She didn’t answer for a little while.
Eventually—“Well, I guess I’ll go.”
As if it was nothing.
Lisa would have to call in sick to the airline to make this show, and her supervisor wouldn’t take it so kindly. Yet she had always imagined what it might be like for Billy to spin her around the aisles of the concert hall, and the prospect of fulfilling this fantasy was too tempting to skip.
Billy stroked her hand again, twirling his finger around her thumb. “That’s great, babe. I can’t wait.” The soda jerk set their cream sodas in front of them, fizzy and brown in tall glasses, and they both took sips. “Gesundheit!” he yelled, right before she sneezed—their usual joke.
Then everything was the same as it had been again.
Comfortable.
Billy’s calloused hands came to her face, and he stroked the side of her cheek, under her hair, and moved to the warm nape of her neck. The strong roughness of his hands shot an electric current into her body.
Billy’s father had been on his way to Paris with another woman. His father had stroked the woman’s face like that too.
His father, in a tailored suit, working some job in politics. Slick and sly. Lisa’s mother never trusted politicians.
But Billy was sincere, in his construction overalls; although his family had money, he had chosen honest work, with his hands. He was a different man from his father.
* * *
“I knew you would go back to him.”
“Ma, please.” Lisa turned away.
“You don’t seem to realize that looks are temporary. He may be a gorgeous young man, but you also want to make sure that he’s a nice guy. And don’t be distracted by those things he buys you. You think just because he comes from a well-off family that he will take care of you, Lisa?”
“He has his own job, Ma. Please. I really don’t want to hear this right now.”
Lisa sought shelter in her room. She felt bloated, her skirt tight around the waist. The stewardesses had regular weigh-ins, and if she gained more than a few pounds, she would go on probation.
Yet another reason to call in sick. She would take a couple of days to try to get her weight back down; it would be a bonus to see Johnny and the Trebles with Billy.
* * *
She dialed her supervisor. “I’m so sorry. I’m feeling so queasy right now. I really shouldn’t fly out today.”
It wasn’t so hard to sound sick.
* * *
Billy arrived at her apartment the next day, right on time.
“I don’t want to be late for you again, babe.”
The stubble on his chin rubbed into her neck. He gave her roses, slipped his hand into hers, and said things that made her blush and giggle.
At the Johnny and the Trebles concert, the band played her favorite song. Billy swung her around to dance, his hands reassuringly strong. All the girls stared, as if Lisa was the luckiest among them. The moment felt like a daydream sequence come alive, and the thrilling wail of the lead singer pulsed through her veins as Billy held her tight.
She was alive, in the thrilling glow of his presence. She could lose herself in him.
But there was a reminder before they drove home. He came back from the restroom smelling like that cologne of his father’s.
He wore a chipper smile—the grin of someone enjoying the evening.
She started to lead into her secret knowledge, in a rush of air, like she couldn’t stop it: “Hey, I was wondering—what’s been going on with your father? What’s he been up to lately?”
Billy adjusted his jacket and smirked. “Politics. The usual. You know my pops.”
“Yeah, I do—” Then her throat seized up, and she couldn’t say more.
* * *
She spent the next few days in a glorious haze with Billy, on her sick leave. They darted in and out of luncheonettes, went to the movies, and went to third base in the back seat of his car. She had fun, although she was dizzy from skipping meals and drinking too much coffee.
Her skirt felt looser around her waist; her hands skittered downward, feeling the give of the fabric as she drew inward.
There were so many golden moments with Billy, but there were the other ones, too. He wasn’t always nice; sometimes he commented about people he didn’t even know: that “fat hag” or the “wrinkled raisin.” He would laugh in the midst of his jokes, and he sometimes made her laugh in spite of herself. Then he would grab her with his strong arms, muscled from his heavy work at the construction site, and she would tilt her body away for a moment but then let it release.
* * *
Lisa weighed herself before leaving the apartment at six AM. Done with “sick leave”—time to fly out again.
She had lost four pounds. Her supervisor would still give her a stern look, but now she was in the acceptable zone, and her job was safe.
On the train and bus, some of the passengers glanced up from their papers to look at her flight uniform. Their outfits were mostly plain compared to her azure-blue Pan Am ensemble. They would take quick glances at her luggage tags; she would hold her upright stance solid. The girls at the Starlite would have asked about the countries on her tags, and she would have shared news of her journeys. Lisa was the new girl, so they would notice her even more. But she hadn’t been to the Starlite for a week, and now she would be going away for another week.
When she arrived at the airport, she passed the bench where she had cried about Billy.
The copilot would have called it “a blip on the radar.”
“Hey, Lisa!” Her friend Betsy dashed over to her. “We missed you the other day! There was this girl, a substitute. I brought some man the wrong cocktail, and she told Jane on me! Can you believe it?”
“Oh, no!” Lisa had played sick—now here was the consequence.
They headed into the Pan Am room, which bustled with girls getting their weigh-ins before the day’s briefing.
Betsy moaned. “I shouldn’t have had that doughnut. I forgot about weigh-in today!”
The acid of Lisa’s empty stomach licked her throat with fire. Her last three meals had been cups of coffee, taken black.
“Good morning.” Mrs. Osbourne, with a neutral expression, instructed them to step on the scales. “Lisa—one twenty-five. Passing moderately. Betsy—one twenty-nine, passing just barely.”
Betsy gave a horrified tug at her waistband. Lisa, meanwhile, sighed with relief. She looked down with a little smile at the gold locket around her neck. She was under the weight limit for now, and she would hopefully be married in the next couple of years.
Stewardesses were forced to retire at age thirty-two, or when they got married. Lisa didn’t want to be kicked out for her weight or for her age. She wanted to be kicked out because she had a man.
17
Elaine
Elaine would start her new job at the Chronicle in three days.
She spent the afternoon on Nostrand Avenue, shopping for work ensembles with Gloria, her friend from the poetry circle at the Starlite.
Gloria was bowled over by the fact that she was now associated with someone who worked at the Chronicle. She couldn’t stop talking about Elaine’s luck. “It’s funny, Elaine. I thought it was a big deal for me to get a secretary job at Dr. McAllister’s office. But—my God—you’ll be working at the Chronicle. I don’t even think I can get over it.” Gloria grabbed a burgundy leather purse from a shelf; then she turned, wide-eyed, after a glance at the purse’s price tag. “Oy. This purse is certainly not made with the salary of a doctor’s secretary in mind.”
Elaine picked up the purse and set it back down. “Nor is this purse designed for the salary of a fact-checker at the Chronicle.”
“Really? I thought anyone at the Chronicle would be doing really well. I mean, it’s one of the biggest papers in the country!” Gloria furrowed her brow, seeming dubious. “You know, Elaine, I really won’t think you’re bragging if you tell me you’ll be doing well.”
/> “There’s nothing to brag about, dear. I’ll just be contributing some money to the house—that’s all.”
Gloria was baffled. “Who would have thought?” Then she laughed. “I thought you would be rolling in the dough soon enough. Oh well, no matter—I still want to work for the Chronicle one day.”
Elaine grabbed a high-waisted skirt from a rack. “Maybe you can. If you really want it, maybe you can make it happen.” She held up the skirt to her body. “So, what do you think about this one here? What does this skirt say to you?”
“I think it says schoolmarm. Is that the look you’re going for?”
Elaine stared at the skirt for a long minute, considering; then she broke into giggles. “I knew I could trust you to be honest with me.”
* * *
After a few hours of shopping, Elaine found a couple of nice outfits and a new purse in patent leather. A professional style.
Everything looked sharp—assured.
Once she arrived home, she donned her new outfits and looked at herself in the mirror. She pretended to be the same as the clothes. Polished. Ready.
She was home, but Tommy was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t left a note either.
She walked up and down the hallway in her new shoes, breaking them in. Her feet ached, squeezed into unnatural angles.
But the echoing emptiness of the brownstone was more painful.
Tommy hadn’t talked much during the past couple of weeks, since it had come out into the open about her job.
He had worked more on his gadgets at home and stayed out more often.
And at nine tonight, he still hadn’t returned to the brownstone. But Catherine was back at the house, so Elaine straightened her brow and joined her in the kitchen for a late supper.
“How are you, dear sis?” Distracted, she peered out the window, as though Tommy might be there.
“Just dandy! But you look a little … off. Where’s the man?”
“We’re not married. I don’t keep track of him.”
The absurdity of her comment fell short of Catherine, who—absorbed with herself—switched the topic to a singing gig she’d gotten at a wedding. “Even the greats had to start somewhere!” she chirped.
“That’s great, Cat.” Elaine stabbed her food with her fork.
Catherine looks at her sideways. “You don’t seem happy for me!”
“I’m very happy for you!”
“Well, thanks—” But she appeared suspicious. “Hey, but really—you don’t know what Tommy’s up to this evening?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No.” He would be in any one of innumerable pubs, slapping the table, foaming at the mouth.
His absence was his form of revenge.
She’d gone behind his back to get a job. And she went to the Starlite quite often.
Elaine cupped her chin in her hands, moving her weary eyes to the door that wouldn’t open—no matter how much she willed Tommy to come home. She could almost fall asleep at the table as Catherine droned on and on about her dream to be the biggest jazz singer in New York.
Then Catherine went back to talking about Tommy, playing the part of an adult. “You know—I really don’t think he should be going out drinking, Elaine. Tommy gets so crazed when he’s plastered.”
“You get crazy when you drink too, Catherine.”
“I know how to rein it in.”
Elaine cleared her throat and shrugged. “Well, I guess I get pretty crazy too when I go out. So, he’s just doing the same thing.”
“You’ve never had more than two drinks in a row. Please. And you never get crazy.”
“I had two and a half once.” Elaine was on the defensive. “Please, dear sister, put our leftovers in the fridge for Tommy, so he’ll have something to eat when he comes home.”
She had been trying for a prework routine of early bedtimes—not late nights at the social club, especially with some strange man lurking about. But as her sister chattered on and on, Elaine bit her fingernails, waiting.
Finally, her hand moving automatically, Elaine dialed the Starlite.
“Madeline speaking!”
Madeline’s voice was startingly high-pitched with uproarious laughter; it was as though she had been caught in the middle of some grand fun.
“It’s Elaine. Just wanted to see if you’re hosting tonight.”
“Absolutely! It’s comedy night. Come on down and join us! It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”
“I’ll be there in a little bit.”
It would set a precedent, when Tommy came home, to find her gone. It was like a game: who could stay out the longest, who could live it up the most. Maybe it was the end. No bickering or nasty arguments. Instead, disappearances, as they flickered out of each other’s lives.
In front of the mirror above her bureau, Elaine freshened her makeup, her cheeks naturally flushed.
She yelled downstairs to Catherine. “Are you coming tonight?”
“I’m watching the telly. I need to take it easy—rest my singing voice.” Catherine made pretentious little hums with her throat, scales and la-ti-das.
“Fine,” Elaine said, then dashed out the door before anything could stop her.
* * *
She drove to the Starlite; she wouldn’t cross paths with Tommy out in the world, coming off the bus.
Once she arrived at the shop, she pounded the door, and a stray cat circled her ankles.
Madeline surprised her and yanked the door open with a whoosh of air.
Elaine was breathless. “My key wasn’t working.” All the regulars had a key.
“That’s because we changed the locks, my dear.” She ushered her inside, though they remained near the door, observing a performance from the back of the room. Others in the audience were already seated in folding chairs, facing a makeshift stage of garment boxes. Sandra was a mime—in an invisible box, its walls defined by the palms of her hands. Her box shattered and dropped her into an invisible boat, where she rowed with comic exaggeration against wind and waves. The whole room was in hysterics as Sandra built up an evident sweat, paddling on a river to nowhere.
For a brief moment, Elaine joined them in laughter, but she was out for a reason, and her hand clutched a key that didn’t work.
“Why did you change the locks?”
“Well—” Madeline moved them to a corner, behind a display of hats. “I’m almost positive that Fred has been trying to get a look in here. I bet he wants to see what’s going on in my dress shop at night. It had to be Fred—I saw him real quick, but I know that ugly forehead of his. I don’t know what he’s up to. I just want to keep safe.” Madeline brushed invisible crumbs off her skirt and smiled, then shifted Elaine back to the audience. “Here, have a seat,” she urged.
Someone else on stage was telling knock-knock jokes. The jokes were so outlandishly childish that the laughter built up as a prickly mockery of itself. The women on the ramshackle stage got more and more slaphappy as the night wore on, and even Elaine started to roll into hysterics along with them.
After the show, Harriet initiated a scavenger hunt. She asked Elaine to write little clues for the hidden objects, a task that served as a welcome focus for her attention.
Elaine set herself up in a corner, surrounding herself in bits of folded paper on the floor as she dreamed up two-liners to lead people on the right track in the hunt. These small acts of creation soothed her.
Just a few minutes into her solitary pursuit, Lisa ran up to her, startling Elaine out of her reverie. “Hey, Elaine! I was looking all over for you.”
“Hello, dear!” Elaine laughed. “You surprised me! Back from your latest trip already?”
“Yeah, I flew back in this afternoon. Took a little nap and decided to head over. Whatchya doing over here?”
“Just creating clues for a scavenger hunt. Very important business, you know.”
“It sounds like it!
Do you need some help?”
“Surely! Do you want to help me come up with clues, or would you rather fold some papers?”
“I’ll take the folding part. My clues would probably just confuse people.” She laughed.
They made a neat assembly line—the two of them cross-legged on the floor, writing and folding. In an hour’s time, they managed to produce dozens of the little clues, which lay scattered on the floor around them.
Elaine stood up, brushing off her skirt. “I suppose we should get a basket to carry these over to the front.”
“Or we could just do this instead …”
Lisa winked, grabbing a handful of clues and tossing them up in the air. The papers fluttered all around them, like so many snowflakes.
Elaine stared in disbelief. “Did you really just do that?”
“I do believe that I did!” With a smirk, Lisa assumed her own proper accent and grabbed a greater handful, scattering them farther.
“I don’t know that I should have introduced you to this place. You’re trouble!” Elaine squealed. The two of them scooped up bits of paper, raining them down on each other, until the other ladies saw and had to join in too. They all laughed wildly and created a mess, and Elaine even delighted in her own cries: “It’s a blithering disaster! A disaster!”
By the end of the evening, she was caught up in it all. The Starlite had worked its magic on Elaine yet again.
She stayed overnight, bunking on a cot like a giggling member of a slumber party. Cynthia kept arranging her hair into various braids and giving Elaine a pocket mirror to see what she thought.
But her voice soon changed in fright. “Elaine,” she hissed suddenly. “I think I see something.”
“What?” Elaine bolted up.
“I just saw something in the mirror.”
“What?”
“I think it was a rat.”
“Where?”
“Look down there!” She pointed to the shadows, at the feet of someone’s cot in the far corner.
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