The Girls at the Kingfisher Club

by Genevieve Valentine

  Before she could ask, the song was over and the other girls descended like a flock of birds.

  Sophie said, “Nobody dance with the one in the white vest, he’s got wandering hands.”

  Lily gave the white vest an appraising look. “When you look like that, your hands are welcome to.”

  Araminta frowned. “Lily, that’s disgusting. Don’t let him get away with anything.”

  “I won’t! I’ve found one I like. He’s a lieutenant.”

  “In the Two-Left-Foot Army?”

  “Very funny, Rebecca.”

  Hattie and Mattie were laughing too hard to speak, but they both pointed their votes to Rebecca.

  Lily smoothed her hair in the reflection of the brass trim of the booth. “As if I’m dancing with him for his floorcraft,” she said as she moved for the stairs.

  “Oh lovely,” Hattie said, and Mattie said, “You’re the queen of good taste.”

  “Everyone’s judgment slips,” said Lou from the edge of the crowd, not quite looking at Jo.

  Jo didn’t answer. She didn’t like being on shaky ground when it came to things like this; it was the reason she’d retired.

  She kept her eyes on the dance floor, tracking her sisters one by one as they skipped across the dark wood, wearing out their shoes with dancing shines. Hattie and Mattie were so rough on their T-straps that they had to tie ribbon knots where the leather was most likely to give out.

  Jo pretended she didn’t know when Tom’s eyes were on her; she pretended not to know when he was behind the bar or at the door.

  He didn’t dance with anyone else.

  The music thrummed under her feet, and she didn’t look at him, all night long.

  • • •

  Jo summoned them just after three.

  By the time Ella and Hattie had undone their shoes and scrambled last up the stairs, three cabs were waiting.

  “I thought you’d prefer not to linger,” Tom said.

  It was halfway between hospitable and hurt; Jo didn’t want to know.

  Rebecca blinked at the cars. “That one’s not letting the grass grow under his feet, is he?”

  “Ladies,” said Tom. “Does anyone require carriage? There are a dozen willing men inside, or this one, until his achy old knees give out.”

  “We’ve got it handled,” said Jo.

  Hattie frowned. “But my stockings—”

  “Move it.”

  “Yes, General,” Hattie said through gritted teeth, and began to pick her way across the sidewalk. The other sisters followed.

  Tom looked over. “ ‘General’?”

  “You try getting eleven girls to do what you say and see how long you stay nice,” she said.

  He bit back a smile.

  Doris stood outside one of the cabs, Lou outside another, shepherding three girls into each, and in ten seconds they were all in place, and Jo moved to the last cab, which had an empty seat.

  Tom followed her. When he offered her a hand up, she took it without looking. (She hated that she knew he’d be offering.)

  He closed the door and the cabs pulled away from the curb, and a breath later they were gone.

  “That was a genius night,” said Rebecca. “Well chosen, General. How’d you find the place?”

  “He sprung me,” said Jo. Outside, unfamiliar streets sailed past.

  Hattie smacked Mattie on the shoulder. “Told you,” she said. “You owe me a dollar.”

  “Not yet,” said Mattie. “General, is that why you danced with him, though? He sprung you?”

  “I owed him one, I’d say.”

  “Ha! Hand over the dollar.”

  “I don’t have a dollar!”

  “Then don’t make bets,” said Rebecca.

  “Useful advice four hours ago,” muttered Mattie.

  The buildings had the corona of morning that streetlights sometimes gave, the white stone fronts looking iced over in the retreating dark. Jo counted the streets as they climbed closer to home.

  She could still feel the press of his fingers from the moment he’d gripped her hand, just before letting go.

  • • •

  They crowded up the back stairs, the rasping of their dresses the only noise in the house.

  At last, it was only Lou and Jo left.

  “Saw you dancing with the delivery boy,” Lou said. “You looked pretty comfortable for someone who hasn’t danced in a while.”

  In the dark hall, Lou’s hair was an angry halo, but her face was in shadow, and Jo couldn’t see her expression.

  Jo shrugged. “Just like old times, I guess.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Lou.

  She disappeared into the bedroom.

  When Jo rubbed her forehead, where a vicious headache had begun, the crook of her elbow smelled faintly of cologne.

  thirteen

  Is Everybody Happy Now?

  It’s the second night she’s known him.

  It’s an unbearable day between seeing him the first night and seeing him the next, his eyes skipping over the crowd looking for her.

  (Looking for her.)

  She’s dancing with someone else, and when he sees her, he grins, slows down, reshoulders his crate, and half-turns to keep her in sight until he reaches the cellar door.

  He makes an endless number of trips. She takes dances—she’s not about to waste a minute when songs and partners are good—but underneath the din, she can hear the cellar door opening and closing, little ticks marking time.

  Eventually she gives up, sits, and watches her sisters. It’s a good night; they’re deliriously dancing, betraying a panic they never quite get over. (By the time the younger ones began to come out, there was a sense of order, but the four oldest always knew how close they’d been to the edge.)

  He appears at their table, still brushing sawdust off his jacket.

  “I hoped you’d be here,” he says. “Care to dance?”

  She’s out of her seat before he’s finished talking; he has her hand before she’s out of her seat.

  “Missed me, I guess,” she says, half-teasing, but he doesn’t deny it.

  She closes her eyes against the smoky air, smells the cedar and whiskey that cling to him.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “The back alley?”

  She squeezes his hand, and he laughs into her hair. “Near Philadelphia,” he says. “I picked up this route as a favor to a friend.”

  He doesn’t say I won’t be here long. She doesn’t ask.

  They dance for a long time. Sometime after two, he offers to show her his truck in the alley.

  She pulls back a little, meets his eye.

  “You picked the wrong girl for that line,” she says, not as cruelly as she could—not as cruelly as she has, with other men.

  He nods seriously, apologizes with a flush at his temples, and doesn’t suggest it again.

  (She’ll be the one, weeks later, who leads him into the dark cellar. It’s summer, sticky even underground, and she’ll comb her damp bangs out with her fingers just for something to do with her hands.

  He’ll stand a few inches away from her, and wait a few moments after she drops her hands before he leans forward and kisses her.)

  Later that night, he’ll ask Jo her name for the first time, and hear no.

  (Ella has already perfected “Don’t you like calling me Princess?” and Doris likes “You can’t pronounce it.”

  Jo favors the level look and “Does it matter?”

  That one she doesn’t try; to Tom, it matters plenty.)

  • • •

  Her father’s note arrived with breakfast.

  Dinner party this evening, eight o’clock. Four guests expected. Have already spoken with Mrs. Reardon about menu. Love, Father
.

  So much for Jo seeing anything ahead of time.

  There was no mention of which guests were expected, or for whom these upstanding young men would be intended.

  Jo handed the note to Lou and sat down at their writing desk to reply.

  Lou frowned at the note as if she’d accidentally read it upside down. “He told you he spoke with Mrs. Reardon about the menu, and not one word about the guests?”

  “Well,” said Jo, “I suppose he doesn’t want us to worry about the menu.”

  “I hope you have a brilliant plan to get them out of this,” said Lou, perching on the edge of her bed. “I’m more than happy to get out of here alone—I’ll find something—but that still leaves plenty.”

  “All suggestions welcome.”

  Lou narrowed her eyes. “I suggest you come up with a brilliant plan to dissuade Father before all of us end up married off and locked up tight along Park Avenue.”

  “Very helpful,” said Jo, and turned her attention to her note.

  Dear Sir,

  I would very much like to speak with you regarding plans for this evening. Please call for me at your earliest convenience; I will make myself available at whatever time suits you.

  Josephine

  • • •

  It suited their father that Jo meet with him at two.

  She wore the gray dress that made her look secretarial and (she hoped) would suggest to their father that she was capable of handling all the weight and import of a four-person guest list.

  Walters left her at the foyer where it led to the pale front parlor. The pocket doors to the gold-and-green dining room had been pulled open at the far end of the room, an uneasy contrast that looked, at a glance, like a white beast opening its vast mouth.

  (It would devour them just the same, she thought.)

  From where she stood in the foyer, she watched her father overseeing as two women bustled back and forth from the butler’s pantry, arranging plates and bowls and thin-stemmed glasses at nine settings around the enormous oak table. They looked up as she entered, one assessing glance, and then turned back to their work.

  There was no light of recognition; if they had even been at the house when Jo and Lou were sneaking out to the flicks, they’d paid no notice back then, either.

  When Jo cleared her throat, their father turned and smiled cheerfully, waving her over.

  “Josephine, come and have a look at this. Your mother selected a beautiful china pattern, don’t you think? It’s so like her.”

  It was white porcelain with a filigreed and gilded edge an inch wide, fussy and impersonal—the sort of thing a woman chose when she was afraid to really choose.

  It looked expensive, too, which was probably what he liked about it.

  Jo said, “It’s lovely.”

  “It looks very sharp with the crystal,” he said. “Tonight should be a great success. Mrs. Reardon, if you please, could you wash the champagne flutes as well? I think we’ll serve some from the cellar with dessert.” He turned to Jo. “No harm in bringing out a little something you’ve had on hand.”

  That sounded close to home.

  “Of course, sir,” said the older woman, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  So that was Mrs. Reardon, with whom she might be expected to be lady of the house for the dinner parties that would follow this one, as soon as their father tired of the novelty.

  “About tonight,” said Jo. “I was hoping to speak with you about the gentlemen guests who are coming.”

  He blinked. “What about them?”

  Jo balled her fists.

  “You can’t expect—” she said too sharply, swallowed, and tried again. “You can’t expect us to sit down with them, without knowing what they know about us. That’s—that’s—”

  Her father frowned, pulled back an inch, and she remembered what it was to be ten years old and really fear him; she went cold.

  “Hardly sporting,” she finished, and attempted a winning smile.

  (She should have sent Ella. Damn, damn.)

  He didn’t return it. Jo held the smile until her mouth ached, not knowing what else to do.

  Finally he raised one eyebrow and turned back to the table. “I suppose the guests can know a bit about each other beforehand. I don’t really know party manners these days.”

  Jo wasn’t surprised. “It would be nice, sir,” she said. “For the other girls.”

  He considered it a moment longer, unused to arming them with knowledge of anything at all; then he nodded, as if satisfied it wouldn’t actually arm them much.

  “Bring me the business cards from my office desk, there’s a girl.”

  Well, Jo thought as she crossed the foyer, at least the secretary outfit worked.

  Their father’s desk was covered with papers and items neatly stacked: the business cards in a small pile off the edge of the blotter, and the day’s paper folded in quarters at his left elbow, his magnifying glass resting on top of a small advertisement on a back page.

  ANY MAN W/INFORMATION ABOUT DANCING SOCIETY SISTERS INVITED TO APPLY DIRECTLY TO 3 E 84TH ST.

  She read it twice; she’d seen the front of the house so rarely that it took a moment for their address to register.

  Then she grabbed the cards and moved deliberately back to the dining room, a small smile fixed to her face, wondering how many times it was possible to feel sick in a single afternoon.

  • • •

  Rebecca was sitting on the landing of the third floor when Jo took the stairs back up.

  “What did he say?”

  “Round them up,” said Jo, not slowing.

  Rebecca scrambled out of the way and swung into the doorway to Rose and Lily’s room. “Come on, she wants us!”

  Rebecca was only a step behind her all the way up the stairs, and by the time Jo was in her room they were coming, taking positions on the bed, the desk, the floor. By now, they all had places; this was their war room, and they were soldiers.

  “Last in close the door,” said Jo, and someone did, the key turning with a satisfying clack.

  When Jo pulled the cards out of her pocket and they realized what she was holding, there was a collective intake of breath.

  “I want information on . . . Robert Foster,” she read, and glanced up.

  “Oh God,” said Araminta a few moments later, one hand pressed to her cheek, “I know him. He’s been out a few times. I don’t think he’s ever been sober enough to put a sentence together. Father can’t mean for us to marry a flat tire like that.”

  “If he can afford to get blotto, then he can afford to buy up one of us,” said Lou.

  “We can hope he passes out in the soup,” said Jo. “Next is Michael Prescott—the Fourth, heaven help us.”

  A couple of the girls groaned, but nobody offered any information. Either he was too square to go out, or he was too discreet to give his name to girls he met in dance halls. Bad news either way.

  Jo read out, “Samuel Lewisohn.”

  There was a little silence as the girls realized that their father had no intention of keeping them all in the same social register, if he was bringing in Jewish suitors.

  But Doris started at the name, and smiled.

  “Yes,” she said. “Sam. He used to go to the Kingfisher a few years back. He was nice—one of my firsts. After a while he stopped coming.”

  That didn’t sound good. “What happened to him?”

  “He said his father was putting pressure on him to take over the family business? Something about clothes. He was a sweetheart, no trouble, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, now I remember,” piped up Ella. “He couldn’t waltz, but he was very nice.”

  “Handsy?” asked Araminta.

  “No,” Doris and Ella answered at the same time.

  “
Nice enough to keep his mouth shut?” said Jo.

  “I hope so,” said Doris with a slightly stricken face.

  Jo let it be. Sam wasn’t the worst news she was carrying.

  She looked at the fourth card a moment longer, as if hoping the name would change.

  At last she said, “And we have David van de Maar.”

  No one volunteered; they were watching Jo worry the edges of the card in her fingers.

  “You all won’t know him,” she said finally, glancing up at Lou and then at Ella. “He’s one of Father’s business associates. Lou, Ella, you might remember. I see him here, from time to time.”

  Ella and Lou exchanged blank looks.

  Araminta made a face. “Father’s age? He’d be sixty!”

  Jo didn’t answer—his age was the least of her worries—and the significance of the silence passed from girl to girl.

  At last, Jo slid the cards back into her pocket. “So, this is who we’re up against. Four rich men—two old men, one stranger who may know who we are, and one man who definitely knows. Doris, Lou, Ella, and I will be representing us, with the expectation that each of these men will find a wife under this roof.”

  Rose went white. “But, Jo—I mean, you won’t—”

  “That will be all,” Jo said, so sharply that Rose swallowed the rest.

  “I’ll have more to tell you tomorrow,” Jo said, more calmly. “Lou, Ella, Doris, please stay.”

  They filed out in despairing silence, until only the four oldest were left.

  As soon as Jo closed the door, Doris whirled on her. “Jesus, Jo, why not just slap them all on their way out?”

  Jo sighed. “What am I supposed to do, Doris, tell them four handsome princes are coming to dinner? They’re in serious trouble. There’s no point lying about it.”

  “You could make it sound a little less horrifying,” said Ella.

  “It is horrifying,” said Jo. “They’re not stupid. They deserve to know what they’re up against.”

  “But—oh, it’s all so awful.”

  “Don’t worry, Ella,” said Lou. “At least it won’t be dull. Nothing worse than a dead party. We’ll have plenty to tell the others on the way to the Marquee.”