Shattered Glass

by Teresa Toten

  I had gotten snagged a few sentences back.

  “Uh, would you mind telling me what the Johns are?”

  Both men looked uncomfortable. They examined their cups as if the coffee would produce the answer. “Well, the thing is, young lady…” Buddy was still staring at his cup. “That’s not a topic fit for discussing with young ladies.”

  “Please. I really, really need to know. I can’t understand half the things that you Toronto people talk about it, and this John word has already come up once tonight. I’m sick of feeling so stupid all the time.”

  “I see.” Murphy cleared his throat and started stroking his chin in earnest. “Well, child, see, a man who wants to pay for the, er, company…” I nodded as if I understood. “No, that ain’t right, not just the company, for the, uh, well, sexual favors of a woman who sells those, I mean her sexual favors, for a price…those men are called johns.”

  The room dropped away.

  “You mean a prostitute? Like in the Bible, Mary Magdalene?”

  “Uh, I…guess. Never heard it put quite that way.” Buddy shrugged.

  I blush to admit that I spent time wondering whether the fifteen dollars I had been offered by the man in the Chevy was the going rate. I mean, was I exceptional or below market?

  The fellas and I talked about the old days over our coffees, which were nowhere near as good as what I made at the Purple Onion. Finally, they excused themselves.

  “It pains me, but I gotta get my beauty rest, darling.” Buddy winked as he got up. “Hope we helped and didn’t warp you none in the process. And girl, you might want to try the library. Those folks got just about everything you’d ever want to know and stuff you don’t. You get your hands on a librarian, and he’ll sort you out proper. It’s been rare, darlin’.”

  We shook hands all around. I loved old people.

  I’d definitely write Joe in the morning. He’d be so proud of me. It had to be close to two in the morning, and I was just thinking about getting up to go when…

  “May I?” A man pulled out the chair that Buddy had just vacated. He was a young man but definitely a man. He was blond and blue-eyed. It wasn’t a look I usually dreamed about when I dreamed about that sort of thing, which was, like, all the time, but he was so… “I’d welcome the chance to have a minute with the loveliest girl in the room.”

  I glanced around to see who he might be referring to. He smiled and sat down. That was it: the smile—his smile. You’d do just about anything to see that smile again.

  “My name is Cassidy.” He extended his hand.

  I sure was doing a lot of hand shaking.

  “Toni,” I croaked, because my mouth had somehow gone bone dry while the rest of me lit up like a Christmas tree.

  He motioned for the waitress and ordered another round of dishwater coffee. And then something really surprising happened. Cassidy asked me questions. He wanted to know everything about me. Really. Where did I come from? Why was I out by myself so late? Where did I work? How did I end up in Toronto?

  “I want to know it all,” he said. “You have this thing about you. Tell me…well, everything you’re comfortable telling me.”

  I was instantly interesting.

  So I blathered on about the Purple Onion, the orphanage, the Seven, Betty, Joe, how much one of the gentlemen I had just met had reminded me of Joe. Cassidy made the mistake of encouraging me, which then launched me into how much I missed Betty and all the other girls. I confessed that I hadn’t said goodbye or written because I was, first and foremost, a coward. I told him about my search to find my parents, about Mr. Tyson, and about how I was Jewish now—maybe.

  I must have been drunk on coffee.

  Cassidy interjected here or there to keep me going, or just smiled. He was the best listener in the history of listeners. Aside from Betty.

  “It seems to me that you’re quite the opposite of a coward. You, Toni, are a beautiful and charming young woman on an epic quest.”

  Wow, hey, that was great. Quest? Yeah, a quest. I liked that.

  He asked me about where I lived. I somehow had the wit to be discreet about Grady, her being so private and all, but I did go on about Big Bob and how our coffee was a million times better than the Embassy’s and what a great house band the Ramblers were. Finally, coffee or no coffee, I was getting tired. And even though I didn’t want to go, I excused myself.

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind if I come and try the coffee at the Purple Onion one night.”

  I inhaled and forgot to exhale. For a second it dawned on me that he was much, much older than I was, maybe even in his late twenties, but I dismissed that thought and went right back to paying attention to how to breathe.

  Cassidy stood when I stood and pulled out my chair. When he reached for my hand, he placed a five-dollar bill in it.

  Wait! What? What was he…?

  “Please promise me that you will take a taxi home. It’s much too late for a young lady to be roaming the streets of this city. There are always cabs in front of the Embassy at this time of night. Please, I insist.”

  I blushed and thought of Ethan following me here, but somehow putting me in a taxi was more thrilling and…grown up. This is what grown-up men did.

  “Thank you, Cassidy.”

  “I’ll look forward to the next time, Toni.”

  The next time?

  Sure enough, a cab was right out in front. I told the cabbie the address in my most sophisticated voice. Apparently, my sophisticated voice wasn’t loud enough. I had to repeat it three times. I was in a taxi! What a day, what a night. And Cassidy? Hey, practically the most handsome man in the whole city thought that I was lovely and charming.

  Who was I to say he was wrong?

  “Do Wah Diddy Diddy”

  (MANFRED MANN)

  FINALLY, JOE HAD written! Well, sort of.

  Dear Toni all is fine here inkluding with Miss Hazelton and she says the rest of the seven are good to. I told her you got a place to stay and work. We are real proud. You keep looking for your folks and keep your nose cleen. Don’t be scared of nothing. You got the stuff girl.

  Your friend,

  Joe

  I had to print all my letters to him. He had more trouble with handwriting. Come to think of it, he struggled with printing as well, but I knew he’d eventually get it by sounding out the words as best he could.

  Dear Joe,

  I miss you very, very much. Thank you for telling me the news about the Seven. I have heard from Betty, and I am going to write her in Kingston real soon and then I will write to the others one by one, as soon as I get over being such a dope about how I left.

  Should I tell him I was Jewish now? That I had pretty much found my father and even had a brother? What should I tell him about Grady?

  Mrs. Grady Vespucci is my landlady, and she is wonderful. In a weird way, Grady is like Mrs. Hazelton. She is showing me how to “be” in the city. She looks like a movie star and everybody loves her, including my employer, Big Bob. Well, Big Bob especially, I think. There is a real professor who rooms in the house, and he gives me books to read. He says that he has taken it upon himself to further my education and is convinced that I should attend university! Isn’t that unbelievable? They are both really nice but very different from anyone I have ever met. Actually, every single person in Toronto is different from anyone I have ever met.

  Should I tell him about Cassidy? I’d had my eyes peeled at the entrance for the past couple of nights. I was crazy disappointed when he didn’t show. Maybe it was for the best. A man like Cassidy was likely in the market for a bride. And as thrilling as I found him, I was pretty sure I wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

  A kindly gentleman suggested that I might find out some information about my mother from the Yorkville Public Library. I’ve already been once. The library is a fancy place, and it’s run by a very elegant man, Mr. Kenyatta, who is an actual African from Kenya! His voice is like music. Mr. Kenyatta has shown me how to use something ca
lled a microfiche, and I am looking through death notices in the newspapers, one by one from 1950 onward, for Halina Royce. It’s awful. Sometimes I get a little blue, but then I just listen to your radio and I get myself right again. Sort of like back home, eh?

  The letter was getting too long. Joe had a saturation point when it came to words, and I might have just hit it. Besides, I still wanted to run to the library before my shift.

  Well, write me soon and tell me the news of the others. I am so happy that Mrs. Hazelton is feeling better. Please send my regards to her. Don’t worry, I am doing great.

  I miss you very much,

  Your Toni

  Aside from the Purple Onion and my room at 75 Hazelton, the library was my favorite place. I felt safe there. When I arrived I marched straight over to Mr. Kenyatta. I knew how to operate the microfiche machine and where it was and everything, I just liked hearing him talk.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Toni.” Big smile. “May I presume that your exploration continues?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Kenyatta. I’m ready to resume my inquiries.” Mr. Kenyatta was one of the few people who didn’t tease me for the way I talked. Not only that, but I pretty much understood everything he said. Maybe it was because we were both immigrants to this strange land.

  I sat at that stupid machine for almost two hours.

  Nothing.

  I dragged my bleary-eyed self over to Mr. Kenyatta. “Nothing.”

  “It is as I feared, Miss Toni.” He nodded gravely. “I too have been trying to assist by reviewing the smaller newspapers. I have not been able to find any relevant obituaries thus far. They are not perfect indicators, however…”

  “Like, she could have left Toronto and died somewhere else, right?”

  “That is certainly a possibility.” He nodded again. “However, it may also indicate that Halina Royce is alive and that the next leg of your research would involve locating her current whereabouts.”

  Alive?

  I had never really considered that. Not in all these years. Why not? I felt like I was under water.

  Alive?

  “Miss Toni?”

  “Yes? Geez, look at the time. I’ve got to get to work. Thank you so much, Mr. Kenyatta. I’m very grateful for all your help. I’ll be back soon.”

  Alive?

  “Do You Want to Know a Secret?”

  (THE BEATLES)

  IT WAS TIME. I had to ask Grady if she knew anything or had ever heard anything about Halina Royce. Failing a good answer there, I’d have to approach my newfound father. The latter scenario seemed seriously fraught with peril. So Grady it was. I was already working up a sweat. Grady was right about my room turning into an oven in the summer. The same thing had happened in the room Betty and I had shared.

  Betty.

  If only Betty were here. I could talk this all over with her. Betty was a genius at hosing me down when I got all frothed. I turned up the radio a bit louder. CHUM was playing the Beatles’ “Do You Want to Know A Secret?” Pretty perfect. Joe’s radio was like that. If you listened, really listened, it popped up the perfect tune for the occasion. When the song ended, I made my way to Grady’s parlor. I heard voices when I knocked.

  “Come on in and join us, Toni,” Grady called out.

  The professor and Grady were enjoying some refreshment. Vodka and orange juice, from the looks of it. I was getting pretty good at this. I glanced at my watch: 2:00 PM. It could be worse, but then again, I didn’t know when they had started.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Sit, sit, my dear.” The professor got up, waving his glass. “I was just having one for the road before heading off to the mean streets of academe.” He drained his glass. “Slant rhyme. Forgive me; poets are powerless in the face of their questionable gifts.” He bowed to Grady, then me, and floated out.

  Grady patted the ottoman in front of her chair.

  “What’s up, buttercup?”

  And then it dawned on me. How could I have been so blind? “Is the professor in love with you too?”

  Grady almost coughed up her drink.

  “The professor? Hardly.” She twirled the ice in her glass. “Can’t you tell, honey?” When it was clear that I had no idea what she was talking about, she explained, “The professor doesn’t swing that way.”

  What way? What did swinging have to do with anything? “Because he’s a poet?” I asked. “Poets are always falling in love and writing about it too. He’s been giving me all sorts of books and he writes…”

  “No, Toni.” She sighed. “Eddy—Professor Zeigler—is not in love with me because he’s lonely for his own kind.”

  I didn’t say anything. I decided that this was going to be my new strategy in the face of my intolerable stupidity. I was getting real sick of not knowing what people were talking about. From now on, I’d keep my mouth shut, and in the ensuing, uncomfortable silence, the deliverer of the unknown word, phrase or concept would feel compelled to explain.

  Grady drained her glass in one gulp.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I examined my shoes.

  “Okay. Some fellas, and gals too, through no fault of their own—though you’ll get a lot of argument on that one—anyways, these fellas, and the professor is one of them, prefer the company of their own sex.”

  “Like a man’s man. I’ve heard of that.” So much for keeping my mouth shut.

  “Yeah.” She winced. “But not exactly. I mean, they like to have intimate relations with their own kind, see?”

  See? See what? Oh my god! Really? Was this a Toronto, big-city sort of thing? How could that possibly work? What would go where? We’d had “health education” this past spring at the orphanage, and I just couldn’t picture how…

  “Eddy’s a good egg, but he’s a bit lonely is all. Especially since you gotta keep that kind of thing quiet. Stupid, I know, but that’s how it is.”

  I kept quiet.

  “I can tell I’ve shocked the poop right out of you, but you keep coming at me with this stuff. Now, what did you really come in here to talk to me about? Hold on. I’ll be back in two shakes.” And off she swayed to the kitchen. I could hear ice cubes hitting the empty glass.

  The professor? I still couldn’t begin to figure out how all that would work, but I was sad that he was lonely because of it.

  “Okay, kid, shoot!” Grady fell into more than sat in her chair.

  It took me a minute to regroup. “Well, do you remember somebody called Halina Royce?”

  “Hmmm. Yeah, sure, kind of, maybe. What’s it to you?”

  “Well, you probably didn’t notice, but that’s the name listed on the hospital-release form as my mother.”

  Grady didn’t say anything, but she took a good long swig.

  “Grady?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “People seem to think she was blond, hardworking, maybe kind of out of it,” I said, remembering Big Bob’s description. “Maybe worse.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. People get stuff wrong.” She put her legs up on the ottoman beside me. She was wearing her shiny black high heels again. They matched her black false eyelashes. The woman was no end of glamorous.

  “Yeah, she was around. Long time ago. Little thing, not tall like you. Took every job she could, but I got to agree she was kind of zoned at times. Not always. She palled around with Scarlet Sue. They looked out for each other.”

  Did anyone here just have a normal name? Wait, wait! “Do you mean that my mother is, was, like the professor?”

  Grady sighed as she lit one cigarette from the glowing embers of the other. “No, not like that. Sue and her just kept an eye out for each other. They sometimes took turns taking care of the…” She stopped cold and stared at me.

  “What? Taking care of what?”

  Grady leaned back in the chair. “There was a kid. That’s what made it rough for Halina and the jobs, see. Holy Hannah! There was a kid. Kid, are you
that kid?”

  It felt like my skin was on too tight. I sprang to my feet. “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably. I need to find out what happened.” I was heading for the door. I wanted to know, but I couldn’t bear knowing. “Where can I find Scarlet Sue?”

  Grady shook her head. “Last I heard, she got busted again.” She caught herself. “Thrown in jail. It happened a lot. Scarlet Sue’s a grifter—that’s like a con artist—and she got picked up a lot, you know? Brooks might know. He was always good to her when she was down.” She downed her drink in one gulp. I lingered by the door.

  My father was clearly a man of great compassion.

  “So”—I reached for the door handle—“I should talk to Mr. Goldman about Scarlet Sue then?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Grady, thank you for telling me all this. I really appreciate it.” I turned. She was asleep. I crept back and took the empty glass out of her hand and stubbed out the cigarette. I had no idea how she hadn’t burned the place down before I got there. Once again I covered her with the sofa throw, but I did not take off her shoes. I’d learned my lesson. If Grady Vespucci ever went down for good, she’d go with her high heels on.

  My head was spinning as I hit the sidewalk. Every time I learned something new, I’d trip into an even twistier tunnel. I didn’t belong anywhere, or, to be more honest, I didn’t like the looks of where I might belong. Enough. I wanted to go home.

  Oh yeah, I didn’t have one.

  “Hiya, sweet cheeks, ya look a little down in the dumps.” A bone-thin man who was almost swallowed up by a wickedly large trench coat stepped over to me. Big Bob had warned about this type of person just last week. They were called “pervs.”

  “I got just the thing for ya!” And at that he opened up his trench coat as I prepared to scream my head off.