Dust girl

by Sarah Zettel

  There was another door ahead of us, partly open. Through it, we could see the red carpet and gold trim of the Bijoux’s lobby.

  “I guess we see the show,” said Jack. Side by side we walked toward the light.

  I’d actually been in the Bijoux before. Mama used to take me to the pictures when we could afford it. The last time was to see Tarzan the Ape Man with Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan. I played Jane-Being-Kidnapped for weeks afterward, until I tried swinging on the drapes in the Moonlight Room and Mama put a stop to it.

  The theater looked exactly like I remembered, with the red carpet and drapes, velvet ropes, and shiny gold paint on the curlicue trimmings that reflected the light from the chandeliers. I started to think maybe I’d been wrong about what I’d felt. There was nothing strange about this place. It was just a movie theater. The popcorn smelled warm and buttery, and the candy counter was laid out with a crazy quilt of Jujubes, Baby Ruths, Milk Duds, Zagnut bars, and licorice whips. None of which we had money for. That was okay; I was still full of barbeque. I did wonder if I could gin up some money, though. If the Hoppers could do it, why couldn’t I?

  We handed the tickets Shimmy had given us to an usherette with frizzy gold hair, short pants, and a jacket like an organ-grinder’s monkey’s. She popped her gum and led us to our seats in the half-empty theater, shooing us in place with the beam of her flashlight. We sat where she told us and stared at the closed scarlet curtains up front. The theater was air-cooled, and at first it felt like Heaven. Now, though, I was shivering. Jack gave me his coat, and I huddled into it. I was tired. The longer I sat there, the less I liked the quiet. I felt for sure something was sneaking up on us.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Jack. “If Morgan and his bunch come in, just duck down in the seats.”

  I nodded and bit my lip. Something squeaked, and I jumped. But it was just the curtains up front pulling away to reveal the rippling silver screen. Above and behind us, the projector whirred. A beam of flickering white light shot out over our heads, and the picture show started.

  The newsreel came first. President Roosevelt waved to crowds and talked about the New Deal. The courage of the American businessman was on the rise. Then it was over to New York City. The United Nations was complaining about Germany’s rearmament policy. Adolf Hitler didn’t seem to care; in fact, he was making military service mandatory. Lefty Gomez opened the season for the Yankees.

  After that, there was a Betty Boop cartoon. Despite everything, Jack and I both started laughing at the silly dancing and the crazy machines Betty’s grandpa invented to help out with their party. It felt good to just laugh, even for a minute.

  The screen went black, and to my surprise I almost felt okay. If Morgan had been on to us, he would’ve been here by now, wouldn’t he? And as for this being someplace else, some fairy place… I must have been wrong about that. Just my worried mind borrowing trouble. I mean, how in the world could fairies get their hands on a Betty Boop cartoon?

  Then the projector started whirring again, and the white light flickered. Fresh music blared out of the speakers, and a new title card appeared on the screen:

  THE PARADE OF GLAMOUR

  “This is Los Angeles!” declared the announcer as the camera panned across an expanse of straight streets and squared-off buildings. “A city of commerce… recreation… and of course… glamour!”

  There was the HOLLYWOODLAND sign. Next shot was of a beach with clean sand and rolling ocean waves. Women in bathing suits and floppy hats stretched out under striped umbrellas. Then there was another shot of a straight white street with a big Rolls-Royce car driving past a row of palm trees.

  “And MovieTime News has been granted an exclusive look at what the nation’s official glamour capital will be wearing this summer!”

  The scene blurred and cleared. Now we were shown a stage with a long platform stretching out in front. Spangled translucent curtains screened off the back, but behind them you could see the silhouettes of women carefully posed in overstuffed chairs.

  Two little girls wearing big hair bows and dresses with pleated skirts came forward, unrolling a length of carpet to make a runway. Jack made a strange noise, like a squeak. I thought he was starting to laugh and elbowed him in the ribs to keep him quiet. But he wasn’t laughing. If anything, he looked like he was going to be sick.

  I stared at the screen, trying to see what was so terrible. The music swelled as the little girls walked back to draw the sparkling gauze curtains open.

  “We’ll start with Maggie,” said the narrator. “Maggie’s modeling a daring little evening number, perfect for cocktails by the sea…”

  The woman strolled forward. She wore a silvery, shimmery dress that went down to her ankles and draped loose around her neck. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and on her hands. She sauntered easily down the runway and turned to show how the back of that silver gown pretty much wasn’t there. My fingers dug hard into the arms of my seat. Maggie, the smiling woman wearing that daring little evening number, was Mama.

  Mama looked relaxed and comfortable. More than that. She looked young. She smiled a dazzling smile that I’d never seen on her before. She looked so happy as she walked back slowly to join those other beautiful women.

  The announcer kept talking. Other women walked down the stretch of red carpet the little girls had laid down. I didn’t hear anything. I just stared at Mama. She lounged in her seat on the stage and rested her chin in her hand as she watched the other models parade for the camera.

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jack softly.

  That shook me out of my confusion. “How do you know my mama?”

  “Your mama? Where?”

  I pointed at “Maggie.”

  “Your mother’s in Hollywood?”

  The shushing started up all around us. I shook. A woman in a flowery skirt and sleeveless top was parading down the runway now. At the back of the stage, Mama held out a cigarette in a long holder for another woman to light. She looked perfectly at peace as she leaned back and blew a languid cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “I gotta get out of here.” I was on my feet and heading up the aisle without even bothering to see if Jack followed me. I was all the way into the lobby before I realized my cheeks were soaked with tears.

  I made it as far as the glass-and-bronze front doors. I put my hands on them, but I didn’t have the strength to push. I just stood there, shaking and crying, until Jack came up all quiet next to me.

  “It can’t be true,” he whispered. “What was on that screen. It can’t be.”

  He’d seen something too. Something or somebody. I knew I should ask about it, but I couldn’t get any words out at all right then. I just made crybaby noises and wiped at my face.

  “They’re liars, Callie,” Jack said. “You said it yourself.”

  “They told some of the truth,” I whispered.

  “Why would they tell the truth about this?” His face went from pasty white to angry red. “This is just another trick. They want you to go with them, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” That had to be it. I couldn’t trust them. I couldn’t trust any of them.

  “Come on,” said Jack. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s your hurry, honey?” said a brassy voice from behind the curtain. “You ain’t even seen the main feature yet.”

  We both jumped. It was the usherette, the blond woman with her flashlight. She stepped out from behind the curtain at the back of the candy counter, popping her gum and grinning at us with her wide red mouth. There was something different about her this time, a sharp, sly look to her face that hadn’t been there before.

  She sauntered around the lit-up counter with its Jujubes and Zagnuts, swinging her light from the loop around her wrist. She had white gloves on her hands and sheer stockings on her perfect legs. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a Busby Berkeley feature, like any minute she’d
start dancing and a screen would lift to reveal a dozen other blond girls, dressed just like her.

  “We’ve got plenty more to show you.” The usherette grinned straight at Jack and popped her gum. “Both of you.”

  “Who’s we?” I whispered.

  “Silly! Who do you think we are?”

  I knew. But I didn’t have the words. I could just about remember the ones Shimmy used. “You’re the Shining Ones.”

  The gum cracked like a gunshot. “We’re the ones who got your mama, sweetie.”

  16

  Come and Drag Me Away

  “You… you…,” I stammered at the blond woman.

  “Oh, yeah.” The usherette leaned her bottom against the counter and crossed one perfect ankle over the other. “Now, maybe where she’s at ain’t quite as pretty as what you saw up on the screen, but she is with us now. Not that we really want her.” She examined her perfect fingernails, which were the exact same shade of scarlet as her mouth. I got the creepy feeling it wasn’t lipstick or polish making them match up like that. “She’s pretty used up now. Not much fun for anybody anymore. But you knew that, didn’t you, sweetie?”

  Hearing somebody speak your most low-down thought may be the worst thing that can happen. Anger bunched its fists up tight inside me, ready to strike. “What do you want?”

  “You, silly.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, rippling the perfectly fitted shoulders of her red-and-gold jacket. “Not my business. But if you want your mama to go free before anything permanent-like happens to her, you’ll come with me, nice and easy.”

  Jack moved up close to me. I wanted to grab his hand, but I didn’t want the usherette to see how scared I was. “We’re leaving, Callie,” he said, his voice iron-hard.

  “You sure about that?” The usherette leveled her gaze at him, like she was bringing up her flashlight beam. “You really sure, Jacob?”

  “Don’t call me that. Nobody calls me that.”

  She jerked her pointy chin toward the theater and grinned wide, showing the pink wad of gum clenched in teeth that were too big for her red mouth. She was Hopper kin, all right.

  Whatever she meant, Jack understood. The last of the color left his cheeks. “You’re just a bunch of liars.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong, Jacob. You’ve got something we want, and we’ve got something you want. We’re ready to do a deal. All you’ve got to do is turn around and walk away.” She waved her flashlight toward the front doors. “And she’ll be right out there waiting for you.”

  “She?” The penny dropped. I said, “That was Hannah up there, wasn’t it, Jack? Your sister?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” He meant to snap those words, I could tell, but his voice was shaking too bad. “Hannah’s dead!”

  The usherette shrugged. “You think that matters to the Seelie King? He’s connected, ain’t he? He puts a word in the right ear, and bingo! She’s right back with you, all smiles to see her brother, Jacob.”

  Jack stood there as if he’d been struck dead himself. Just his lips moved, shaping one word but making no sound. I didn’t have to hear it. I could feel the word thrumming through the air.

  Hannah.

  “Walk away, Jacob Hollander,” said the usherette. “All you gotta do is walk away.”

  For one terrible moment, Jack hesitated. His eyes darted from me to the door, with the dark, empty street on the other side of that thin piece of glass. My heart rose up slowly, pushing its way into my throat while I watched my only friend in the whole, wide, terrible world make up his mind.

  “I ain’t leavin’ without Callie.” Jack spoke the words like he knew he was closing a coffin lid, and I hated myself for having doubted him.

  The usherette sighed and shook her frizzy blond head. “I tried to be nice about this, but have it your way…” She twisted around. “You can come out now, Mr. Morgan.”

  The curtain lifted again. Jack’s arm wrapped around my shoulders as we both backed up.

  Bull Morgan seemed to have swelled since the railroad yard. He towered over us, his face puffed up and pale. His fleshy jaw worked back and forth on his toothpick, and the usherette kept time with him by cracking her gum.

  “There you is,” Bull Morgan whispered hoarsely between chews on his toothpick. “The no-good pickaninny bummin’ brat and her little Jew-boy friend. Got you both this time.” He shifted the pick to the other side of his mouth with his big, tobacco-stained tongue. “Good job, Trixie.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Morgan,” said the usherette, Trixie. “Always glad to help an officer of the law.”

  “He ain’t breathing,” croaked Jack. “Have mercy, he ain’t breathing.”

  Jack was right. Bull Morgan walked toward us. Handcuffs dangled from his thick fingers. He chewed his toothpick and grinned, but he wasn’t breathing, not even a little bit. It’s such a tiny thing, you wouldn’t think you’d notice it looking at another person, but trust me, when it ain’t there, you notice right away.

  Bull Morgan was dead.

  You think that matters to the Seelie King? Trixie had said. He puts a word in the right ear, and bingo!

  Then I felt something else, something sharp and bright pressing against that extra sense I’d found. Headlights glared on the other side of the glass doors, and I heard a car’s engine. I swung around, taking Jack with me. A big silver Packard screeched up to the Bijoux, bumping right over the curb. Shimmy leapt out, ran to the theater doors, and rattled the handles.

  Trixie looked at her and hissed. Bull Morgan lifted his heavy head.

  Jack and I dove sideways, in opposite directions. I ran for the doors. Jack ran toward the theater. “Where you think you’re goin’, Jew boy?” laughed Morgan, stumping heavily after him.

  He must have thought Jack was heading back into the movie, but Jack ducked sideways, grabbed up one of the poles with the velvet ribbon, and charged, aiming straight for Morgan’s big stomach. Morgan clamped his hands around the pole and tore it away like it was nothing.

  Trixie, in the meantime, sauntered up to me. I rattled the door handle. I banged on the glass. On the other side, Shimmy did the same.

  “You don’t have to worry none about her, Callie,” said Trixie. “She can’t get in here. Our gates don’t open for her kind.”

  I spun around fast. Trixie was bringing her flashlight up to shine on me. I decided not to wait for that.

  I kicked her. I missed her knee, but I got her shin and she screeched. For good measure, I grabbed a fistful of that frizzy gold hair and yanked with all my might, spinning her around and slamming her into Bull Morgan, who had Jack by the arm.

  I didn’t wait to see how they all untangled themselves. I whirled around again and laid both my hands on the handle of the outside door. Shimmy hammered on the other side of the glass so hard the door shook. I dug down deep into the place where my new sense waited, and I remembered the twisting key-in-the-lock feeling. I felt it in my heart and my stomach. I wished for it with all my might.

  Click. Click. Click. The world key turned, the door opened, and Shimmy toppled inside.

  For a moment, I was certain I saw a spasm of fear on Shimmy’s face before she grabbed my wrist.

  “Come on!” she shouted.

  “No! Jack!” I twisted out of her grasp, yanking her halfway inside.

  Shimmy gave a wordless shout of frustration and pulled herself up straight on the threshold, jamming her heel into the door to keep it open. Jack wriggled in Bull Morgan’s grip as the dead man lifted him off his feet, squeezing hard around his middle.

  “We don’t ’low your kind in here,” Trixie sneered to Shimmy. “Girls! Show this one out!”

  The curtain behind the candy counter lifted again, and this time the chorus line appeared: a dozen Trixies, all dressed alike, all with the same hair and the same scarlet mouth and bright red nails, marched in time from behind the candy counter. Mr. Berkeley would have been on his knees to see those girls, all exactly the same, all swing
ing their perfect legs in perfect time.

  All lifting up their flashlight beams to shine straight at me and Shimmy.

  That light hit us, and it felt like hot honey pouring over my skin. It melted me down like I was made of wax, and I began to crumble.

  Shimmy drew herself up in the light, spread her arms, and started to sing.

  There were no words, just loud, clear, rich notes of pure sound, rippling up and down the scale. Shimmy’s voice cut through the light, cut through the fear, and I grabbed hold of it like a lifeline. I even knew the tune, “St. James Infirmary Blues.” She’d been singing it when I first saw her in the juke joint.

  Let him go, let him go, God bless him…

  The Trixie chorus line staggered in perfect synchronization, first left, then right. Then they all fell back, their flashlight beams scattering every which way. I charged them, barreling through, not letting any of them stop me. Trailing Shimmy’s song and all its power behind me, I ran straight up to Bull Morgan, who was squeezing Jack so hard his eyes were bugged out and his mouth was open to gasp and gag. My stomach lurched up and down, but I grabbed hold of Bull Morgan’s ice-cold arm. I buckled my knees and let my weight drag on him, grabbed tight hold of Shimmy’s music, and wished.

  Let him go, let him go!

  It was like trying to punch through a marshmallow wall; you went in deep and got stuck. For a minute, I couldn’t breathe. Jack choked hard, and I got hold of his fear with Shimmy’s music and we all started pulling back. Morgan’s grip loosened. Jack dropped to the floor. I grabbed Jack by the arm, and we ran straight for the Trixies. They swung round in a circle, ringing us in, bringing their lights up. Morgan growled. Jack snatched up one of the Trixies’ hands and shined her own light into her eyes. She gave a weird groan and slumped to the ground again, taking the rest with her.

  We leapt over the sagging heap of usherettes. Shimmy backed up and shoved the door open, and we ran through. I felt the world twist again, and we were back in Kansas, with the dusty night wind blowing around us and a big, old silver Packard with its engine running right in front.