“Uh-huh.”
“Rich?”
Theta shook her head. “A poet.”
“A poet?” He brought his hands down in a discordant plunk. “Haven’t you heard, darlin’? You’re supposed to marry for money, not love.”
“He has the same dream I do, Hen. He’s seen that crazy eye with the lightning bolt, and the crossroads. What are the odds on that?”
“I’ll admit that’s pretty spooky.” Henry lowered his voice. “Do you think he’s… special, like you and me?”
“I don’t know. There was just something about him, like I’d known him my whole life. I can’t explain it.”
Henry took up a lilting jazz number of his own. “Now you’re starting to make me jealous.”
Theta kissed his cheek. “Nobody’ll ever replace you, Hen. You know that.”
“We could go up to Harlem, try to find him.”
“The Hotsy Totsy is padlocked.”
“Plenty of other clubs to scour. And then you can see which ones are hiring dancers, because you know what Flo would say about your dating a Negro poet numbers runner.”
“Flo doesn’t have to know.”
“Flo knows everything.”
Wally came rushing down the aisles, clapping for attention. “Everybody—places! Mr. Ziegfeld has arrived!”
The rehearsal was long and dispiriting. Mr. Ziegfeld hated everything. He stopped them during every number, shouting, “No, no, no! That might fly at the Scandals, but this is a Ziegfeld show! We stand for something here.”
They’d been running the Heavenly Star number for nearly an hour, and nothing was going right.
“That bit doesn’t land,” Mr. Ziegfeld yelled from the back of the theater. He was an elegant man with combed-back white hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His suits—and he always wore a suit—were rumored to be made on Savile Row in London. “We need a laugh. Something.”
“Well, we could bring Mr. Rogers back,” Wally said.
“I’m not worried about Will Rogers. Will Rogers could gargle and it would be funny! I’m worried about this number!”
Everyone was on edge. When Mr. Ziegfeld wasn’t happy, no one was happy. He might fire them all and hire a new chorus, turning the whole thing into a publicity stunt.
“Again!” the great Ziegfeld barked.
Henry launched into the music. The star of the piece, an arrogant crooner named Don, descended the long, wide staircase, singing with melodramatic vibrato: “Stars up in heaven, fall from the sky. So tell me, my darling, why can’t I fall into your arms like a heavenly star, and live there forever just as you are…”
At the piano, Henry rolled his eyes as Theta looked his way. Constipaaaation, he mouthed, and Theta tried not to laugh. Arms out, the girls began their elegant descent. Out in the audience, Flo looked as if he’d been sucking on a dill pickle. They’d end up doing it again, Theta could tell. But no amount of rehearsal could ever make the number work. It was lousy—sentimental and cheap. As her feet felt for each step, she remembered a piece of advice she’d gotten in vaudeville: If you want a laugh, do the unexpected.
As the girls strutted gracefully forward down the long staircase, Theta intentionally went the wrong way, gliding to the left like a deranged Isadora Duncan, screwing up the other girls, who had to scramble to get around her.
“Hey, watch it!” Daisy griped.
“Sorry, Mother,” Theta said, eliciting snorts from some of the other girls.
“Theta! What are you doing? Get back in line!” Wally shouted.
Theta kept going. She bumped into a glittery hanging star. “Oh!” she said, petting it as if she were a drunken flapper. “Sorry, Mr. Rogers.”
The company glanced nervously at Theta and then out again to Mr. Ziegfeld sitting in the audience. Don, the stick in the mud, picked up the song again, glaring at Theta with a tight smile. Theta stumbled down the stairs, humming loudly. “Don’t stop, Don, honey. You’re doing swell! Even Mr. Rogers liked it,” she said, gesturing to the glittery star. “Oh, Henry!”