chair—we’re just going over the last reviews in Variety.”
She suppressed a yawn—couldn’t they see—couldn’t anyone see, that even Variety was getting tired of the act?
“Arnold Braithwaite will review us next—just wait and see.”
I’m not holding my breath, she thought.
Arnold Braithwaite had taste—she doubted he’d waste the cab fare in taking in the show.
“What’s the matter, Babe? —You look depressed.”
Oh great, her mask was sipping.
“Just tired I guess.”
“Here, Sign this,” he said, shoving a sheet of paper across the table. “It’s our contract renewal for another two years.”
“Not now, Frankie.”
“C’mon Babe—Thompson needs it signed tonight—he’s already booking us through till 2028."
“Can’t we talk about this in private?”
He looked at her as if she had sprouted two heads.
“Why—what’s the prob? I thought we’d do this gig another two years, then maybe try another venue—unless you have a better offer.”
He was being sarcastic, but was also embarrassing her.
“Maybe I do, “ she sniffed.
“Oh—like what?”
“I was offered the lead in Body and Soul.”
Arthur’s eyes popped. “You got the lead? Congratulations, kid! That show’s going to end up on Broadway.”
“We are on Broadway,” Frankie snapped. “You’re not seriously considering this are you, Babe?”
Maybe she was tired, or maybe it was that last ‘Babe’—she didn’t know, but she was ticked.
“So, you’re not serious, are you?” He probed.
“I am,” she sighed. Serious about something that mattered—serious about her life.
“So, where are they going to put on this masterpiece?”
Frankie was taunting now.
“St. Louis.”
“St. Louis—that backward burg? That’s nine hundred miles west of nowhere.”
“Sorry, Frankie, but I’m going to accept the part.”
“Fine. You do that, Babe. Go bury yourself in small town obscurity—as for me, I want to be where it’s happening.”
That last remark finally broke her.
“Don’t you get it, Frankie? It doesn’t matter where you are, but what you are. We’re not growing here—if you stay, you’re going to dance back-up roles the rest of your life.”
“Yeah, maybe I will—but at least, I’ll be somewhere—not hiding in the backwoods.”
Before she could respond, he was gone—off to another cast party—to another in a series of meaningless forays into the void.
But not her—she was for once taking a stand, come of it what may.
Six months passed and the cast and crew of the New York production were still together. Frankie had been promoted to lead backup and Arnold Braithwaite had still not written a review.
It was past two in the El. The waiters were lethargically putting up chairs and the cast party was slowly winding down. Frankie was nursing the last of his scotch—not wanting to go home.
He didn’t notice Arthur come in and start whispering to some of the cast—when he did notice; Arthur stood up guiltily and tried to slink out the door.
“Hey, Arthur—not so fast.”
He grinned sheepishly.
“So, what’s new?”
“Aw, you know, Frankie—the same old.”
He spotted a folded copy of Variety in Arthur’s coat pocket.
“So, is this what all the whispering’s about?” He patted Arthur’s pocket. “Has Arnold Braithwaite finally written that review?”
“Oh, he wrote a review all right—but it’s not on us—It’s on Body and Soul.”
Frankie's eyes grew huge.
“On Lil’s play? —You got to be kidding.”
“I’m not kidding, Frankie.”
“So, let’s hear it.”
“You sure you’re ready for this?”
“I’m sure.”
Arthur began reading:
Like the saints of old, I went on a pilgrimage last night—not to a holy shrine, but to something even more sacred perhaps—a stage production that both flattered the senses and stirred the soul. But no performance was ever so stirring as that given by young Lillian Bernstein. Her acting seemed to well up from some deep reserve of suffering that made me forget her youth and glory in the mastery of a wise old soul.
The Great White Way will be eclipsed by this young actresses’ star power—she is a true super nova bursting forth on the American stage. She wisely chose art and growth over the lure of Broadway and now returns in triumph as Body and Soul is headed to New York and almost certain critical acclaim.
He stopped reading and gazed at Frankie, a look of reverential awe on his face.
“I wanted to write her and ask if there was a backup part available—but I guess that’s dumb—she wouldn’t have time to reply.”
Frankie shook his head slowly, letting the truth sink in.
“No, Arthur, he finally sighed, "she’d make time. The great ones always do.”
Lillian found her place...and now he knew his.
Thank you!