Part One
The boy was born in the Scarsenguard Theater on West Forty-Third Street during the intermission of These Dreams We Cherish. His mother, Vivian Fair, had just flawlessly delivered the rousing speech that concluded act 1. As soon as the curtains touched the boards, thunderous applause still ringing in her ears, Vivian waddled backstage, closed the door to her dressing room, and delivered, not a stirring monologue, but her son. She plopped the screeching, slimy creature into a basketful of soiled blouses, severed the umbilical cord with an eyelash curler, and was back in the wings just in time for places, a consummate professional.
The play over, Miss Fair was removing her wig when the baby’s cry startled her so that she nearly stabbed herself with a bobby pin.
A baby. She’d nearly forgotten. Vivian walked over to the basket and peered down at the newborn. Such a pathetic creature. Wrinkly and red and so very small, his tiny fists bunched, punching the air.
A sharp knock on her door caused Vivian to curse. She tossed a shawl over the newborn to hide it just as the knocker, a silly costar of Vivian’s with less talent than a coffee mug, poked her head in.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the costar.
“What do you want?” Vivian snapped.
“Didn’t you hear? A producer was in the audience tonight. From Hollywood! He’s at Carlisle’s now!”
“Hollywood!” Vivian cried, clutching her neck. “Give me three minutes—I’ll meet you outside.”
With expertise, Vivian applied a becoming smear of lipstick, tousled her hair, and looked ready for even the most scrutinizing of closeups.
“You’re a star,” she whispered to her reflection.
The baby cried again.
Now here was a decision. She’d told no one about the pregnancy. These Dreams We Cherish was a period drama; hoop skirts had concealed her belly for months. And she certainly hadn’t told the father, whoever he was. Vivian had been meaning to deal with the situation, to make arrangements, but life kept interfering: an opening, a party, a gala. Events like that were important to her career, she’d thought. She’d figure out what to do about the baby later.
But now that the child had officially arrived, she found she wasn’t ready to be a mother. Not in the slightest. There was still so much she wanted to achieve.
Someone would find the boy and give him a marvelous home. Or that’s what she told herself as she dashed off to Carlisle’s with the rest of the cast for an evening of sidecars and schmoozing.
Much later that evening, as Vivian was kissing the bigwig Hollywood producer, he whispered to her what she’d told her reflection just a few hours prior.
“You’re a star.”
Vivian smiled, knowing she’d made the right decision.
Motherhood would be so horrible for her image.
* * *
Eugenia Butler was old. Ancient even. Brittle, bitter, and biting, she’d been employed as the Scarsenguard Theater’s laundress longer than anyone could remember. Longer than even she could remember.
Eugenia liked her work. And even if she didn’t, how else was she going to spend her evenings? Alone? Her mother had left her a quaint brownstone on East Twenty-Third Street, and though she loved it, Eugenia didn’t need to wander through an empty house every night. She preferred to keep busy.
So the day after her mother passed, Eugenia went out and secured herself a job at the Scarsenguard. What year had that been? It was 1933 now. Or was it ’34? Whatever year it was, her mother had most certainly died in 1865. Or somewhere right around there. Eugenia shrugged. Numbers had never been her strong suit. Common sense, good tailoring, and a solid work ethic were her gifts. The Scarsenguard was a perfect fit.
So though she enjoyed her job, Eugenia was dreading a certain aspect of it that particular evening: collecting Vivian Fair’s wash. Though the actress was a smash onstage, behind the curtain she was chronically untidy.
“A goddamn slob is what she is,” Miss Butler mumbled as she started to paw through the considerable mess. As she toed her way through the detritus, her foggy hearing suddenly registered a foreign, hiccuping squall. Pushing aside a bouquet of decaying roses, she stumbled on a basket of blouses and the baby that lay within.
It should be noted that Eugenia Butler, even at her wizened age, was a Miss Butler. Unmarried. A spinster. And it must be said that as a spinster, Eugenia Butler had never had a child. In fact, she had always prided herself on her lack of motherly instinct. Yet when Eugenia saw that babe in the basket, still slick with afterbirth, something in her ancient, unmarried heart fissured. She took the slippery foundling to her breast, plucked a wilting chrysanthemum from a half-drunk flute of champagne, and pressed the glass to the baby’s lips. The boy sucked down the booze greedily while his wild eyes met those of Eugenia, and shortly thereafter he fell into a contented sleep.
Using a discarded brassiere, Eugenia Butler fashioned a papoose for the child and carried him about the rest of the evening, crooning half-forgotten snippets of lullabies and censored fragments of bawdy bar tunes.
The wash finished, Miss Butler wrapped the child in muslin and placed him in a crib she’d uncovered in the prop closet. After shutting off all the lights, she made her way out the stage door and caught a cab to her home at East Twenty-Third Street, a soft smile on her lips as she airily planned for the darling boy’s future. She felt no guilt about leaving a newborn alone in a theater. After all, how the hell was she supposed to fall asleep with a baby crying all night?
* * *
That the boy survived his infancy was perhaps the greatest miracle in his miraculous life. Eugenia Butler, for all her good intentions, was a wretched mother, though she did manage to pick up enough formula that the boy’s diet didn’t consist solely of flat champagne.
In the beginning, Eugenia debated taking the baby to an orphanage so that he could find a proper family, but she kept putting it off. The boy was entertaining, and she found she liked lecturing a male who couldn’t talk back. Eventually adoption was scrapped; Eugenia decided to keep him.
Justifying the sudden appearance of an infant in the Scarsenguard did pose a problem, but Eugenia resolved to simply hide the boy until she could think of a convincing explanation for his existence.
In those early years, keeping the boy undetected was a breeze. Actors are, in general, a self-absorbed lot. If performers ever heard the infant cry or squeal, Miss Butler would quickly ask them about their careers. Their meandering speeches concerning auditions and agents always outlasted any outburst from the baby.
The stage managers and the behind-the-scenes crew were more attuned to their surroundings than their onstage counterparts, but in hopes of avoiding the tyrannical demands of actors, the stagehands had long learned to keep their eyes on the ground and their thoughts to themselves. It was easier to ignore the fact that a baby was regularly heard screeching its way through act 2. Besides, it might be nothing but the wind or a randy tomcat.
And so the boy’s presence remained unknown to anyone but the aging Eugenia Butler. It was nearly a year into the child’s life before Eugenia realized she’d yet to christen the orphan; up to that point she’d called him “baby” or “the baby,” or sometimes “little baby.” Flipping through a calendar, she finally settled on a name: August March.