Bachelor Girl

by Kim van Alkemade

  With some trepidation, I gathered up my notes and went into his office. Gilt-framed oil paintings hung from the oak-paneled walls and dust motes danced in the light streaming in through spotless windows. Behind a broad walnut desk, the Colonel, hatless, sat centered between the telephone and a Chinese vase fitted as a lamp. He gestured me closer. “Go ahead, Kramer.”

  I flipped a page on my notepad. “The members of the Brewers’ Association are getting nervous, now that Massachusetts has ratified. They’re asking for an emergency meeting to plan strategy in case the amendment becomes law.”

  “Prohibition will never pass as long as women don’t have the vote. It’s just those frontier states trying to tell the rest of the country how to live.” I almost interrupted to remind him that Virginia and Delaware had ratified before Montana and Texas, but I held my tongue. “Anyway, intoxicating liquor isn’t the same as beer. Beer is food. You can raise babies on it. Put them off until the annual assembly. What’s next?”

  “Miller Huggins sent a note asking to see you this morning.”

  “Am I free?”

  “You don’t have anything until that man from the orphanage at noon.”

  He tilted back in his chair. “What’s that about, a donation?”

  “No, real estate.” I checked my notes. “Felix Stern. He wants to sell the property and thought it might interest you.”

  “What did they do, run out of orphans?”

  I smiled at his joke. “I’m not sure, but the property’s two entire blocks. It’s in Harlem, between Broadway and Amsterdam. They already have the cross street closed. He says it’s five acres.”

  “Five acres?” The Colonel got a distant look in his eye as I imagined him visualizing a map of Manhattan. “My engineers would prefer ten, but that seems impossible to come by in the city. What else?”

  At twelve thirty he had lunch in the private dining room with his brother, George, who ran the daily operations at the brewery, followed by their usual game of pool in the billiards room. In the afternoon he had meetings with his real estate lawyer and his public relations man. “After three o’clock your calendar is clear until your dinner at Delmonico’s with Mr. Astor.” I flipped a page on my pad. “Oh, and Ethel Barrymore’s starring in a new comedy at the Empire Theatre, the reviews have been very good. I had tickets set aside for you at the box office in case you cared to attend on Saturday.”

  He nodded. I sensed his satisfaction at my efficiency, the way I’d come to know his routines and habits. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all, sir.”

  I turned to go, but he cleared his throat. “That bow tie, Kramer.”

  “Is something wrong, Colonel?”

  “Rather festive for the office, don’t you think?”

  I put my hand to my neck. “Isn’t it brown?”

  “I forget, you’re color-blind, aren’t you? No, Kramer, it’s not brown. It’s red, bright red.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. It really was of no consequence, but I tended to panic anytime my worlds collided, even in as innocent a way as this. “I must have picked it out by mistake.”

  “Of course you did. Come here.” He rose from his desk and went over to a closet where he kept a change of clothes in case he needed to go directly from the office to an evening affair. He offered me a bow tie that was unmistakably black. “Take that one off.”

  “Certainly, sir.” I undid the knot and pulled the offensive tie from around my collar. I reached for the black one, thinking I’d go put it on in the washroom, but instead he stepped close and looped it around my neck. He began to tie it for me, our faces inches apart. I could smell the peppermint on his breath.

  “That’s better.” He tugged the knot into place and stepped back. “I can’t have people mistaking my personal secretary for a window dresser, can I, Kramer?”

  I had assumed he objected to the tie because it was too colorful for a place of business. I hadn’t expected him to understand its other meaning as the calling card of a pansy. “Of course not, sir.”

  He stuffed the red silk into my pocket. “Let me know when Huggins arrives.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I gathered up my notes while the Colonel went back to his desk and dialed the telephone. As I closed the door behind me, I heard him say, “Hello, Teresa?”

  Chapter 3

  Exhaustion caught up to me as I got home from the Olde Playhouse. When Clarence saw me staggering up the walk, he ran out to take my arm. Grateful, I allowed the weight of my elbow to sink into his steady hand. He steered me into the lobby, sweeping a newspaper off his stool and sitting me down. “What were you thinking, Helen? You know you shouldn’t be out on your own.”

  “That’s what you say, but see? I made it home all by myself. I am tired, though.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive, girl.” He turned my wrist over to measure the pulse of my blue veins, his brown fingers warm against my pale skin. I looked at his face, so different from mine yet more familiar to me than my own brother’s. Rex had only been five years old when our mother moved us to Manhattan, so hard on the heels of our father’s death I was in a daze all that summer before the start of sixth grade. It was Clarence who’d introduced me to the city, teaching me how a single nickel dropped into a turnstile of the El could buy us an endless flying carpet ride above the streets of New York. I remembered standing in the vestibule between the train cars, our hands gripping the swaying chains, while he tutored me in the geography of the city.

  “We almost lost you, Helen. That’s not something to play around with.” His breath, as he spoke, was scented with clove.

  “You worry too much, Clarence. I’m a grown woman, not one of your little sisters. Anyway, now you know how I feel about you enlisting with that Negro regiment. You’ll be risking your life, and for what? What have the Germans ever done to you?”

  “You’re not going to change the subject by bringing that up again. We’re talking about you, Helen. Where did you go?”

  I reclaimed my wrist and dropped my eyes. “To the Olde Playhouse.”

  “Not to see that director, I hope.” Clarence had been up late studying in the lobby one night when Harrison dropped me off. What kind of man, he’d asked, would leave a woman at the curb in the middle of the night? Though I’d defended Harrison at the time, I was inclined now to agree with Clarence’s assessment of his character.

  “No, not to see him. But I did see him, and it was fine. I’m fine, Clarence, really I am.”

  “He better not come around here is all I’m saying. Let’s get you up to your mother before she comes looking for you.” Taking my arm, he led me to the elevator. He reached in to press the button for my floor, our faces so close I could see hints of green in the brown of his eyes, like moss on tree bark. I resisted an urge to rest my forehead against his rib cage.

  My mother yanked open our door as soon as she heard the scrape of my key in the lock. “Thank God, Helen. I’ve been worried sick.”

  That morning, I’d felt brave sneaking out of the apartment. Now, I felt guilty for the wrinkles that marred her mouth. Growing up, she’d been the prettiest of all the mothers, her blond hair curling sweetly around her slender neck, her eyes like gemstones in her delicate face. She was still beautiful, though the years since my father’s death had taken their toll. I remembered how, when I was a girl, people who saw us together often said I must have gotten my looks from my dad. I knew it wasn’t meant as a compliment, but I took it as one. As far as I was concerned, my father was the best man in the world.

  I tried to sound casual, but she could see how worn out I was. “I’m sorry, Mom. It was such a nice day, I just wanted to go for a walk.” I dodged her questions about where’d I’d been by saying I needed to lie down. Before I went into my bedroom, though, I remembered to tell her the butcher had telephoned.

  “The butcher?”

  “I think that’s who it was. He sounded German. Anyway, he asked for you.”

  “German?
Oh, Helen, that must have been Jacob Ruppert.”

  “Ruppert?” I shuddered to say his name. “Why would he be calling?”

  “He calls me every year. Don’t you know what day it is?”

  I looked across the living room at the calendar on the wall. My sense of time had been disrupted by the months of illness—my own birthday in March had come and gone unremarked—but seeing the numbered square on the month of May, I was ashamed of myself for not noticing sooner. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

  She came over and brushed the hair back from my forehead. “I can hardly expect you to remember the anniversary of your father’s death, not after everything you’ve been through.”

  I hugged her close. “I’m sorry just the same.” Leaning back, I asked, “But why does Ruppert call? Does he still feel so guilty about Daddy?”

  “I hope not. Your father’s death was an accident. The coroner was clear about that. Even so, he does feel responsible.”

  And well he should, I thought, shutting my door. I flopped onto the bed, my shirtwaist twisting around my chest as my thoughts were pulled back to childhood. I supposed it was the texture of nostalgia that made those years seem so idyllic. I smiled to recall the Saturday mornings when I’d evade my mother in the kitchen, skipping across the backyard to my father’s garage. I could still picture that big barn door rolled open, its contents displayed like a diorama: walls studded with hooks from which hung loops of wire and chain; shelves weighed down by tubs of grease and cans of oil; a wooden workbench fitted with clamps and strewn with saws and screwdrivers. I’d find my father with a tool belt buckled around his stained overalls, crouching next to a disassembled machine or standing at his workbench fixing a gear. I’d enter and he’d look up, squinting against the sunlight behind me, his kind face bracketed by thick sideburns. Instead of sending me away, he’d gesture with his chin to a hook on the wall. “Better put on a smock,” he’d say.

  When I was little it had been a novelty that made the neighbors smile, the way Jerry Winthrope’s daughter could hand him any tool he asked for. As I got older, though, my mother cringed to see me handling tools with dirt under my nails. She’d expected my interest in the garage to disappear as I grew into a proper girl, but there I was, finishing fifth grade and still eager to fix an engine. No one seemed to care that I was better at mechanics than housework. Everyone said eventually I’d have to learn how to bake biscuits and stitch quilts and knit scarves and every other thing a girl needed to know—but not if I could help it.

  That morning, I tied the smock over my dress and joined him at the workbench. Glancing at the gear in his hand, I selected a slender screwdriver with a flat head and a worn wooden handle. He grunted appreciatively as he fit it perfectly into the screw on the shaft. “So, Helen, what do you think of that?” He pointed to a dark corner of the garage. I approached what looked like a complicated bicycle with big white wheels. Between the chrome handlebars and the leather seat was a cylindrical tank emblazoned with the word INDIAN. Dad went over to the window and opened the shutters. Sunlight streamed in, making the gilt letters glow.

  “Is it a motorized bicycle?”

  “A motorcycle. Built for racing. They say it can go fifty miles an hour. The company loaned it to me so I can learn how to maintain it, but I’ll earn a commission if I sell it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I ran my hand across the bright handlebars. “Can’t we keep it?”

  “Not unless you have three hundred and sixty dollars saved up that I don’t know about. But I am thinking of branching out into sales. That’s where the real money is nowadays.” He put an arm around my shoulders. I looked up at the hollow place at the base of his neck where tufts of hair peeked through his open collar. The tang of bleach cut through the musty smell from under his arm as I inhaled my father’s familiar scent.

  The sound of an approaching engine drove us apart. The most magnificent automobile I’d ever seen pulled up to the garage. Behind its ornamented brass grille, the body of the car dipped nearly to the ground while its fenders arched up like wings over the huge tires. My father whistled. “That’s a brand-new American Underslung Roadster.” The engine switched off and black smoke coughed from the tailpipe. “With an oil leak.”

  The driver slid across the tufted leather seat and stepped out of the car, removing his gloves and driving goggles. Black hair swooped back from a broad forehead above dark eyes set in a stern face. “That’s right. My chauffeur can’t make heads or tails of it. I said to myself, if Jerry Winthrope can’t fix it, no one can.” The strange way he talked reminded me of my friend Gretchen’s grandpa. He extended his hand, a gold cuff link winking in the white fold of his shirtsleeve. “How have you been, Jerry?”

  My father slid his palms down his overalls to wipe away the grease, then took the man’s small hand in both of his own. “I’ve been good, Jake. It’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

  “It’s been a dozen years since my father stopped racing his trotters. I suppose that was the last summer you came down to Linwood. Do you still race?”

  “Not horses, no, not since I got into engines. I heard you sold off your stable.”

  “Belmont was too crooked for me. I don’t mind losing a fair race, but I hate to be cheated.”

  “Admit it, Jake.” My dad, laughing, finally let go of the man’s hand. “You hate to lose, period, full stop.”

  “I forget how well you know me, Jerry.” He turned to me. “And who do we have here?”

  “This is my daughter. Helen, meet Colonel Jacob Ruppert.”

  I managed a shy hello in response to his rather formal bow. He glanced at my stained smock and dirty hands. “Is this what the new century is coming to, Jerry? We have girl mechanics now?”

  I smiled, liking the idea. “I help my daddy whenever I can.”

  He frowned. “And what does your mother think of that?”

  “She thinks girls should keep house, but I want to do other things.”

  The two men’s eyes met and they shared a laugh. “You’ve got yourself a suffragette here, Jerry. I hope she’s not for temperance, too. Say, what’s that?” Dad and I trailed after Colonel Ruppert as he stepped toward the back of the garage. “Now there’s a beautiful motorcycle.”

  “It’s brand new. Indian started producing a factory model, but it’s still fast enough to be a racer.”

  Remembering what my dad had said about earning a commission, I spoke up. “It can go fifty miles an hour.”

  Colonel Ruppert whistled. “Fifty miles an hour is almost as fast as my Roadster.”

  “I bet it can go even faster than that,” Dad said, picking up on my sales pitch. “Do you want to try it out, Jake? If you like it I can sell it to you.”

  A car horn sounded in the street. “That will be my chauffeur. I had him follow me up from the estate.”

  I sidled closer. “Are you neighbors with the Vanderbilts and the Astors?”

  Colonel Ruppert gave me a searching look. “Linwood is not exactly in Hyde Park, but we do visit. So, Jerry, can you fix my Roadster?”

  “It’s probably a gasket or a bad seal. I expect I’ll have it done for you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll come back then. How fast did you say that motorcycle can go?”

  “I’ve heard of it getting up to sixty.”

  “If that’s true I might just want it. There’s nothing like going fast, is there, Helen?” I shook my head, though I couldn’t begin to imagine what the world would look like whipping by at such speed. “Until tomorrow, then, Jerry.” Colonel Ruppert got into the back of a black Packard, complete with a hard roof and glass windows, and motored down the street.

  Dad combed his fingers through my hair. “Jake seemed pretty taken with the motorcycle, didn’t he, Helen? I’d make a fortune if those millionaires from the estates started buying from me. I might have to turn you into a girl mechanic after all.”

  I shuddered now to remember how proud I’d felt that day for having spoken up about
the motorcycle. If only I’d kept my mouth shut, my father might still be alive. We might all still be living upstate in our little house. I might have even become a mechanic—but no, that was taking my ‘what ifs’ too far, I thought, turning over in bed and punching my pillow. Still, I blamed myself for bragging to Ruppert about the Indian’s speed. When he came back the next day, he challenged my dad to a race. If the Indian could beat his Roadster he’d buy it on the spot, he said, displaying the cash to prove it. The very last time I saw my father, he was kick-starting the engine and fitting driving goggles over his eyes.

  It had been years since I allowed myself to think about what happened next. I’d been in the living room, watching my little brother and darning socks, a hated task my mother insisted I accomplish. I’d finished one sock and was starting on another when a fist began to bang on the front door. Rex looked up from his building blocks spread across the braided rug. Still holding the darning egg, I opened the door. Colonel Ruppert was standing there, his canvas duster smeared with mud and blood. I squinted up at his dirty face, eyes outlined like a raccoon’s from the driving goggles that hung, forgotten, around his neck. Fear rose up in me, freezing my lungs so that I could hardly breathe.

  He scanned the room with shocked eyes. Seeing it was only us children, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me away from him. With a nudge, he pushed me forward. “Go get your mother, Helen, then take your brother outside.”

  She was out back taking in the laundry from the line, a pouch of clothespins at her waist. Too frightened to speak, I beckoned her wordlessly. Not knowing what was the matter, she picked up the laundry basket before following me into the house. Colonel Ruppert still stood in the doorway, the afternoon sun rendering him a shadow.

  “Teresa, I’m so sorry.”

  The choke in his voice told my mother all she needed to know. She dropped the basket, clean clothes unfolding themselves as they fell. I took Rex by the hand and dragged him outside. We huddled on the back porch, the sound of our mother’s cries reaching us through an open window. Across the lawn, the doors of Daddy’s garage stood open, as if expecting his return.