Secret City

by Julia Watts

  Maybe “how to get along with boys” is not to act any way at all—just to be your natural self. I guess that’s how I caught Aaron’s interest—by being natural and not even trying. The trouble is, now that I’ve got his interest, I don’t know what to do with it.

  March 13, 1945

  “Here’s my dancing partner!” Iris said after she swung the door open. She was wearing rolled-up blue jeans and one of Warren’s old shirts and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the halls of Oak Ridge High School.

  “I’ve never seen you wear blue jeans before,” I said.

  “Well, I figured if I had to play the boy when we dance, I might as well look the part. See? I made us a dance floor.”

  The coffee table had been cleared off and set on top of the sofa, and the rug was rolled up. I asked, “Where’s Baby Sharon?”

  “I put her down for her nap late, so we’d have time for our lesson.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I’m supposed to look after her and let you have a break.”

  Iris lit a cigarette. “Not today you’re not. Today you are a dance pupil at Mrs. Stevens’ Finishing School for Young Ladies.” She struck a pinup pose. “And don’t I look the proper teacher with my blue jeans and cigarette?”

  I laughed.

  “Oh, I have the perfect record for us to dance to,” Iris said, heading over to the record player. “Warren hates it. He says it’s sentimental pap. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with music being sentimental. It’s supposed to be about feelings, right?” She held up the cover of the record so I could see it.

  “Frank Sinatra,” I said. “I’ve seen him on the newsreels. Girls just scream their heads off for him even though he looks like a half-starved hound dog.”

  Now Iris laughed. “It’s his voice. It would make any girl swoon. As far as his looks go, well, most of the young men those girls would date are overseas now, so I guess even the scrawny fellows are looking pretty good.”

  Iris put on the record. First the strings swelled; then there was the sound of Frank Sinatra’s voice, as thick and rich and smoky as molasses syrup. Iris came to stand in front of me, her bare feet with red polish on the toenails almost touching my saddle shoes. “Maybe you should just dance in your socks at first,” she said. “That way, if you step on my toes, it won’t hurt so much.”

  I slipped out of my saddle shoes, happy to be given something to do. I was feeling shy all of a sudden, as if I didn’t spend several hours a week with Iris, as if I didn’t consider her my best friend (though I’d never tell Virgie this). Maybe it was because Iris was so close I could smell all her smells: her cigarettes, her perfume, her shampoo, her own natural smell—a little spicy—underneath. “I don’t guess you’ll be jitterbugging if your boyfriend isn’t much of a dancer…”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I said it so fast it sounded almost snippy.

  “Your potential boyfriend, then,” Iris said. “So what he’ll do is put his arm around you so this hand is touching the small of your back.”

  Her hand felt warm. I don’t think anybody had touched me there before. I tried to imagine Aaron’s hand on the small of my back and couldn’t.

  “And then you’ll put this arm around him, though you’ll touch him higher on his back, around his shoulders.”

  I put my left arm around Iris, cupping my hand over the little hill of her shoulder blade.

  “And then we grasp these hands together in the air, like this.”

  I was surprised to feel that her hand was smaller than mine. Small and soft—a lady’s hand. Not like my big rough peasant paws, made for hard work and calluses.

  “Now,” she said, softening her voice—we were so close she could’ve whispered—“The box waltz is the inexperienced dancer’s best friend. Follow my lead now—two steps at a time—we’re going to make a box with our feet.”

  One, two; one, two; one, two; one, two…I didn’t step back in time and we both stumbled a little, but I kept counting in time to Frank’s voice, and soon we were moving in time together.

  “Ruby, you’re good at this,” Iris said.

  “You’re a good teacher,” I said, my face feeling warm.

  The music stopped. “Wait—let me turn the record over.” Iris let go of my hand and my waist, leaving me feeling strangely alone.

  But then there was music again, and Iris slipped right back into my arms. She was only a couple of inches taller than I am. I was having a hard time imagining how tall, gangly Aaron and I would manage to fit together. One, two; one, two—we were getting smoother.

  “It feels strange to be leading,” Iris said after a while.

  “You’re good at it,” I said. “You know, it seems like it’d be more fun if the fellow and the girl took turns being the leader and the follower. It’d make things more interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Sure it would.” Iris gave my hand a little squeeze. “But it doesn’t work like that. In dancing or in life. It’s too bad, though. Some girls—like you—are natural leaders.”

  We danced our way through Frank Sinatra, through the Andrews Sisters, through some classical waltzes. Maybe because of the soft, soothing music in the background, Sharon didn’t wake up.

  “Since you’re doing so well, let me show you a few flourishes,” Iris said. “A couple of things that look fancy but are easy to do. If you want to spin out like this”—she ducked under my outstretched arm and twirled—“it looks really pretty, especially if you’re wearing a dress. Blue jeans kind of ruin the effect. You try it.”

  The first spin looked like something out of Abbott and Costello, but the second time I did it, Iris said, “Beautiful!” when I moved back into her arms. “Ruby,” she said, “you’re going to be the belle of the ball.”

  “Not hardly.”

  We danced some more. I didn’t know how I’d feel dancing with Aaron in a room full of sweaty kids, but dancing with Iris in her living room, I felt wonderful. I wondered if she liked it, too, but I wasn’t sure how to ask her. Finally, I heard myself saying, “Does it feel uncomfortable to be dancing with a girl?”

  “On the contrary,” Iris said, smiling. “Warren’s so tall that when I dance with him I spend the whole time staring at his necktie. With you, though, I can look right at your pretty face.”

  She was looking at me then—really looking at me—and I was looking at her, too: her green eyes, the elegant bridge of her nose, her bow-shaped lips.

  “Ruby.” She said it so softly I could barely hear it, but I saw her say it—saw her wet red lips forming my name, and somehow I felt a big wave of happiness and sickness at the same time, and I stumbled and stepped on her toe.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay. I was just…I was just going to say maybe we should stop after the next song. If I don’t wake Sharon from her nap, she’ll be up all night.”

  “Okay.”

  We glided across the floor—I didn’t need to count anymore. The rhythm came naturally now. I spun out and then back into Iris’s arms.

  The front door must have opened, but I didn’t hear it.

  “It looks like a tea dance at Wellesley in here,” Warren said.

  Iris laughed and pulled away from me. “Ruby’s got a date for a school dance on Saturday, and she’s never been to one before. I was showing her some steps.”

  “Let’s see them, then,” Warren said.

  We took a few turns across the floor, and I did fine, but somehow it wasn’t the same with Warren watching.

  “Very nice,” he said, then excused himself to go work at his desk.

  “Well,” Iris said, “I guess I’d better get dinner on the table. Oh, I almost forgot…” She reached into her pocket and handed me some money.

  “You don’t need to pay me for today. I should be paying you.”

  “What? And make me feel like a cheap, dance-hall floozy? Nonsense. Take the money. You do help me so much, Ruby, and I know your family c
ounts on you to bring in some cash every week.”

  I couldn’t look at her. “Thank you.”

  She put her finger under my chin to tilt up my face. “Are you feeling more comfortable about going to the dance now?”

  Without thinking, I blurted, “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I was going with you instead of Aaron.”

  She laughed, but it was different from her usual laugh, higher and less natural. “Don’t be such a silly. You’ll go with Aaron, you’ll have a wonderful time, and you’ll tell me all about it.”

  March 17, 1945

  When I sat down to breakfast this morning, Mama already had on her second-best dress. She saves her best dress for weddings and funerals. Her hair was pulled up in a neat bun, and her lips were stained with a touch of pink lipstick. “You look nice, Mama,” I said. “Where you going?”

  “We,” she said, “are going to town.”

  Even though we live in a town now, Mama still says “going to town” when she means “going shopping.”

  “You done bought groceries this week,” I said.

  Mama poured herself a cup of coffee. “I ain’t buying groceries. I’m buying you a new dress to wear to that dance tonight.”

  “A store-bought dress?” Except for socks and underwear, Mama made all my sisters’ and my clothes.

  “A store-bought dress,” my mother repeated. “I talked to your daddy about it, and it’s all right with him as long as you don’t pick out the most expensive one in the store.”

  “Did Daddy say it was all right for all of us to have new dresses?” Garnet asked. Her eyes were narrowed, and I could tell she was getting her back up.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mama said.. “But as soon as you’re old enough to go to a dance, then the good Lord willing, Daddy’ll buy you a dress, too.”

  “I don’t want no dress,” Baby Pearl said. “I want a puppy.”

  Mama laughed. “How did we get from a dress to a puppy? Ruby, go get cleaned up as soon as you’re done eating. Opal, you watch your sisters till me and Ruby get back.”

  “We don’t even get to go to the store and help her pick out her dress?” Opal said.

  Mama shook her head. “I think three extra girls in the dress department is more help than anybody needs.”

  * * *

  Dillard’s department store is so fancy I felt nervous walking around in it. Somehow I was afraid I’d knock something down—one of the lady mannequins in a smart spring suit or a stack of shoeboxes. I could tell Mama was nervous, too, by the way she hunched her shoulders and gripped her pocketbook with both hands. In the young ladies’ department, we were approached by a woman with chic curled bottle-blonde hair and bright red lipstick. Her dress was solid black—a color I’d never worn—and her heels were so high I wondered how she walked in them. “May I help you ladies?” she asked. She had a voice like the ladies in detective movies who smoke a lot of cigarettes.

  “My daughter’s going to a dance tonight,” Mama said, a quiver in her voice. “We’re looking for a dress.”

  “Is it a formal event?” the saleslady asked.

  For a moment I pictured myself decked out in a big satin ball gown like the kind Amber St. Clare favored. “No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s just a regular kids’ dance.”

  “Well, you still should look your best,” the saleslady said. “What size do you wear, hon?”

  My face was hot. “Uh…I don’t know, really. Mama always just measures me for her sewing.” I was embarrassed to have let it slip to this glamorous lady that my mama sewed my clothes. But then again, she could probably tell by looking at me.

  “Well, I’ll just measure you, too, then.” She grabbed a cloth measuring tape from behind the counter. “Let’s start with the waist, then.” She wrapped the tape around me. “Well, you’re no bigger than a minute, are you?” she said.

  I stiffened when she wrapped the tape around my bust. It felt strange to be standing in the middle of a store with somebody messing around with that area of my body. She must’ve been able to tell I was embarrassed because she said, in a light, chatty tone, “Have you thought about what color of dress you’d like?”

  I looked at her elegant dress. “Maybe black.”

  “Black isn’t nice on young girls,” Mama said, then she added to the saleslady, “It looks real nice on you, though, honey.”

  The saleslady smiled. “Well, black is very slimming, which is great for us grownup gals. You girls, though, don’t have so much to hide.” She looked at me, harder than I was used to being looked at by a stranger. “I was thinking a nice blue might set off your eyes,” she said. She crossed over to a rack and pulled out a simple dress in a dreamy shade about halfway between sky blue and navy. “This is called Eleanor Blue because it’s Mrs. Roosevelt’s favorite shade,” she said, holding the dress out for me to see. “Though now that I think on it, why any young girl would want to go to a dance looking like Mrs. Roosevelt is beyond me.”

  I reached out and touched the soft fabric. “I love Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said. “And I love the dress. Can I try it on, Mama?”

  Mama glanced at the price tag. “You can try it on,” she said.

  I stood in front of the mirror looking at the dress while Mama and the saleslady looked at me. “She looks darling,” said the saleslady.

  I did look a lot better than I usually looked. The blue did go with my eyes, and while the dress wasn’t tight, it was fitted, and it made me aware of feminine things about me I hadn’t really noticed before—my tiny waist, my bosom—which wasn’t a big, heaving Amber St. Clare bosom, but it wasn’t flat as a plate either.

  “Why, Ruby, you’ve growed into a woman without me hardly noticing it!” Mama said, sounding like she might cry.

  “Well, I hadn’t hardly noticed it myself until I put this dress on,” I said.

  We bought the dress. And I spent all afternoon doing things to get ready for the dance with my sisters hovering around me like ladies in waiting who occasionally got into arguments with each other. I took a long bath and shampooed my hair. I painted my fingernails with clear polish so they’d shine. I let my sisters arrange my hair in all kinds of ways—some of them downright silly—until I found a style I liked, with the front of my hair pulled back in a barrette and the rest hanging free down my back.

  After supper, which I didn’t eat much of, Opal zipped me into my dress. “I bet you can’t wait to see Aaron,” she said.

  But the truth was, I hadn’t really thought about Aaron much at all. I’d been too busy playing dress-up with my sisters, a game that had nothing to do with boys.

  When Aaron did show up, his red hair was slicked back with so much grease it looked brown. He was wearing a brand-new pair of overalls that were so stiff they could’ve stood up just as well without him. Aaron wasn’t any more talkative than a pair of overalls either. He just stood in the doorway saying nothing.

  Finally, Daddy said, “Now, Aaron, I want her home by ten o’clock.”

  Aaron nodded and mumbled, “Yessir.”

  Aaron was quiet, too, on the long walk to the teen rec center. I tried to make conversation. I said, “This mud sure is ruining the polish I put on these shoes,” and he nodded. After a while, though, I shut up for the simple reason that I couldn’t think of a word to say to him.

  The teen rec center was decorated with streamers and balloons and pictures of rabbits that somebody had drawn and cut out. A big hand-lettered sign read, The March Hare Hop. There was a real band, too, that looked like it might be made up of people’s dads. They were playing “String of Pearls,” and it sounded real good. The dance floor was full of Kleen Teens, kids who never would’ve spoken a word to kids like Aaron and me, kids whose dancing ability went way beyond the box waltz.

  Aaron gripped my forearm in his hand and led me, more like he was leading a cow than a girl, to the chairs on the side of the room. We sat. We sat through three songs, though my feet were doing a tiny version of the box step on the floor.

  Final
ly, Aaron nudged me. “You want something to drink?”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  He left for a minute and came back with two cups of punch. We sat and drank. After that, we just sat. Finally, I decided to forget everything I’d read in How to Get Along with Boys and said, “Are you going to ask me to dance?”

  “Naw. I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t want to sound mean or anything—really, I’m just curious—but why did you ask me to a dance?”

  “It was Virgie’s idea.”

  “It was Virgie’s idea for you to ask me on a date?”

  His ears turned as red as candy apples. “Naw. I wanted to ask you to go to the show. But Virgie said I had to ask you to the dance. Said it’d be more romantic. Or somethin.”

  I had to give Aaron credit. He’d just said more words at one time than I’d ever heard him say. “Well, that’s all right. We can just sit and enjoy the music.”

  We sat for another hour, then he walked me home. At the door, I broke the silence long enough to say, “Thank you for a nice time, Aaron.”

  “Well,” he said. “Bye.”

  As soon as I walked in the door, Opal and Garnet pounced on me, spilling out questions faster than I could follow them: How was the dance? How was the music? How were the decorations? Was Aaron a good dancer? Did I feel like Cinderella?

  “It was nice,” I said. “The decorations were pretty, and the band was good, and I had a nice cup of fruit punch.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell them that for my money, getting ready for the dance had been a lot more fun than the dance itself.

  March 20, 1945

  Today Mr. Masters, the Ichabod Crane lookalike who can never truly replace Miss Connor, smiled at me when I sat down in class. He had never smiled at me before, and it made me notice how tiny his mouth was. It was like being smiled at by a chipmunk. “I believe I have something that might be of interest to you, Miss Pickett,” he said. He picked up a piece of paper from a stack on his desk and handed it to me. I looked down at it and read: