by Teresa Toten
Mr. Kenyatta did not offer any opinions on the horrors of that institution, and when I told him how the others had described it, he just nodded calmly and said, “I’ve seen worse, Miss Toni.”
We left it at that.
He brightened right up when he asked about the professor, who had, on occasion, frequented the library. “I believe he mentioned that he lives in the same residence as you do yourself, Miss Toni.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Kenyatta. The professor has been very kind to me. He gives me books every week, and I write him little essays about various poems or short stories. He says he’s just using me as a guinea pig for his course alterations, but I think he knows he’s keeping me from getting too lonely. It’s just me and my radio most of the time.”
“Yes, he is a fine, fine man.” Mr. Kenyatta was scanning his file cards, but he was still smiling.
“Should I tell him you said hi?”
“If you so wish, Miss Toni. Here’s the address. Is there another item I can assist you with today?”
He wasn’t a big talker, but he had a voice like a cello, which made me unreasonably homesick for the classical music that Mrs. Hazelton always played in her cottage. It was unreasonable because, let’s face it, the only time I was ever in there was when I was in trouble. Still, the music was nice.
“Yes, sir, maybe. Have you ever heard of a restaurant called the Noronic?” I leaned on the counter. “A real fancy place. I have the menu. They served things like Dover Sole Almandine and Oysters Rockefeller. Grady says that’s all upper-crust type food.”
“That is indeed elegant fare, Miss Toni,” Mr. Kenyatta agreed. “But I do not recall a dining establishment in this city that is named the Noronic.”
“Well, maybe not now. It could be from a long time ago, like the late forties or early fifties.”
“Ah! I’m afraid I did not reach these shores until 1958. I will endeavor to locate it or its history for you nonetheless.”
“You’re the best, Mr. Kenyatta!” We checked out my books and then I thanked him again. I raced back home. I didn’t want to be late for my shift, but this was important.
The professor had a glass in his hand as he opened the door. “Ah, books, and not the ones I loaned you. Did you come to see if I was pleased? I am. It warms me to know that you are devouring the great works. I must insist that you consider attending university.”
“See, you talk like him too!”
“My dear?”
“I’ve got to dash, but Mr. Kenyatta—you know, the librarian, who is the nicest man in the world and has a voice like a cello, and maybe he’s a little lonely—anyway, he says hi. Seems to me you two would have a lot to talk about. Gotta run.”
Okay, so maybe I didn’t understand a lot of the things around me. But I understood happy when I saw it.
“Four Strong Winds”
(IAN AND SYLVIA)
I WAS WEARING one of my brand-new Honest Ed’s scoop-neck T-shirts (three for $4.99), and Ethan had been looking at me funny ever since I’d come in. I’d bought them the previous day at the store’s end-of-July “Super-Duper Summer Steals!!!” sale. The top was tomato red, and Grady approved of it, but now I was worried. Was it too much—too little, too tight, too “hoochie”? The scoop didn’t scoop much, but it still scooped.
Ethan came right up to me after the first set. “You’ve got a blotch on your chest.” He pointed to the middle of his own chest. “It’s green. Other than that, you look nice.”
He hadn’t talked to me in days and this was it? I took it as an apology and decided to forgive him his many transgressions.
Rachel nipped over. “He’s right. Here.” She handed me her makeup compact and beetled back to her table.
I opened Rachel’s mirror and gasped. There was, indeed, a green blotch on my chest. “I’m marked!” I fumbled with the chain clasp. “God’s punishing me for being a fake Jew!” I caught Ethan’s eye before he turned to help me with the chain. I’d lingered over the word fake hoping that he would grasp the fact that I knew I had made a mistake. Again.
“Nah.” At least he smiled as he handed my necklace to me. “God is punishing you for buying fake gold.”
Neither the chain nor the star was very shiny anymore.
Ethan, for once, didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he reached under the counter for a tea towel and dotted it with liquid detergent before handing it to me. “Why did you get it?”
“I bought it when I thought I was Jewish and everything.” Again I paused, letting the import of the word thought sink in. “And it was a star, and I bought it from David.”
“You bought something from Dodgy Dave? Oh, honey…” Rachel was back. She was making an espresso, but there were tears in her eyes when she headed back to her customer.
“What, what?” I turned back to Ethan.
“Don’t mind her. My dad says that the last ring she got was from Dodgy Dave. It was as fake as the proposal.”
“Oh, I feel bad. She was doing better.”
“Don’t. Rachel’s great, but she’s a crier. That’s just how she is.” He shrugged.
He looked all sensitive and sweet and, well, seriously cute, what with all the shrugging and almost smiling. That thought was followed by instant guilt until I reminded myself that we were no longer brother and sister.
“How about I walk you home tonight? Just to keep you safe from Dodgy Dave?”
I felt myself turning the color of my top. “Sure, that’d be nice.”
“Great. Then I’ll let you in on a secret.”
“What? I love a secret!”
“Tyson’s dropping in for a short set with my dad.”
“Really!”
“Yup, wants to get one in before he and Sylvia head off to New York again.”
“Just think of it.” I sighed. “Both of my fathers onstage at the same time!” I took off just as he tossed the wet towel at me.
Secret or not, the word must have got out, because the place was packed within minutes. Rachel and I were racing back and forth to the espresso machine all night.
I didn’t even see him until he touched my back. Somehow, he had snagged a table to himself. And in my section.
“Cassidy! Hi, hello! Are you here to see Tyson?”
“No, I’m here to see you. You look especially pretty tonight.”
My back was warm from his hand.
“I was hoping to show you the Minc Club tonight. Can you join me for an after-hours coffee? I’d like that very much.”
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. This was definitely a date! He was here asking and everything!
“I’d love to.” I felt thirty.
The rest of the night flew by. Even when my two “dads” got onstage and sang a couple of songs together, it seemed to be over in a minute. Time only stopped when they ended with “Four Strong Winds,” with Mr. Goldman singing harmony like the last time. The crowd went berserk again, and I started tearing up. I was turning into Rachel. I didn’t know what it was about that song, but it tore me up as soon as the first chords hit the air. I gave my head a shake and cleaned my station and my tables in record time. Thank God Ethan had warned me about my splotch.
Ethan.
Cassidy was waiting by the door for me, but I couldn’t see Ethan anywhere.
“Coming?” He extended his hand.
“You bet.” One last quick glance around. The guys were milling about the stage. Big Bob was chatting to Mr. Tyson, and Rachel was crying in their general vicinity, but no Ethan.
I did, however, hear a plate clatter to the floor just as Cassidy held the door open for me.
I did not look back.
The Minc Club was way different from the Purple Onion and even the Bohemian Embassy. It was just as smoky but way snazzier. Snazzy was my new favorite word. For starters, the furniture matched, and the patrons looked more slick. Everyone seemed to know Cassidy. I felt older, taller, on his arm. We had barely sat down when a waitress appeared. Cassidy ordered a cappuccino for me and an espresso for h
imself. The waitress was so gorgeous and big in the chest area that I felt myself shrinking into my chair. Plus she was flirting with him. In the middle of all her furious eyelash batting, she asked him if he wanted a little “extra” in his coffee, which seemed to annoy him. She ran right off to get our orders.
I was glad that he was annoyed with her.
People were looking at us. That felt good, except that I had to make sure to hold in my stomach the whole time.
When our coffees arrived, Cassidy raised his cup to me. “So, Toni, what do you think of it? Do you like it?”
“Oh yes, it’s very…much more than…quite a bit more…”
“Cool, sophisticated?”
I nodded at him.
“I’m glad you like it. A girl like you deserves only the best.”
I was definitely writing Betty first thing in the morning. I’d apologize my brains out and then tell her all about this!
“How old are you, Toni?”
Uh-oh. Was he worried about our potential—okay, very real—age gap?
“Sixteen. But I’ll be seventeen real soon.” Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “No, really—in September. How old are you?”
“Older.” He smiled.
There was music playing in the background, even though there was no one onstage. They must have had a very expensive sound system and someone working it. It was jazz, good jazz. Joe would love it here. I would bring him here the minute he got to Toronto.
Cassidy was asking me about my progress on my quest when an unusual-looking gentleman walked up behind him and placed his hand on Cassidy’s shoulder.
“My boy.”
Cassidy made to get up, but the man kept his hand on his shoulder. “Sit. Relax. Who is your gorgeous companion?”
It was completely understandable that the man got that part wrong, because even though he was wearing the most beautiful suit I’d ever seen on anybody, he also wore black sunglasses. I mean, the club was already darker and smokier than the Onion was, and he was wearing sunglasses! And then, when it hit me, I was flooded with shame.
“Toni, this is Mr. Marcetti from Detroit. He owns a piece of this place.”
Mr. Marcetti smiled and extended his hand in the right direction and everything. “An insignificant portion, dear child. I am a good friend, a benefactor, if you will, of Cassidy’s.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“I think I may have mentioned that Toni is on a quest to track down her parents,” Cassidy said.
Cassidy had talked about me? To his benefactor? What was a benefactor? That was like family, right?
“Ah yes, the orphan girl. I am very sorry for your troubles, young lady.” He smiled right at me. “Please order anything you like, on or off the menu. My treat. And I would be so pleased if you could both attend one of my parties.”
A party? A real party?
Cassidy looked away.
“All the best people come. Who is your favorite musician?”
“Mr. Tyson, sir, Mr. Ian Tyson.”
“Oh, Ian frequently drops by.”
“Toni works at the Purple Onion, Mr. Marcetti.”
“Ah. And when are your nights off, if I may ask?”
“Sunday and Monday nights, and Wednesday is a half shift, sir.” Was that too much information? “Are they very fancy parties? I don’t have very fancy clothes…”
Cassidy just put his hand on mine, and I shut up.
“Not to worry.” Mr. Marcetti bowed his head slightly. “It’s been a rare pleasure. Cassidy, I’ll leave it with you then.” Mr. Marcetti left us but continued to stop at tables for a word here, a word there. He didn’t bump into a single thing. The man was a miracle. And he had very nice manners too.
“Wow. Isn’t he just…wow?” We were on our second round of coffees.
Cassidy kept smiling at me. I seemed to amuse him—a lot. That was a good thing, or at least it must have been, because he would also reach for my hand every so often. I worried that he could hear my thumping heart every time he touched me. It made me crazy nervous. “I have never seen a blind man move so well. ’Course, I only knew the one, Emmet, back in Hope? Well, he had the glasses and the dog and the cane, but poor old Emmet wasn’t anywhere near as steady on his feet as your Mr. Marcetti.”
“What?” Cassidy stroked the top of my hand with his thumb, but he looked kind of distracted as he did it. “Toni…”
“Yes, Cassidy?”
He didn’t say anything for a bit, and I didn’t feel I should say anything again for fear of breaking the mood or the moment or whatever we were having.
“It’s late. Time for a young lady to go home.” Again, he slipped a five-dollar bill into my hand. “I’m afraid I have to stay.”
“But I can walk. I know my way around the—”
“It’s too late.” He shook his head. “Please, I need to know you’re safe.” And then we both got up and he was going to kiss me, yes he was. A girl, even an orphan girl who pretends she doesn’t have any fantasies, well, except for that one, can tell these things. He wanted to kiss me, and I wanted him to kiss me. It would be my first kiss. I’d been waiting practically my whole life for my first kiss. I needed to be kissed. I held my breath and closed my eyes and…he did not kiss me. Instead, he brushed a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. “Take a taxi.”
I could have sworn he was going to kiss me.
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”
(THE BEATLES)
I WAS PERSPIRING so much that my bare feet left footprints on the floor. I was also pacing, which didn’t help the sweating thing. Betty had written me weeks ago. It had been forwarded from Loretta’s Diner, which had been set up as our postal drop. Joe had let them know my address as soon as he got my first note. I’d torn up five previous attempts. But this time I was going to do it. I was going to write her back. Hence the pacing.
I sat down and devoted the first page to apologizing and asking for forgiveness for A) sneaking away without saying goodbye and B) not writing back sooner. Then I paced some more.
Now my hands were wet.
Things are so unbelievable here in Toronto that I don’t know where to begin! It’s all good, mainly. Well, actually, it’s a bit of a roller coaster, and I’m still having the nightmares. But still good, you know? All in all, I’m pretty proud of myself. Like, there’s a billion people in this city and I even know some of them! I have this amazing huge room, but I’m the only one in it, which is good except when I’m lonely and when I have the dreams.
Anyway, when the dreams are bad (you know, me screaming my head off), a very nice man who is a professor of literature at the University of Toronto comes down and knocks on my door until I wake up and answer it. Isn’t that sweet? I live in sort of a rooming house, but it’s just me and the professor who board here. Mrs. Grady Vespucci owns 75 Hazelton and she is the most beautiful woman you could possibly imagine, except she drinks a bit too much. She calls them “refreshments” but they’re spirits, Betty, no two ways about it. Grady gives me fashion advice and life advice and I tell her most everything when she hasn’t over-refreshed.
I wrote her about Big Bob, Mr. Kenyatta, Crying Rachel and even Ethan, but I felt myself heating up even more, so only a word.
Ethan is the son of Mr. Brooks Goldman, who is this amazing musician whose band, the Ramblers, plays at the Purple Onion all the time and who, embarrassingly, I thought was my father for a minute. I also thought that Ian Tyson was my father (same amount of time). Don’t ask—it was HUMILIATING! I know, I know…I’m the one that teased you all for your stupid orphan fantasies, but get me out of the orphanage and I become a champion fantasizer! Maybe it’s the alone thing. So in the end, unlike you, I haven’t made much progress in finding out who my real father is or was, and I haven’t tried real hard on the mother front. Actually, I am trying to track a lady down who was her best friend, but it’s complicated—she’s in a ladies’ prison!
I am so glad to hear that you are well settled
with people who care about you. I am even gladder to hear that you have a young man! David sounds wonderful and the FIRST KISS sounds spectacular (I’m so, so jealous)!!! I have a young man, too, except he’s older, maybe quite a bit older! Cassidy (it has just hit me that I don’t know what his last name is!) is a businessman, and he might be almost thirty! I know, I know…But he is SUCH a gentleman, and everybody looks when I’m with him because he is so handsome, and I’m not exaggerating for once. He is going to take me to a very posh party one day, and I’m already fretting about what to wear. He hasn’t kissed me yet—as I say, he is a true gentleman. He is very, very interested in my story about being an orphan. He really cares. I believe he will try to help me.
I had to get up and walk around again. Did I sound all braggy about Cassidy? The truth was that he was thrilling and exciting and…he scared me a little. But I liked that too. I hadn’t talked about him to Grady, which felt kind of like a lie. Mrs. Hazelton always said that a lie of omission was just as bad as a flat-out whopper. I’d been “omissioning” a lot, and while it didn’t used to bother me much with Mrs. Hazelton, I felt guilty about it with Grady.
Anyway, anyway, I miss you to pieces and more. Actually, I miss all of us as an “us” more than I ever thought possible. I dreamed of being away and on my own, of having my own room, for such a long time and now that I finally have it…well, it’s just not like I thought it would be is all. Tell your fella I said hi and to treat you like a queen. Good luck at your end with everything, and write me soon if not sooner.
Love you lots,
Toni
xoxox
Okay, so see? This was why I didn’t want to write. It all sounded stupid on paper. If only I could see her, talk to her. Here it was, almost August, and I was no closer to finding out anything about who I was or where I came from. All this time I’d thought that I didn’t want to know anything about my father or about her. Now, writing about my lack of progress, I truly realized that I did.
