Authors: Christine Fletcher
"What is this, a joke?" another of the men said. Angry. At me?
It's not my fault, I made a mistake.
The words ready to fly out of my mouth. But when I turned, I saw they were staring at the trumpeter, not me. He'd unfolded his paper and was holding it out. The men stepped in front of Yvonne and Gabby, as if the paper might bite.
The man raised his voice louder. "You think these fine ladies want to drink homebrew rotgut at some two-bit black and tan?"
"No sir, no rotgut. We—"
"Wait a minute," Yvonne said. "You're in the band, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," the trumpeter said. "Just started last week."
"And
this
week'll be your last, if I catch you bothering our customers again. I'll go to Del, and he'll make sure you don't blow another note at any taxi-dance hall in Chicago. Now, go on, get out of here."
"Yes, ma'am. I didn't mean to bother you, I just—"
One of the men took a step toward him. The trumpeter folded the paper. Touched his hat, walked away.
"Let's go," Yvonne said. "I'm freezing."
They didn't spare me a glance. I watched the cabs' taillights until they turned the corner at Western Avenue. A gust of wind raised gooseflesh up the backs of my legs. A car passed by, its engine knocking hard. The air smelled like snow. I pulled my coat tight and started walking.
At the corner, a man stepped out of the shadows. I almost screamed, then saw it was only the trumpet player. Again.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" I snapped.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Never mind." I turned to go, but he held out the paper. I hesitated.
"New after-hours club," the trumpeter said. "Give it a try, when you get tired of the Hoot Owl or the Rhumboogie."
I'd never heard of those places. I took the paper but I didn't look at it. A bit of his face was lit up by the street-lamp: the long curved cheek, the corner of his mouth. The line between light and shadow so sharp, the edge of his lip looked cut from stone.
"Club just opened," he said, "so the cabbies, they don't know about it yet. I'm in the band. You got a customer wants to hear the hottest jazz in Chicago, you bring him down."
"Hot as 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips'?" I said.
That surprised a laugh out of him. He had a nice laugh, low and rolling. "That off-the-cob stuff," he said, his voice spiky with contempt. "Geezer music. If I'd known that was all they played here, I wouldn't have taken this gig."
Fast riffs, the screaming of his trumpet. Better than the Union Hall band. Better even than the scratchy jukebox at Pulaski's drugstore. "I liked 'Sing, Sing, Sing,' " I said.
"Yeah, that's solid. You want to hear even better, come to Lily's." He nodded at the paper. "It's my cousin's place. Tell her you know me. Name's Ozzie. She'll take care of you."
I
won't be back. This is the last you'll see of me, right here.
"Okay," I said.
The wind tugged at his hat. He pushed it backward on his head, just a second, before snugging it low again. "I saw how you was gonna deck one of those geezers." His lip curved up in a grin. "Only interesting thing that almost happened all night." He touched his hat brim. "Evening," he said, and walked away.
On the streetcar home, I folded the paper into squares. When it was so small I couldn't fold it anymore, I slipped it into my pocket.
I knew I'd be angry tomorrow. I was too numb now. Numb from cold. From not wanting to believe that Art had made a fool out of me. From not wanting to think about a mountain of hog's feet in a stinking gray room.
The streetcar clanged. One bell, stopping. I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. Two bells, starting. My head shuddered along the glass and we were moving again.
M
a
had waited up for me. She'd splurged on hot chocolate, to celebrate my becoming a telephone operator, and when I got home she insisted on making me a cup, even though it was a quarter to three and I was dead on my feet.
"Your lips are practically blue," she said. "Eighteen dollars a week won't do us any good if you catch your death of cold."
My lips were blue because I'd scrubbed off my makeup before coming into the flat. Like all the plumbing in the building, the sink in the hall toilet had only cold water. When it got icy outside, so did the tap.
Well, I wouldn't have that problem anymore. I sipped my chocolate and thought about telling Ma that starting tomorrow, she wouldn't have to sit up for me.
In the end, I kept quiet. Maybe something would come to me by morning.
. . .
Nothing did. All I knew was, if I ever saw Art Dobbins again, I'd throw him a punch so hard that the trumpet player—what was his name, Ozzie?—would think he had ringside seats at a prize fight.
But that didn't help me any.
In the kitchen, Ma called good morning from behind two clotheslines sagging with clean, dry laundry. I ducked behind them and kissed her. She was dressed already; Betty must have helped her before going to school.
"There's oatmeal on the stove," Ma said. Cheerful, the way she always used to be in the mornings, the way she hadn't been in a long time. "Oh, and put the iron on while you're there, will you?" She unpinned one of Betty's blouses, folded it in half and dropped it in the laundry basket.
I spooned oatmeal into a bowl, chucked a little sugar over the top. Then lifted the iron out of the cupboard and set the heavy metal triangle on the stovetop to heat.
"I can't tell you, Ruby, how excited everyone is that you're a telephone operator. Mr. Maczarek said—"
The bowl slipped from my fingers and thudded to the counter. I grabbed it just before it spun off the edge. "You told Mr. Maczarek? Who else did you tell?"
"Well—not so many people. Mrs. Dudek, and Mrs. Artym upstairs, and Rose Terasek when the vegetable man came by . . . why, what's wrong? Why shouldn't I?"
"Nothing. It's just . . . " I carried the bowl to the table. A bedsheet hung between us and I was glad for it. "Ma, this telephone operator thing. It . . . it might not work out."
"Not work out?" The bedsheet twitched aside. I sat down quick, mashing at the oatmeal with my spoon, so that I didn't have to see the disappointment on her face. "Why? Did you . . . " Even without looking I knew she was peering at my eye, where the St. Augustine girl had socked me. "You didn't get into another fight, did you?"
"No! Of course not. It's just . . . " I laid my forehead in my hands. It wasn't only the gown, or even losing the job. It was that Ma's worries had somehow become my worries, and I was tired of it. I thought I'd found the solution but instead, we were in the same dumb mess as before. The back rent and owing money to the grocers. Bean soup. I didn't want to have to think about any of it anymore. But I had to.
"There's all these . . . I don't know, wires and . . . and things, and the other girls are so much better at it than me, and I just don't . . . I don't fit in, I guess." Which was the biggest lie of all, because I did fit in, I
could,
all I needed was a proper dress and I could show them, Peggy and Yvonne and all of them . . . and those beautiful dressing tables, each one with its own mirror, lightbulbs on either side, the most glamorous thing I'd ever seen, and now I'd never sit at one again. It was just like Paulie— something perfect dangled in front of me, then snatched away for no reason. At the thought, my throat closed up as if it was a rag in a pair of hands, wrung hard and squeezed . . . "And now Mr. Maczarek knows, and Mrs. Dudek and everyone, and they'll know I couldn't do it and it's all I'll hear everywhere I go for the rest of my life!" I picked up the spoon and stabbed it into the oatmeal.
"Ruby. Ruby! Look at me."
Ma's face wavered through my tears. She dragged a handkerchief off the line and handed it to me. I blew my nose.
"Did they fire you?" she asked.
I shook my head. I rubbed my knuckles, felt the scabs rough under my fingers. "Not yet. But I think . . . "
Either show up with a gown tomorrow, or don't show up.
I felt gray inside, heavy, as if a chunk of lead had appeared where my heart should be. "They will," I said. I pushed my chair back. "I'll go to the packinghouse. Maybe they'll give me my old job back."
"No." She said it with such firmness that I looked up at her, startled. Ma brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. Then she sat down. Slowly, the way she had to do everything now. Little winces, the corner of her mouth twitching back. Watching her, I felt the grayness spreading through me. Dank, dark, dull. This was the way we were now. It would never be any different.
"I never had the gumption to leave the packinghouse and find another job," Ma said. "I wouldn't even join the union, when it came. I didn't want the bosses to think I was ungrateful." She gazed into her lap. I knew she was looking at her hands. The expression on her face the same as when we lost our gloves, or forgot our schoolbooks on the streetcar. Like she couldn't understand how anything that belonged to her could be so stupid.
"It'll be all right, Ma. I'll see the foreman and explain . . . something."
"Every mother wants better for her child than what she got. I never graduated school, and I'd hoped . . ."
What did school have to do with anything? I knew only one girl who'd ever made good: Angie's big sister, Clara. And that was because she married a mason with a good union job. She'd had a real satin wedding dress, which took Angie and her mother weeks to make, and then on their honeymoon what did her husband do but buy her
more
dresses, from Marshall Fields no less, one of them a gorgeous thing loaded with beads all down the neckli—
Inside me, suddenly, everything went quiet.
"Ruby! Are you listening to me?"
I blinked. Ma was frowning at me. "I
said,
you're as smart as any girl there. When they tell you something, you're to pay attention and do your best."
I nodded. I was almost afraid to breathe, afraid this bubble, this hope, might turn gray and sink. "Yes, Ma," I said.
"If they fire you, they fire you. But I won't have you quitting. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Ma."
She stood up and went back to the clotheslines. Creak of clothespins, the laundry falling like snow into the basket. The iron was heating up, the smell of hot metal cutting past the scents of clean cotton, oatmeal, coffee. I picked up my spoon again. Then dropped it clattering into the bowl and jumped to my feet.
Ma tugged on the bedsheet, trying to get it down. "Where are you going?"
I swooped around the table and kissed her cheek again, smacking loud. "Getting dressed. Then I'll run all your errands."
"This early? The shops aren't even open!"
"Then I'll be the first in line." I threw the sheet over the line and caught it on the other side. Ma laughed.
"I can't keep up. What's gotten into you this morning?"
I hugged her, until she batted at my arms, giggling. I couldn't remember the last time I heard Ma giggle. The gray lead inside vanished; my heart felt free and red again and warm, skipping like hopscotch.
When I let her go, she poked me in the ribs. "Sit back down and eat your breakfast. It's a sin to waste food."
"Yes, Ma," I said, and I went to get dressed.
. . .
When Angie and me played hooky, we always met up by the school's east gate. From there, we could hop the streetcar to the movie theaters on Ashland Avenue. Or to the lakeshore, if it was hot. Or ride the el to the Loop, if we felt like window shopping at Marshall Fields and Carson Pirie Scott, pretending we were swells who could buy whatever we wanted.
At noon, when school let out for lunch, I was waiting.
I hadn't seen Angie since the Union Hall dance, three nights ago. Since Paulie, since the Starlight. I didn't have to talk her into cutting class. She saw me, turned right instead of left, and we headed out the gate into the street. As soon as we were safe on the streetcar, I raised my right hand and stuck out the little finger. "Pinkie secret." Angie hooked her little finger around mine. Her kitten's eyes button-round.
"Pinkie secret," she repeated, serious as sin.
We'd started pinkie secrets in the fifth grade, when I had a crush on Barry Jenkins and Angie was in love with George Scepanovic. Whoever blabbed a pinkie secret would lose all her hair, never get married, and end up living with her mother for the rest of her life. We squeezed, let go, and kissed our pinkie knuckles. And then I told her about the Starlight.
"Dancing all night and getting paid for it?" Angie said. "What a lucky break! And it's a real orchestra, not a jukebox?"
"Ten-piece band," I said. "The trumpet player, he's just as good as anything you'd hear on the radio."
"And little colored lights . . . it must be so
romantic."
She laid her head back against the seat and sighed. "Are the fellows swell? Do they have a good line, or are they a bunch of drips? I bet they're drips," she went on, before I could answer, "because any fellow with a good line would already know how to dance. Right?"
A good line? No customer at the Starlight needed to think up a line to get a girl to dance with him. All he needed was a ticket. In fact, the only fellow with any line at all had been Art, and all his sweet talk was just so he could cheat me.
It's taxi dancing,
Del had told me.
The customers rent you. Like a taxi. Get it?
"No, the fellows are swell," I said. "Hardly any drips at all."
She sighed again. "I bet they fall in love with the instructresses all the time. Don't you think they would?" She gasped so loudly, I jumped. She sat up, a hand pressed to her mouth. "If that happens, you know what you should do? Write in to
True Confessions
magazine. They pay fifty dollars a story—you'd be
rich."
I barely heard her—I'd had a lightning strike of my own. I grabbed her arm. "Why don't you come with me?"
Angie blinked. "What do you mean? You mean work there?"
"Sure! Why not?" Should I tell her now about how the Starlight wasn't really a dance academy? How I'd gotten a dollar for letting a dirty-minded man pinch my ass?
No. She'd find out quick enough. I had.
So instead, I said, "You should see the gowns, Angie. And the
shoesl"
Angie was a nut for shoes; if she could, she'd own a hundred pairs. "Ma bought the telephone operator story hook, line, and sinker. You can tell your folks the same thing. Come on, say you will! We can go to the Starlight right now, I'll introduce you to Del."
Her eyes had gone dreamy at the shoes. But as soon as I mentioned telephone operators, her face changed. Like she'd woken up. "I can't," she said. "You know I have to watch the brats, now that Ma's working every night in the tavern."
Dammit. I'd forgotten Angie's little sisters and brothers. Five of them, the youngest only six years old. "But Reena's thirteen," I pointed out. "She's plenty old enough to watch them."
"Maybe . . . " Angie shook her head. "No. I couldn't lie to my parents like that."
I gestured out the window. "You lie to them all the time. Since when has that ever stopped you?"
"Cutting class, so what? If they find out, sure they'll get mad, but . . . " She shrugged. "Something like that, though, that's . . . I don't know.
Big.
It would be like . . ." She bit the inside of her cheek, frowning. "Like suddenly you're a whole different person behind their backs. Like if I found out my
mother
worked there. You know?"
I turned away from her and looked out the window. Ashland Avenue jolted past: People's Bank, Goldblatt's Department Store, Olympia Theater. Next to me, Angie sighed. Exasperated this time. "Look, I don't mean
you,"
she said. "It's different for you. What choice do you have, really?"
I turned back toward her. She looked me dead in the eyes. Straight up, no fooling. That was my Angie.
"Pinkie secret," I said.
She looked a little surprised, but she nodded. Kissed her knuckle again.
. . .
"I need you to get something for me," I said. "Not bad," Peggy said that evening in the Ladies'. "Not bad at all. You didn't get this out of that old stick Artie, did you?"
"No." I ran my hands down both hips, savoring the silky rayon crepe. "You were right about him." I waited for her to ask what happened, to say /
told you so.
To make me eat crow. But all she said was, "Good riddance to bad rubbish," and took her makeup bag to a dressing table. I was glad. I needed to get on Peggy's good side, and if she was nice, that made things easier for me.
So did Clara's gown. Creamy ivory, a sweetheart neckline. Not low cut, which was too bad. But the sparkles made up for it: silver bugle beads, laid on thick in a kind of collar, and below that, round ones scattered like stars over the bosom and down to the waist.
Angie had nabbed it from her sister's flat that afternoon. Piece of cake, she said. Slipped it off the hanger, bundled it under her coat, then suddenly remembered she'd promised to be home early. Clara hadn't suspected a thing. "I have to have it back next Friday," Angie had told me, when she'd smuggled the dress to me outside the Wachowskis' tavern. "Clara's husband is taking her to some fancy shindig next Saturday night."
I'd counted in my head: eight days. I ought to have plenty of dough to buy my own gown by then—but still, it would be nice to keep this one for a while. "Why can't she wear one of her other dresses?"
"What other dresses? She hasn't got any other ones like this."
"Sure she does. Her husband bought her a dozen on their honeymoon, you told me so."
"I never told you any such thing! She's got this one and she's wearing it next Saturday. If she finds out it's missing, she'll holler bloody murder from here to Pough-keepsie and I'm the first person she's gonna suspect. So just get it back to me, all right? And be careful with it! If she finds so much as a fingerprint, she'll scream like a banshee."