by Vanda
“No, but I heard Juliana sing another one—Bambino something—at her New Year’s Eve party.”
“‘O, Mio Babbino Caro .’ I’m glad to hear she’s using her gift in some capacity. Did she ever take you to the opera?”
“No. She sang another one at the party with this woman. Her name was Margaritte. Do you know her?”
“Dear Margaritte,” Shirl said with a cluck. “Was she there?”
“Who is she?”
“I think she’s the wife of an ambassador to some small country no one’s ever heard of, or maybe that was one of her other husbands. I can’t keep track.”
“Do you think Juliana has, you know, been …?”
“Has she been sexual with her? Undoubtedly. But the question you really want to ask is—do I think Juliana is still being sexual with her on some regular basis. That I don’t know. All I know is that she and Margaritte grew up together, but I think Margaritte is a year or two older. They sang together as children in Milan, and then they went to the Paris Conservatory together, but Juliana dropped out. Oh, but don’t tell Juliana I told you that. That’s a sore spot with her. But that Margaritte? She makes my skin crawl. I keep wishing Juliana would drop her, but darling Margaritte keeps popping up.”
“She scratched Juliana’s arm at the New Year’s Eve party. There was a little blood.”
“Oh, dear.”
The woman who I suspected was Mercy, the “wife,” stood with a tray that held two ceramic coffee cups sitting on saucers, feathered leaves painted across their surfaces. A matching ceramic creamer and a bottle of honey stood next to them.
“I produced this record a few years ago,” Shirl said. “I hoped it would convince Juliana to take her career in this direction. I would have introduced her to some people.” Shirl lit a cigar. “Juliana would have made a breathtaking Madama Butterfly. It might have worked if Max hadn’t insisted on putting that ballad on the other side.”
“My Romance.”
“You’ve heard it. Well, how do you sell a phonograph record with a romantic ballad on one side and an aria on the other? Juliana puts too much store in what men tell her. First Max and now that husband of hers. Well, woman,” Shirl said to Mercy. “Are you going to stand there playing statue? You have some hungry men to feed.”
“You mind your mouth, and stop showing off,” Mercy said, putting the tray down on the coffee table. “And take that smelly cigar out of your mouth.” Mercy snatched the cigar away from Shirl and stamped it out in the ashtray. “Not in the house.”
“See, how henpecked I am?” Shirl put a thick arm around Mercy’s thin waist. “But I love her.”
“Not in front of company,” Mercy snapped, pulling away from Shirl.
“You brought some of your bread,” Shirl said, looking over the tray. “Al, you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten my wife’s homemade white bread. She’ll have Wonder Bread running for the hills.”
“Are you ever going to introduce me?” Mercy said. She wore a yellow dress with blue flowers, old-fashioned by the length of the hemline. She was a feminine woman, but not feminine in the way Juliana was feminine. She was feminine like the women who lived on my block were feminine, women who wore aprons, and cleaned the house, and kissed their husbands good-bye in the morning and made their children tomato soup and tuna fish sandwiches when they came in from play. She was a housewife.
“Al Huffman, this is my dearest and most beloved wife, Mercy.”
“Hi,” I said, trying not to look as confused as I felt.
“Mercy is a great little war worker. She volunteers for everything. Sells war bonds, wraps bandages, visits wounded soldiers. ”
“Oh, stop, Shirl. I’m only doing what we’re all doing. Trying to win this war. You told me Al volunteers at the Stage Door Canteen, and you donated money to Mr. Berlin’s musical. I’m not doing anything special, just my part. It’s very nice to finally meet you, Al,” Mercy said, smiling pleasantly. “Now, the coffee’s there. I trust, Shirl, you can do the serving without my help. I have a pile of your socks to darn. If you need anything, yell. And, you boys, behave.” She skipped from the room.
I looked down at my blue gingham dress and wondered why she called me a boy. Was it the torn coat? I slid it off and hid it behind my back. I sat straighter so that my too-small breasts would stick out more. Even though Juliana was out of my life, I’d been having that dream. The beard dream.
“Here, have a cup of coffee and a slice of this delicious bread,” Shirl offered. I got up to serve myself ’cause it didn’t look like Shirl would be able to do it. Both cups were half filled.
“So how can I help you?” Shirl asked as she bit into a piece of the bread.
“Uh, well ….” I didn’t know how Shirl could help me or even why I was there. I did want to know how Mercy could be her wife, but that didn’t really have anything to do with me. Should I tell her what happened with Aggie? Was that why I was there?
“I’ve always known about myself,” Shirl said without me asking anything. “I knew way back when I was three, maybe sooner, that I wasn’t like other people. It upset my family a great deal, but I never tried to be anything other than what I was born to be. So, I don’t see my family very much, or ever, but, you know, I feel sorry for them. As Zora Neale Hurston once said, ‘they’re missing out on knowing a truly fascinating person.’“ She grinned. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“I think, for you, things have not been so easy. And that’s why you’re here.”
“Oh, I’m not that way. What you are. Not that there’s anything wrong with you. I mean there isn’t, but for me it’s just something with Juliana, not with anyone else.”
Lately, I’d been thinking about the Jewish girl who was my reason for reading the whole Bible twice starting with Genesis. Something had happened between us that had nothing to do with the Bible.
“You won’t be the first to be attracted to Juliana, and I suspect, not the last. I guess I told you I met her in the early thirties during the last days of prohibition. Somehow, drinking illegal hooch tastes better and makes you drunker.” She looked up at the ceiling, reminiscing. “Juliana was just a kid—sixteen—when she ran away from home.”
“Ran away from home?”
“More or less. But Juliana was never really a child. She took up with an older man who brought her to the States. She was living in Paris with her mother at the time. Her mother and father came running after her at various intervals, and occasionally, she’d go back with them, but she always ended up returning to Harlem. She lived with me for a while—sort of. Which means I’d keep my door open for her, but she was often out till dawn, drinking, singing, or making love to some girl. Finally, her mother and father gave up trying to entice her back to Europe and her education. They sent her more money than a child her age should ever have had in my opinion. Her father bought her the house she lives in now. I thought he showed unexpected wisdom, though, when he didn’t buy her the house she wanted. One on Washington Square North. Having her live in a slightly less ritzy neighborhood, I think has been good for her. She complained at first, but where she lives now isn’t exactly a slum. It’s certainly much nicer than here. I live here because some of the freshest vegetables in the city ride in from the farms every day on a horse cart, and I’m friends with the horse. I live here because the Italian women in their widow’s weeds remind me not to think so much of myself. If Juliana’s parents had let her struggle more and not made it so easy for her to be a brat, she’d be a star today. She gets in her own way. Distracted by affairs.”
“She has lots of affairs? I thought I really mattered to her, but then when she decided to go off to the front lines for no reason ….”
“I think she may have family fighting in the Free French Army. She isn’t terribly forthcoming about her family, but I seem to remember something about a brother. Perhaps he’s joined DeGaulle’s forces in London.”
“A brother. She never said.”
“One time, when she�
��d been drinking, she alluded to a brother, but only once. I don’t know anything about him. Still, there is some sort of family over there.”
“Yes, of course.” I jumped up. “I didn’t think about that. Her mother is there. She told me. Oh, geez, I said awful things to her before she left. What’s the matter with me? I didn’t think. That’s what my mother says. I don’t think.” I hit myself in the head. “I don’t think. Stupid.”
“You needn’t berate yourself too much. Juliana’s mother’s been dead for quite some time.”
“Dead? She talks about her like she’s living.”
“Wishful thinking, perhaps. Her mother was murdered in ’36.”
“Oh, my gosh.” A chill ran up my back.
“It was tragic. I don’t know the details. Her father arrived one day to tell her. Lord Ruthersby.”
“Who?
“Lord Ruthersby—her father. He seemed nice enough. A little stiff. Juliana could have used some support during that time. Maybe a hug. He bought her the townhouse instead. I do believe there are other relatives she can’t get to in occupied France. And on her father’s side there are some in London. Their lives can’t be easy. She probably wants to help.”
“I called her selfish. It’s me who’s selfish. All I thought about was how her leaving affected me . I never once thought about how this war affected her with family over there in the thick of it. What’s the matter with me? Insensitive. That’s what I am. Dang! I even accused her of going there to advance her career. Oh gosh.”
“Well, that’s possible, too.”
“Then I don’t know what to think about her.”
Shirl laughed. “That sounds about right. Do you want me to tell her you were asking for her?”
“She’s home?”
“Things were getting a little too dangerous over there, so the Army Air Corps evacuated the performers a couple weeks ago.”
“A couple weeks ago? And she didn’t call me?”
“Should I tell her you want to see her?”
“No.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Aggie pulled down the Bloomingdale’s blackout curtains from all the windows and stuffed them into a laundry bag. Without the curtains to cover things up, you could see the city muck streaked across the windows. She took most of the silverware out of the drawers and threw them into boxes. Most of the plates went too. She pulled down the paintings of wheat fields blowing in the breeze with the penguins in the background and the clown painting she’d done in fourth grade. Dark rectangles replaced them on the wall.
When she’d finished the kitchen and the living room, she scooped her clothes out of her closet in the bedroom. She whisked her bed coverings off the bed and dumped the whole mess into her trunk.
“You don’t have to work so fast,” I said in a hoarse whisper, standing next to the now curtainless window. Even Dickie’s blue star was gone.
“You said to get out of here, so I’m going.” She threw the last of her pillowcases into the trunk and her jewelry box on top of them; she slammed the cover shut.
Two of Dickie’s sailor friends strode through the open apartment door without knocking. They wore navy bellbottom pants and T-shirts that showed their muscles and tattoos. They stood near the beds staring at me.
“You can take this,” Aggie said, pointing at the trunk.
“So that’s the bull dagger, huh, the les -bian?” one of the guys said with a smirk; he elbowed his friend.
“Funny, she don’t look queer,” the other guy said. “Guess it’s true what they say. They can be anywhere. No kid’s safe from them perverts.” He took a step toward me. “You’re sick, you know?”
I couldn’t speak back to him, but I would not cry .
He kept moving toward me, his fist raised. “You come near my kid sister and I’ll—”
Aggie tugged on his arm. “Take the trunk, Ron.” She kept her face turned away from mine, careful not to meet my eyes.
The guys hoisted the trunk onto their shoulders and marched out of the apartment.
Aggie picked up her suitcase and followed them out of the bedroom without a word to me. I looked over at her barren bed. Poopsie lay crumpled up on the throw rug. I hurried to pick him up. “Ag, you forgot this.”
As she turned to face me, I saw how womanly she looked dressed up in her tweed suit. I held the bear’s mouth to my ear. “He’s saying you should forgive Al. Ya wanna hear?” I held out the bear to her.
I felt like we could be the two little kids in the schoolyard that we used to be, making up after we’d forgotten what the fight was about. Only this time neither of us would forget. Not ever.
Aggie stood there, and for one, dizzyingly hopeful moment, I thought she might throw her arms around me and be my friend again. I held my breath, praying. “Please, God.”
She pulled Poopsie from my loose grasp. “Why did you do this?” she whispered. “I didn’t have to know this.” And walked out the door.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The sun had barely come up around the edges of my new, plainer blackout curtains when the phone rang. I hid my head under the pillow waiting for it to stop. I’d lost Juliana, Danny, Dickie, Aggie, and maybe Max. This city and this war had stolen everyone away from me. Why should I bother answering the phone? But it wouldn’t stop, so I fell out of bed, headed for the living room, and picked it up.
“I can’t talk long,” Max said into the other end. “I’m in a phone booth, and I don’t have any more change.”
“Max! You’re home?”
“You’ve got to go over to my place and get me a good suit.”
“Where are you? You’re sposed to be in Europe. How can you be on this phone?”
“The black, not the blue. It’s got to be my best. You got that?”
“Yeah. Where are you? Virginia’s been crazed with worry.”
“You have to get it today, but you can’t tell Virginia.”
“How am I sposed to get in? She lives there.”
“Virginia keeps regular habits. Every morning at ten she goes to the library and gets out a few books. That usually takes her an hour. That’s when you have to go. There’s an extra key on top of the window frame.”
“What is this about?”
“Bring me underwear. In my top drawer. Underpants and an undershirt. The ones that are still in the package. And socks. Black. Oh, and my good black shoes.”
“Which ones? You have hundreds.”
“I don’t have time to ask you what you were doing in my closet. Any black shoe with shoelaces . I don’t want slip-ons. There’s a suitcase on the top shelf of the closet. Put the things in that and bring them to me as soon as you can. You have to do it today. And don’t tell anyone. I’m at the McCormick on Seventy-Second and Broadway. Room 2D.”
“Seventy-Second and Broadway? That’s a terrible neighborhood. You could be killed. How did you get there ? I thought you were in Europe fighting the war.”
“Please deposit five cents for the next five minutes,” the operator said.
“Al, you’ve got to do this. There’s no one else I can ask. Bring me my gold watch. It’s in—”
The phone went dead.
I hauled Max’s suitcase with the clothes he wanted up a set of broken cement steps leading to the lobby of the McCormick Hotel. I’d never been this far uptown before. I looked behind me, hoping no hoodlums were about to grab me. A drunk landed on the floor not far from my feet. A couple of white ladies in torn dresses sat in dusty chairs, smoking. A colored lady slept on the couch. The man behind the desk waved me through to the stairs and I walked to the second floor to 2D. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed against it.
“Don’t come in,” Max said. I caught a glimpse of him bouncing off the end of an unmade bed. He wore khaki colored undershorts.
“Slide the suitcase in and wait in the hall.”
I leaned against a wall of some unknown color with dirty words scrawled across it.
“Virginia didn’t catch you
, did she?”
“No. She went out like you said. Your dresser drawers smell like flowers. Almost as nice as Juliana’s.”
“Nicer. I taught her.”
“Why are you home? Virginia’s gonna want to know.”
“I’ll tell her when I’m ready. I’ve got to get out of this place first.”
“It stinks in here.”
“Don’t walk too far away from the door. Someone sh—went to the bathroom out there.”
I flattened my body into the wall, watching a rat scurry by my feet. “Could you hurry up in there?”
“I’m almost done. Didn’t you bring a tie?”
“You didn’t say you wanted a tie.”
“I always wear a tie.”
“I’ve seen you without a tie.”
“Not when I go out. I always wear a tie when I go out. We’re going to have to stop somewhere and buy one. Do you have any money?”
“Not a lot. What’s going on, Max? Did you go AWOL? ”
He pushed the door open. “Of course not. I love this country.” He stood straight in his black suit. “Come in.”
I stepped into the room. There was a small wooden desk in the corner. Gray drapes were drawn over the windows, and the only sunlight that dribbled into the room was through frayed rips at the top of the drapes.
“What happened, Max?”
He faced the drapes hooking his gold watch to his wrist; thick spider webs adorned the corners of the ceiling. “I need a place to stay for a while. Virginia will need time to move out,” he said, without facing me. “I can’t just show up. You know, two single people, etc. Her society friends already have a field day gossiping about her because of me.”
“You can stay with me. I don’t have a roommate anymore.”
He turned toward me. “What happened to Aggie?”
“Long story. You can sleep on the couch. We could tell people you’re my uncle back from the war. What happened?”
He picked up a folded blue paper from the desk and ran his fingers over the crease. “You can’t tell anyone ever.”
