Rare Objects (24 page)

The break was over. The band went back to play another set.

Diana and I sat alone on a broken-down sofa. Diana slumped forward and took my hand.

“Are you upset, darling? Have I been dreadful?”

I didn't care now about meeting society people. I felt much better. Capital, in fact. “Why would I be upset?” The words slid into one another, all vowels.

She shrugged. “I haven't disappointed you? Only, I can't breathe out there with all those snobs!”

I finally asked her the question that had been bothering me all night. “Don't you want me to meet your friends?”

“They're not my friends. They're my audience. Besides, I like it better back here. No one knows me.” She smiled softly. “I like to lose myself, May.” She paused, closed her eyes. “I like to drift away and never come back.”

“Like a bubble. In reverse.”

This struck us as funny. We laughed until our sides hurt, gasping for breath; Diana let out little snorting sounds that only made us laugh harder, and I nearly fell off the sofa onto the floor.

When we finally stopped, she grew thoughtful. “I hate my life,” she confided. “I hate every inch of it. You have no idea what's it's like.”

“Forget about it.”

“I like to be where the action is.”

“This is where the action is,” I said, poking the sagging sofa. “There's plenty of action here.”

“That's why I like you.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I can be free.”

We sat awhile, listening to the music.

Each note reverberated along my spine. I closed my eyes and felt it pulse through my body. Cairo Joe's cornet soared and dove, clear and sweet, while Savoy's fingers raced up and down the piano keys, like children chasing each other, playing tag.

Diana pulled me up. “Dance with me!”

“Are you mad?”

“We both are.” She laughed. “Remember?”

We made our way out onto the dance floor. Wrapping an arm round my waist, Diana pressed her hips against mine and began to sway. There were shouts and whistles, clapping. Arms entwined, we shimmied and shook, throwing our heads back, arching our backs. On the drums, Teacher slowed the beat a fraction, in time to our rhythm; sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, he tilted his chin down, watching closely.

Diana, with her long, pale limbs and wild dark hair, held me close, her perfume mixing with the thick smoky heat and sweat. I closed my eyes; I could feel her hands in the small of my back, then over my hips. A sultry malaise weighed down on me, a dangerous aching. I was free. Free to do anything I liked. To hell with everyone and everything! I opened my eyes. Diana was smiling, tilting her chin closer, her breath warm against my face. She was looking at me so intently, so open and serious.

Then suddenly we were being pulled apart amid a chorus of boos. The Bores were dragging us back to the table.

“Time to go,” one of them grunted.

“So soon?” Diana tossed herself into a chair. “Where's Jimmy?”

“He had to leave. That girl, the other one, she didn't feel so good.”

“But I'm thirsty!” she sulked.

“So am I!” I pointed at the cards. “How about letting us play?”

“You'll lose,” the blond one warned, sucking hard on the tail end of a cigar. He had the pink, puffy face of a schoolboy attached to the body of a wrestler. “And if you lose, you drink.”

“That's all right, then.” I gave Diana a wink. “We know how to do that!”

“We're playing for money,” another cut in. He seemed to have been born without a chin; his face simply melted into his fat neck.

“If I didn't know any better”—Diana's eyes narrowed—“I would think you were being rude.”

“I . . . I'm only saying,” he mumbled, looking to his friends.

“We're thirsty,” I reminded them. “
Really
thirsty!”

“And bored,” Diana added. “I don't want to tell Jimmy you gave us a bad night out. He wouldn't like that, you know. And I'm not going home until I've had some fun!”

They muttered between themselves for a minute and then ordered another bottle of whiskey.

“Come on, then!” Opening my handbag, I brandished the five-dollar bill. “Let's see what you boys are made of!”

The game turned out to be more difficult than I thought. Diana lent me ten dollars, and then at some point the rules were changed so that we girls didn't need to bet money, but would have to sit on the winner's knee. After that, the details of the night became hazy, a blur of red faces, large laps, and sweaty hands. There was a car ride, loud singing, some of it in another language, and someone got slapped across the face.

The next thing I remembered was the sound of a motor running and something heavy and hot pressing against my stomach. With considerable effort, I opened my eyes. I was lying on the
floor on my back, staring at a dimly lit ceiling. The motor was still going, like a large hand holding me down. Then suddenly it shifted. Two amber eyes blinked slowly. It was Persia, curled into a ball on top of me. I turned my head, wincing as a dull, thudding pain filled my temple. There was the map of the ancient world, on the wall over the desk. I must've made them drop me off at the shop and fallen asleep on the floor of Mr. Winshaw's office.

Pushing Persia off, I struggled to my feet. My skirt was on the wrong way round, my blouse was missing a button, and my stockings were split at the toe. Overcome with queasiness, I made it to the bathroom just in time. Bent over the toilet bowl, I stayed there awhile, Persia purring, weaving affectionately around my feet.

Afterward, hands shaking, I splashed my face with cold water. I looked like hell. My lipstick was smeared, my hair smashed flat on one side, the indent of the cushion button from Mr. Winshaw's chair pressed into my cheek.

Ma's words came back to haunt me.
If you act like a lady, then you'll be treated as one.

Ladies didn't wake up on the floor, covered in cat.

The symphony of clocks at the front of the shop struck eight. Mr. Kessler would be here in half an hour.

I sank to the floor, head on my knees. If only I could lie back down and be still. Or die. Instead, with trembling hands I opened up my evening bag. It was empty except for a tube of lipstick, a folded hankie, and my powder compact. No trolley fare, let alone enough money for something to eat.

But right now I had to clean myself up, fast, or lose my job.

Stumbling into Mr. Winshaw's office, I searched through his desk drawers and found a tin of aspirin and thirteen cents in loose change.

Then I went into Mr. Kessler's office. The top right-hand drawer of his desk was locked. But below it, there was a large tin of Luden's Ole South Hard Candy Dainties and an envelope with a five-dollar bill inside. Rolling around in the bottom was the slim metal inhaler labeled “Benzedrine”—his asthma medicine. It cleared everything, he'd said. Cracking the lid, I breathed in deeply. The drug was sharp, both oily and acidic, scented with lavender. Then I took as many hard candies as I could hold.

Swallowing some aspirin, I headed back to the bathroom and washed my face, more carefully this time. A wave of nausea had me gripping the sink again, but I somehow managed to keep the aspirin down. Then I sucked on a couple of Mr. Kessler's hard candies. Gradually the wave of sickness eased. Smoothing my hair down, I patted my nose with powder, and by balancing my elbow on the sink and holding my right hand steady with my left, I finally managed to put on some lipstick. I didn't look good, but at least I looked better.

I still needed to hide the missing button. A shawl was draped over one of the tables on the shop floor, an Indian stole of very fine cream wool embroidered with gold silk thread. Shaking the dust out of it, I wrapped it around my shoulders. It hid an entire night's history.

But I was running out of time. Shoving another hard candy in my mouth, I headed to the back room to put the coffee on. My hands were still unsteady, but at least my head was starting to clear. It was as if somewhere in the back of my brain, a vista had emerged. It was only a thin line right now, but I could feel it expanding, widening.

It must be Mr. Kessler's medicine. I ducked back into his office, stole one more shot.

It was eight twenty-seven when I heard Mr. Kessler's key turning in the latch.

I stationed myself behind the glass counter, where I could rest my hands to steady myself.

Normally he was the first one to arrive.

“Good morning, Miss Fanning.” He looked me up and down, not entirely without suspicion. “What are you doing here so early?”

“A mistake. I caught an earlier trolley. Would you like some coffee?”

(Best to keep moving. Not look him too long in the eye.)

“That would be fine.” He hung up his coat.

I went to the back room and slumped against a wooden packing crate. Even that short exchange had taken it out of me. I needed to be still for as long as possible, but if I closed my eyes, the room would start spinning and I'd throw up again. So I just stared instead at the dirty broken tiles of the floor for as long as I dared before going back through.

Mr. Kessler was opening the cash register. He stopped, peered at me over the tops of his glasses. “I never thought to sell that as a stole.” He pointed to the shawl.

I knew this wasn't a compliment. “Well”—I smiled, doing my best to seem charming—“that's why you have me, isn't it?”

He nodded, a little bemused. “You look pale. Are you sure you're quite all right?”

“We need sugar, Mr. Kessler. Shall I go out and get some? You can't have your coffee without sugar, now, can you?”

“No, I suppose I can't,” he agreed.

“What good's an Amazon if you can't send her out hunting once in a while?” I got my coat.

Mr. Kessler gave me some petty cash. I went to a little grocery
around the corner, bought a small bag of sugar, then went across the street to the drugstore. There I bought a doughnut, which I forced down standing at the counter.

By the time I got back and poured the coffee, my hands were reasonably steady and my stomach calmer.

“Something came for you.” Mr. Kessler nodded to a letter.

“For me?”

“By hand,” he added, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

I opened it. It read:

Dear Miss Fanning,

I believe I owe you an apology for abandoning you last night; however, Smitty turned green and had to be taken home. I trust by now you've discovered that young men are not to be trusted in drinking games with pretty girls. Another time, I hope to make it up to you.

James

Inside was a fifty-dollar bill.

“Where have you been?” Ma was waiting for me when I came in that evening.

Somehow I'd limped through the day, and I was exhausted. All I wanted was to sleep. “We were out too late,” I told her, pulling off my coat. “So I stayed at the shop.”

“At the
shop
?” She gaped in horror. “Are you mad?”

“Maybe.”

I headed into the kitchen. It was cold. I opened up the icebox. There were a few eggs, a cheap cut of ham. All the bread was gone.

“It was late, and I didn't want to miss work. I didn't have time to come home. You don't want me to lose my job, do you?”

“You should have rung!”

“Right!” I jerked my head toward the outside landing, where the only phone in the building was located. “You mean the party line at three in the morning? Is that what you want? The neighbors knowing all our business?”

“You could have rung,” she said again, firmly.

My head was pounding now. I didn't have the energy to argue. “You wanted me to go out with them! To see it as an opportunity! Well, I went!”

“Don't take that tone with me!”

“I'm too old for this, Ma! I went out, I went to work, and I'm home now. What else do you want to know?”

“I want to know that you're alive!”

“I'm not an idiot! Of course I'm alive!”

“Well, how would I know that? Do you know how close I was to calling the police?”

I glared at her, turned away.

“What happened?” she pressed. “Where did you go? Who was with you?”

Even greater than her anger was her curiosity. She sat down at the kitchen table.

“I danced with James Van der Laar,” I told her.

“Which one is he?”

“Diana's brother. He's the one who invited me.”

“Who was there? Just the three of you?”

“No, there was a whole crowd. We went to a private club, very exclusive. The Friday Club.”

She shook her head. “I've never heard of it.”

“That's the point.”

A furrow deepened in her brow. I could see her mind working, calculating. “James Van der Laar. How many times did he dance with you? More than once?”

“He was very attentive.”

“And who paid?”

“He did.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Very good. And did you drink?”

She knew damn well I'd been drinking; I probably still smelled of it.

“They all drink. What was I meant to do?” I asked her. “Make a spectacle out of myself?”

But her voice was steely, full of condemnation. “Nice girls don't, Mae.”

“I only had one. One little drink! And I was fine.” My hands were beginning to tremble again, and my knees felt weak. Whatever was in Mr. Kessler's vial had stopped working, and I was coming down hard. I had to get to bed.

“You don't look fine. You look as bad as you did when you were hanging around with Mickey!”

I sat down too, cradled my head in my hands. “You know, Ma, I just can't please you, can I? You wanted me to go.
Told
me to go. Then I did my best to fit in, and now you're attacking me for doing the very thing
you
wanted me to do!”