Mr. Ziegfeld gave Henry a flinty stare. “Your time will come, if you behave, Mr. DuBois. Now. Let’s get back to the number. We have a show to rehearse.”
The great Ziegfeld turned on his heel. The dancers shuffled quickly into formation. Just like that, Henry had been dismissed, no discussion. In his head, he heard his father’s voice: You will go to law school. You will uphold the family name. You will never see that boy again. A dam gave way inside Henry.
“Mr. Ziegfeld!” Henry called, rising from the bench. “You keep saying we’ll add more of my songs, but it seems like I never can get that chance. It always goes to some other fella.”
“Henry…” Theta warned, but Henry was beyond warnings.
“I’m out of waiting, sir. If you don’t want my song, well, I guess you don’t need me. I’ll pack up and go.”
The great Ziegfeld didn’t even rise from his seat. “I wish you luck. But you’ll get no recommendation from me.”
In her tap shoes, Theta clip-clopped to the front of the stage and cupped a hand over her eyes to cut the glare of the lights. “He’s just tired, Flo. He doesn’t mean it.”
“Don’t talk for me, Theta. I mean every word.”
“You’re free to go, Mr. DuBois. Herbie, could you play for us, please? Wally—from the top.”
As the horrible number started up again, Henry marched down the aisle and pushed through the theater doors onto noisy Forty-second Street. The enormous marquee loomed over his head. Foot-high black letters promised AN ALL-NEW REVUE!
“All new!” Henry shouted to passersby, who looked at him as if he were crazy. “That’s right, folks! Step right up. We know you bore easily. Your shiny playthings lose their luster. Even now, you’re asking yourselves: What’s next? What am I missing? Will this make me important?”
It was all a machine that required constant feeding—Henry hated the machine, and he hated himself for wanting the sort of admiration it promised, as if he had no worth unless someone was there to applaud it.
“Hen!” Theta raced after him in her skimpy dancing costume and no coat. “Hen! Whatsa matter with you? Are you crazy? You just lost your job!”
“I am acutely aware of that fact, dear girl.” Henry tried for humor, but his words were as brittle as damp chalk.
“You gotta apologize to Flo. Tell him you haven’t been sleeping and you lost your head. He’ll take you back.”
Henry’s anger was a live thing, a snake in his hands. How many times had he been forced to choke down how he felt in order to make someone else happy? How many times did he put away his own needs to accommodate somebody else’s? Well, he wouldn’t do it anymore. Not this time. Not over something as important as his music. “Is that what I should do, Theta? Walk in there with my hat in my hand, beg for scraps, pretend I’m nothing, be grateful for what I get? Should I spend my hours swallowing it down every time Herbie’s awful songs get into the show instead of mine? Should I be polite when Wally lets that idiot ruin my song without even asking me what I think?”
“It’s just a matter of time—”
“I. Am tired. Of pretending.” Henry bent his head back. The marquee letters blurred with each blink of his eyes. “They’re never gonna let me in, Theta!” Henry shouted. He was unused to shouting. A lifetime with his father had taught him to hold everything in. But now it tumbled out like the contents of an overstuffed closet. “Don’t you get it? I don’t fit. The songs I want to write aren’t the songs they want to hear. All this time, I’ve been trying to figure out what they want and give it to them. I don’t want to do that anymore, Theta. I want to figure out what I want and write those songs. Songs I care about. And if I’m the only one singing ’em, so be it.” Henry wiped his eyes quickly with the heel of his hand. He tucked his hands under his armpits and turned away from Theta.
“Hen, nobody believes in you more than me. But right now, you gotta have a job. I’m just being honest.”