Rare Objects (22 page)

“It gives you an air of mystery.” She stood back, satisfied. “It's not just what you wear, but how you wear it. Think of simplicity as a choice. A statement.”

Then to top it all off, she took out her pocketbook and handed me a five-dollar bill—almost half the weekly food budget. “Here.”

“No.” I put my hand over hers. “I don't need it.”

But she insisted. “I don't want you to be beholden, Maeve. These people won't take you seriously otherwise. Rich people are far meaner with their money. I don't know why, but it's true. And you'll need to take a cab back at the end of the evening. On your own.” She fixed me with a serious look. “Do you understand?”

I did. She didn't want anyone seeing where we lived. Tonight was a magic act; it depended on misdirection and sleight of hand if the illusion were to be pulled off.

“Be on your best behavior.” She adjusted the sash a little, smoothing it flat. “Polite, charming, and a little aloof. Better to be vague than obvious. If you don't know something, just change the subject.”

“I'll be fine,” I said for the hundredth time.

All her ambitions massed together in her eyes like a great army of hopes, chafing for opportunity and success.

“And above all, act like a lady. As you do, so you will become.”

I was late and out of breath from running by the time I got to the Regent Theatre. Twice my mother's shoe had fallen off, and I'd had to go back and get it, hopping on one foot so as not to run my stocking. Now a packed house was letting out from the
seven-thirty show, people pouring out onto the pavement. Standing alone by the balcony exit, jostled by the crowd, I suddenly felt ridiculous, over- and underdressed at the same time. James and Diana were nowhere to be seen. The wind was icy, and I shivered in my plain wool day coat, struggling to keep the makeshift hat Ma had made from blowing away. This was a mistake. I'd rather be one of the people coming out from the film. There was still time to leave, to catch the trolley back home and spend the evening listening to the radio instead.

Then a hand grabbed my elbow. “Surprise!”

It was Diana, wrapped head to toe in a downy white fox fur cape. But she looked odd—her eyes wild, dilated and glassy. “We're going to have such fun tonight, aren't we?” She threw her arms round my neck, and I was enveloped in an embrace of thick, soft fur. It smelled of her perfume, a rich, heady mix of jasmine, orange blossom, and musk. “James cannot let me be,” she whispered in my ear. “Not for a minute! Apparently he thinks I'm so much more interesting than I really am!” And she giggled hysterically.

By the time she let go, a loud crowd of six or eight people were clustered around us. James had his arm around a girl in a clingy silver gown and black mink coat. She was laughing and calling him “Jimmy” in the trademark flat-voweled accent of the Boston Brahmins. With her shingled hair, dark-red bee-stung pout, and gravity-defying figure, it was difficult not to stare at her. “This is Smitty,” James said, introducing her to me.

“
He
calls me Smitty,” she corrected, offering her hand as if she expected it to be kissed. “But my name's Charlotte. You can call me Lotte.” Then she looked up at him. “Where are we going, Jimmy?”

“The Friday Club.”

“Oh, goody! I lost my shoes there last week!” And she and Diana started giggling again, so hard that Diana lost her balance and I had to hold her up.

“What's going on?” I whispered. Clearly the party had already begun elsewhere and they were all well under way—everyone except me. “Have you been drinking?”

“Oh, better than that!” She stumbled, stepped on my foot, righted herself again. “Fairy dust, from Harlem! I'd give you some, but it's all gone now.” She stuck out her lower lip sadly. “Smits made me share!”

“I see.”

This wasn't at all what I was expecting. I thought there'd be chauffeured cars to drive us, sober, polite conversation, entry into an exclusive club—not extra girls and Harlem snow. James put his arm round Smitty's waist, and she clung to him like ivy. Still, I played along, smiling and laughing too, just as Ma had instructed. “So, shall we go?”

There were only three girls to five men. I couldn't quite tell if Diana was with anyone. If she was, neither she nor her date seemed very bothered. Instead, she slipped her arm through mine and pulled me close. “Promise you won't leave me!” An unexpected twinge of tenderness tugged at my heart. I needed a friend tonight.

The rest of the men were content to lag behind, smoking cigarettes and arguing about whether Al Capone should be released from jail to help find the Lindberg baby. No one bothered to introduce them. Snow flurries danced round us as we made our way down the street.

Near the far end of the block we turned into an alleyway and stopped at a dirty wooden door. It opened a crack, just enough for a hushed conversation to take place. Once in, we followed James
down a dark flight of steps, through the back kitchen of a Chinese restaurant, and along to another guarded doorway. It looked like nothing more than an old coal cellar. But once inside, the Friday Club opened out into a vast maze of underground rooms lit by candles on the tables and paper lanterns dangling above. It was decked out with a mishmash of discarded theatrical props. Paper palm trees wilted on the walls, and an enormous Chinese dragon was suspended from the ceiling. Onstage the backdrop was from a Christmas pageant, a pink-and-green candy city receding into a golden sunset. It reminded me of every second-rate club I'd seen in New York, as haphazard and unsophisticated as a high school dance. However, the clientele was distinctly upmarket. Despite the shambolic surroundings, diamonds glittered, and beaded gowns and satin shoes shimmied up against tailor-made dinner jackets and black ties; so many furs were tossed onto the backs of cheap wooden chairs that it looked like an Alaskan trading post, and velvet evening coats formed black pools of fabric where they'd slithered to the floor. And there were faces I recognized from the papers, not just Boston papers but New York ones too—politicians, society hostesses, actors and actresses. And just as James had promised, the band was top-drawer—a sextet from Chicago called the Moonbeams. With the help of an extra-large tip, he wangled us a table near the dance floor.

“Here, Miss Fanning.” He pulled out a chair with mock formality. “I want you to have a good view of the stage.”

“Thank you.”

Smitty watched as I took off my coat. “Oh my!” She giggled, catching James's eye. “That's quite an ensemble!”

“Yes, I suppose it is a bit modern,” I admitted, smiling even though I wanted to smack her across the face.

Diana turned on Smitty. “Haven't you seen
Shanghai Express
?
Those mandarin collars are all the rage. Everyone's
mad
for Chinese this year!” She managed to make it sound as if Smitty were some backward hillbilly. “I adore it!” she cooed, sitting down next to me. “
So
Fu Manchu!”

A waiter came up and unceremoniously delivered two bottles of nameless liquor and only half a dozen glasses. One of the men began pouring. Whatever was in the bottle was amber.

“We haven't got enough glasses!” he called out over the music.

“I'll share with you.” Diana took a drink and then passed it to me. I could smell whiskey, but I thought of my mother's warning, of the way Smitty was already treating me like I'd crawled in through the back door. “Not right now, thanks.”

“What?” James leaned in. “I hope you're not part of the temperance league.”

Smitty wrinkled her nose. “I hate a wet blanket!”

“I'm just a little under the weather, that's all,” I fibbed, taking out a cigarette. This was a fast crowd; I didn't want my abstinence to make me look prudish. “I suppose I overdid it—I was out till dawn last night.”

“With whom?” James offered his lighter.

“Oh, you don't know them. Old friends.”

“I know
everyone
.” Smitty pushed her chair closer. “Tell me who had the nerve to throw a party without me! Was it the Lyalls? No, it couldn't have been. Or Joss Davenport?”

I really hated her.

“It was a private house outside town,” I said, “with a glass conservatory and an indoor pool. I can't remember exactly where it was . . .”

“Didn't Nicky Howerd take you?” Diana cut in. “I never pay attention when someone else is driving.”

I gave her a grateful smile. “That's right. Though I'd have
turned him down if I'd realized I was going to have to stare at him all night in swimming trunks.”

They all laughed, except Smitty.

“Oh, lord!” She rolled her eyes. “I'm so tried of pool parties! Especially in the winter. I'm glad I wasn't there, actually.”

I couldn't help myself. “Too bad you weren't invited.”

She stood up and shook off her mink, which slid unnoticed to the floor. “Come on, Jimmy!” She held out her hand. “Let's dance!”

They made their way onto the crowded dance floor, and soon Diana had joined them on the arm of one of the nameless men. I was left sitting on the far side of the table across from the three others, pretending to recover from a night of debauchery I'd never known. Instead, I smoked my cigarette and tried to look as if I were enjoying sitting one out for a change. The music bounced, flapped, and soared, filling the room with a thick current of sexual electricity. I would have liked to dance. Only a few feet away from me, Smitty draped herself over James. He pulled her close. Her slim hips melded into his so completely that they seemed like a single swaying organism. It was the kind of blatant physical ease whose origins couldn't be disguised. I looked for Diana, who was laughing and reeling awkwardly with her out-of-step companion. A big lad with large feet and broad shoulders, he seemed more willing than able. But Diana wasn't in need of a partner so much as ballast, to keep her from spinning into other couples.

I shot a surreptitious glance across the table. One of the spare men looked up, caught my eye. I smiled, but he quickly looked away.

What a bunch of bores. Or snobs.

Could they tell my dress was homemade?

My fingers wrapped automatically round the whiskey, the cool glass pressed against my palm.

Here was the fastest and surest way to get into the party mood.

“Pardon me, dollface, but you remind me of someone!”

I let go of the glass, looked up. “Rusty? My god!” I laughed with relief at the sight of a friendly face. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Heard you were out of town.” He sat down. “Looks like you came back.” He grinned.

Orestes “Rusty” Manetti was Pina's brother-in-law. Angela used to tease her sister because all the Manetti brothers had heroic, classical names like Romulus, Remus, Orestes, and Agamemnon. “You're going to have your work cut out for you when you start a family!” Angela would say. “How about Caesar?” I'd never spent much time with Rusty and only knew him through Pina, but it was nice to see anyone I knew.

“What are you doing here? Is your wife with you?” I asked.

“Shame you missed the wedding. Hell of a party!”

“I know. I feel bad about that. And you're not answering my question.”

“Neither are you.” He nodded to my hair. “I seem to recall you being a redhead. Took me about ten minutes to figure out who you were. Where's your date?”

“I haven't got one. I'm here with a group.”

He jerked his head toward the Bores. “Where'd you pick up that lot?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Looks like they all got the same mother.” He squinted. “What are they doing over there? Knitting?”

“Probably drawing straws to see who has to dance with me.”

“What are they? Blind?” He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket with a flourish. “Well, if they're not going to dance with you, I will.”

I could've kissed him.

I was at home on the dance floor and began to relax. We made a good couple. Rusty was attractive, as dark as I was fair with strong features and black eyes rimmed with thick long eyelashes. When we were younger, people called him Pretty Boy—hardly the worst name on offer in our neighborhood, but he still had to fight with almost every boy in a ten-block radius before they stopped. Rusty had what my mother called “an eye for the chance.” If there was something going on anywhere in the North End, he was usually in on it. He imported cigars, procured books and newspapers from the old country, and could broker a good deal for you if you wanted a secondhand car, a new house, or a loan to tide you over. He had interests in half a dozen local businesses and ran twelve different shoeshine corners all over the city. He also had a wife, three children, and any number of casual girlfriends.

And I could see why.

He made a girl feel like she was a diamond and he the gold setting, designed to show her off. Navigating the dance floor with daring and a certain Latin flamboyancy, he dipped and spun me round like he was a matador, playing to a packed stadium. They were the kind of moves that could throw a lesser dancer off, but for me, they were fun. We even got a round of applause from the tables near the dance floor.

“Hey, you're not half bad!” He whistled. “Did you pick up some new steps in New York?”

“Maybe just a few.”

“Look, your friends seem like idiots. Why not come and sit with us?” He nodded to a crowded table in an alcove. “We've got some real Canadian Club, fresh off the boat from Jersey.”

“I'd like to, but I'm meant to be on my best behavior tonight.”

He twirled me again. “Sure you don't want a night off?”

“Sorry to cut in, old man.” James put his hand on Rusty's shoulder. “But I think this dance is mine.”

I looked at him in surprise.