Last Night at the Blue Angel (2 page)

I hang up the dress with the others. Up close, you can see how beat-up they are—small rips in the tulle, sequins dangling from loose threads, pale gold half-moons at the armpits. The linings look like flour sacks—rough, stained. I wonder if their job is to protect Mother from the gowns or the gowns from Mother.

A knock on the door.

She stands, naked except for her tap pants, rolled-down stockings, and shoes.
Yes
, she says, lifting her turquoise robe from a hook.

Miss Hill
,
I have something for you
.

She throws the robe around her and opens the door. Steve hands her a note. She carries it back to her station, whipping her robe out of the way so she can sit. She opens it and reads.
Jesus Christ
, she whispers as she leans back against the chair and looks at herself in the mirror, stares like she's looking for something she lost, then sits up straight.
Jesus Christ
, she says again, winded.

Language
, I say.

She leans over her makeup station, scratches something on a piece of paper, and folds it in half.
Be right back
, she says as she leaves.

I wait for a second before reading the note left on the counter.
Flying through and saw your photo on a window. Imagine my surprise. I was just going to watch you and leave but I would like to see you. I understand if you don't want to see me. Always
,
L
.

When Mother comes back she is moving slowly again. She takes off her makeup, pulls the hairpins out of her hair.

Are you going out tonight?
I ask.

No
,
kitten. I'm coming home with you
, she says this like it's what she always does.

What did you write on that piece of paper?

She rubs Pond's on her cheeks.

What's that
,
sweetie?
Her lips stretch around her teeth.

The note
.

She yanks a tissue out of its box and wipes her skin until it's pink and shiny. Then she begins to pull off her eyelashes very slowly. I take my Big Chief writing tablet out of my bag and write:
Eyelashes
.

An old friend is coming by this evening
. She sticks the eyelashes to their tray and tugs at the leftover strands of glue on her eyelids.

When I turned ten, Mother stopped lying to me. I'd say that neither of us is used to it yet.

I tell myself, Do not fall asleep tonight no matter what.

Jim knocks on the door. Always the same. A little dance-step knock—one, two, one-two-three.

I'll meet you two out front
, says Mother, so I grab my book bag and leave with Jim.

We open the door to the sparkling night, the wind boxing a sheet of newspaper all the way up to the sky, the El whining up the block, its girders the black legs of giants. I kick at the base of a light pole.

Hey
, says Jim.
What'd that pole ever do to you?

Jim's camera hangs from his neck still. He fishes for his pack of cigarettes. His shirt is denim with pearl buttons and a long collar. There's a rectangular square of wear in the pocket where he keeps his pack. That's how much he wears this shirt.

You okay
,
kid?
he asks.

I don't answer. He studies me over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. His black hair always looks like he just cut it himself.

I love you. You know that
.

I know
, I say.

And your ma. I love her
,
too
, he says.

Doesn't everybody?
I say.

But one day she's going to love me back
.

There's a way adults smile at you when you want something you're never going to get. That's how I smile at Jim.

You can call me if you ever need—
he says, but I already know this and I interrupt him.

I know
.

Okay
. He tucks his cigarette between his lips.
Gotta be sure
.

I'm trying to count how many seconds the red light is red but Jim keeps interrupting me.

I'm walking you both home
,
right?
he asks, looking down the alley.
Not just you?

She's coming
, I say. I look up at the lights and the power lines. Up in the air. A couple years ago somebody hung speakers all over the Loop and a man's voice came out of all the speakers telling us the president had been shot. Jim was walking me home from school and all the people froze in the streets and looked up. Some of them fell on their knees or yelled or leaned on the person next to them. Downtown just stopped, the bad news falling down on all of us from the sky. Now everybody's driving as fast as they can. In a hurry. All the bad things forgotten. I get out my notebook and write:
Lights. Streetlamps. Car lights. Stoplights. All different kinds
.

Mother rushes out of the club like she's making an entrance onto the street. She's in her wool trousers, satin blouse, wool fedora, the stole with the fox's head that I cannot stand to look at.

What took you so long?
says Jim.

Bennett was giving me some notes
, says Mother.
He says I'm straining in my midrange
,
where I should be moving into my head voice. Do you think I'm straining?

I think you sound great
, he says.

We walk by Paolo's with the check curtains and Jim stops.
What do you say we get a bite?

Yes
,
let's!
I say.

No
,
darling. We need to get you home and to bed. I'll fix a little something while I run your bath
,
okay?
she says to me. The rush in her voice. The disguise.
And besides, I'm done in. Just done
.

A young couple pops out the front door of Paolo's with a paper place mat. Mother turns her back to us when they call to her. They ask her to sign it and one of them says,
In case you make it big someday
.

Someone's coming over
, I tell Jim while Mother's back is turned.

Who?

I shrug.

Who told you?
he says.

She did
.

He looks at me and stands up straight. Then he does that thing with his eyeballs where they go up and to the left, like he maybe saw a bat but is afraid to look. He starts walking and I follow. He goes slowly so Mother can catch up when she's done.

You don't have to walk us
, I tell him.

Yes, I do
, he says.

Mother joins us. Sighs. She likes to pretend she's tired of all the attention.

Jim jogs ahead and turns around to take a picture of us walking.

Honestly
,
darling
,
why all the photographs?
says Mother.

Well, if you DO make it big someday
,
I'm gonna be flush
.

You should be off photographing people who can pay you. That would be the wise thing
,
Jimmy
.

I'm shooting a Bar Mitzvah next week
.

Are they paying you?

No
,
I'm doing it for fun
.

She smiles and pushes him. You can see him fill with warmth. It's all he wants—this smile, this little push. It's how we're exactly alike, Jim and me. We love the crumbs we get.

I take a bath with lots of Mr. Bubbles when we get home. Mother makes me fried eggs and toast and smiles at me across the table with a drink in her hand. I get up before I'm done and run to my room.

Hey
,
where you going?
she shouts.

I write
Toaster
in my tablet and run back to the kitchen to finish my dinner.

Do you think I keep you up too late?

I shrug.

Later than normal?
she adds.

What time are kids supposed to go to bed?
I ask, food in my mouth.

Earlier
,
I think
. She looks at the clock and takes a deep breath.

How do clocks work?

Mother looks at the clock again.
There's a little engine in there
.

I pick it up and look at the back. I start to unscrew it.

Don't do that
.
I need to be able to tell the time
.

But I need to see the engine
.

You can take it apart tomorrow. Really
,
kitten. Why are you so nervous all the time?

You don't understand
.

C'mon
,
let's be done
. She stands and stretches.

Mother hums while she walks me to my room, tucks me in, and strokes my damp hair. I am determined not to fall asleep. After she leaves, I lie awake wondering how the little red wires inside the toaster are made when I hear someone knock at the door. It seems to take Mother a long time to open it. I get out of bed and press my ear to the door. It's another woman. I open my tablet to the list. There was one named Margaret a while back. I saw her sneaking out in the morning, and when I told Jim about it he said maybe it was Mother's fairy godmother.

I press my ear back to the door. Mother and the other woman are talking about how long it's been. The other woman says,
I'm surprised you agreed to see me
, and she sounds very serious. I don't think this is Margaret.

Do you come to Chicago often?
says Mother, loud and cheerful.

The woman says,
When I can. Davie comes all the time. We like to meet here. He's good for an expensive dinner
.

It's suddenly silent out there.

And why does he come here?
says Mother.

Poker
, says the woman.
You haven't seen him?

No
.

How about that
, says the woman.

Would you mind lowering your voice? I have a child. Asleep
.

You what?

I don't hear the rest.

CHAPTER 2

I
T'S ALMOST LIGHT
when I wake up, curled on the floor by my door, and I kick myself. I slip down the long hallway to her room, avoiding the spots where the floor creaks. The door is open and I stand there looking at them, Mother sort of facedown, her arm hanging over the side of the bed and the other woman on her back, one arm resting on her stomach.

She has dark hair, shorter than Mother's, her skin is darker, too. The room smells like some entirely different season. A few bottles here and there, clothes thrown around like they were looking for something, the ashtray full.

I start picking up. The woman opens her eyes and squints at me.

Excuse me
, I say, reaching over her to collect a champagne flute from the bed. She puts her hand on Mother's butt and wiggles her.

Naomi
, she says.

Mother rolls over.
Kitten
,
what are you doing?

I shrug.
Picking up
.

Later
, says Mother.

When I get to the kitchen, I let the bottles fall into the trash can with a loud crash. I fill the percolator and put it on the stove. The woman stops for a moment in the kitchen doorway and stares at me. She's wearing a yellow jacket with black trim and a dark tight skirt, and has large brown eyes with long dark eyelashes. I stare back.

Coffee?
I say.

No thanks
, she says, but it seems like she hasn't heard me. She's staring still, her mouth open a little.

I turn my back to her and study the top of the percolator. The little see-through knob. I wait for something to happen.

You must be Sophia
.

I turn around.
Who are you?

The woman steps forward and tries to smile.
I'm sorry. I'm Laura
.
How old are you?

Almost eleven. How old are you?
I ask.

Almost thirty
.

Pretty old
.

It sure is
.
Do you mind?
she asks, pointing at a chair.

She doesn't wait for me to answer before she sits, slips off her black shoes so she can adjust the Band-Aids on the back of each foot, and then puts them back on.

Do you have any kids?
I ask.

No
, she says.

Are you a singer
,
too?

Not at all
. She takes a small black hat out of her purse and attaches it to her head, opening hairpins with her teeth.

What are you
,
then?

I'm a stewardess. You ever been on an airplane?

I shake my head.
Is it fun?

Not particularly
, she says.
But I get to go all kinds of places
.

Aren't you afraid of crashing into another plane?

She frowns.
Not particularly
. She stares at me. Forever.

It's not polite to stare
.

I'm sorry
.

She opens her purse again, takes out a small round box, and hands it to me.
Open it
.

The wood is very thin. I shimmy the lid off and inside there are five little dolls made of brightly colored threads with little scraps of fabric for clothes. Some of them wear hats made of ribbon or yarn.

Where'd you get these?

They're called trouble dolls. A woman in Guatemala gave them to me. That's in South America
.

I know
, I say, though I don't.
How do you know my mother?

She leans forward like she has a secret.
I've known her since she was smaller than you
.

I try to imagine Mother as a child but all I can see is her in her green gown and heels, but shorter.
What was she like?

Naughty
, she says.
Don't tell her I said that
.

Did she worry a lot?

Let me think. Yes
,
I suppose she did
,
actually
.

Just then Mother comes down the hallway, barefoot, robe open, the tiny key she wears around her neck on a ratty bit of silk hanging between her bare breasts.