An Impossible Distance to Fall

by Miriam McNamara

  She glanced at Birdie and her tone changed. “I’m sorry, bunny. All that—it must’ve been hard for you.”

  Birdie shrugged noncommittally, not trusting herself to answer. Gilda watched for a moment with limpid eyes, then said softly, “You know, your dad’s always been one of my biggest admirers. Has been ever since he saw me on tour in New York—lord, it’s been two years almost since then. He came up and talked to me after the show. What a charmer! He sent two dozen red roses to my hotel room the next morning. They weren’t signed, but I knew it was him.”

  Fine, she could handle this. She’d known already, or guessed, at least, that Dad was in love with Gilda. “So, Dad and you—two years?” That was tough to swallow.

  “Oh, no—I mean, he pursued me, and I’d flirt with him after the shows, but we never were an item. I love that kind of attention, the roses and gifts and everything, but I don’t let it mean more than it does. These men …” She waved a hand around the room. “They see a slicked-up, showgirl version of me, singing all these songs about what I’d do for a man, and that’s who they think I am.” She shook her head. “I can be that girl for a few hours every night, up on stage, and it makes me a pretty fine living. But it’s not who I am.”

  Dad wouldn’t be so foolish as to think a stage act meant something special, just for him. Gilda must have led him on a little.

  “He started showing up at all my shows when I came through New York. He was persistent, but I knew he had a family—he talked to me about you, though he never did mention your mother—and I wasn’t getting caught up in that. Plus, I was engaged. Married, now. I might look fast, but I’m a one-guy kinda gal.”

  Birdie looked down at Gilda’s hand and saw the band on her finger. She believed her—but surely she had made it seem like she might run away with Dad? She clearly liked the attention. But up close, with the act turned off and the walls down, Gilda didn’t seem like the type to lead somebody on.

  “Then I got the request from him to sing at your party. I had a bad feeling from the start, so I named a crazy price for me and my boys to come out there. And when he said he’d pay it and then some, I thought, what the heck. Of course, soon as I got there I knew it was a mistake. Your momma staring daggers at me all night. Bobby drinking, hanging all over me, not caring who saw. Not caring if you saw. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  Birdie tried to think back. She’d been so caught up in her own head in that moment that she hadn’t really understood. She and Izzy had caught him, right in the act of kissing Gilda, and he really hadn’t seemed to care.

  “He telegrammed me after that, but I never answered. With the market crash all my regular work in New York dried up, so I thought that’d be the end of it. Imagine my surprise when he showed up here a month ago!” Gilda looked at Birdie, and must have seen something on her face. “You okay, bunny? Is this all too much?”

  “I’m fine.” Birdie swallowed. “You aren’t saying anything I hadn’t guessed.” It was hard to hear it all plainly, but what she was hearing sounded just like the sweet father who showered her with gifts and attention—and always assumed money and charm would get him what he wanted.

  Gilda looked concerned, but continued. “I turned him down, but that didn’t change anything. He kept coming to all my shows, approaching me after every set. I told the doormen to keep him out, but then he’d chase me on the way to my car. Three in the morning, and he’d be running after me! Jimmy and the boys finally had to knock some sense into him, I’m sorry to say.”

  That didn’t sound like Dad at all, but Birdie had never seen him thwarted.

  “Haven’t seen him since. Two weeks it’s been, at least. I was starting to think he’s gone for good. Finally got some sense beat into him, and he’s gone home with his tail between his legs. Back to you, I thought. But now you’re here, and that’s got me worried.”

  “He could be there,” Birdie said slowly. “He could’ve gone back home.” She wondered what Mom would do if he showed back up in Glen Cove, when she knew about Gilda. Birdie was furious with Mom for not telling her what she’d guessed. She was furious with Dad for proving Mom right. If he’s alive, and he just left us like this—he doesn’t deserve for you to wait around for him.

  Instead of finding Dad and getting the assuring explanations that she so desperately wanted from him, she’d gotten the bald, unflattering, depressing story from someone else. Dad was a callous, no-good two-timer. He’d been the good guy so many times in her life—but in this story, he was the villain.

  Her head was starting to throb.

  “I’m so sorry, bunny,” said Gilda gently, a troubled expression settling on her face. She reached out and squeezed Birdie’s arm. “How’d you get here, child? You got a way home?”

  Birdie blinked furiously. “I’m fine.” She jumped up and backed away from the stage. “I came with friends.”

  Friends. She looked around to see where Oscar and June and the rest were—and remembered that she’d left them behind.

  “You sure, bunny?” Gilda reached out to touch her arm again.

  The proposal, running off—she needed to get back to the Hot Toddy. How long ago had she left?

  The audition tomorrow!

  “I have to go,” she blurted, lunging away from Gilda’s concerned look. She should thank her, and probably apologize, but then she’d cry in earnest, and she had to hold it together and finagle a way back to her friends before it was too late—

  Sinclair was hunched on a stool, eyes mostly closed, tie loose, a lax hand around a drink sweating on the mahogany bar. He jumped when she grabbed his shoulder. “Hunh? Oh …” His eyes focused on her, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Hey there, sugar.”

  “I’m ready to go.” It was easy to pretend she was fine with him. She gave him a half smile as she tugged on his sleeve. “I need to get back to my friends.”

  He processed that for a moment, then wagged a finger at her. “Oh, sug’r, don’ you know the Hot Toddy closes at two? Your friends’s long gone.”

  She watched him stumble off his chair, her heart constricting to a tiny pinpoint inside her chest.

  She was alone. Really, truly, one hundred percent on her own.

  But hadn’t she been all along? It was only that she was just now realizing it.

  There was a way she could pull this off. There was a way that she could save the day, rescue herself from this seemingly untenable situation, find her friends and smile and laugh and get a good night’s rest before performing perfectly tomorrow. But she was lost and sad and tired and her head hurt, and she couldn’t figure it out right now. Sinclair’s car was nice and warm. The seats were rich and soft. She accepted his arm as he slung it over her shoulder, exhaled and said, “Why don’t we just go to your place, then?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  BIRDIE DREAMED CHARLIE’S FALL AGAIN, HIS BODY CRUMPLED IN THE sand. This time she ran up and rolled the body over, confident she could wake him. She pumped and pumped his chest. She looked at his face and saw—it was Dad. Dad had fallen from the sky. Her confidence shriveled into panic. She pumped and pumped, screaming at him to stand up but he refused, his blank eyes staring up, his chest juddering beneath her angry fists—

  Birdie woke disoriented. Her hands found a velvet couch beneath her, a light blanket draped over her legs. Her stomach churned as she sat up slowly. Heavy curtains were drawn, but the light seeping around the edges was glaringly bright. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn out.

  The Hot Toddy, dancing with June. The taste of bitters and sugar on her mouth.

  Leaving with a man with moist palms, a gold watch. The Midnight Ballroom.

  Talking to Gilda. Finding out—about Dad—

  Leaving with that man again.

  Sinclair Stevens. She was in Sinclair Stevens’s hotel suite.

  A headache roared in, and she pulled her knees in and pressed her fists into her eye sockets. She had no idea where she was. Somewhere in downtown Chica
go? Probably far from where she’d started out last night, on the South Side. It had taken forever to drive to the hotel from the Midnight Ballroom. Sinclair’s head had lolled as the driver swung around corners. They finally pulled up as the sky was starting to gray.

  She’d calculated the next moments carefully.

  Up the steps and through a big set of glass doors, Birdie’s teeth chattering in the early morning air, a doorman with averted eyes helping them in. A wave from a pretty lady at the front desk—“Good morning, Mister Stevens”—her gaze sliding quickly away. An elevator with an operator that kept his eyes on the door and his expression pleasant. Sinclair taking forever to find his key. Through another door. As it shut behind them Sinclair groped for her, but she pushed him away and flicked on a lamp, saying she wanted one more drink. Vodka in hand, she’d followed him to the bedroom. He’d lain back on the bed, drinking straight out of the bottle. He’d cooperated perfectly. His eyes had drooped, then closed, in no time at all.

  She’d found a warm bottle of soda water and a bowl of nuts on the wet bar and finished them off, then made herself a nest on the couch with a blanket. She’d squeezed her eyes closed and fell into a disoriented half dream. Gilda, lips kissing the microphone, a ring on her finger—Mom’s hands shook as she packed her suitcase—that was Mom’s wedding ring on Gilda’s finger. No, Oscar was pulling it from his pocket, offering it to Hazel while June and Ruth glowed in a dark corner—silver light a ring around them—

  Birdie had tossed and turned, buried her face in the cushions—

  Dad, falling.

  She was desperately hungover on Sinclair’s couch with a raging headache and a sour stomach, and it was Saturday, and she had a three o’clock audition.

  She stumbled to her feet and pushed the curtains back. The blinding light sending a wave of nausea through her. She stumbled to the marble bathroom and slurped water from the faucet with a cupped hand, then splashed her face. She wiped her face with a plush towel and tiptoed to the bedroom.

  Sinclair was passed out. Her stomach crawled up into her throat as she stared at the top of his thinning hair and his rumpled, half-unbuttoned shirt. She was an idiot. Anything could have happened.

  She gingerly picked up his wrist and turned his watch around.

  Almost noon.

  She ran back to the sitting room and frantically tugged her shoes on, wincing as they scraped last night’s blisters. She dashed around, desperate for something to eat, and uncovered a half-eaten tin of sweet biscuits beneath a throw pillow. She shoved one in her mouth, grabbed a few more, and ran for the door. Down the elevator. Past the front desk, as fast as she could go. A doorman raised his eyebrows at her. She thought about asking him where she was, but decided against it.

  Her breath was ragged, the biscuit dry and sticking to her throat as she squinted up and down the road. People in well-tailored summer clothes sauntered wide, clean streets. Downtown Chicago, she would bet on it. Curtiss airfield was north of the city. Henrieta’s farmhouse was near Elgin, about forty miles northwest of the city—she didn’t have time to do anything but head straight for the airfield. Someone would have brought her costume.

  Birdie’s hand went to the dollars tucked in the band of her camiknickers. She’d seen the train lines running overhead last night, and the bright yellow taxis on the street. In New York, taxis were fifty cents a mile—which meant she could get about four miles before she’d run out of change. She probably couldn’t even afford a taxi to the elevated train station.

  She’d never had to worry about such things before.

  A big, beautiful, shiny car slowed, the window rolling down. Nothing but boys in their summer best, hair parted and slicked, grins on their faces. Four boys, one seat still open. She realized how she must look. Bedraggled, last night’s dress and kitten heels wilting in the hot midday sun.

  “You look like you need a ride, sweetheart,” said the driver, leaning over.

  “Oh my gosh.” Birdie recoiled, wiping sweaty palms on her skirt. Her heart was pounding. “No. You boys got me all wrong.”

  She hurried back to the doorman. “Excuse me,” she said shakily. “Can you point me toward the nearest train station?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said carefully, not making eye contact. “Union Station is that way, on Canal Street. You can get just about anywhere you want to go from there.”

  She hastened down the street, the reality of her situation setting in. All of her circus-mates would be scrambling to figure out where she was. No, they’d given up trying to figure out where she was. Now they were desperately trying to figure out how they were going to pull off the show without her.

  They’d probably been panicking all night, since they discovered she’d disappeared.

  She’d wanted to make a point. June, walking away with Ruth! After Birdie had kissed her. Her stomach turned. She had felt discarded, saturated in embarrassment. What had Birdie been thinking? She’d wanted June to know that she couldn’t care less, that the kiss had been a foolish, fleeting whim. She hadn’t meant to be gone this long. If she ruined today’s audition they’d never forgive her.

  Birdie’s steps slowed. She could go home to Glen Cove. She’d have to go back to Henrieta’s and get the last of her money, but she probably still had enough to make it home. She wouldn’t have to see any of the circus people again. Curtiss airfield felt just as far away as Long Island right now, full of just as many people she didn’t matter to.

  Why stop at Glen Cove and the airfield? She could go anywhere. She could disappear right into thin air.

  In this moment, it felt like she already had.

  The dreadful feeling she had been ignoring since last night threatened to crawl up her throat and out of her mouth in ugly, gasping sounds—she stopped moving, pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, and clenched her teeth against it.

  Everything used to work out perfectly. It was so unfair, that she had to try so hard now, and even then she couldn’t make things work out right. She took deep, shuddering breaths and pictured herself leaping from the wing of the plane that afternoon, everyone looking up in awe.

  She squared her shoulders and picked up the pace. She would get to the airfield in time. No one would be angry, so long as she showed up and really wowed them. Performing well was her only chance at feeling like she wasn’t the most worthless person on earth.

  It only took her a quarter of an hour to make it to Union Station.

  She limped up to the ticket counter and asked how to get to the Curtiss-Reynolds airfield. The woman behind the counter squinted over her thick spectacles. “The North Shore Elevated will take you within about a twenty minute walk of it. Make sure you get off on the Glenview stop.”

  Birdie shoved her money across the counter. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “One way, please.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BIRDIE LIMPED THROUGH THE CURTISS-REYNOLDS AIRPORT ENTRANCE and stumbled toward the hangar. It had to be after three. She was soaked in sweat, stinking of last night’s smoke and booze. The hangar was massive, cavernous, and endlessly long, with fields on either side. A plane—one she didn’t recognize—buzzed across the field to the right, and she headed that way. The plane zipped in and out around pylons set up around the field. People were scattered across a second-story promenade that ran the length of the hangar. She recognized two of the pilots from the boarding house hanging over the railing, whooping as the plane flipped upside down, narrowly managing to avoid hitting a pylon, then another. A row of serious-looking men with their shirtsleeves rolled up stood on the field in the shadow of the hangar, leaning in to talk with each other. They were probably the men who would decide who measured up enough to perform in the second annual National Air Races.

  She’d measure up fine, if she could stop shaking.

  There—past those men, stood Colette, holding a megaphone and shading her eyes, watching the plane as it flipped right side up and came in for a landing on the paved runway
that ran the length of the hangar. A smattering of applause from up on the promenade, then someone yelling—“Go, Ruth!”

  Ruth climbed out of the cockpit in a fitted navy flight suit and keen white leather cap, grinning from ear to ear. The group of men walked out onto the field to talk with her.

  Birdie looked back up at the promenade and saw June and Hazel leaning over the railing, watching. Hazel’s shoulders were hunched, teeth worrying a fingernail. June stared down, hands clenched on the railing. Birdie tried to decipher June’s expression, but distance and the shadow of the hangar made it impossible.

  She turned and walked hesitantly into the cavernous mouth of the hangar.

  “Birdie, Jesus!” Merriwether came running toward her, her pirate coattails flapping behind her. “Thank God!” Merriwether pulled her into a hug, then drew back and looked at her. The twins barreled into her seconds later, their strong, gangly arms wrapping her tight.

  “No time to talk,” Merriwether said at last, perhaps determining that Birdie was well enough to perform despite her disheveled state. “We switched out with the Hollbrook folks and let them go first, but they’re about done. Thank God you made it. They’re already not impressed that Charlie’s out of commission. I told them what happened, that of course we couldn’t help it—long story short, we really gotta wow them.”

  “Got it.” Birdie clenched her hands into fists and tightened all her muscles, but she could still feel herself quivering.

  Merriwether ran outside to let June, Hazel, Colette, and the NAR guys know that they were ready. Bennie appeared and put a crocodile-clad hand on her shoulder. “You all right, little bird?”

  “We were up all night,” said Oscar, coming up with Milosh. “Drove around for hours after the club closed. Couldn’t begin to think of where you’d went.” His eyes had dark shadows under them.