Read Online Broadway Baby by Alan Shapiro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alan Shapiro
Tags: Fiction, General, Family & Relationships, Family Life, Families, Parenting, Actresses, Motherhood, Ambition, Families - Massachusetts - Boston
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“Lullaby of Broadway.” At such times, half-asleep, Miriam would think, “Someone should take a picture of this, what a picture we’d make,” and then falling asleep as she rocked her little ones happily she wouldn’t think of anything at all.
Scene III
In 1956, with help from Curly’s father, they bought a small two-story Victorian on a cul-de-sac in Allston. Th ey put down thick shag carpets throughout the two floors of their new home and new black-and-white checkered linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms. Miriam chose an Oriental motif for the furnishings and fixtures—orange paper lanterns instead of lamps, wallpaper showing Chinese farmers in rice paddies, or shirtless and barefooted rickshaw drivers pulling rickshaws behind them, their faces invisible under the broad-brimmed hats they wore. In the living room, she hung lithographs of Parisian scenes—couples walking arm in arm down narrow cobbled streets, across the Place de la Concorde, along the Champs-Élysée. She lined the mantel over the fireplace they never used with figurines of peasant men and women—one swinging a scythe, one sowing seeds, one driving a team of plow horses. Over the twin beds in the master bedroom, she put up big bright posters from her favorite musicals: South Pacific, Oklahoma, Annie Get Your Gun. Over her dressing table, she hung a photograph from Show Boat, one showing Miss Julie holding her arms out imploringly toward the audience—Miriam imagined Julie was singing “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man.” Th e bedroom didn’t get much light, and the posters brightened it, and made it seem larger than it was. In the bathroom, for old time’s sake, she hung a framed poster of Fanny Brice at the Follies. In the foyer, beside the coatrack, she hung a painting of London’s Tower Bridge, partially obscured by fog. She loved the international flavor of the unpredictable decorations. Inside the house, you’d never guess you were in Allston.
M IRIAM HIRED A sixty-year-old black maid named Melba Bradford to clean for them twice a month. Melba had a round body and thin legs; her graying frizzy hair was pulled straight back into a tight bun. She had a large mole on her right cheek that Miriam had to work hard not to look at. All Miriam knew about her was that she lived in Mattapan not far from where Miriam herself grew up. She arrived at eight on Fridays, and left at five. She never wanted to be fed. She never spoke. She worked nonstop with a blank expression on her face, took her money without a word of thanks, and left. And while Miriam felt uncomfortable around her—there was something Miriam found menacing about her silence, something judgmental or put-upon, although she couldn’t quite say how or why she felt that way—she nonetheless adored how nice the house looked after Melba cleaned it. She loved the bracing tang of cleanser in the air, the shiny figurines and vases, the glistening Formica, the polished breakfront, and the streaks left in the carpet by the vacuum cleaner. Every other Friday evening, Miriam felt as if the house was once again brand-new, never lived in, poised for the life that she was meant to live. She recommended Melba, whom she referred to as her “girl,” to all her friends and family. She couldn’t say enough good things about her girl—her girl, who was reliable and clean and never shilly-shallied.
One Friday, Julie (out of school with a head cold) was in the kitchen eating lunch with Miriam while Melba, on all fours, scrubbed the linoleum, a pail of soapy water beside her. Out of the blue, as if she’d noticed Melba for the first time, Julie said, “Mrs. Bradford, it’s lunchtime, don’t you want to eat with us?”
Melba never looked up, just went on scrubbing the floor. Miriam shushed Julie. “Just eat,” she said, “so Melba can finish up in here.”
Later, after Melba left, Miriam told Julie to leave Melba alone and let her do her job. “And don’t call her Mrs. Bradford, honey. Mr.
Scene III
In 1956, with help from Curly’s father, they bought a small two-story Victorian on a cul-de-sac in Allston. Th ey put down thick shag carpets throughout the two floors of their new home and new black-and-white checkered linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms. Miriam chose an Oriental motif for the furnishings and fixtures—orange paper lanterns instead of lamps, wallpaper showing Chinese farmers in rice paddies, or shirtless and barefooted rickshaw drivers pulling rickshaws behind them, their faces invisible under the broad-brimmed hats they wore. In the living room, she hung lithographs of Parisian scenes—couples walking arm in arm down narrow cobbled streets, across the Place de la Concorde, along the Champs-Élysée. She lined the mantel over the fireplace they never used with figurines of peasant men and women—one swinging a scythe, one sowing seeds, one driving a team of plow horses. Over the twin beds in the master bedroom, she put up big bright posters from her favorite musicals: South Pacific, Oklahoma, Annie Get Your Gun. Over her dressing table, she hung a photograph from Show Boat, one showing Miss Julie holding her arms out imploringly toward the audience—Miriam imagined Julie was singing “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man.” Th e bedroom didn’t get much light, and the posters brightened it, and made it seem larger than it was. In the bathroom, for old time’s sake, she hung a framed poster of Fanny Brice at the Follies. In the foyer, beside the coatrack, she hung a painting of London’s Tower Bridge, partially obscured by fog. She loved the international flavor of the unpredictable decorations. Inside the house, you’d never guess you were in Allston.
M IRIAM HIRED A sixty-year-old black maid named Melba Bradford to clean for them twice a month. Melba had a round body and thin legs; her graying frizzy hair was pulled straight back into a tight bun. She had a large mole on her right cheek that Miriam had to work hard not to look at. All Miriam knew about her was that she lived in Mattapan not far from where Miriam herself grew up. She arrived at eight on Fridays, and left at five. She never wanted to be fed. She never spoke. She worked nonstop with a blank expression on her face, took her money without a word of thanks, and left. And while Miriam felt uncomfortable around her—there was something Miriam found menacing about her silence, something judgmental or put-upon, although she couldn’t quite say how or why she felt that way—she nonetheless adored how nice the house looked after Melba cleaned it. She loved the bracing tang of cleanser in the air, the shiny figurines and vases, the glistening Formica, the polished breakfront, and the streaks left in the carpet by the vacuum cleaner. Every other Friday evening, Miriam felt as if the house was once again brand-new, never lived in, poised for the life that she was meant to live. She recommended Melba, whom she referred to as her “girl,” to all her friends and family. She couldn’t say enough good things about her girl—her girl, who was reliable and clean and never shilly-shallied.
One Friday, Julie (out of school with a head cold) was in the kitchen eating lunch with Miriam while Melba, on all fours, scrubbed the linoleum, a pail of soapy water beside her. Out of the blue, as if she’d noticed Melba for the first time, Julie said, “Mrs. Bradford, it’s lunchtime, don’t you want to eat with us?”
Melba never looked up, just went on scrubbing the floor. Miriam shushed Julie. “Just eat,” she said, “so Melba can finish up in here.”
Later, after Melba left, Miriam told Julie to leave Melba alone and let her do her job. “And don’t call her Mrs. Bradford, honey. Mr.
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