Ms. Dupuy stared at the picture. What other mementos did Ms. Sullivan have? The older woman hauled over a big box and put it on her desk. Inside: A Playbill for “Golden Boy” with her name in the cast. Pictures backstage with Sammy and others.
Photos from her role in the 1969 Broadway hit “Play it Again, Sam,” written by and starring Woody Allen.
There was a letter she wrote to the head of a company designing rockets in the space race, volunteering to be an astronaut. The return address: The Tropicana. Ms. Dupuy was in awe. You could tell the history of late-20th century America through Sheila, she thought.
Their backyard visits were interrupted in 2021 when Ms. Dupuy, facing a rent hike and a noisy new neighbor upstairs, felt it was time to move out. She found a place 15 blocks uptown, and promised Ms. Sullivan, by then in her 80s, that they would still see plenty of each other.
In fact, they grew closer. Ms. Dupuy’s marriage was falling apart, and she focused her energy on helping Ms. Sullivan with whatever she needed. “The thing about taking care of an 85-year-old,” she liked to say, “is they’re like a toddler you motivate with gin.”
They were regulars at an Italian place nearby, where they ordered Cosmopolitans with lunch.
“When we walk down the street, people know she’s somebody,” she said later of Ms. Sullivan. “They way she walks, the way she dresses.”
In 2023, Ms. Sullivan marked her 40th year in her apartment. She had always been good about watching the mail for bills and things like that, so she was wholly unprepared for what arrived one day in late April: an eviction notice.
She owed thousands of dollars in unpaid rent, the notice stated, and she was to appear in housing court on the appointed date.
She sat on Charlie Chaplin’s old bed and reread it and reread it. How could this be? She’d lived here such a long time. Now all she could hear, reading the city’s form letter, was “Get her out of here!”
When she called Ms. Dupuy, her friend heard an uncharacteristic tone in her voice. Real fear.
I’ll be right there, she said.
Ms. Sullivan was short on facts. “Some awful mistake somewhere,” she’d say. “I don’t know. Something is rotten in Denmark.” Never mind the odd cockroach, the window that didn’t open — Ms. Sullivan loved that apartment. It was her dressing room, she’d say, and outside, the city was her theater. Suddenly, she was terrified she was going to lose it.
We’re going to fix this, Ms. Dupuy told her. The journalist and fact-finder in her got to work. She discovered a bureaucratic tangle that seemed to be behind the eviction notice. It was like pulling a thread from the proverbial sweater, except it’s the sweater you’ve worn for 40 years, and you don’t have another. She collected documents and receipts and tracked down the original problem, when a city agency that subsidizes Ms. Sullivan’s rent had requested a current lease and no one replied. That agency had quietly stopped paying its share of her rent.
Ms. Sullivan, who had marched in Selma before armed troopers, who had stared into an exploding atom bomb, was now consumed by a fear experienced by countless, anonymous New Yorkers. She began having a recurring nightmare. “They come and pick me up and carry me out,” she said. “I say, ‘No!’”