Almost Famous Women (3 page)

We sing, I said. We can swim and roller-skate, or play saxophone if you like.

Well I'll be, he said. Showbiz twins. Working gals.

Martin shook his head and chewed his lip. One thing I'd learned—people saw different things when they looked at us. Some saw freaks, some saw love. Some saw opportunity.

Violet was quiet.

We want to be in the movies, I said.

How old are you? he asked.

Eighteen, I lied.

I pulled the hem of my dress above my knees.

Violet jabbed me in the ribs.

Honest, I said.

Violet placed a hand over her mouth and giggled.

Cabbie, Martin said. Stop at McHale's. Looks like we're going to grab ourselves a few drinks.

Our hats were out of style and out of season, but we were used to standing out in a crowd.

Martin rushed over to a stocky man standing by the bar.

Ed, he said. I want you to meet Daisy and Violet.

Ed nodded but didn't speak. The two men turned to lean over their beers and talk quietly.

I felt a hundred eyes burning my back.

Look at the bodies, not the faces, I told myself.

Miss Hadley had said: Learn to love the attention. You don't have a choice.

There is no one in the world like you
, I said to myself.

The spotlight is on, Violet said.

There is no one in the world like you
.

We should find a hotel, Violet said. Then go back south tomorrow. If we leave early, we could get to Richmond. Even Atlanta. Somewhere
nice
.

With what money? I asked her.

One gin and tonic later I pulled Violet onto the stage. The band was warming up. We could be seen and gawked at, or we could be appreciated, marveled over. I knew which I preferred.

The first night Martin and I slept together, Violet said the Lord's Prayer eighteen times.

 . . . hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . .

Violet!

On Earth as it is in Heaven.

Just keep going, I said.

Are you sure? Martin asked.

Violet had her hand over her eyes, a halfhearted attempt not to watch. She kept her clothes on, even her shoes.

Yes, I told him.

The room was dark but Martin kept his eyes closed. He never kissed me on my mouth. Not then, not ever.

During the day, Violet and I worked the industrial mixer at a bakery. We shaped baguettes in the afternoons. Nights, we sang at McHale's. I began drinking. Ed and Martin sipped scotch at a corner table, escorted us back to our efficiency in the thin morning light.

We primped for our performances like starlets. In the shower, we rotated in and out of the water. Lather, turn, rinse, repeat.

Let's go for a natural look tonight, Violet said, sitting down at the secondhand bureau we'd turned into our vanity table.

I was thinking Jezebel, I said. Red lipstick and eyes like Dietrich.

It looks better when we coordinate, Violet said.

I painted a thick, black line across my eyelid.

Let me do yours, I said, turning to her.

Some nights I felt like a woman—the warm stage lights on my face, the right kind of lipstick on, the sound of my voice filling the room, Violet singing harmony. Some nights I felt like two women. Some nights I felt like a two-headed monster. That's what some drunk had shouted as Violet and I took the stage. Ed had come out from behind his table swinging.

We were the kind of women that started fights. Not the kind of women that launched ships.

It took one year and a bottle of Johnnie Walker for Ed to confess his love to Violet.

Can you, um, read a newspaper or look away? he asked me.

I folded the newspaper to the crossword puzzle and chewed a pencil.

I been thinking, Ed said. You are a kind woman. A good woman.

Violet touched his cheek.

Does anyone know a four-letter word for Great Lake? I asked.

I watch you sing every night, and every night I decide that one day I'm going to kiss you, he said.

Violet cupped the back of his neck with her hands.

Erie, I said. The word is Erie.

An hour later and they had moved to the bed. I watched the clock on the wall, recited Byron in my head.

Ed cried afterward, laid his mangled face on Violet's chest.

I cried too.

When the agent comes, I said to Violet, let me do the talking.

We were taking a sponge bath in front of the kitchen sink, naked as blue jays. It was too hard getting in and out of a shower these days.

A cicada hummed somewhere in the windowsill.

Do you need more soap? Violet asked.

This is my plan to get us out of here, I said. We'll offer him the rights to our life story. We can get by on a few thousand.

I dipped my washcloth into the cool water and held it between my breasts.

Violet touched the skin between us.

We'll be okay, she said. I don't want you to worry.

Martin had never stayed the night. He had a wife. I wondered what she was like, what she'd think of the things we did.

Normal people don't do what you do in bed, Violet said.

Since when are we normal? I asked.

You could keep your eyes closed, I said.

And my ears, Violet said, blushing.

Martin is a man's man, I told her. He knew what he wanted.

He was rough, sometimes clutching my neck or grabbing my hair. Afterward he'd talk about the movies we'd get into, how he'd be our agent.

The Philadelphia Story
, he said, but instead of Hepburn, there's Daisy and Violet.

Then he'd wash his hands, rinse his mouth, wet his hair down, and leave.

One month my period was late.

Jesusfuckingchrist
was all Martin would say.

In bed at night I asked myself what I would do with a baby. What Violet and I would do. I convinced myself we could handle it. We had many hands.

Ed slept over those days. I watched Violet stroke his hair, trace the shape of his strange ears with her fingertip. She slept soundly on his chest.

One night Martin dragged us to an empty apartment around the corner from McHale's.

Stay here, he said, backing out of the door.

A man came in—my body aches when I think of it. He opened a bag of surgical instruments, spread a mat onto the floor.

Lie down, he said. Put your legs up like this.

I wanted to do right by Violet, keep Martin happy.

There was blood. Violet fainted. I no longer felt human. I felt as if I could climb out of my body.

We're done here, the man said. You shouldn't have this problem again.

We didn't leave our bed for weeks.

Martin disappeared.

He found the straight and narrow, Ed said. That operation of yours cost him two months' salary. He's somewhere in Cleveland now.

Ed brought us soup and old bread from the bakery while I recovered.

He continued to drink at the corner table nights when Violet and I sang. He was anxious, protective.

One night, after we'd performed “Tennessee Waltz,” the bartender waved me over.

We've got leftover birthday cake, Daisy-girl, he said, pouring me a gin and tonic.