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Authors: Lillian Faderman
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darker, and there was so much gray in her hair now. And her accent! I loved her more than my own life, but how could I bring her to stand in the presence of this glorious personage?
"I've had our lawyers draw up a personal management contract, which Theatre Arts Studio will sign with our most gifted students." Irene's exquisitely lipsticked lips smiled. "And you're one of them."
I have no idea how I maneuvered the streets that day again, but I know I must have galloped because I was panting as I bolted up the porch steps on Dundas Street. I had just enough breath left to shout toward the bedroom, where my mother was lying down, "I've been discovered! I made it!"
"We're from Chicago," Irene said to my mother, but my mother was staring at the tutued ballerinas on the wall and her mouth was ajar. I was mortified. Why didn't she know how to behave in such a momentous situation? What would Irene think? Fanny's furnished room showed on us, I was sure. I'd selected my mother's dress from out of her now-unused New York collection. I'd made her wear lipstick and go to the beauty parlor to get her hair done, but still she looked shabby and dim next to Irene Sandman. Who wouldn't?
"Both of us were very involved in Chicago's theater arts, but we decided to come to Los Angeles because that's where the theater world has moved."
My mother looked at her now and made little "Dat's nice" sounds.
We must seem like dolts to Irene Sandman.
Though she didn't address me, I nodded my head vigorously at whatever she said to make up for my mother's virtual silence. I arranged my face into what I hoped was an intelligent expression, and I kept it plastered there.
"The theater used to be very alive in Chicago. Mel Tormé was my best friend in high school," Irene said, laughing. So charmingly. My toes curled. My mother was looking at the picture on the wall again. Was she even listening to Irene? "Steve Allen was our buddy too. He was always very funny, but he didn't know how to play the piano. I'm the one who taught him. Though he was very quick to catch on," Irene added demurely. "He didn't need much teaching."
My mother recognized the name Steve Allen. "Iz dat soll," she said, and I shrank as I heard her mispronounce the American idiom. It was better when she said nothing. We were lost here, in the presence of this heavenly being who had a direct pipeline to Hollywood.
"Do you have any questions?" Irene asked. My mother shook her head.
"What if one of us has to end the contract?" I said in a wavery voice. I couldn't imagine such an eventuality on my part, but I hoped that if I asked an adult-sounding question Irene would think I was thoughtful and worldly and wouldn't notice my mother's incompetence.
Irene looked at me without expression. I wanted to evaporate. "You don't get married thinking about divorce," she finally said. "We'll need a stage name for her," she said in my mother's direction. "Lillian Faderman doesn't sound much like an actress."
"How about Lilly the Kid?" It had been my fantasy name for so long, the words just blurted out of me.
To my mortal shame, those beautiful lips now spread and seemed to begin a guffaw, but she arrested it. "I was thinking of something more along the lines of Lillian Foster."
My contract stated that our arrangement would last for seven years, renewable in perpetuity. I knew what
perpetuity
meant, and I prayed for it in association with Irene Sandman. It also said that Irene would be my sole representative and would receive ten percent of my earnings. That sounded wonderful—there would be earnings!
To celebrate, my mother and I went downtown on Saturday and—at $3.50 for her, $1.50 for me—we took a Tanner Grey Line Bus Tour of movie star homes, Robert Mitchum, Greer Garson, Spencer Tracy, Anne Baxter, each more fantastic than the last. So there really were
palaces right here in Beverly Hills, California, just as in the movies, with great expanses of blue-green lawn and tall iron gates and
"I've had our lawyers draw up a personal management contract, which Theatre Arts Studio will sign with our most gifted students." Irene's exquisitely lipsticked lips smiled. "And you're one of them."
I have no idea how I maneuvered the streets that day again, but I know I must have galloped because I was panting as I bolted up the porch steps on Dundas Street. I had just enough breath left to shout toward the bedroom, where my mother was lying down, "I've been discovered! I made it!"
"We're from Chicago," Irene said to my mother, but my mother was staring at the tutued ballerinas on the wall and her mouth was ajar. I was mortified. Why didn't she know how to behave in such a momentous situation? What would Irene think? Fanny's furnished room showed on us, I was sure. I'd selected my mother's dress from out of her now-unused New York collection. I'd made her wear lipstick and go to the beauty parlor to get her hair done, but still she looked shabby and dim next to Irene Sandman. Who wouldn't?
"Both of us were very involved in Chicago's theater arts, but we decided to come to Los Angeles because that's where the theater world has moved."
My mother looked at her now and made little "Dat's nice" sounds.
We must seem like dolts to Irene Sandman.
Though she didn't address me, I nodded my head vigorously at whatever she said to make up for my mother's virtual silence. I arranged my face into what I hoped was an intelligent expression, and I kept it plastered there.
"The theater used to be very alive in Chicago. Mel Tormé was my best friend in high school," Irene said, laughing. So charmingly. My toes curled. My mother was looking at the picture on the wall again. Was she even listening to Irene? "Steve Allen was our buddy too. He was always very funny, but he didn't know how to play the piano. I'm the one who taught him. Though he was very quick to catch on," Irene added demurely. "He didn't need much teaching."
My mother recognized the name Steve Allen. "Iz dat soll," she said, and I shrank as I heard her mispronounce the American idiom. It was better when she said nothing. We were lost here, in the presence of this heavenly being who had a direct pipeline to Hollywood.
"Do you have any questions?" Irene asked. My mother shook her head.
"What if one of us has to end the contract?" I said in a wavery voice. I couldn't imagine such an eventuality on my part, but I hoped that if I asked an adult-sounding question Irene would think I was thoughtful and worldly and wouldn't notice my mother's incompetence.
Irene looked at me without expression. I wanted to evaporate. "You don't get married thinking about divorce," she finally said. "We'll need a stage name for her," she said in my mother's direction. "Lillian Faderman doesn't sound much like an actress."
"How about Lilly the Kid?" It had been my fantasy name for so long, the words just blurted out of me.
To my mortal shame, those beautiful lips now spread and seemed to begin a guffaw, but she arrested it. "I was thinking of something more along the lines of Lillian Foster."
My contract stated that our arrangement would last for seven years, renewable in perpetuity. I knew what
perpetuity
meant, and I prayed for it in association with Irene Sandman. It also said that Irene would be my sole representative and would receive ten percent of my earnings. That sounded wonderful—there would be earnings!
To celebrate, my mother and I went downtown on Saturday and—at $3.50 for her, $1.50 for me—we took a Tanner Grey Line Bus Tour of movie star homes, Robert Mitchum, Greer Garson, Spencer Tracy, Anne Baxter, each more fantastic than the last. So there really were
palaces right here in Beverly Hills, California, just as in the movies, with great expanses of blue-green lawn and tall iron gates and
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