by Orrie Hitt
She found Carl in his office, a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs. He was in his forties, slightly bald, and he smoked a cigar almost constantly.
“Hi,” he said.
“You wanted me?”
He puffed on his cigar.
“Ever work a private party?”
“Once.”
“And?”
“I left in less than half an hour.”
“Why?”
“Because they weren’t looking for a singer. They were looking for something else.”
“You mean the men wanted more?”
“I mean the men wanted more.”
He leaned back and the chair squeaked.
“How would fifty dollars interest you?”
“Not for something like that.”
Carl Downing grinned.
“I guess you draw the line.”
“A big black line.”
He got up from the chair and put the cigar in an ash tray.
“This man was in here last week,” he said. “He saw you and he liked you. He’s a lawyer or something and his wife is out of town. He’s putting on a little stag for some of the fellows at his house.”
Fifty dollars was a lot of money but she knew how that “little stag” would end. That kind of affair became a bedroom party and a girl had to go all the way. Cherry had never done that, not for money, and she didn’t intend to start now.
“Thanks, anyway,” she said, “but I already have a date.”
He shrugged and picked up the cigar.
“I see you have the red gown,” he said. “I like that. The red looks good and it does things for you.”
“Thanks.”
“But I can’t use you after tonight.” He held up his hand. “Don’t misunderstand me, Cherry. You’re a fine singer and you dance well but this stripper down the street is hurting me bad. Until now I haven’t wanted to go that far but I have no choice in the matter. You work only until eleven and the people come to see you. When you quit they take off. The only way I can pay my expenses and meet competition is to offer the same thing.”
What he said stunned her. She had been counting on this extra money so much and now it was being ripped away from her. No matter what she did, it seemed, she couldn’t get ahead. First she had had a job that didn’t pay enough and now she was losing this.
“I see,” she murmured.
He came around the desk.
“We might be able to work something out,” he said. “I could go as high as twenty-five dollars a night if you would do a strip.”
She didn’t have to think about it.
“No,” she said.
“You have the body for it. And you’d be better than the girl down the street.”
“I won’t do a strip.”
He shrugged again.
“Sorry.”
“So am I.”
She left the office and walked slowly to the dressing room. Things had seemed so good, so promising, and now everything had gone sour. Even with the new job she was worse off than she had been before.
There was a girl in the dressing room, a tall redhead with a rich, full body. She was wearing a G-string and a bra that only played at hiding her breasts.
“I’m Millie,” she said, smiling. “Millie Cain.”
“And I’m Cherry.”
“The singer?”
“I was the singer.”
“Then I guess you saw Mr. Downing?”
“Yes, I saw him.”
The girl lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke.
“He said you were pretty and he was right. You could knock them out of their seats if you went down to your skin.”
Cherry began to get out of her dress.
“Well, I’m not going to,” she said. “It isn’t for me.”
“A night club is better than a carney.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” She placed the dress on a hanger and reached for the gown.
“In a carney you go all the way down to your skin and there’s no fooling about it. Later, if you’ve left your morals at home, you do something else for money. That was my trouble. Let them look but don’t let them touch — that was my motto. The boss didn’t like it. So here I am in a cheap club.”
Cherry put on the gown and zipped it up the side, standing before the cracked mirror that had been placed on the door. The gown was daring in front and if she bent over, as she sometimes did, part of her breasts were plainly visible. The material of the gown was very thin and she could see the pink line of her bra.
“I don’t have your shape,” the redhead said. “If I did I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Thanks.”
“But when you have a kid who doesn’t have a father, you have to make a living.” The girl’s laugh was bitter. “Not that he didn’t have a father; he did. A female doesn’t get that way without the willing help of the male. The fact is he ran off and left me. But it wouldn’t have done me any good if he had stayed. He was married.”
Cherry excused herself and walked through the big room, which was now filling up, to the bar. Joe, she noticed, was having rye and soda and she sat down on a stool next to him.
“I could use a drink,” she said.
He was surprised.
“So early in the evening?”
“It’s my nerves.”
The bartender brought her a drink and she told Joe about having been fired.
“I’m glad of it,” Joe said.
“That’s a fine attitude to take.”
“Only because you might listen to reason now.”
She knew he would preach on the way home. He would tell her how much he loved her and how wonderful things would be if they were married. The trouble was that he had not made very much money before he had been given the bread route and he thought a hundred and ten a week was a lot. It wasn’t. If she married him there would be an apartment to rent and furniture to buy and they would be in debt up to their necks. Some of the girls she had known who got married now regretted what they had done. Wait, they said. Wait until you have enough in the bank to swing most of the expenses. Many of these girls had become pregnant during their first year of marriage and had to stop working. Then the troubles really started — borrowing from a finance company to pay back bills and then borrowing from someone else to meet the loan payments.
“Another drink?”
“I better not. That one helped. Later, perhaps.”
The orchestra was getting ready on the small platform and Percy Stevens, who led the orchestra, came over to the bar to speak to her. She could smell the whiskey on his breath and he was as drunk as usual. Sometimes she wondered how he could drink so much and support a family.
“Carl told me,” he said. “Tough break.”
“It’s all right.”
She didn’t feel that way at all. It was rotten. If a girl wouldn’t make a slut out of herself she wasn’t wanted.
“You’re smart to stick to your singing,” Percy said. “You’ve got a good voice and stripping only leads one way — down. I mean, it does if you’re in a small café like this. Other strippers, those in the bigger night spots, sometimes make it to the movies or television.”
Percy left and she decided to have another drink, a quick one. Maybe she was making a mistake and maybe she wasn’t. And then, suddenly, she felt better. Sixty a week wasn’t so bad; she should be able to save some of it. If she was lucky she might find another café in which to sing. There were many of them in the city. Surely somebody would want her.
She sang well that night, better, she thought, than she had ever sung before. The orchestra was hot, with her all the way, and when she went into her dance, the hem of her gown riding up to her hips, she got a good hand. Sex was what they wanted. Sex and looks. Well, she would give them the looks — not the sex.
“I could see ninety percent of what you own,” Joe said as she sat down beside him.
“So?”
“I’m glad you’
re finished here. This isn’t any place for you and it never was.”
She didn’t argue with him. She had a couple of drinks and returned to the floor. This time her body caught the jungle beat of the orchestra and she had the insane urge to strip herself naked, to show them that she had the best body along the street. It wasn’t the first time she had felt this way and she didn’t understand it. She knew that her gown was dipping dangerously low in front but she didn’t care. It was her last night and she would give them something to remember her by.
“You were really wild,” Joe said as she came up to the bar afterward.
“I guess I was.”
“You almost came out in front.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did and you didn’t do anything about it.”
“Jealous?”
“Hell, I’m no prude but you don’t have to do that to put a number across. And you haven’t got a slip on underneath. When your back is to the lights they can see all of your legs.”
She leaned over and kissed him.
“I’m yours,” she whispered. “What more do you want?”
“Just for you to use some sanity.”
Her last song was slow and she gave it all she had. It was about a boy and a girl along a lake, the moon hanging low, and she knew what they wanted to do. She put a lot of feeling into the words and when she was finished she got a lot of applause.
She met Carl Downing on her way back to the dressing room.
“Terrific,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He gave her a ten and a five.
“If you ever change your mind about stripping I’ll take you on again,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“You never can tell. Time changes things — and people. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
“And your dance — it was easy for me to tell that you might have gone further.”
“I guess I got a litte carried away,” she admitted.
“That’s the way to do it. Give that music and beat everything you’ve got.”
“Not this girl.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks again.”
Millie Cain, now dressed in a flowing black thing with frills, was in the dressing room. Her face was heavily painted, her eyebrows arched.
“It sounded as though they ate you up,” she said.
“They’re a friendly crowd.”
“I hope they treat me the same way.”
“I’m sure they will.”
Cherry removed the gown and walked to the dress. Joe was right about the slip; she should have worn one.
“You ought to stay on,” Millie said. “I could make a stripper out of you in a couple of easy lessons.”
“No.”
Millie crossed to the door.
“Have it your way. It isn’t a bad living and you make more money than you do singing. Singers are a dime a gross.”
Millie left the dressing room, closing the door behind her, and Cherry put on her dress. If she were in a strange city where nobody knew her she might be tempted. What, actually, was so wrong about stripping? Some of the top Hollywood stars had come from burlesque houses. But, she decided, she wouldn’t do it. She would build her career on a firm footing and she would have nothing to be ashamed of. Her voice and figure would be enough. Somehow, in some manner, they had to be enough.
Joe was waiting for her at the bar and she had another drink, a double rye with a tall ginger ale. Millie was on and she wasn’t wasting any time getting out of her clothes. Her movements were sure and deft and every hand motion meant something. There was the stroking of one white leg, fully extended. She threw her head back, bumping and grinding, and brought her hands up to partially concealed breasts.
“Let’s get out of here,” Joe said, getting to his feet.
“Aren’t you interested?”
“Not in that. Something else.”
“Don’t make me guess.”
As soon as they were in the car he took her in his arms and kissed her. The kiss burned against her lips and he tried to force her mouth open.
“Not here,” she said, pulling away.
“It’s dark and there’s nobody to bother us.”
“Lets not make it cheaper than it is.”
“Do you think it’s cheap?” He sounded hurt.
“Sometimes.”
“And tonight you do?”
“Tonight I do,” she nodded.
He started the car and drove crosstown. She had put the gown on the back seat and she knew that he wanted her to sit close to him but she didn’t. She had decided that what he wanted from her, what they had done, wasn’t right. Sex was for those who were husband and wife, those who shared the secrets of marriage and the safety of a bedroom meant for love.
“Take me home,” she said.
He slowed the car.
“Why?”
“I’m just not in the mood.”
He drove a short distance in silence.
“You never said no to me before.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“But how come tonight?”
“I’m tired.”
“Or fed up?”
“Maybe a little bit of both. I counted on the small amount of money I got from the café.”
“For what?”
He knew the answer to that one as well as she did.
“To get out of here,” she said. “The days go by and I’m just standing still.”
“That’s only your imagination.”
“Perhaps. But I know what I want and I’m out to get it. I try to save and save and I don’t seem to get any place at all.”
“That’s your fault. You’ve had your fling at singing. Why don’t you settle down and marry me?”
She tried to imagine herself married to him and she couldn’t. She was young and there was so much of life in front of her. She wanted expensive clothes and a big car. There was only one way to have these things — she had to make it to the top.
“We’ve talked it over a hundred times,” she said. “It just isn’t the time.”
She thought he was going to take the road that led up to Orange Street but he turned off toward the park instead.
“I love you,” he said, speaking slowly. “I make a decent living and my folks have agreed to fix up the second floor of the house for an apartment. Isn’t that swell? Our rent would be low and they have some furniture we could use until we could buy our own. You wouldn’t have to work. I can support you on my salary.”
He swung the car into the narrow roadway that led to the darkness of the park. They had come up there many times in the past, nights when she had wanted him as badly as he had wanted her. But that was not true of this night.
“Let’s not park,” she said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t. I know what you want to do. We could have talked in front of the house.”
He found a place under some trees and parked the car, shutting off the motor as they drifted to a stop. When he cut the lights it became black all around them. He lit a cigarette but he didn’t smoke much of it. He threw it away.
“This is four years for us,” he said. “We ought to know by now what we want. You can’t tell me that two people can do what we have done and not feel something for each other.”
“We’ve had some good times together,” she admitted.
“Like this?”
“I didn’t mean that. Remember when you took me fishing? I didn’t know the first thing about it and it was fun.”
“We didn’t do much fishing.”
They hadn’t. It had been at a lonely spot along a lake and she had caught the fishing hook in her skirt. He had removed the hook, tearing some of the material, and then he had kissed her. After that they had gone back to the car and had made love until dark. He had taken her naked that day, naked and yielding, and she had begged him to please her. He had no
t failed her.
“I want something out of life,” he said, coming across the seat to her. “I want living to have some meaning and purpose. Don’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“And I can’t find either if we go on the way we’ve been going on. It just isn’t sense. We could have been married a long time ago. We could be living together now.”
“Let’s not talk about it, Joe.”
His arm came around her shoulders.
“Why shouldn’t we talk about it? You know what I want. I love you, Cherry. Isn’t that enough?”
The year she had graduated from high school, especially that summer, she had almost believed that his love was enough. She had very nearly married him. Now she was glad that she hadn’t.
“There is something I have to have before marriage,” she told him. “I wouldn’t make a good wife if I were dreaming all the time about what I could have done if I hadn’t married. It wouldn’t be any good for you and it wouldn’t be any good for me.”
“You won’t get anywhere.”
“That’s for me to find out.”
His right hand crept downward and tried to touch her breast but she brushed it away.
“I have some money saved,” he said, “but I wouldn’t give it to you. I don’t want you to leave and I’m afraid of what will happen to you if you do. You ought to know by now that it’s tough to get ahead. Those beauty contests you entered — sure, you won, but what did you get from them? Hundreds of girls win hundreds of beauty contests every year. Others sing and dance, some as well as you do and some better. How many of them ever get what they want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not many. One out of a thousand? I couldn’t tell you. I don’t think anybody knows. I’ll bet most of them settle for marriage and a home.”
She started to say something but he didn’t give her a chance. His mouth was over her lips, and this time she couldn’t keep his hand away from her. His fingers hurt, driving into her flesh, and a slight gasp escaped her. Yet she rose to the pain, rose as she always did, and although she had promised herself that she wouldn’t she returned his kiss.
