The Bridegrooms (23 page)

Her mind played through the events taking place at the Dresden Street Theater. This is when Herr Johann would assemble the musicians.
This is when he would lift his baton to drop them into the first number. This is when he would stamp away from the podium in his first fit of rage. Any other evening she’d be there in the midst of it, and until this evening, she’d be happy to be there. But right now it was pure joy to have her body as still as Eli’s, her mouth as silent as Althea’s, and to know that she was welcome to remain so until she went to bed.

Earlier, before supper, they’d received word—from a frantic telephone call from Patsy Tebeau—that the Cleveland Spiders had been hopelessly trounced by the Brooklyn Bridegrooms. Almost as if a different team had turned up to play, he’d said, and it was largely due to the performance of Lucky Louis LaFortune.

Doc shared the information at the table, prompting Vada to complain that they’d never had to suffer sports talk at supper before, and she saw no reason to begin now.

To everyone’s surprise, Lisette had the strongest reaction, pouting all through the meal and leaving a honey-covered biscuit untouched on her plate.

Now Vada sat in the dimming front parlor. If she was to continue reading her magazine, she’d have to light the lamp. But seeing as the table was much more than an arm’s reach away, she contented herself to remain in the gathering darkness. She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes, ready, even this late, to take the little nap she’d been longing for all day.

No sooner had her eyes closed than she felt another presence in the room. She opened one eye to see her father’s rotund, whiskered silhouette in the doorway.

“I thought you were down in your office,” Vada said through a yawn.

“I can’t look at another book. Not another page. It’s all so frustrating.”

“Here, sit with me.” She patted the cushion next to her on the sofa and sat upright to better accommodate him.

“There’s simply no reason. No explanation for his condition. There’s no way of knowing what damage has been done to his brain, if any. No telling when or if he’ll wake up.”

“So, today, that wasn’t a good sign?”

Doc made a dismissive gesture. “No way of knowing, given that his condition is completely unchanged. No way of knowing if…”

“If?” she prodded.

“Lord forgive me for such suspicions, but I can’t help but think that our young Mr. Cupid may have imagined…”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Guilt. Wanting so badly for Eli to wake up. Breaking under the pressure from his teammates. With today’s loss, I’m sure he feels even worse. But perhaps a walk with Lissy will do him some good.”

“What?”

“He called for her. At the back door, which is unusual for courting. But we are living in unusual times.”

“And she went? Voluntarily?”

“Oh, if you could have seen the boy. Head hanging so low he’d get mud in his hair. I guess she felt sorry for him.”

“I suppose so,” she muttered. Eli could fall through the ceiling dancing a jig, and she wouldn’t be more surprised. Perhaps Mr. Voyant was right after all. The mere thought of that made her shudder.

“Shall we light the lamp, then? In the window? Surely Lissy won’t let the boy leave her at the kitchen door.”

Vada made her way cautiously across the room. When she got to the table in front of the window, she felt for the box of long matches, but before striking it, she pulled the curtain aside, risking one peek.

There they were. Any hint of past acrimony undetectable. They strolled, not arm in arm, but hand in hand, with Lissy looking sweeter
than Vada ever remembered. In fact, the girl seemed almost timid, her eyes downcast, their hands swinging in half the time to their steps. Right at that moment, Kenny must have said something witty, because Lisette’s mouth burst in laughter.

“For goodness’ sake, Lissy, cover your mouth,” Vada said from her side of the window.

Almost as if she heard, Lisette brought her free hand up to her face. Kenny captured it in his own and brought it to his lips.

Vada looked over her shoulder. “You’d better get out there to chaperone, Doc. I’m afraid our Mr. Cupid is taking liberties.”

“He’s a good boy. Better than those rapscallions who usually hang around here.”

“Whatever could have changed her mind?” Vada said more to herself than to her father. Still, he answered.

“There’s no telling the mind of a woman, I guess.”

“She’s not a woman, Doc. She’s a girl. And you’re her father. You might not be able to wake Eli, but you can certainly stick your head out the front door and tell Lissy to come inside before the neighbors have a field day.”

“Maybe you should do that. You’re better with her than I’ve ever been.”

Vada chose not to reply. She’d been Lisette’s mother since the girl was born and obviously, given the girl’s behavior, she’d done an abysmal job.

She struck the match and touched it to the wick, then replaced the globe, bathing the room in soft light. When she peeked out the window a second time, Lisette scowled and made a shooing gesture, but Vada simply leaned on her elbow on the windowsill, as if settling in for the evening.

Lisette responded by stamping her foot; Vada rested her hand on her chin. Pouting, Lisette gave Kenny a quick kiss on his cheek—an
amusing sight, given that the boy was a good two inches shorter than she. Perhaps this would be the end of her spool-heeled shoes. For tonight, though, there was no mistaking the frustration in the clatter of those spool heels immediately after the front door slammed.

“Vada Allenhouse!”
Stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp
. And Lisette was in the parlor. “You embarrassed me to death, spying out the window like that.”

“You certainly should have been embarrassed. But it has nothing to do with me.”

Lisette turned to a more sympathetic ear. “Papa, did you see her spying on me?”

“Now, darling, she didn’t mean any harm.”

“Doc!”

“Well, maybe she didn’t, but honestly, what’s a man like Kenneth supposed to think when he can’t even take me out for a walk without having the whole family staring out the window?”

“Kenneth, is it?” Vada smiled. “It seems earlier this morning you had far choicer names for the boy—er, excuse me.
Man
.”

“Don’t be bitter, Vada. It ages you.”

“Just tell me,” Vada said, controlling her voice, “when did you start roaming around, hand in hand, unchaperoned with boys you presumably hate?”

“People change, Vada. You might not realize that since you’ve been such an old fussbudget since you were—”

“Girls!” Doc instantly brought them back to childhood, usually a comforting place to be, though tonight his intrusion felt condescending. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and see what Miss Molly has for us in terms of pie?”

“None for me,” Vada said, her eyes boring into Lisette’s.

But to no surprise, her sister was more than willing; she and Doc left the parlor, whispering together. After they left, Vada studied the picture on the mantel, the one that once held a photograph of her mother and now kept the image of little Lisette. Not for the first time, Vada felt a pang of jealousy over the closeness between the two of them.

She hadn’t been much older than Lisette was in this photograph when their mother left. Vada had to take on the role of motherhood right at the moment, whereas Lisette was allowed to be a little girl to this very day. She, Hazel, Althea—all of them held jobs when they were Lisette’s age—at dressmaker’s, sweeping up shops, setting type. But heaven forbid the baby sister use even one moment of her time usefully.

Suddenly she was exhausted. Maybe she was the old fussbudget Lisette accused her of being. She certainly felt bent and old, like her very bones were dissolving within her. She’d lay money down that Lisette had never been this tired. Not a day in her spoiled little life. This wasn’t a fatigue that came from dancing and ice cream socials. This came from a day of having a head battered with one decision after another and a heart pulled back from certitude.

She left the light burning in the parlor, in case Doc decided to come back in, and fairly staggered out, grasping the banister preparing to climb the stairs when she heard a soft knock at the front door.

“What’s the matter,
Kenneth
?” She spoke to herself in low, breathless tones. “Not enough spooning for one night?”

Fully intending to send Cupid out into the night, she grasped the front door handle and yanked, immediately wishing she’d thought to check through the window first.

“
Bon soir
, mademoiselle.” LaFortune leaned against the door frame. “I didn’t think that little Spider-boy ever gonna leave.”

“I believe I asked you not to speak to me again.” Vada tried to close the door, but he blocked her effort, filling the gap with a soft wool sweater—green, from what she could tell in the darkness.

“I aim to come give you a
bon merci
. Now, I could charge in there or—”

“You’re not coming in here.”

“
Alors
, no choice.” He bent low, assuming the form of a bull ready to charge his way through—including having fingers posing as horns—and made a menacing snorting noise.

“Mr. LaFortune, please!”

“Cinq minutes.”
He held up an open hand. “Five minutes, or prepare to suffer the consequences.”

Now it was she who pushed her way through the door, squeezing out the narrow opening, as if that would keep the others in the house from hearing the skirmish. Once Vada was on the other side, she found her hand clasped in his, and she was being pulled down the steps and around into the dark alcove beneath them.

Soon after, her face was pressed against soft wool covering hard muscles; her feet were clear off the ground and she was twirling—whispered laughter floating through the top of her hair.

She wanted to yell, “Put me down!” Knew she should yell it, in fact. But it happened so fast, by the time her feet were firmly on the ground again, she could only wish for one more twirling moment.

“I was amazing today,” he said, holding her steady. “First at-bat, home run! Second time, triple! Third time, triple again. It was magic.
I
was magic! And all because of
ma belle ici
!”

Again her feet were suspended. Again the world spun beneath her. And this time, when he set her down, she clung to him, forgetting for a moment why she ever tried to send him away.

“Don’t be silly. I didn’t do anything.”

“Beg
contraire
. Have you forgotten
les boutons
?”

“I refuse to buy into your superstitions.”

He took her face in his hands, her chin resting against the heels of his palms, his thumbs grazing the apples of her cheeks. “Is that all you do,
cher
, refuse?”

She thought—well, as close as she could come to thinking with his face, his body so close to hers. There wasn’t room for logic; she had to choose between thinking and breathing. Instead, like a pellet wedged at the base of her neck was this pinpoint of resentment. A life full of people-giving and asking for less than she wanted. Never had there been a wanton moment—not even when she wanted one. And maybe there never would be again.

The distance between them was so small, and it was getting smaller all the time, until he was nothing more than a blur. Nothing more than sweet clove-scented warmth coming toward her. She realized the clove scent was his breath, and then, it was her breath too.

Once more, the ground gave away. But she wasn’t swirling. In fact, she was stock still, the brick wall of her home at her back, the brick wall of his body pinning her there. The hands that cradled her face now roamed at will, as did hers, delighting at the ripple of muscles, the softness of his sweater. Garrison’s body felt nothing like this. Garrison would never wear a sweater. Garrison wouldn’t even walk her home, not all the way, lest he—

Oh, Lord!
Vada pulled herself as far away as she could get, given the intimate quarters. “Garrison!”

LaFortune laughed, a dangerous sound that seemed to originate in his nose. “It is impolite to say the name of one man when you are kissing another. But I choose to forgive you.”

He swooped in again, but she dove under his arm, ending up behind him.

“I can’t believe I let you—what was I thinking?”

“You weren’t.” He put his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her close again. “Which is what makes it so enjoyable. Now, turn off that little brain of yours—”

And he was kissing her again, one hand holding her close at the small of her back, the other tracing fire along the side of her neck. His lips trailed behind, nuzzling her jaw. Garrison never nuzzled—

“Stop it!”

And to his credit, he did, dropping his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the wall, leaving her free to leave. But she remained, still trapped by whatever force compelled her to follow him outside in the first place.

“No need to
fait fâcher
with me.” His voice was low and drawling, just short of teasing, obviously trying to soothe her anger.

“I’m not angry with you. It’s me. I should know better. I never do anything like this.”

“But you such a beautiful young woman. You should be doing things like this every day.”

He looked about ready to come for her again, and she held up a warning finger. Instead of backing away, though, he took that one finger and crooked it through his own, creating an open link between them.

“I’m watching you earlier,” he said. “Through the window, looking quite the little mother spying on her chick. And I think what a shame for her to be the little flower behind the glass.”

“I may as well be her mother. I’ve practically raised her since I was eight years old.”

“Your
maman
, then? She dead?”

Vada nodded. “But she left before she died.”

“Comment?”

She owed him no explanation as to how these events unfolded, but soon she found herself speaking into that great cavernous shadow under the stairs, telling him everything. About being a little girl waking up to a motherless home. About her father’s unrelenting pain. About she and her sisters growing up—each alone beside the other. Althea’s silence. Hazel’s discontentment. Lisette’s dangerous, wild nature.