You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  On Friday evening, pushed along by the sea of employees exiting the store, Dot and I quite literally bumped into Peter Bachmann. My pulse fluttered.

  “Ladies.” He touched the brim of his hat. “A few of us are going over to the Green Mill this evening to hear some jazz. Care to join us?”

  “The Green Mill?” Anxiety coursed through my veins at the mention of the famous gin joint. It billed itself as a restaurant, but everybody knew what it was, even the cops who turned a blind eye. Jack, a staunch teetotaler, would never have suggested an outing to the Green Mill. But then again, war changed people. Maybe a soldier had to take up drinking, just to survive the horrors of battle.

  While I cast about for some reply, Dot turned her sparkling smile on Peter. “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Bachmann, but our friend here doesn’t enter such establishments. And I’m afraid I’m working at Louie’s tonight.”

  “Is that true, Miss Corrigan?” he said with a little grin. “‘Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine’ and all that?”

  Embarrassment started at my toes and worked its way upward. Why did Dot have to make me sound like such a goody two-shoes?

  To Dot he said, “Say, Miss Rodgers, maybe we’ll swing by Louie’s later and give you a listen.” His eyes met mine. “You’re sure you won’t come with us? We could discuss the food drive.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. I would have loved to discuss the food drive, or anything else, with him, but not at a speakeasy. “Thanks anyway for the invitation.”

  “All right, then. Have a pleasant evening, ladies.” As he walked up the street with Kurt Steuben and a few other friends, I watched with sinking heart as the tall redhead linked her arm through his. I wheeled on Dot, hands on hips.

  “Why did you have to go and tell him I wouldn’t go to the Green Mill?”

  She gaped at me in surprise. “Because you wouldn’t. Would you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Marjorie, you’ve told me over and over how you don’t approve of speakeasies. That’s been your excuse for never coming to Louie’s place to hear me sing.”

  “I know, but when you said it, you made me sound so . . . so prudish.”

  She stopped short of saying “If the shoe fits,” but her expression said exactly that.

  “It’s true I don’t like such places,” I said. “They’re against the law, for one thing. And you know I don’t drink. But that’s beside the point.”

  “What is the point, then?”

  I had to admit, I had no idea. Sometimes being a good girl was no fun at all.

  On the streetcar, I relayed to Dot my most recent frustrating telephone conversation with Richard. She listened with growing impatience, then blurted, “For goodness’ sake, Marjorie. How long are you going to keep waffling?”

  That stung. “Who’s waffling? This is my future we’re talking about. I don’t want to make a decision I’ll regret.”

  Dot sighed. “I hate to say it, but I think you’re going to have to schedule a visit home to Kerryville.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Oh, Marjorie, men are such insecure creatures. Go home. Hash everything out with him. Patch things up. Or not. Work out in your own heart how you feel. But whatever you do, don’t lead him on. Don’t let him go on thinking you love him if you really don’t.” She gave me that sidelong glance that always made me squirm, as if she could see everything going on inside my head. I’d never considered that I might be leading Richard on. What an awful thought.

  I stared unseeing out the window. After nearly three weeks in Chicago, I still had no desire to go to Kerryville. Yes, a part of me missed Helen, Charlie, Pop, and even Frances a little. I was tired of always feeling like the new girl, the fish out of water here in Chicago. On the other hand, the prospect of spending a weekend with Frances and her wedding chatter filled me with dread. And Richard . . . I didn’t know what to think about Richard. I ought to miss him, to long to see him, but it was hard to conjure up any feeling at all.

  On impulse I blurted, “I’ll go if you come with me.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me to Kerryville. You can meet my family. See the place I come from. Get out of the city for a couple of days. Breathe the fresh country air.” As if on cue, a truck idling next to the open windows of the streetcar belched black fumes.

  “I don’t know . . .” Dot gasped through the sooty haze. Doubt shadowed her face. “It sounds like fun, but I don’t know if I can get a weekend off from the club. Besides, Louie might not like it.” Louie not only owned the speakeasy where Dot sang; he was also the current object of her affections, although whether he returned those feelings wasn’t entirely clear—a situation which seemed only to increase Dot’s fascination with him. The more indifferently he treated her, the more she seemed to want him. It made no sense. Dot could have had any man she wanted.

  “Oh, please try,” I begged. “It would be so much more fun if you were there. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt Louie any to see what it’s like to get along without you for a weekend.”

  She thought for a moment, then broke into a grin. “All right. When do you want to go?”

  “I’m so new on the job, I don’t think Mrs. Cross will let me take a Saturday off, but I’ll ask her. And oh, there’s one more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  I drew a deep breath, thinking of the redhead’s possessive grasp on Peter’s arm. Peter Bachmann goes for the glamorous type. “Before I go home, I want to get my hair bobbed.” If I were going home a changed woman, I’d change all the way.

  “Hallelujah.” Dot threw her hands in the air, startling a man who was standing in the aisle. He moved a few steps away for his own protection. “I knew you’d come around. Hey, wait a minute. I thought Prince Richard was insisting that you keep your Rapunzel locks. Has he changed his mind?”

  I shrugged. “Richard doesn’t get to decide everything.”

  Dot’s eyes widened. “That’s the ticket. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Marjorie Corrigan makes a daring decision all by herself,” she announced to the entire streetcar. I sank in my seat. “Miss Lenore in the salon will do wonders with your hair. She really knows her onions. You’ll see. We’ll march right up there tomorrow and get it all arranged. Richard will love it!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Richard will hate it. That was my first thought, as Miss Lenore whirled the chair around and I faced the mirror for the first time. My very next thought was, But maybe Peter will like it. Gone was my prim bun. In its place was a riot of curls springing out around my head, like the head of a cherub whose halo had shorted out in a shower of sparks. What on earth had I done?

  “Oh, it’s darling,” Dot squealed, clapping her hands. “Who knew you had such glorious curls? Miss Lenore, you’re a wonder.” The hairdresser beamed. “Oh, Marjie, don’t you just love it?”

  I blinked at my reflection. “It’s . . . different.”

  Miss Lenore frowned. “You no like?” she growled in a vaguely European accent. I suspected her to be a born-and-bred Chicagoan adopting an accent for glamorous effect. Clearly she’d never worked at Madge’s Cut ’n’ Curl, where Madge called everyone “honey.” Still, I didn’t want to offend Miss Lenore, who’d stayed late to accommodate me.

  “Oh, it’s—um—I think I just need some time to get used to it.” I touched my newly revealed neck, which looked bare and vulnerable. I did look modern. I just wasn’t convinced that modern suited me all that well. Maybe Richard would hate it, and Frances would surely blow her stack. But the real concern was, would it suit Peter?

  “Oh, Marjorie. It’s perfect,” Dot breathed. “Come on. Let’s settle up and get out of here. I can’t wait to fix the rest of you.”

  “What’s wrong with the rest of me?”

  Plenty, apparently. Back at the apartment, Dot sat me down and went to work on my face with her pots and pencils. When she finished I looked like a cross between Mata Hari and the Witch of Endor—kohl-lined eyes peering o
ut from under a mop of fluffy curls, and with a cupid’s-bow mouth colored High Society Red.

  Then she said, “We’ve got to get you out of those dull sweaters and skirts.” She ducked into her closet and emerged with a short, floaty sleeveless dress, a type I would never have considered wearing, until now.

  “My cousin works as a garment cutter on the West Side and she sent me this sample,” Dot explained. “It’s miles too big on me, but should fit you fine.”

  Although the observation about my size stung a little, I humbly accepted the dress and slipped it over my head, yanking at the hem where it hovered above my knees.

  “It’s too short.”

  “Nonsense. It’s perfect.”

  “I feel naked.” I hunched over, crossing my arms, as if it were my first day changing clothes for gymnastics class.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  “No, really. I can’t wear this in public.”

  “Well, no. Not if you’re going to skulk around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Stand up straight.”

  Apparently being glamorous required enduring both a cold neck and exposed kneecaps. But even I had to admit that if shorter hair, vampy makeup, and a fashionable dress didn’t capture certain masculine attention, nothing would.

  “What do you think?” Dot said. “Will Richard swoon when he sees you?”

  “Well,” I said finally, “maybe if he’s distracted by the hemline, he won’t mind as much about the hair.”

  My hunch was correct. When I requested time off to visit Kerryville, Mrs. Cross turned me down flat, saying she couldn’t possibly do without me until the end of June. I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. In any case, I didn’t have time to brood about it. With strong encouragement from Dot, I finally got myself registered for the evening Introduction to Textiles class at the Art Institute. Whether on account of my snappy new appearance, or simply the fact that the other students were all beginners like me, I felt much more confident at my first class than I had when I’d visited the more advanced class. The teacher, Miss Smith, was a gentle soul who removed any last traces of intimidation. I could hardly wait to get started.

  A week passed before I saw Peter Bachmann again, even though I watched for him every day in the cafeteria. I wanted him to see the changes to my appearance, so he’d know I wasn’t hopelessly old-fashioned even though I didn’t go to speakeasies. I’d show him I could be a modern girl. A modern, chic girl. A modern, chic girl with a chilly neck and kneecaps.

  I also needed to find out more about him, to reassure myself once and for all that he wasn’t some new version of Jack Lund.

  Eventually I lost patience and casually strolled over to the men’s section, trying to look for him without looking like I was looking. Sensing his presence before I actually saw him, I carefully scrutinized a silk necktie.

  “Miss Corrigan?”

  I glanced up, feigning surprise. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Bachmann.” My insides did a jig.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you.” He gave a low whistle that made me blush. “Nice haircut.” Self-conscious, I touched the back of my neck. He cocked his head. “You look so different. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a short-hair kind of girl.”

  My cheeks burned. “Is that so?” I teased. “What, pray tell, is a short-hair kind of girl?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said. “All sleek and modern, on-the-go, devil-may-care . . .”

  I crossed my unsleek arms over my chest. “Sounds like a racehorse, ‘Two bucks on Devil-May-Care in the ninth.’”

  He laughed. “I’d bet on you any day.” Then he cleared his throat and gestured to the rack. “These are our finest ties. One hundred percent silk.” He paused. “Are you shopping for a present? A gift for your fiancé, perhaps?”

  “No.” I blushed again. Why did I have to be so darn quick to tell him I was engaged? “I mean, yes, it is a present. For my, um, father.”

  “Of course. Father’s Day.”

  “Yes. That’s it,” I blurted, startling both of us. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? What a perfect excuse—I mean, reason—to look for a gift for Pop.

  Peter flashed a dimple. Jack had a dimple. Didn’t he? “Your father is a lucky man. Let me help you make a selection. What color suit does he normally wear?”

  Suddenly I had trouble recollecting Pop wearing anything other than his scruffy dressing gown or his tattered flannel hedge-trimming shirt. Even while working at the store he tended to fidget with his tie, whisking it off at the first opportunity. I fingered a silk foulard. “Maybe a necktie isn’t the best choice for him after all.” Don’t you remember my Pop? I longed to say. If you’re really Jack, you’ll remember him. I watched Peter’s face for any flicker of recognition, but he only nodded.

  “Perhaps I could recommend a nice men’s cologne then. We’ve a wide selection over here.”

  “Not bay rum, I hope.” The joking reference to our earlier conversation fell flat. Seeing his blank expression, I decided it was safer not to say anything more for the time being and busied myself with sniffing cologne testers.

  A few other shoppers drifted into view. “I’ll be right with you,” Peter called to them, reminding me that both he and I were supposed to be working.

  “I mustn’t take up any more of your time.” I thrust one of the bottles at him. “I’ll take this one.”

  “A fine choice. Your father will be pleased.”

  I watched his hands as he wrote up the sales slip. He had nicely groomed hands, for a man. As I recalled, Jack’s hands had always been rough and a little grimy under the nails. Mechanic’s hands.

  When I saw the figure Peter had written on the slip, I gasped a little. It hadn’t occurred to me to check the price. I swallowed hard. “Does—does that include my employee discount?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Oh. Uh, don’t you need to have the manager to approve an employee sale?”

  “I am the manager.”

  “Oh. Well, all right.” I pulled some bills from my purse and wracked my brain for something brilliant to say to hold his attention. “Hot weather we’re having.”

  So much for brilliant.

  “Yes. You must enjoy having shorter hair.” He paused and glanced up. “It really does look sensational. You could be one of those fashion models on Six.”

  A tingle swept up my bare neck. A girl could practically live on a compliment like that. He slipped the tissue-wrapped bottle into a little dark-green bag and handed it to me. His fingers lingered on mine an extra moment. Or maybe I just hoped they did.

  As I floated back to Ladies’ Nightwear, even Mrs. Cross’s pointed stares at her wristwatch didn’t bother me in the least. Nonetheless, early the next morning, well before Peter’s shift was due to begin, I discreetly returned the bottle of cologne to the men’s department and got my money back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Come on, Marjie,” Dot said, pulling on her gloves. “Let’s grab a bite on the way to class.”

  “No can do.” I gestured to a rack filled with wrinkled nightgowns. “This shipment arrived late in the day, and I promised Old Rugged I’d get them out on the floor tonight.”

  Dot made a face. “Can’t you do it tomorrow?”

  I shook my head. “There’s no refusing her. Believe me, I spend enough time on her bad side as it is.”

  Dot shrugged. “Suit yourself. If it were me, though, I’d tell the old bat to—oh, never mind.” She didn’t bother to finish her thought. I was not Dot, and we both knew it. “Guess I’ll see you later.”

  I turned back to my task, steaming the wrinkles out with a portable steam contraption that hissed and gurgled like a mythical sea monster. In spite of the machine’s ominous appearance, I found the task of steaming to be calming, soothing work. It felt gratifying to take a wrinkled mess and let the steam ease the creases out, ending up with a smooth, flowing length of batiste or dimity. I wished life were like that—you could just steam the problems away.<
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  The gowns were of thinnest cotton in a lovely lawn-green shade, sleeveless, with a dropped waist and delicate embroidery around the neckline, almost too pretty to wear only to bed. I held one up to myself and looked in the mirror, but even with the torturous bodice-flattening undergarment Dot had encouraged me to buy, I simply couldn’t pull off the look. With a sigh, I placed the gown back on the rack. It was the wrong moment in fashion history to have an hourglass figure. Clothes cut on the straight and narrow were unforgiving on curves like mine.

  The gown made me think of a garden party. As if I ever went to garden parties, much less wore a nightgown to one. Still, I loved the whole idea. Green lawns. Banks of flowers. A string quartet playing Mozart under a white lattice gazebo.

  Suddenly a burst of inspiration seized me. What Ladies’ Nightwear needed was a display. Not just a nightgown hanging on a mannequin, but the kind of fanciful, colorful vignette I’d been yearning to create in the front window of Corrigan’s Dry Goods Store, if only Pop didn’t have so many objections to what he called “that artsy stuff.”

  Soon I was scampering all over the store, collecting a white wrought-iron table and chair from House Furnishings and a porcelain teacup from China and Glassware and brilliant artificial flowers from Fancy Goods. Since the store was closed and most of the staff had gone home, I left a hastily scribbled note in each department, explaining about the borrowed merchandise. Surely no one could object to such a worthy use of the items.

  An hour later I had created a charming tableau at the entrance to Ladies’ Nightwear. A delicate china teacup sat on the wrought-iron table. Next to the table, artfully draped over a matching chair, was the green cotton nightie. In Millinery I found the perfect summery hat to position near the gown, with a pair of delicate satin slippers. Then I set the artificial flowers in clusters all around, until Ladies’ Nightwear bloomed like the Garfield Park Conservatory.