Welcome to the World, Baby Girl! (51 page)

“So you are saying I should just go ahead?”

“I can’t tell you what to do. That’s up to you. All I can do is tell you that if you do, there is no reason in the world to feel guilty. You are not a stranger or somebody trying to hurt her or expose her, you are her daughter. You have a
right
to know. And no matter why she left you, and whatever she did or didn’t do, that woman was your mother. And let’s be realistic: even if she is still alive, what do you really suppose the chances are of finding out she had been a spy?”

Dena did not answer.

“I can tell you. About one in a million. But in the meantime, don’t beat yourself up for getting cold feet; just take one step at a time. Do whatever you think you can handle. Are you smoking?”

Dena put her cigarette out. “No.”

A week later, Dena, to her own surprise, called New York. A woman answered, “Radio City Music Hall. Personnel Office.”

“I wonder if you can help me. I am trying to locate a woman named Christine … I think her last name was Whitten, or something like that. She was a Rockette and she worked there around 1950 or ’51. I know she lived in Greenwich Village at the time and I was wondering if you had a present address or any way that I might get in touch with her?”

“I’ll have to look in my files and get back to you.”

“May I hold on? I’m calling long distance.”

“It might take me a while.”

“That’s all right, I’ll hold.”

After some minutes, the woman came back on. “I found a Christine Whitenow but we don’t have a current address on her, just the one she gave us at the time, Twenty-four St. Luke’s Place.”

“I see. Would you have any idea how I might find her?”

“No, but there were a few of the gals that used to keep up with one another. One of them might know. They had some club.”

“Do you have a number?”

“Try calling Hazel Fenner, in East Lansing, Michigan. Her number is 517-555-9785. She might be able to help you.”

A cheery woman picked up and after Dena explained, Hazel Fenner repeated the name. “Christine Whitenow? Christine Whitenow? Was she a pretty blonde?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yes, I remember her. She came in the line right after I left. Lots of fun … Wait a minute, I used to know her married name; what was it? Well, I used to know it; we all just sort of lost touch with her. Oh, I can’t remember that girl’s name to save my life. I can’t tell you, dear, but it seems to me that Dolly might remember. I think they kept in touch for a while. Anyhow, ask Dolly. Call her—and tell her she owes me a letter.”

Next Dena called Mrs. Dolly Berger in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, at the number Hazel supplied. She said, “Oh, you know we used to send each other Christmas cards but we stopped. If you can hold on, I might can find it on one of my old lists. Hold on.”

After a moment Dolly picked up in another room. “Hello, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“You are going to have to bear with me while I go through this. I’ll tell you, sweetie, you know you are getting old when half of your Christmas card list is crossed off. It seems like people are dropping like flies.”

Dena had a sinking feeling. It had never occurred to her that Christine could be dead. Then Dolly announced, “Here it is! I found it! I thought I still might have it. Now, I’m not sure if she’s still living there but this is the last address I have on her; do you have a pen?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Mrs. Gregory Bruce, 4023 Massachusetts Avenue, Washington, D.C. The zip is 20019. And when you talk to her, tell her that Dolly is still alive. And, as we all say, kicking.”

“I will, Mrs. Berger. And thank you so much. Oh, and by the way: Hazel says you owe her a letter.”

It was a small step but at least it was a step.

A week later Dena was in a car, watching the rain hitting the windshield, listening to Gerry talk but not really hearing him. He was telling her to knock on the door and if the woman was at home, he would either wait for her in the car or go in with her, whatever she wanted. They were parked across the street, where according to Richard Look, who had checked it out, a Mrs. Gregory Bruce was still living. Massachusetts Avenue was a wide residential street in what looked to have been a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood at one time but was now beginning to decline. A few houses here and there were showing that forlorn, uncared-for look and had wrought-iron bars on the windows and doors. Number 4023 was set back a bit from the street with a long, deep yard that led up to a red-brick two-story house. Washington was cold and dark and everything looked depressed, including the trees, some nothing but bare black sticks against the gray sky. They had driven up and down the block once or twice before they parked but had not seen a living soul. Richard Look had advised Dena to show up unannounced. He had said that on the off chance Mrs. Bruce might know about her mother’s employer having been convicted of spying, she might not be so eager to discuss old times with Dena. She had agreed with Look at the time but now that the moment was actually here, Dena was anxious.

Gerry looked up at the sky through the windshield. “I don’t think it’s going to let up any time soon. Maybe you should go on and get it over with. What do you think?”

“Yes, guess you’re right.” She turned to him. “What’s the signal again? I forgot.”

“If it is her, and you feel like you need me to come in with you, turn around and wave and I’ll come. Otherwise, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

She opened the door, repeating, “Wave if I want you, don’t wave if I don’t. Wish me luck.”

As she started up the four cement steps, she thought, a coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero dies but one. This is just another interview, that’s all.

She reached the front door, took a deep breath, and pushed the bell. She stood there in the rain and waited. Nothing. She rang again and waited. Nothing. She could see the lamp on the table inside the hall was not lit. Maybe she was not home. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, she gave the bell one more short push and waited, then turned to leave, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming toward the door. A figure she could not make out switched on the lamp and opened the door halfway, leaving the barred outer door closed. In the dim light Dena could see it was a dignified-looking woman who wore her silver-gray hair pulled straight back from her face, and was wearing a coat.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for Mrs. Gregory Bruce.”

The woman said, somewhat leery, “Yes, I’m Mrs. Bruce. What can I do for you?”

Dena was caught off guard for a moment. “Ah … I believe you used to know my mother, Marion Chapman?”

The woman frowned slightly. “Who?”

“Marion Chapman; you knew her around 1950 or 1951?”

The woman did not respond. Dena continued, “She had a daughter and they came to see you at Radio City Music Hall.”

The woman did not give any indication of remembering.

“And one time we spent the night at your apartment in the Village on St. Luke’s Place? You had a cat named Milton?”

Dena heard the sound of a loud iron lock clicking. The woman opened the door and stood staring at her in amazement.

“Dena? Are you Dena?”

“Yes.”

Her entire demeanor changed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Well, come in, come in.”

Dena stepped inside. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do. I just can’t believe it. I thought you were somebody trying to sell something. How did you get here?”

“A friend brought me.” Mrs. Bruce glanced out at the car across the street.

“Don’t you want to have him come in?”

“No, he’s just going to wait for me.”

“Here, let me have your coat. Go on into the living room and have a seat. I’ll be right in. Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

“No, not a thing, thanks.”

“Look at me, I’m still in my coat. I just got in from a church meeting and when I came in the back door I thought I heard the bell. Let me run back in the kitchen and lock up. I left my keys in the door. Be right back.”

“Take your time.” Dena went into the living room and sat down. It was a dimly lit, rather formal room, furnished with furniture that looked as if it had been there for a long time. Christine came in, smoothing her hair. “I wish I had known you were coming. I don’t have a thing to offer you as far as food goes. Here, let me put some lights on in here. What a surprise. I thought you looked familiar but couldn’t place where I’d seen you before.”

As Christine went around switching on the lamps, Dena was able to get a good look at her. She was not at all what Dena had pictured. She was conservatively dressed in a gray dress and pearls. Somehow Dena had expected her to still be blond and somewhat jazzier. This woman was reserved in speech and manner. Her features could have been Greek or Italian and she had aged well and was still quite attractive. Christine sat down across from her and
asked the inevitable question: “Now, tell me, where is Marion? I was beginning to think you two had just dropped off the face of the earth. And how is she doing?”

A good interviewer, Dena wanted to let her talk a little longer before she answered, and answered her question with another question.

“How long has it been since you two have seen each other?”

“Oh, too long. We just lost touch with—” She did not finish her sentence. This was the first moment it dawned on her. “Wait a minute … I know you. You’re Dena Nordstrom!”

Dena smiled. “Yes.”

Christine sat back on the sofa. She put her hand over her heart. “That’s you? You grew up to be Dena Nordstrom? You mean to tell me that it’s you I’ve been looking at all these years. Oh, I can’t believe it.” She laughed. “No wonder you looked familiar. Here I’ve been looking at you and didn’t even know it was you.” Christine kept shaking her head. “And you remembered me after all these years. Well, I’m flattered.”

“Of course I did. How could I forget meeting you, a real Rockette? That was a big event for me. You may not remember but I do.”

“Oh, I do and I remember when your mother brought you backstage. You were this high.” She held out her arm. “Your mother had you dressed up so, little bows in your hair, but all you wanted to do was look at the light board. The lighting man got the biggest kick out of you asking him all those questions.”

“Do you remember that time when we came and spent the night with you?”

Christine’s expression changed at the mention of that night and she gave Dena a sympathetic nod as if they shared the same memory. But she did not offer anything more. “How in the world did you find me after all these years?”

The phone in the kitchen started to ring. Christine made no attempt to get up.

“Believe it or not,” Dena said, “I called Radio City Music Hall and they told me to call a woman named Hazel, who told me to call a woman named Dolly Berger, who had your married name and address.”

She smiled. “Dolly Berger, how is that crazy thing?”

“She sounded fine, and she said to tell you to write her.”

The phone continued to ring. Christine said, “Wouldn’t you know it, right when I have company. Excuse me. Let me get rid of whoever that is.”

Dena glanced around the room. Christine had photos of foreign-looking people sitting on the mantel, but other than that the room was cold, almost austere.

Christine came back. “That was my neighbor; her furnace is out so I told her she could come over here and watch TV in the basement. She has a key so she won’t bother us.” She sat down. “You still haven’t told me about your mother. Is she all right?”

This was going to be the tricky part. Dena needed to see what Christine knew.

“Actually, the reason I’m here is about my mother. I was wondering if you could tell me when was the last time you saw or heard from her.”

Christine thought. “Oh, I think it must have been, well, I know it was before I got married. I got married in 1953. I remember I wrote her at the last address she gave me—I think you and she had moved to Boston or Philadelphia by then—and I never heard back from her. Why? Is she all right? Did something happen to her?” Christine looked anxious. “She is not … dead, is she?”

Dena could see by the genuine concern in her face that she was not hiding anything, or if she was, Christine was the best actress Dena had ever seen.

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t know where she is or if she is still alive.”

At that moment a short, black woman in a windbreaker came in the front door and waved and said, “It’s just me.” As she headed for the stairs leading to the basement room, Christine’s eyes never left Dena, waiting for her to explain. After Dena told her the whole story about that Christmas in Chicago, Christine looked stricken. “Oh, no. And she didn’t leave a note or anything?”

“No, nothing. Just my gifts—and she just vanished into thin air.”

Christine’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no, that poor girl.” She sat sadly shaking her head. “That poor girl.” Dena handed Christine a
Kleenex. Christine wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just so terrible, it just breaks my heart to hear it. But I’m not surprised. I always worried something like that would happen.”