An Impossible Distance to Fall

by Miriam McNamara

  A huge expanse of water opened up on one side as they drove over a bridge. It reminded her of the Long Island Sound, of loitering with friends down at the landing back home, of going to regattas and dances at the Hempstead Harbour Club. Workers had been pumping sand out of the harbor to create a swimming beach when Birdie left, and she had wanted to sunbathe there with Izzy so badly. Birdie hung her arm over the door, spread her fingers wide, and felt the air rush against her skin. Something didn’t feel right, and homesickness rose in her throat unexpectedly. It took her a moment to put her finger on it, but she realized—it was the smell. The water looked like the sound, wide and smooth, but it must be a lake—one of the Great Lakes, maybe. It was pretty, but Birdie longed for the smell of salt in the air.

  “June told me you won’t fly a plane yourself.” Hazel leaned in from June’s far side. “I have to say, you don’t know what you’re missing!”

  Birdie willed her cheeks to stay cool. “I—I wasn’t feeling well.” She glanced at June, acutely aware of the warmth where their thighs pressed together. “Sorry I was so cross with you.”

  June raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t mind you one bit,” she said laconically.

  “I know wingwalking is this crazy thing,” Birdie said, “but—I don’t know. It’s different than flying—oh, I can’t explain it.” She’d had a lot of time to think as she finished painting the Jenny, but she couldn’t come up with why she wouldn’t accept June’s offer. Why was she scared? Usually she could talk herself into trying anything.

  Dad was probably in Chicago tonight. He might be on the South Side, where they were headed. If he was with Gilda … chances were that he was, since it was a Friday night, and she was one of the hottest jazz singers in the city. Her stomach knotted up. She was here to find him—but once she found him, then what? What did she want to happen? She’d been having such a wonderful time, she didn’t want to spoil it. She didn’t want to remember that Dad had left her—that her whole life had fallen apart—ugh. This week had been nothing like the exciting future she’d pictured the past few years, but it was exhilarating in a totally unexpected way. She couldn’t wait for the audition tomorrow. And she’d become very fond of these fascinating people that crowded all around her.

  June’s fingers brushed Birdie’s shoulder as she reached for the window. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Peter?” she said.

  Birdie felt like she couldn’t turn to look at her. June was too close, the tips of her hair brushing Birdie’s cheek when the wind caught it. “Sure does, Wendy,” she replied softly.

  “Tell me the truth.” Colette leaned in from Milosh’s lap, her black curls swirling wildly in the wind. “Don’t you secretly think that whole story is kind of terrible?”

  “What? No! I love Peter Pan.” Birdie was very aware of June casually settling her arm across the back of the seat behind her.

  “The girls, though,” Colette pressed. “Wendy just wants to mother everyone. Strange for a kid, right?”

  “I don’t know.” Birdie had always adored Wendy. “Don’t a lot of little girls want to be moms?”

  “And then there’s Tiger Lily, and Tinker Bell,” Colette continued, ignoring her. “And all three of them are obsessed with Peter Pan, this boy who refuses to grow up.”

  “I like Peter Pan,” announced June. “Who wants to grow up, anyway?”

  “You’re supposed to like him,” said Colette. “He’s self-centered and boastful and impulsive—but somehow, he’s still cute and charming. And Wendy’s so boring, always doing whatever’s expected of her. Meanwhile, Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell get the crap end of the story. Tiger Lily’s out in the swamp, ruling, but nobody cares.”

  “Tinker Bell gets what she wants,” said Hazel. “She gets Peter to stay with her forever, in Neverland.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much, though, does it? I wish she wanted something more than a boy too interested in himself to change.”

  As they approached the city seemed to rise up out of the flat horizon, growing larger and larger. Birdie stared at the buildings, wondering which one might be hiding Dad. “Wendy though,” Birdie said, trying to think of something to redeem the story. “She chooses real life in the end. Neverland isn’t enough for her.”

  “Yeah,” said Hazel. “She grows up.”

  “You’ve convinced me.” June laughed. “Peter never changes, and that’s boring, so who cares about him?”

  “Let’s change the title then, what do you say?” said Colette. “‘Wendy: The Girl Who Finally Grows Up.’ Now that’s a story I want to hear.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE SUN DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE BUILDINGS AS THEY PULLED OFF A busy main street in Chicago and down a quiet alley. The dusky, gray air was still and warm on Birdie’s skin as they all piled out of the car. A well-heeled couple, looking out of place in the empty alley, disappeared through a shoddy-looking door as a couple of kids sitting on the curb looked up from their game of jacks to appraise the newcomers.

  “The rich folks flock down from the coast at night,” said Oscar. “Give ’em a few hours. In the meantime, we’ll get the royal treatment.”

  They followed the couple into a dim foyer where a bored-looking man read a newspaper. Oscar mumbled something unintelligible to him, and he hardly glanced up before waving them up a narrow flight of stairs. Oscar turned left at the top, led them down a dark, dusty hall, and pushed through a nondescript door that swung open to reveal a bright, warm, beautifully appointed room with a massive bar made of polished wood and brass. In plain sight glass bottles full of clear and brown liquids sparkled in the electric light.

  “Oh!” said Birdie. “Wow! You wouldn’t know drinking’s a crime, coming in here.”

  “Oh, they’ve got it down pat,” said Oscar. “If the police show up, they just let everyone out the back door.”

  It seemed doubtful that the police didn’t know about such an establishment. Couldn’t they all go to jail just for being here? “What if the police come in the back door?”

  “They just don’t.” Oscar walked through the mostly empty room and leaned on the bar. “Hey there, Jimmy.”

  The bartender looked up from the lemon he was peeling. “Oscar!” He set the lemon down and wiped his hands on a crisp white towel that hung over his shoulder. “It’s been a while! Great to see you, sir.” They clasped hands over the bar. “Where are the rest of your boys?” He looked the girls and Bennie over. “These aren’t your usual set.”

  Oscar laughed. “I haven’t seen Nate and them in a while, now. I ran away with a flying circus, didn’t you hear?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it—I think one of your boys did mention that a few months back. So the circus is in town, is that it?”

  “We’re trying to convince some people at the Curtiss airfield that we’re their guys for the NAR,” Oscar said, as Hazel came up and put an arm around his waist. She looked stunning, her red hair pinned up in a messy faux-bob, green cardigan tight against her curves. “Tryouts tomorrow, air show in September. You make sure and come see us!”

  The man smiled at Hazel. “Oh, I’m remembering now—the way I heard it, it was a girl you ran away with, as much as a circus.” Birdie turned away as Oscar answered, admiring the pretty furnishings, the baby grand piano, the high ceiling that looked like it was made of delicately wrought metal. She had to admit, the fact that they shouldn’t be here gave her a thrill. She followed Merri and Bennie to a long table with enough plush velvet seats for them all to sit, and the rest followed a few moments later. A quartet was setting up on the far side of a dance floor. The well-heeled couple was settling into a small table, the woman smoothing her neatly pressed waves as the man set their coupe glasses down and pulled her chair out for her. Oscar and Hazel came over balancing a bunch of old-fashioneds in rocks glasses, and set one down in front of each of them.

  “See, Bennie?” said Oscar, nodding at the couple.

  “Lord, son, I see,” said Bennie, waving a han
d. “I feel very comfortable. You can relax now.”

  “I made pals with a gal at my last race who took me out to a club in Manhattan,” said June. Birdie wondered what made pals with meant, if June had kissed more girls than just Ruth. “I was the only white girl there.”

  “June Delaney!” Bennie smoothed his southern drawl to mimick hers. “What a thing for a proper Georgia girl to do!”

  “It was so much fun.” June stirred her drink with a finger. “I never had such a time! We stayed till the sun rose. She even managed to teach me a couple of dance steps.”

  Merriwether chuckled. “Says you! You’re worse than Colette for standing stiff in the corner while everybody else cuts the rug.”

  “Not true,” said Colette. “I don’t stand—I sit, if at all possible.”

  “I learned a few moves,” said June, as Milosh laughed. She looked at Birdie and said saucily, “Maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two once the music starts.”

  They sucked down their drinks, conversation flowing fast, but the music failed to inspire them to get out of their seats and the crowd stayed sparse. June mentioned that some of the girls at the boarding house were going to another club on the South Side, and Oscar said he knew the place. “Did Ruth say she’d be there tonight?” he teased. “Is that why you’re so keen to go?”

  “I don’t know or care where Ruth is tonight,” June said firmly. “It’s over and done with.”

  The way she and Ruth had kissed on the back porch in a halo of light made Birdie think that June cared more than she’d like to admit, and everyone else seemed just as skeptical. “Oh, we haven’t heard that one before,” Merriwether teased, and Hazel laughed. They ribbed June like she was sweet on Ruth—and there wasn’t any other explanation, was there?

  “I’m serious this time.” Conflicting emotions crossed June’s face that Birdie couldn’t parse. It seemed like more than a kiss had passed between them.

  “Awww, I’m sorry.” Oscar reached across the table and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I never thought she was good for you. I just thought—”

  “I know.” June sighed. “I haven’t exactly stuck to my word before. But I mean it this time.”

  “She doesn’t deserve you.” Milosh nudged her with his shoulder.

  June gave him a lopsided smile. “Thanks, friends,” she said. “Ugh, enough about her! Y’all ready to get a move on?”

  The next thing Birdie knew they’d all piled into the Studebaker again and were zipping through the night-cool air.

  She should ask about Gilda. This was her chance to look for Dad. But June’s leg was pressed against hers again, arm across the back of the seat behind her. If she pretended to look out the window she could watch June’s long fingers tap the seat, then absentmindedly catch and play with a strand of Birdie’s hair when it brushed against her knuckles. Birdie looked briefly at June and their eyes met. June gave her a lazy smile that made her look away, cheeks warming. Birdie leaned into her ever so slightly when she turned to look out the window again.

  Birdie had had this feeling before—a feeling with nowhere to go, a sucking tide that was hard to keep her head above when she was with Izzy. Most of the time they were best friends, but sometimes the smell of Izzy’s hair, the softness of her skin, her passionate proclamations of love and friendship had made Birdie feel crazy. It had been embarrassing, too frightening to even look at unflinchingly within her own mind.

  She’d never let the idea that two girls could be sweet on each other—and what might happen between them if they were—fully enter her awareness.

  The possibility made her stomach tight, her skin electric.

  They pulled up outside a plain brick building where a couple of girls with long feathers in their shiny marcelled hair stood outside, smoking and talking. Merri bought everyone hot dogs from a vendor and they ate them on the street. They went down another alley and in through another unmarked side door. A mixed crowd filled the speakeasy inside: pretty girls with fringe on their skirts and cigarettes in their holders, slick-haired men in suspenders, and boys with wide smiles. There was a five-piece band playing something with a brisk tempo. Pilots from the boarding house dotted the crowd, girls wearing skirts or pants, lipstick or pomade, everyone drinking gin and whiskey. Birdie spotted Ruth, looking lanky and glamorous in a shoulder-baring dress and a beaded headband, and checked to see if June had noticed her. But June went straight to the bar and ordered a drink.

  So Birdie followed her.

  Dancing, screaming laughter, the croon of the jazz singer, the thick smoke. Birdie hadn’t danced or laughed so hard since her birthday. She tried to keep up with the tempo of the music but her feet were starting to lag, her chest burning. She had taken down her braids hours ago and her hair stuck to her shoulders; so much for her pretty waves.

  Bennie and Merriwether were dancing like crazy in the center of the floor, a ring cleared around their Carolina shag in the thick, sweating crowd. Bennie was shaking his hips and shimmying his shoulders like nobody’s business, everyone clapping and hooting and shouting, “Get hot! Get hot!” Merriwether’s cheeks shone red and happy. Colette and Milosh lurked in a booth in the corner, heads cozily together in their own secret world.

  Oscar stood behind Hazel at the bar, his hand on her waist, his lips on her neck. Hazel said something into his ear, and he smiled. They were so beautiful. So gorgeous. Oscar’s hands slid up Hazel’s waist and pulled her against him. Birdie looked away and caught June staring at her through her thick lashes, a halo of smoke around her head. She wore pants and that fitted shirt so well. June was dancing slowly, ignoring the upbeat tempo. Birdie felt her own feet slow. June sucked hard on her cigarette so the tip glowed red. The cherry traveled down toward her fingers, bright and rippling.

  Birdie moved her body to mimic June’s steps. She’d been taught how to mirror someone else perfectly, to move so similarly that the teacher couldn’t find a single difference to correct. She found June’s movement quickly—step touch, step touch, a little bit of hip swivel, chin up. June grinned lazily at her, took her hand out of her pocket, and step-touched over to Birdie.

  “Are these the moves that girl at the club taught you?” Birdie teased.

  June pressed her lips together, holding in a smile. “This ain’t the half of it.”

  Birdie blushed as June bit the end of her cigarette, freeing her hands. “I’ll show you, ready? You step back—then cross, then over—” she said through her teeth, fluttering her hands.

  Birdie followed her steps, then laughed, her nerves settling. “Oh, I know this one!” she danced a few steps of the Big Apple in a circle around June.

  June shook her head, amused. “I shoulda known better than to think I had something on you.”

  The music ended with a crash of cymbals. The crowd cheered loudly and the band struck up a slow number, a waltz. “Come on. You know you want to dance with me.” June tugged on Birdie’s hand. She put her cigarette between her lips, caught Birdie’s waist with the other, and pulled her in. Birdie had to tilt her chin up to make eye contact, June’s shoulders an inch or two above her own. June’s eyes were a dark-chocolate color in the dim electric light. The crowd pressed close and sweaty, perfume and cigar smoke thick in the air. Birdie put her hand on June’s hip. Her eyes met a man’s that was leaning against the bar. He raised his glass to her, and Birdie tripped over her own feet.

  “Hey.” June squeezed her hand. “What’s this? Birdie doesn’t know the easiest dance of all time? Ready, count with me—one-two-three, one-two-three—”

  Birdie smiled shakily and focused on the music. She didn’t know what was wrong with her—usually she never missed a beat. She looked at June again, feeling shy as feet found each other’s rhythm and fingers tangled. They danced, not speaking. She could hear Merriwether boom from far away, Bennie’s whooping laugh in response.

  Birdie thought she was familiar with all different kinds of dancing. There was fun dancing, party dancing—all performance and
showmanship, all swagger and flirt. There was the formal kind of dancing Birdie had been taught—ballet, or traditional couples dancing like the fox-trot, every step a marvel of choreography and skill.

  But then there was this. June held her a little closer than she had to, and Birdie found she was leaning in, too. They lingered in each sway a breath longer than necessary. Every step and spin trailed into the next as if neither of them wanted to let go, like they wanted to feel each shift against their skin as long as possible. The music was on tempo, but they hardly followed it at all. The music washed around them, and they floated together amidst it.

  She had never danced like this.

  It was the alcohol, those old-fashioneds. Her head was light, she couldn’t quite keep herself on the beat. She had to lean into June sometimes, to keep her balance. She felt the tide rising, and it made her feel nauseous and confused and anxious and woozy like it had before, but this time it also made her feel fluttery and exhilarated and bouyant and reckless—

  She leaned into June with her whole body and kissed her. A pause—lips soft and warm, the music fading out, fingers entwined. Barely touching, breathless. Then sensation rushed in—the taste of sugar and bitters, the heat and damp, the swell of music, an inhale of breath, a hand cupping her face, June’s mouth tilting, softening, arms pulling her in—

  And then June pulled away. “Ruth,” she said.

  Birdie’s mind couldn’t register anything but the lingering softness on her lips. She unpeeled herself from June and turned around. Ruth’s face was tight.

  Ugh.

  No.