You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  “Of course.” Mrs. Cross’s expression said, We can’t possibly be talking about the same person. I shrugged and scurried off to fetch a pale celery nightgown for my new friend.

  After Mrs. Dunsworthy left, I ran into Ruthie from Stationery in the ladies’ restroom.

  “Are you feeling all right, Marjorie?” she said. “You look like death warmed over.”

  I glanced at the mirror over the sinks. Puffy cheeks and two dark-ringed eyes stared back at me. “I’m all right. I just haven’t been sleeping too well.” I whipped out my compact to repair the damage.

  In reality, I’d slept, but my sleep was haunted by dreams about Peter Bachmann. But then Richard’s face would pop up, and I’d wake up with a start. This went on all night, resulting in my tired and haggard appearance. But I didn’t need to explain all that to Ruthie. Ruthie was the wholesome type of girl who wouldn’t ever get herself into predicaments like this, much less understand them.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Is there something I can pray about for you?”

  “Um, no, that’s all right,” I mumbled, startled at her offer. While I appreciated the gesture, and hadn’t known Ruthie to gossip, I barely knew her and couldn’t risk my personal troubles becoming fodder for the moccasin trail.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you,” Ruthie continued. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—would you like to go to church with me sometime?”

  “Church?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I thought being new to the city, you might not have had a chance to find a good church yet.”

  “Oh. Um, well—” The truth was, I hadn’t been to church even once since coming to Chicago. I’d been meaning to, but the weeks had slipped past, and Sunday was my only morning to sleep in, and Dot never went, and with one thing and another . . . I knew I should go to church if I meant what I’d said to God that day in Union Station.

  “Or maybe you have already,” she said at my hesitation. “Found a church, I mean.”

  I couldn’t lie. “No, I haven’t,” I admitted. “I’ll be happy to go with you. Sometime. Just to visit. You’re very kind to ask me.” Which she was, despite my heathenish waffling.

  “Glad to hear it. How about this Sunday?” she pressed.

  “Oh. I guess so. All right.”

  She told me which streetcar to take to the church. “I look forward to seeing you there.”

  I smiled and nodded as she exited the lounge. Sunday was a long way off.

  I turned to the mirror, sighed at the devastation, went to work with my powder puff and lipstick, and didn’t give Ruthie or church another thought.

  Betty intercepted me as I walked back to Ladies’ Nightwear. “Say, there’s a new John Gilbert movie playing at the Oriental. Want to go?”

  At the name of my favorite actor, my day brightened considerably. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Swell. Meet me at the Randolph Street entrance after closing. Maybe we can make the early show and grab a bite afterwards.”

  The movie, called The Cossacks, paired John Gilbert with Renée Adorée, his Big Parade costar. We settled happily into our seats, but first we had to sit through the newsreel. In the lead story, images of federal agents hacking open crates of bootleg liquor in some warehouse flickered across the screen. The agents then smashed the bottles inside, creating an ankle-deep flood of liquor. Beside me, Betty shook her head.

  “All that gorgeous hooch, going straight down the drain. Can you imagine? Prohibition is such a waste.”

  I shuddered. “It doesn’t look so gorgeous to me,” I said, thinking of Charlie. “Alcohol causes all sorts of problems. People are better off without it, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is that the Feds should mind their own business.”

  “But I’ve never seen you take a drink.”

  “That’s because you’ve never come out with us to the speakeasies. Why should I pay for my own liquor when some fellow will buy it for me?” Betty glanced at me in the dark. “By the way, why haven’t you?”

  “What? Hit up a fellow for a drink?”

  “No, silly. Why haven’t you come out to the speaks with us? We have so much fun. You should come with us sometime, at least to hear Dot sing. I know she’d appreciate it, and frankly, you’d seem like less of a wet blanket.”

  That stung. I was not a wet blanket. Some people thought I was a lot of fun. Didn’t they?

  I shrugged. “I haven’t had a lot of free time . . . certainly not to spend in disreputable gin joints.” I didn’t want to compound my wet-blanket status by adding that I was scared to death to set foot in a speakeasy, although that was the truth. Not only was Kerryville dry as the proverbial bone, but since Frances was head of the local chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, our tabletops were always littered with anti-saloon propaganda. Any tiny leanings we might have had toward taking that first illicit sip would have been squashed hard and fast. It had almost killed her when Charlie took to the bottle. But all the anti-liquor crusading in the world hadn’t prevented him from finding plenty to drink.

  As if reading my thoughts, Betty opined, “Prohibition is a waste because it doesn’t work. It forces perfectly upright citizens to become scofflaws.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t work?” I gestured to the screen, where the agents continued to hack away at barrels of booze. “Look at all the people who will be saved from the evils of alcohol.”

  “You’re such an innocent,” she countered. “Bootlegging is the biggest racket around. Why, haven’t you heard the rumors going around the moccasin trail that some Field’s employees are involved in it?” Her eyes widened. “Some say it even starts at the top, with Mr. Simpson himself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I’ve also heard the name of that new manager in the Store for Men bandied about.”

  My mouth went dry. “Peter Bachmann?”

  “Yeah. It’s rumored he’s a bootlegger himself, that he’s running a racket with Mr. Simpson.”

  The blood drained from my head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh, yes. You’d be surprised to learn who does what around that place.”

  The newsreel came to a close and we settled back to watch the feature. The Cossacks was probably an exciting movie, because later I recalled hearing the audience gasp, but I didn’t remember much else, I was so distracted by the whirl of thoughts and emotions swirling through me.

  Peter Bachmann, a bootlegger. That rumor couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?

  Jack would never in a million years traffic in liquor. On the other hand, war could change a man. And a person could change a lot in ten years.

  I raked back over my few conversations with Peter. The one that stood out in my mind was when he’d invited Dot and me to join him and his friends at the Green Mill. He’d said he wanted to hear jazz, but now I wondered if it was the booze he was most interested in.

  But he seemed like such an upstanding citizen. The rumor couldn’t be true.

  But what if it was? Just my luck to fall for a bootlegger, of all people, when I had a perfectly fine, straight arrow of a man waiting for me at home—a man I could learn to love, if I’d just make an effort. Thank goodness things hadn’t progressed any further with Peter.

  When I got back to Dot’s apartment, I did penance by writing a long, chatty letter to Richard. I regaled him with stories about life at Field’s, my classes at the Art Institute, and what I remembered of the plot of The Cossacks. I inquired about his work and his health and his family. When I was finished, I blotted the ink, folded the pages neatly in thirds, and tore them up into tiny, tiny pieces.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  On Saturday night I couldn’t get a wink of sleep. An oppressive heat wave blanketing the city didn’t help. The open windows let in all the noise of the city streets, including the occasional bone-shattering rumble of the Elevated, but not a whiff of a breeze. I sat at the tiny kitchen table, sipping a glass of ice water and reading a detective
novel, until Dot came home from her singing gig. She sank wearily into the chair opposite me and kicked off her satin pumps.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Hot as Hades.” She fanned her pretty face with a magazine. She looked luminous, being one of those women who glowed fetchingly in the heat. I merely sweated. “Especially when the place is as packed as tonight,” she continued, “with every sheik and sheba from Lake Forest to South Shore. We’ve begged and begged Louie to put in one of those new air-cooling machines, like the movie theaters have, but he’s too darn cheap.” She ran her fingers through her hair, fanning it up off her neck. “What are you still doing up? Can’t sleep?”

  I shook my head.

  “You really should try my ginger lemonade,” she urged as she poured herself a glass from the icebox. “It will put you right out.”

  I sighed. “I’m just thinking about things.”

  She reached over, patted my arm, and said with an exaggerated pout, “Poor baby. Man trouble?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Never mind, doll. Men are like buses. If you miss one, another one will come along soon enough.”

  “That’s true for you,” I said. “If you wanted to, you could change boyfriends as often as you change hats.”

  “Why would I want to? Louie’s enough for any girl.” Her face brightened. “Speaking of hats, you wouldn’t believe how many ladies were asking today about that little straw number, after seeing it on your darling display. We’ve taken to calling it ‘the garden-party hat,’ because that’s what the customers keep asking for. ‘Can you show me that garden-party hat?’ they say.” She giggled.

  “I wish somebody would say so to Mrs. Cross,” I said. “She still hasn’t warmed up to it, although she doesn’t dare take it down since Mr. Simpson said he likes it.”

  “Aw, she’s just jealous.” Dot yawned and stretched. “Guess I’d better hit the hay. Got any plans for tomorrow? Or should I say, later today?”

  “I told Ruthie I’d go to church with her,” I said. “Care to join us?”

  “Church?” She gave a harsh laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Oh, come on. It’ll be lots more fun if you’re there. I’ll even treat you to lunch afterwards.”

  “First of all,” she said, “have you ever known me to get up before noon on a Sunday?”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t.

  “And second, I was a preacher’s kid all through my growing-up years. I did enough of that religion stuff to last me a lifetime.”

  “A preacher’s kid? You?” I caught the note of disbelief in my voice and hoped she wasn’t offended.

  She chuckled. “I know. I don’t fit the mold, do I? Well, you should have seen me. I was the perfect pastor’s daughter. Obedient, quiet, helpful. My sisters and I sang together in church every Sunday, in our giant hair bows and patent leather Mary Janes. ‘Those Rodgers girls,’ people called us. ‘They sing like the angels.’ We were angels, all right. Good as gold during the week, and in church every Sunday, without fail.” She shook her head as if she, herself, couldn’t quite believe it.

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, you know. Everybody thought my father was this fine, upstanding preacher-man, and he was—in public. But at home it was another story. He had a demon of a temper, helped along by the secret bottle of scotch he always kept stashed in his desk drawer. He terrorized us girls. We never knew when he was going to explode and give one or the other of us the strap. Made life a living hell for my mother. He was such a hypocrite.” A shadow crossed her delicate features. “As I grew older, we argued all the time, he and I. He hated my clothes, my hair, my friends. I was always being invited to sing in school musicals and such, but he forbade any singing outside of the church. He thought my desire to have a singing career was shameful and evil. Home felt like a prison, there were so many rules and regulations.”

  “Oh, Dot. I’m sorry,” was all I could say.

  She drew in a deep breath. “Anyway, to make a long story short, the final straw came when I figured out he was seeing some woman on the side. Guess he took the passage about ‘loving thy neighbor’ a little too literally. For my mother’s sake, I never told anyone, but I could never trust my father again. The minute I finished high school, I packed my bag and headed up here. Never looked back. Now I’m living the life I want to live. At least I will be, when I get my big break.”

  I swirled the melting ice cubes in the bottom of the glass. “Do your sisters ever come to visit you?”

  Dot looked away. “No. He’s forbidden them to come. I’m a bad influence, dontcha know.” She stood up and stretched. “And now after that invigorating walk down memory lane, I’m off to bed. Have a fun time with Ruthie tomorrow. Good night.”

  “G’night.” I sat in the kitchen a while longer. This is what I don’t understand, Lord. Why didn’t You help Dot? How could You let a pastor, of all people, cause so much suffering? You want people to trust You, but then You pull the rug out from underneath them. Help me understand.

  I doused the light and trudged off to bed. The thought of getting up for church in just a few hours no longer appealed. I briefly considered skipping it and sleeping in. But Ruthie was expecting me, and I couldn’t let her down.

  Lying in my stifling room, I continued railing at God. First You took away my mother, then Jack. And then I thought You’d given Jack back to me, but You were just playing a trick. You replaced Jack with a lookalike gangster. A gangster whom I now have feelings for.

  I blinked at the ceiling as the truth settled over my heart. Yes, I have feelings for him. For Peter. Even now that I know he’s not Jack. And even though I barely know him. And You knew the whole time I would. How could You let this happen? Why, oh why, can’t You make me feel this way about the man I’ve promised to marry? It would make everything so much simpler.

  I turned my face to the wall, knowing it was wrong to accuse God of being out to hurt me. But at least He and I were back on speaking terms. By now I’d thoroughly talked myself out of wanting to go to church. But I would go. Ruthie was counting on me. And if nothing else, I was a woman of my word.

  The morning light made everything seem more hopeful. In spite of my irrepressible yawns, I enjoyed visiting Ruthie’s church. The steeple rose above the squat tenements and dingy alleyways of the West Side neighborhood like a beacon of hope. The pastor preached with vigor on the story of the prodigal son.

  “And he wasted his substance with riotous living . . .” he quoted from the Scriptures.

  Chagrined, I recalled how I’d been tempted to visit a speakeasy solely in order to spend an evening with Peter. Sinful behavior was a slippery slope. If I didn’t get a grip on my wayward heart, I’d soon find myself wasting my substance with riotous living, right alongside Mr. Prodigal.

  “Son, thou art ever with me, and all I have is thine,” Pastor Higgins thundered from the pulpit. “It is meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.”

  Surely a person could make merry and be glad in a way that didn’t involve gin mills.

  In a strange way it felt good to be back in church. Familiar and comfortable, like visiting the home of an old friend. I vowed to be less of a lazybones and join Ruthie more often on Sundays. As she and I exited the sanctuary, she paused to shake the pastor’s hand and introduce me.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Corrigan,” Pastor Higgins said. “I hope you’ll join us again.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” I said. I meant it, too.

  He smiled at Ruthie. “Miss Gardner, tell me, how are things going down at the settlement house?”

  “Fine, Pastor. We’re getting ready for the big Fourth of July concert in Grant Park. I hope you and Mrs. Higgins will be able to come.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” the pastor said. “It’s a great opportunity for the children. You’ve been working wonders with them.”

>   Ruthie blushed. “Not me, Pastor. It’s all the Lord’s doing.”

  “The Lord works through His people. Well done, Miss Gardner.”

  While we waited for the streetcar, Ruthie filled me in. “The church supports a settlement house on the Southwest Side. I help out there as a volunteer, teaching music and directing the choir.”

  “You’re a music teacher?” This girl had more layers than an onion.

  “Not a trained one,” she said. “I just love music and sort of fell into the job.”

  “What was Pastor Higgins saying about the Fourth of July?”

  Ruthie’s eyes sparkled. “Every year the city picks a children’s choir to sing at the big Independence Day celebration in Grant Park. This year our little choir was selected.”

  “Gee, that’s impressive. They must be good.”

  “We’ve been blessed with an abundance of good singing voices. But it’s still a lot of work.” All at once the sparkle in her eyes spread to her whole face. “Say, Marjorie, we could really use some help. A few of our regular volunteers are out of town and we’re even more short-staffed than usual. Would you consider lending us a hand?”

  “Me?” I choked out a laugh. “What on earth could I do at a concert? I dread getting up in front of people, and I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “Oh, we don’t need you to perform, or even sing,” Ruthie said. “We really need help with costumes and staging. You’re so creative—everyone simply loves what you did with the display down in Ladies’ Nightwear.”

  Word traveled fast. Clearly the moccasin trail was up and running.

  “Thanks.” I fidgeted with the collar of my dress, which suddenly felt snug. “I don’t know . . . I haven’t ever worked with children before.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve mentioned doing things with your little sister. This is pretty much just like that.” I had my doubts, but her eyes were pleading. “Please? This concert will help attract donations, and it means so much to the children. You’d be doing them—and me—an enormous favor.”

  “Well. . . .” Against my better judgment I heard myself say, “All right. I guess I could help out. Just this once.” Flattery will get me to say anything. Plus, I rather liked the idea of devising costumes, free from the stifling influence of Mrs. Cross.