Last Night at the Blue Angel (31 page)

He lifted a long blond wig from the counter and slowly lowered it into the sink, moving it back and forth.

Thanks for letting me stay the night. I'll look for a place today
, I told him.

You will not
, he said.
I'm going to take care of you two
,
for a little while, at least. My refugees from the High Plains
.

Maybe you can teach me a few things
, I said.

He lifted the wig out of the sink, turned on the faucet, and let the water run over it.
A few things?
he said.
I will need to teach you everything
.
Sitting there like a boy on a stump. Heavens
.

He dried his hands on a dish towel and threw it over his shoulder.
And
,
kitten
,
I'm called Rita. “Ricky” is back in Kansas somewhere
.

Okay
,
Rita
, I said.
So
,
do I call you “he” or “she?”

“She” would do nicely
, said Rita, as she laid the wig on a towel and blotted it.

Suddenly I felt the urge to be sick, and ran to the small bathroom. I sat on the floor, resting my head against the pink and black tile, and hoped this bug would pass soon. It was getting in the way of my new start.

Once my stomach was steady again, I returned to the kitchen. Rita pulled two pieces of toast out of the toaster oven and set them on a plate. She put this and a cup of strong black coffee in front of me.

Did I upset you?
she asked.

I'm feeling off. I wasn't even able to eat yesterday
,
which is odd for me because I eat all the time. I'd say I eat every chance I get
.

I buttered the toast and tried to keep from devouring it while Rita watched, smoking a cigarette.

So what brings you to Chicago
,
Naomi of Kansas?
she asked.
Or is this just the only town you've not yet been run out of?

I stared at her until she laughed, a deep, bottomless laugh that made me feel a bolt of joy inside.

We laughed while I ate my toast.

Rita put more bread in the toaster oven.
Do you have aspirations?
she asked, studying me like she was sorting out something complicated.

Well
,
I want to sing
.

She nodded, pulled a drag off her cigarette.
So I heard
.

I looked at the coils growing red in the toaster oven, listened to its ticking sounds.

It's not enough
,
you know
, she said.

Beg your pardon?

She retrieved the toast with a pair of tongs and dropped it on my plate.

To want to sing. Or frankly, to be able to sing. Singers
,
pretty singers, are a dime a dozen around here
. She nodded toward the window.

I buttered my toast slowly as she perched on the stool next to mine, facing me.

Look at you
,
slumped over your fourth piece of toast
,
your legs all twisted around each other. What are we
,
four? Five?

I untangled my legs and sat up straight.

Your body is a work of art
,
an enticement
,
and it must appear so at all times
.

I looked at her sitting on the stool, her body a beautiful zigzag perched on her hip, her cigarette raised. She took a drag, blew the smoke, raised her chin.

You cannot afford a moment's sloppiness
,
lest you forget yourself at the wrong time
, she said, raising an eyebrow. Eyebrows. They were penciled in now.

I understand
, I said.

She got up and retrieved a bag with strawberries on it from a drawer. She unbuttoned the bag and pulled out a handful of curlers, some green, some pink, then she fished around for the little plastic pins. One of these pins she held like a tiny paintbrush, making little strokes in the air while she talked.

It's like this. You are a fantasy and you must always appear as such
.

She leaned on the counter and pointed at me with the pin.
So your public must never see that you are just like them
.

We stared at each other for a long time.

I know
,
I know. It sounds like an impossible amount of work
,
to be so aware all of the time
,
but really
,
kitten
,
there's just an initial hump
,
a period of adjustment
,
and soon you will forget that you were ever any other way
.

I heard the word
forget. Teach me
, I said.

I will
,
kitten
. She turned back to her wig and gracefully, artfully, wrapped sections in the curlers.

Sister was up and moving around now.
Teach her what?

How to impersonate a woman
, said Rita.

CHAPTER 41

W
E WENT TO
Rita's club on Wells Street. With one of Rita's scarves tied around her head, Sister looked like a bohemian. Some of the patrons recognized her and approached after we sat down. There were men dressed as women, women dressed as men. The rules of men and women seemed flexible here, something to play with. A few women approached our table and teasingly asked Sister who her new friend was. It took me a minute to realize we were being mistaken for an honest-to-goodness couple. It made me feel a part of something, this awareness, and it scared me to death.

Close your mouth
, said Sister.

I can't help it
.
I've never been anyplace like this
.

In all your world travels?
she said.

I grabbed her arm and wiggled her. She gently pulled away and looked around.
No touching
, she said. I threw my arm around her just to disobey. She pulled it off me fast.
I'm not kidding. We could be arrested for that
.

What?
I said.

Just then a round bald man with the deep voice of a movie star hopped up onstage and raised his arms. The crowd applauded, whistled, and catcalled. He introduced the revue, which started with a large dance number involving feathers, large headpieces, and scandalous costumes. I saw Rita and soon realized every performer up there was also a man. The rest of the revue consisted of number after number of songs, dances, skits. My whole body longed to move like that, to hold a crowd like that, make them laugh, make them sigh.

Do you like it?
said Sister.

I feel I could burst
, I said, breathless.

When it was done, Sister took me backstage, and Rita made a big show of introducing us to the girls.

A new singer up from Kansas City
, Rita said of me.

Oh
, the girls said, looking me over.

A skinny gal in a fringe dress sang a little gibberish tune and did some country steps.
Like that?
she asked. I didn't realize right away that she was making fun of me.

Yes
,
just like that
, I said.

Maybe if she's any good she could join us
, said Rita, smearing cold cream on her cheeks.

The other gals shot big-eyed, angry looks at her.

The skinny one tilted her head.
Might do us good to have a jam onstage
.

The others considered what she said.

We'll see
, said Rita.

I whispered to Sister,
What's a jam?

She sort of tilted her head.
A heterosexual
.

I
started by hanging out backstage, helping the girls with their costumes, wigs, and makeup, learning their tricks—creating a waist where there wasn't one, sculpting a jaw with shades of foundation, playing up the eyes with false eyelashes, shadow, and kohl. I'd never seen that sort of artistry in my life, a whirlwind of brushing, lining, pulling, teasing, squeezing, curling, turning a roomful of nondescript young men into a clique of bombshells.

Over time, I got to know the numbers by heart. The strengths and weaknesses of each performer, what worked, and what didn't. I learned that it's not invisible, what goes on inside a singer's head; it's all over her face and body if you look carefully enough.

Rita's training went something like this: her studying and critiquing how I sat, stood, read, what I did with my eyebrows, how I moved my hands when I talked, how I wore my dress, the color of my stockings, the condition of my shoes. We listened to songs over and over, her picking up the needle and moving it back.
Do you hear that? The way she moves
,
glides really
,
over the break in her voice
,
how seamless it is? Listen again
.

I worked the phrases over and over, learned every tune she had in bits and parts at first. Soon I was singing everything, and I was tired.

Hang in there
,
kitten. We're not just making you into a lady
.
That part is easy. We're making you into an icon
, Rita would whisper, and the hair on my arms would just lift right up. It would solve everything, fame. To be loved. Seen. To never be at the mercy of anyone else, ever again.

R
ita called herself the club's artistic director. She managed everything—performing, choreography, costumes, wigs. When she first asked me to come with her to rehearsal, I went begrudgingly. When I got there the girls surprised me with a small wardrobe they'd put together from extra parts and spares. They even filled a small tackle box with makeup and brushes and sponges and puffs. I moved the little tray in the tackle box back and forth and touched the three tubes of Revlon lipstick. It all blurred through my tears.

Oh, God
,
stop it
, said Skinny Edie,
your lashes won't curl if they're wet
.

They dressed me, fixed me up, and I rehearsed with them. They decided to let me in on three of the big dance numbers, and though I already knew them by heart, it was much harder to move than I imagined with the weight of the costumes and the constriction. The costumes left bruises on my hipbones. I performed with them that very night.

During one of the numbers, there was some skirmish in the bar and I forced myself not to look, though I could tell from the faces of the other girls there was cause for concern.

When we got offstage the girls gathered and watched the crowd. Two men were handcuffed and being taken out of the bar by a man who I thought was a patron. Back in the dressing room, everyone was quiet.

I whispered to Skinny Edie,
What did they do?

Edie looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
There are city ordinances against two men touching
,
dancing
. She peeled off her wig cap and rubbed her hand over her head.

What will happen to them?
I asked.

They'll be booked
,
charged
, said Edie.

Charged with what?

Inmates of disorderly houses
.

Is this a disorderly house?
I asked.

Have a look around
, someone behind her said.

What will happen to them?
I asked.

Their names will be published in the papers
, said Rita.
And their addresses
.

Where they live happily with the wife and kids
, said Edie.

Edie
, said Rita.

And everyone was silent as they transformed themselves into everyday men again.

CHAPTER 42

I
WENT TO THE
club earlier than everyone else because I didn't use wigs and it took me a long time to set my hair. Edie sat down next to me and handed me curler pins, watching me in the mirror as I rolled the last few curlers.

Let's go get a drink
, she said.

Like this?
I asked, touching my hair.

She snagged a scarf from the station next to her and wrapped it around my hair.
There
, she said.
And besides
,
there's nobody out there at this time. No one that matters anyhow
.

We sat down at the bar. Edie ordered us two gin and tonics.
Heavy on the tonic for this one here
, she said, pointing at me.

The bartender made us our drinks, and Edie raised hers.
To the end of your career
, she said.

I was about to drink but stopped.
Come again?

Edie smiled.
You're no chorus girl
, she said, drinking.

I considered this. Of course she was right.

You think these queens are going to let you show them up ad infinitum?
she said.

I don't show you up
, I said.

Edie eyed the other customers like she was looking for something, then leaned in to me and whispered,
Hate to change the subject but you see the bloke at the end of the bar?

I turned around in my seat to get a look at him.

Edie pulled me back by the arm.
God
,
child
,
you are about as subtle as a car wreck
.

I looked down at my drink.

Here's what you'll do
, she said.
Touch the back of your neck and make like you're doing a little stretch. Glance at him. Okay
,
try it now
.

I did what she said. A man perched on a stool in a brown coat. A full glass of beer in front of him.

What about him?
I asked.

He's a cop
, said Edie.

How do you know that?
I asked.

I know
, she said.

I looked at him again, trying to see what gave him away.

So I have this crazy idea
, she said, her eyes shining.
You have a good
,
what
,
twenty minutes between your first number and the second
,
right?

Yes. About
.

What if you were to come out into the house in between
,
say to fetch some more water for the gang
,
and you sidle up to our cop friend
, she said, looking at me expectantly, as if to wonder whether or not I understood.