by Jill G. Hall
Clair pulled her hand away and shook her head. “I’m only going to listen tonight.”
“Sure?”
Clair nodded.
“Suit yourself.” Winnie pulled Rudy onto the dance floor.
Clair sipped her drink. Drat! It was filled with booze. She surreptitiously spit it back into her glass.
Winnie tangled her arms around Rudy’s neck, and he tugged her in closer. He closed his eyes, and his tough-looking face softened. A moony grin rested on his lips. Would anyone ever hold Clair like that?
The song ended, but Rudy and Winnie remained on the dance floor as the band played “The Man on the Flying Trapeze,” reminding Clair of Farley’s horrible singing. She’d take Winnie’s advice to follow her heart, and find a way to not take him. Clair played the melody along on her thighs and soon forgot about Farley.
Next the band struck up “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” the same song she had danced to on the radio at home. The floor soon filled with folks rollicking to the Charleston. In her seat, she moved her feet forward and back on the wood floor.
Soon though, she got swept up in the music, and she jumped up and joined in the dance, doing the steps beside Rudy and Winnie.
Her turban popped off, so she ran over and tossed it on the table next to her glass. Darn thirsty, she gave in, took a sip, and swallowed a gulp. With the rough taste of hooch in her mouth, she took the pins out of her hair and let it fall down her back. If her father knew, he’d be fuming that all could see her glory. He might lock her up in her room forever, but at that moment, she didn’t care. All she cared about was the bump, pump, pump of the band.
At the end of the dance, out of breath, she took another sip of her drink. “I’ve really got to go,” she told Winnie and Rudy.
The band began to pick up their instruments and vacate the stage.
“But the floor show’s about to start.” Winnie pulled Clair down onto a chair.
“Don’t worry, my driver will take you home afterward.” Rudy smiled at Clair.
Winnie asked, “When are you gonna give me a chance to be onstage?”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “After I have bigger digs is all.” He walked across the dance floor, inviting people to take their seats.
“I can’t wait to see this. There’s supposed to be a talent scout from Hollywood here tonight.” Winnie tugged down her hat and studied the room.
Suddenly the lights blinked out, and the room grew black and quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Rudy’s voice echoed from the microphone. “Straight from the distant lands of eastern Europe, for your entertainment pleasure, I give you Varinska!”
A spotlight flipped on, illuminating a lone woman onstage. Dreamlike, her eyes focused above the crowd as if casting a spell. A chill ran up Clair’s spine. This must be the most beautiful woman on earth. Straight ebony hair parted in the center cascaded down over her shoulders and fell over her pale arms. Gold chains strung with coins and rubies fell over her bohemian blouse and into the crevice between her rounded breasts. A crimson skirt stopped above her ankles, revealing bare feet.
A far-off violin began to play, and Varinska slowly swirled her hips in a figure eight. Clair recognized “Hungarian Dance No. 5,” but had never imagined it performed this way, sultry and sensual. She had asked to learn to play it on the piano, but her maestro had claimed it wasn’t decent.
Varinska’s husky voice was as deep as a baritone’s, but dark and tangy like licorice. Clair couldn’t place the exotic guttural language that resonated into her own chest with a longing filled with loneliness. The singer hit all the notes exactly on pitch and stepped forward, one eyebrow raised, holding a mystery. Even though Clair didn’t understand the lyrics, it was obvious what they meant. “Come back to me, darling. Wrap me in your arms always.”
Varinska slowly shook a tambourine above her head, its cymbals shimmering in the light. Then she bumped the instrument back and forth across her hip in rhythm to the music, jumped off the stage onto the dance floor, and sprinted in a circle, taking big leaps. As the music sped up, her voice quickened and grew louder.
Clair held her breath until the end when Varinska twirled, arms upraised. Varinska yipped a few times like a lone wolf and suddenly crashed to the floor. The lights went out, and in the blackness, there was a stunned pause from the crowd.
Clair rose to her feet with the audience. They clapped for what seemed like an eternity until Varinska sprinted back into view to the wild Hungarian rhythm. She turned in a circle and landed with one foot pointed forward, bending to a low bow. Through her whole routine she never smiled, not once, but Clair sensed that behind those sad eyes the performer knew she had enraptured everyone in the room. As if struck by lightning, Clair recognized she’d never be the same again.
22
Clair finished her second drink and followed Rudy and Winnie out the door, where Rudy’s black Cadillac waited. It was past midnight. Shadows shifted in the sky, a brisk wind shook the pine tree in front of the building, and a murder of crows circled above, cawing. The driver opened the Cadillac’s door, and the girls slid in.
“Get them home in one piece,” Rudy ordered.
“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded, got in, and turned on the motor.
Rudy leaned in, kissed Winnie’s cheek, and pounded on the top of the car twice.
As they drove away, Winnie waved goodbye to him. “The Waldorf, please and thank you. I’m spifflicated,” she slurred from her lipstick-smeared mouth. Then she laid her head on Clair’s shoulder, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
The wind blew a spruce tree back and forth like an ocean wave in a storm. Clair’s head spun from booze, thrills, and possibilities. She shouldn’t have stayed so long. Her father would be home already, waiting up for her. No matter what happened though, she wouldn’t regret it. To see Varinska’s act made it worth it. Clair’s body tingled all over reviewing the performance in her mind as she played the Hungarian waltz on her thighs.
As they reached the hotel, Mr. O’Shaughnessy stepped out the front door and down the steps to the sidewalk to greet them. The doorman must have gone home. Clair slid down in her seat. “Drop me at the back!”
“Sure thing.” The driver blasted away from the curb as Mr. O’Shaughnessy turned with a frown.
Winnie awoke. “Here, let me help you.” She stuffed Clair’s hair back into the turban and patted the top of her head. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” Winnie kissed her on the cheek and popped a peppermint drop into her mouth. “This should conceal the liquor’s odor.”
Clair slid out of the car, almost fell, and quickly pulled her body erect. She entered through the kitchen, made certain the lobby was deserted, and rode up in the elevator. She sucked on the candy and paused at the door to brace herself.
“Shhh!” she whispered to herself as she almost tripped getting into the suite.
To her surprise, the lights were out in the foyer and parlor. Her father snored behind his bedroom door, a deep French horn. She sighed with relief.
She thought she would fall asleep right away under the smooth sheets, but her body felt as if it were still dancing. Like every night, Clair tried to recall her mother’s sweet voice singing a lullaby to her, but it was drowned out by Varinska’s performance running through her mind. She turned over and fluffed her pillow.
A spark inside her had been lit—so deep and disturbing that it frightened her to acknowledge it. The flint had been there for years but had never fully been a reality until tonight. It burned so bright that she realized it wouldn’t ever flicker out and turn to ash, no matter how hard she, or anyone else, tried to extinguish it.
Deep inside, she’d always known about her desire but had never believed she would be able to act on it. She had a desire to entertain, to enrapture a crowd, and to hear that applause, too. Onstage, she would help take people’s minds off their worries and make them happy. But her father said performers were hussies. He had seethed that women embar
rassed their families by going onstage.
Aunt June would take Clair to theater matinees, and whenever he started to complain about it, Aunt June said sweetly, “Leland, you are welcome to join us.” She gave him that look, as if she was holding something over him. He harrumphed and stayed home, smoking cigars and waiting for the ticker tapes to come in.
Ballets, operas, Shakespeare plays—Aunt June had taken her to them all. In the theater, Clair felt as if she was in another world, a magical world, viewing the well-lit stage. Graceful dancers en pointe, a mezzo-soprano’s voice resonating, the poetry of an actor emoting—she adored them all. But Varinska was different. She had that something Clair couldn’t quite place.
Once, Aunt June had taken her to an eccentric modern dancer’s studio. She also had that something. Some reviewers said she must be crazy, and others called her a genius. Mesmerizing and red-lipped, with wide, dark eyes in a full-length hooded dress, the dancer had squirmed and fought in staccato shapes and sometimes into hideous contortions, as if trying to release the demons inside her. Clair yearned to move like that, too.
She now got out of bed, donned her funeral dress, wrapped a shawl over her head, and moved in front of the dressing room mirror, imitating the performer trying to escape the fires of hell. Clair widened her eyes and twisted her lips. She raised one Varinskaesque eyebrow and moved her hips in a figure eight, imagining what it might be like to entertain a crowd. But it was useless. No girl with a father like hers could ever perform onstage.
And so she returned to bed, considering once again how to break her habit of dreaming of the stage.
23
Her first morning back from Michigan, Anne lounged in her daybed and summoned up their afternoon stuck on the lake. Even though the rain had cleared and they’d witnessed the most beautiful purple-and-pink-hued sunset ever, Sergio wasn’t pleased. He shivered with cold and didn’t say a word, but she sensed the whole experience scared him. She had been stuck out there before and assumed someone would eventually come along. And she had been right. Before it was completely dark, a boat came along and towed them back to the dock.
She sighed and thought of the conversation she’d had with Sergio as they headed south back to the airport.
“I’m sorry the trip was a bust. I’d hoped you’d be smitten with the mitten.”
“I liked it.” He put his hand on her knee.
“No, you didn’t.”
“To be honest, I felt like a fish out of water.”
They both laughed at his unintentional joke.
“Will you ever want to go back?”
He shrugged. “Sicuro.”
“How about Perchville in February?” She smiled but kept her eyes on the road.
“What’s that?”
“Fishing tournament and Polar Bear Swim. They cut a hole in the ice, and people dive into Lake Huron.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’ve done it before, but I know it’s not for you. You didn’t care for my family, either.”
“Your mom is nice, but the rest of the family is pretty . . . unusual. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. I’m sure they are good people. They love you, and over time I’ll probably love them, too.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
Anne’s eyes moistened. “You’re so sweet. Are you certain we’re meant for each other?”
“Why not?”
“You’re rich and I’m poor. You’re sophisticated and I’m not.”
“I don’t care about any of that. I’ve told you before, you’re different than the women I meet in the fashion industry. You’re wholesome and down to earth. One of the things I love about you is that you take me out of my comfort zone and encourage me to try things I’d never even imagined doing before.”
“Like the Polar Bear Swim?”
He laughed. “No, I’m not doing that! Like fishing, thrifting, and eating terribly gross food.”
She laughed. “What else?”
“Carrying a woman in my arms in a subway station, shipping Ferragamos across the country to get her attention.”
“And?” Her voice took on a sultry timbre.
“I’m not going to say any more.” He smiled a smile that had warmed her all the way home.
Anne laughed and popped out of bed, poured some coffee and lit her gardenia candle. Since quitting her valet job, she loved having hours on end to do her art. She pulled her hair up and twisted a scrunchie into it, then started back in on the flapper collage, adding more color and depth to the girls’ clothes.
While the collage dried, Anne moved to her shoe painting. The shading and darks and lights of the rhinestones were still challenging her. She needed inspiration.
From her stash, she grabbed an old tackle box about the same size and shape as the shoebox, screwed off the lid, and removed the inset, setting it aside. To the mermaid-blue paint left over on her palette she added a little oxide green and stirred it together to make a delicious turquoise. She painted the entire box, inside and out.
In front of her found-object shelf, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply and letting her breath out slowly. After a minute or so, she opened her eyes and scanned the ceramics. She skipped over the Goldilocks with braids, a blue-and-white Chinese fisherman, and a white poodle, but reached for the Lladró knockoff, a teen in a flowing gown. Anne ran her fingers over the smooth texture and set it on the table. She picked a few other things that appealed to her: a dollhouse-sized old-fashioned telephone, a cameo charm, a dove in flight, a faux diamond ring, and a starburst pendant.
Anne’s phone buzzed. “Hi, Mom. I’m back safe and sound. What did you think of Sergio?”
“He’s nice, dear. But are you sure he’s really for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s so foreign.”
Anne cringed. “That’s one of the things I love about him. Yes, dark and handsome, too.”
“If you’re sure, then when can we start planning the wedding?”
Anne laughed and sat on a kitchen chair. “We haven’t even lived together yet.”
“These are modern times, but is that really necessary? What would Aunt Tootie say?”
“Probably something like ‘shacking it up with the Italian’? But how else can I tell if Sergio and I are compatible?”
“Don’t you know that by now? Maybe you should give him the ‘old tomato’?”
“Like Suzi?” Their neighbor had given her then-boyfriend, Tom, an ultimatum, and now she was stuck with three kids, a yard full of knee-deep weeds, and a husband carousing at Barnacle Bill’s every night.
Anne believed in the romance of a proposal. Not a videotaped Facebook posting, but a one-of-a-kind, private candlelit dinner. She didn’t expect him to get down on his knee at the beach and propose like Brian did with Pootie. Sergio wasn’t the type, more the diamond-ring-in-a-champagne-glass type. “I want him to love me enough to ask me himself.”
“I’m sure he does and is just waiting for that special moment.” Her mom always had such a positive attitude. “Gotta go. Big Avon party this afternoon.”
“Good luck!” Anne hung up, musing over what her mother had said about living together. She’d read in The Sun that for the first time in the modern era, the majority of couples lived together before marriage. It made perfect sense for her to live with him.
With the painted box dry, she twisted eyelet screws in the top of the inside; tied fishing line to the starburst, ring, and dove; and attached them, making sure they were all at different lengths, as if flying. She glued the ceramic girl to the back of the box underneath the ring, the telephone next to the girl, and the cameo in the forefront. The outside needed one more thing, so she decoupaged a strip of antique lace along each side. Standing back, she studied the assemblage with a smile and felt that rush of proud happiness. Her piece resembled one by Joseph Cornell, one of her favorite artists.
She touched the telephone and pushed the diamond ring back and forth as if it were a swing.
“I’m going to call it Waiting for a Ring,” she said aloud with a laugh.
Then it hit her. Fay and her mother were right. Anne needed a commitment before moving all the way across the country. Sergio hadn’t mentioned anything about marriage lately, and they’d really only discussed it in broad terms. Mrs. Landenheim wanted her to sign the new lease, and Anne needed to move forward with her life and make plans. She hated to do it, but she’d have to bring it up to him herself.
She scrolled through her music, located her favorite Beyoncé hit, and shook her booty around the room, singing at the top of her lungs. “’Cause if you liked it, then you should put a ring on it!”
24
The next morning, Clair awoke with a strong desire to see Varinska perform again, to go back to Rudy’s in a new outfit so in fashion that even Mr. LeRue would be impressed. As soon as her father left for the office, she went straight to the shop with the rhinestone shoes and stared at them in the window.
She’d love to make them sparkle while she danced, not hide them in her trunk. She shook her head. No, either way, her father would get the bill and realize she’d made an extravagant purchase. He might even get angry. For the first time, he’d recently complained to her about spending too much money. She looked at the shoes with a sigh.
A woman strutted out of the barbershop next door with a striking short haircut. What a dream it would be to have a bob, too! Clair had never been in a barbershop before. Several years ago when women started frequenting them, Clair read in the paper that men had complained. Most barbers now welcomed women.
Clair took a deep breath and entered the shop. The barber gave her a wide smile and nodded to a bench. “Un momento.”
She sat on the padded seat while he lathered shaving cream over a reclined customer’s face. A sweet lime scent sprang into the air.
The barber had neatly trimmed slicked-back hair and seemed to be only a few years older than Clair. His dark eyes glistened in the light as he stropped a razor on a piece of leather. Like a sculptor, he shaved the customer’s face and wrapped a steaming towel around it, reminding her of King Tut’s mummy inside his golden sarcophagus. She had read all about him in National Geographic.
