Henry was still thinking about the Proctor sisters’ odd tale as he raced into rehearsal. It was the sort of story he’d usually share with Theta—“You won’t believe what the Jolly Vampire Sisters just told me!”—if they weren’t on the outs. To top it all off, he was twenty minutes late, thanks to an all-too-brief nap he’d fallen into, unable to fend off sleep. In the dream, Louis had waved to him from the Elysian as it churned up the Mississippi. Henry tried desperately to reach the boat, but the morning glories were so thick they blocked his path. And then the vines climbed up his body, wrapping around his neck until he woke, feeling choked.
At the loud bang of the theater doors, Wally’s head turned on his thick neck. “Well, well, well,” he said, glancing up the aisle. “If it isn’t Henry. DuBois. The Fourth. All hail.”
“S-sorry, Wally, I… I felt sick, and I guess I fell asleep.”
Wally sighed. “You been sick a lot lately.”
“Sorry. I’m jake now, though,” Henry said, slipping into his spot at the piano. He wiped a hand across his clammy forehead. Sweat dampened his armpits and the front of his shirt. Onstage, the rest of the cast and crew were crowded around Theta, congratulating her on the day’s splashy newspaper article heralding ZIEGFELD GIRL RUSSIAN ROYALTY.
“Now that we’re all here,” Wally said pointedly, “let’s take the Slumberland number from the top!”
Dancers scampered into position onstage, tugging at bloomers and securing tap shoes. Henry’s earlier fear faded, replaced by exuberance as he opened the score. Finally, one of his songs had made it into the show. He put fingers to the keys, playing along, his excitement vanishing quickly as the tap-dancing chorus girls sang along:
“Don’t you worry, don’t be blue
Everything you dream comes true
Sing vodee-oh-doh, Yankee-Doodle-Doo
And shuffle off to Slumber-laaand!”
Henry’s breathing went tight, as if he’d been punched. The song was awful. His song. They’d ruined it. And they’d done it behind his back. Henry stopped playing.
“What’s the matter? You lose your place?” Wally asked. “You feeling sick again?”
Henry gestured to the piano score. “These aren’t my words. Where’s the song I wrote?”
“Well, uh, Herbie smoothed it over a bit,” Wally said.
“It wasn’t quite polished. I just gave it some zip and pep,” Herbie Allen said from the back row, as if he were Mr. Ziegfeld himself.
Onstage, everything had come to a standstill.
“What’s the big idea? Are we running the number or aren’t we?” one of the girls asked.
Wally wagged a finger. “Henry, play the song.”
“No,” Henry said. It was a word he used so infrequently that he was startled by the feel of it on his tongue. “I want to play my song.”
Whispers of gossip rippled down the chorus line.
“Everybody needs help now and then. Don’t take it personally, old boy,” Herbie said. Henry wasn’t a violent fellow, but right then, he had the urge to punch Herbert in his smug mouth.
“How else would I take it, Herbert, when you massacre my song?”
“Now, see here, old boy—”
“I am not your boy,” Henry growled.
The entire cast was silent as they looked from Henry to Wally to Herbert and back again. Suddenly, Mr. Ziegfeld’s voice boomed out from the very back row.
“Mr. DuBois, you are a rehearsal accompanist. I do not pay you for your musical interpretation.” The impresario marched down the aisle and stood in the middle like the commander of a mutinying ship.
“No, Mr. Ziegfeld, I’m not. I’m a songwriter. My songs are a damn sight better than this garbage.”
One of the midwestern chorus girls gasped.
“Forgive my language,” Henry added.