Diary of a Wildflower

by Ruth White

  Monday evening, June 24th, 1929

  “Is there somewhere you have to be tonight?” Brody asks me.

  “No, why?”

  “Good. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

  He turns me in the opposite direction from the automobile.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “To The Last Supper.”

  I laugh. “I hope it’s not the last.”

  “Not the last and not supper either,” Brody says. “They serve a little food, but nothing like a meal. It’s a front for a speakeasy. The real business is in the back room.”

  “Won’t somebody be wondering where you are?” I ask him.

  He jerks his head around to look at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Your mother and father,” I hasten to explain. “Aren’t they expecting you back for dinner?”

  “No. Mother took to her bed this morning.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I have disappointed her so dreadfully, she is in a fit of depression.”

  “I’m sorry, Brody,” I say.

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “For the stress this must create for you.”

  “No stress,” he says. “Today I’m happy. I haven’t laughed so much since I was a kid.”

  We come to a stairwell that leads below the street. A rusty sign reading The Last Supper hangs in front of a doorway. We enter a tiny restaurant with dim lights, checkered table cloths and the sound of classical music being mutilated by a scratchy victrola needle. There are two couples seated at the tables. A big man comes forward to greet us. Brody addresses him as Fats.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Brody,” Fats says in a near whisper, then looks at me.

  “This is Miss Starr,” Brody says, also in a low voice, “a good friend of the family. She’s trustworthy. I guarantee it.”

  “Any friend of the Myles family is a friend of mine,” Fats says.

  Then he ushers us through a pair of beaded curtains which closes behind us. Down a hallway we come to a door. I can hear muted sounds from the other side.

  As Fats fits a key into the lock, Brody whispers in my ear, “In the future, if somebody asks you where do you get your hooch, you’re not to blurt it out.”

  “I promise.”

  Fats opens the door, and Brody and I step inside. Behind us the door is shut quickly. It’s as dingy as any room I have ever seen. There’s a thick cloud of smoke hanging low over everything. The laughter is shrill and the music too loud. There are people sitting around at tables drinking only god knows what, smoking cigarettes, some of them eating, and some of them cavorting on a circular dance floor in the middle of the room. I have read that the speakeasy has become the great social equalizer during prohibition, and I can see it here. These people appear to range from high society to those on the skids.

  Many of them call to Brody, and he greets them by name. He leads me to a table in a far corner. In spite of the drabness, I am exhilarated by my first sight of a speakeasy. Brody takes off his skimmer, lays it on the corner of the table and runs a hand through his thick dark hair. As soon as we are seated, a woman comes to attend us. She is middle-aged, big, blond and blue-eyed, wearing a low cut dress and a frilly apron below her ample bosoms.

  “Hey, Judy,” Brody says.

  “Brody, my lad,” she says. “Where’s the little brother tonight?”

  “I found more interesting company,” Brody says.

  “Well, ain’t she the lucky gal?” Judy says as she looks me over. “How old are you, dahlin’?”

  “She’s eighteen,” Brody says quickly before I can respond. “What difference does it make?”

  “We might be illegal, but we ain’t immoral,” Judy says. “Still I’ll take your word for it. What can I get‘cha?”

  “How about a glass of champagne?” Brody asks me.

  I nod.

  “One glass for the two of us,” he says to Judy. “The good stuff.”

  Judy’s penciled eyebrows go up. “You mean the best?”

  “Absolutely. The best you got in the house.”

  “Brody, you know I can’t sell that pricey stuff by the glass. You’ll have to buy the whole bottle ‘cause it don’t save.”

  “Okay, the whole bottle,” Brody agrees. “Then bring us one glass and give the rest of it away.”

  “Give it away?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you who gets it when I see the right person.”

  “What a darb you are!” Judy says with a grin.

  “And bring us bread and cheese and strawberries,” Brody goes on.

  Judy nods and leaves us.

  “We’ll just split the one glass,” he says. “I’ll not be responsible for corrupting you.”

  “I’ve been corrupted already, remember?” I say.

  He grins at me. “You’re not eighteen, are you?”

  “I am older than the hills,” I say.

  “That old?”

  “I was never a child.”

  He gives me a searching look. “You do seem to have a wisdom beyond your years.”

  Then we both watch the dancers. To my inexperienced eye some of them look very good, but others not so much. The music ends.

  Brody takes a nickel from his pocket. “Wanna give it a whirl?”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Says you!”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I’ve never been to a place where there was dancing – until the party at your house.”

  “Then let me teach you,” he says. “We’ll start with something easy like the jitterbug.”

  I clap my hands together like a little girl. “Oh, yes!”

  He grins again. “I know just the song for you.”

  With these words he goes to the nickelodeon, drops in the nickel and punches his selection. I can hardly believe it when Five Foot Two begins to play. He stands by our table and holds out both hands to me.

  “You can’t go wrong with this one,” he says. “Just move your feet to the beat.”

  So I listen to Brody’s instructions, follow his lead, and experience my first real dance.

  He watches my movements. “Good!” A minute later he says, “Ducky!” And later still, “Terrific!”

  We finish that dance, and stay on the floor for another fast one on somebody else’s nickel. Then, laughing and breathless, we go back to our table to find that our drink and food have arrived. Brody drops a strawberry into the glass, making the champagne fizz and sparkle like so many shooting stars. Then he takes the glass by the stem and tips it to my lips.

  “Sip,” says he.

  I sip. It’s as light as a misty rain trickling down my throat. “Umm..mm.”

  “Good?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes. A far cry from Appalachian blackberry wine!”

  He takes the glass, turns it around and sips from the spot my lips have touched.

  “Yes, it is good,” he agrees, “but what would your mother say?”

  “She would jump up and down in her grave,” I say.

  He slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Oh, god, she’s dead?”

  I have to laugh. “It’s okay, Brody. She died years ago. Too many babies. She might have lived longer if she had had a glass of champagne once in a while.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  “And you were left to take care of the house and younger siblings?”

  I can smell the strawberries. I take a piece of cheese and bread. I take another sip of champagne. No, I won’t return to Starr Mountain tonight. Not even with Brody.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Want to dance again?”

  At that moment a nice-looking young man appears beside our table and slaps Brody on the back. “Hey Bo!” Before Brody can speak, the man turns to me and says, “This has to be the lovely Miss Temple.” He takes my hand and kisses it.

  Brody jumps to his feet. “No. This is Miss Starr, a close family friend.”

  “Oh, I’m so…so
sorry, Miss Starr,” the young man says. “I do beg your pardon.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I say.

  Brody holds out a hand to me. “Excuse us, Luke,” he says to the man, “but we were on our way to the dance floor.”

  I take his hand and we leave Luke standing there.

  “No introduction?” I chide Brody. “That’s an unforgivable breach of etiquette.”

  “Believe me,” he says, “this breach is forgivable.”

  We do a fox trot, which is easy, then attempt the tango, which is hard, but so..oo exciting I almost want to shout for joy.

  “Now you’re on the trolley!” Brody compliments me as we finish. “The tango is a difficult dance.”

  Then there comes music I recognize. “The Charleston!”

  “You can do this one?” Brody says.

  “A little.”

  Every couple in the room hits the floor for the Charleston, and I have this wonderful, warm sense of belonging, so unlike the feeling I had at the Myles party. Brody is impressed with my Charleston. I impress myself.

  We go back to the table, and I have another sip of champagne. I am beginning to feel its effects. Or maybe I am so happy I imagine it’s the champagne.

  Brody watches me, smiling. “Your face is pink,” he says.

  “Yes, I’m excited.”

  “It’s very becoming,” he says.

  His eyes are deep and adoring. I could get lost in those eyes.

  “Just lookit!” an uneven voice startles me out of my reverie.

  I glance up to see an older woman, unsteady on her feet, trying to manage a glass of something which keeps spilling over the rim.

  “Just look at them faces!” she cries again.

  “Hello, Geneva,” Brody says. “What’s the latest?”

  “You two love birds!” she hollers. “Can’t hardly believe what I’m seeing.”

  Brody’s eyes dart around at the people near us. The woman has attracted attention to us, and he’s obviously uncomfortable.

  “Y’all are gonna have the prettiest little babies this world has ever seen!” Geneva goes on, and everybody laughs.

  Judy appears to rescue us. “Come on, Geneva,” she coaxes the woman. “Leave Brody alone.”

  “But it’s the truth, Judy!” Geneva cries again. “Just look at’em. Don’t you think they’ll have bee..u..tee..ful babies?”

  After a few moments Judy manages to nudge Geneva away from me and Brody, and the people politely turn their attention elsewhere. Now I don’t know where to look. Nor does Brody. There is no music at the moment, therefore no dancers to watch. So we stare at the table cloth.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he finally says.

  “Where are you going?”

  He smiles. “To iron my shoelaces.”

  “To what? Oh…sorry. Sure. Go.”

  I watch him walk away. Luke, who is sitting with two other young men, grabs Brody’s arm as he goes by. Brody stops for a word with them. Luke turns and looks at me, says something to Brody and smiles. Then all the fellas look my way and smile. Brody pulls away from Luke and goes on his way. I avert my eyes.

  Samuel pops into my head. Whatever you do, have a good time. You never had a chance to be a little girl. You never had time to play.

  I look down at my hands where the callouses are healing nicely. Then I watch the dancers who are beginning another Charleston. On returning to me, Brody takes a circuitous route around the room, apparently to avoid going by the the table where Luke is seated.

  “Did anybody bother you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I think he’s referring to Geneva, but he glances at Luke’s table.

  “Are they all friends of yours?” I ask.

  “College chums.”

  “Were they invited to the party?”

  “Luke was, but he was in Europe with his family.” Then he changes the subject quickly. “Let’s dance.”

  And so the evening goes. I forget about everything and everybody else as we talk and laugh and dance. As he tips the last of the champagne up to my lips, a figure looms over our table once again. It’s Luke.

  “Do you mind if I ask Miss Starr to dance?” he says politely to Brody.

  “Oh!” Brody seems a bit confused. “Uh..well, sure, go ahead.”

  Luke turns to me. “Miss Starr, will you do me the honor?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to be rude to Luke when he is so respectful, but I don’t want to offend Brody. What is a girl supposed to do in this situation? I haven’t had enough experience to know. Then I remember that at the Myles party most everybody danced with partners other than the ones they came in with. It seemed to be the thing to do.

  “I’m not very good,” I say to Luke.

  He holds out a hand to me. “I saw you out there. I think you’re copacetic.”

  I place my hand in Luke’s then look at Brody again. He nods his head at me, as if to say it’s all right. So I reluctantly go onto the dance floor with Luke. It’s another fox trot, and fairly easy to follow.

  “May I know your first name?” Luke asks.

  “Lorelei.”

  “Lorelei. That’s lovely. Do you live here in Charlottesville?”

  “I am staying with the Myles.” It’s not a lie.

  “Oh, I see. Am I right in assuming that Brody is still engaged to Miss Temple?”

  “Of course he is,” I say.

  “Funny thing, when I asked Brody that question, he didn’t respond,” Luke says and pulls me closer to him. “Then the two of you really are just friends?”

  “Yes.” I pull away from him.

  “Would you think me impertinent if I asked to call on you?”

  Again I hesitate. He is a gentleman, and a very handsome one at that. I look at Brody. He is watching me with those gentle dark eyes.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” I say to Luke.

  “Should I ask Mr. Myles?” he says.

  “Brody? Of course not.”

  He smiles. “I meant Brody’s father.”

  “Oh.”

  The music ends, and Luke clutches my arm. “Please?”

  I look at Brody again. Yes, he is engaged to be married, and yes, we are playing charades, but…

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I say to Luke as we walk back to Brody.

  “Thank you, Miss Starr,” Luke says, as he seats me, then turns to Brody. “And thank you, sir.”

  “Sure thing,” Brody says.

  There is silence between us again, and this time I don’t know what it means. We watch the dancers. When I sneak a peek at Brody, I find that he is doing that odd search of my face again.

  “What?” I say. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You don’t even get it, do you?” he says.

  “What don’t I get?”

  “That they are dazzled by you,” he says. “All three of them.”

  “Who?” I say. “Those fellas?” I gesture toward the table.

  “Yes, those fellas. Didn’t Luke ask to come calling?”

  “There you go again!” I tease him. “Being a nosy old lady.”

  “I admit it,” he says.

  “You and Roman too,” I say.

  “Roman again?”

  “Yeah. Roman was going through my outgoing mail the other day, trying to figure out if I was sending a love letter.”

  “Do you see a lot of Roman?” he asks.

  “No, I rarely run into him.”

  “You should keep it that way,” he says. “Still you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Which question is that?”

  “You know perfectly well – Luke.”

  “Yes, he’s a nice fella.”

  “So are you going to let him call?”

  I can see a pulse throbbing in his throat.

  “No, Brody.”

  He pats my hand where it rests on the table. “Atta girl.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Is he not reputable?”

  “Perfectly reputable,”
he says, “and richer than god. But I don’t like him.”

  I laugh out loud. “That doesn’t mean that I can’t like him!”

  “But you don’t, do you?”

  “Not as a suitor.”

  Brody seems satisfied with that answer, and we get back to dancing. More than anything I want to waltz with him, for then he will hold me close. But I surmise, in a place like this, waltzes are not routinely played. Even with less romantic dances we can still touch hands without breaking the rules. We can still look into each other’s eyes – if only briefly. And going back to our table he can place a hand protectively around my waist.

  Judy comes over and says, “The fizz is still on ice. If you’ve changed your mind, I can bring you another glass.”

  “No,thanks,” Brody says. “After we’re gone, take the rest of the bottle and give it to Luke’s table.”

  “That bunch of saps?” Judy says.

  “Yeah,” Brody says with a mischievous grin. “Tell them it’s the consolation prize, and I hope it softens their disappointment.”

  “Consolation prize….softens disappointment,” Judy repeats. “Will do.”

  Then Brody pays our bill and gives Judy a dollar. She is impressed.

  “Bring Cinderella here anytime,” she says before she leaves us.

  Brody looks at his watch. “It’s very late.”

  “So late that Cinderella might turn back into a drudge?” I ask.

  He gives me a sad smile.

  “I’m not complaining,” I add quickly.

  He guides me through the room, carefully avoiding Luke’s table again. We slip out the door, up the hallway, through the beaded curtains and into the Last Supper, where we say goodnight to Fats. Brody keeps his hand on my back as we walk up the stairs to the street and to the car. His touch is warm. He opens the door for me and I slide in. He drives slowly toward home. The car is dark and we are no more than a foot away from each other. I could reach out and run my hand ever-so-gently up the back of his brown neck. But that would definitely be cheating.

  As we approach the Myles estate, he says to me, “I enjoy your company, Lorelei. You find simple things exciting, and that makes them exciting for me as well.”

  He stops the car in front of the slave quarters. He is gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.

  “Thank you for a wonderful day,” I whisper.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he whispers also.

  I get out of the car and walk away without looking back. Dixie is waiting for me. I apologize to her for being so late. I snap on the light and turn down the coverlet. Dixie lies on the rug, thinking I am ready to go to bed. But not yet, Dixie my girl. Not quite yet.