Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel

by Rebecca Rotert

  You were shouting at Sophia? asks Jim.

  I was not.

  Then why would she say that?

  She’s making it up. She’s always making things up.

  I am not! I say.

  She says, If I lost my temper, you deserved it.

  I didn’t even do anything, I shout back.

  Mother says calmly, No you didn’t, darling. You never do anything. You just follow me around, lurking. You have no initiative, no passion. I cannot believe you’re my daughter sometimes, you know that? You’re like him. That’s the real trouble. You’re just like your father. You do not understand me.

  Jim jerks the car to the side of the road and puts it in park. Stop it! Stop it right now, Naomi, so help me God. He grabs her face and they are nose to nose. If you EVER talk to her like that again, so help me God! He lets go of her and Mother stares, stunned.

  She watches him long after he puts his hands back on the wheel and begins to drive home, just sitting there studying the side of his face. I put my Heathkit and my book on my lap, hold them and start to cry so hard my whole body shakes. Jim reaches his arm back to touch me but I strike it away. I curl up on the seat and don’t even try to stop it.

  Jim stops the car in front of the hotel and turns around. Sophia, my girl. It’s okay.

  Mother reaches for me, too.

  You get out, says Jim. Leave us.

  But—

  Leave us.

  I hide my face in my arm and hear her get out of the car.

  Jim rests his hand on my head and sighs. I wish I could fix all this.

  I don’t want to move. I try to breathe so I can talk. I don’t know how to swim! I don’t know how to ride a bike! I sit up. I don’t want to go there!

  Hey. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I really don’t.

  You don’t know. I could live with you. I could help you in the bathroom.

  It’s a darkroom, he says.

  Yes, but it’s also a bathroom.

  I’m going to take you up now so you can go to bed. Things will look different in the morning.

  Mother is waiting for us on the sidewalk. We all three walk into the hotel slowly, carefully moving, walking like our bodies and the street and the sidewalk and the building are all suddenly breakable.

  When we get inside the apartment Mother gets on her knees and hugs me. I am so sorry, kitten. I am so, so sorry.

  It’s okay, I tell her. I touch her hair. It’s messed up and soft.

  Come on, says Jim, let’s get you to bed.

  Don’t make me. I don’t want to be alone. Please let me stay out here.

  Anything, says Mother. She grabs a blanket from the back of the davenport, spreads it out, and waves me over. I get under the blanket and suddenly feel so tired.

  Good night, then, says Jim.

  No, says Mother, grabbing his arm. Please stay. We need to talk.

  He shakes his head and says, gently, I’ve really had enough of you tonight. I really have.

  Ten minutes, she says. Please, Jimmy. Sit with me. She walks over to the settee. He follows.

  I’m sorry about how I talked to her, she says.

  You’ll have to take that up with Sophia.

  You know what my first thought was tonight, when I opened that box? My first thought was you. My thought was, I cannot live without my Jim. I will not.

  I open my eyes then. Jim’s looking at the floor. Mother leans forward so she can rest her hands on his legs.

  She takes a deep breath. I have taken you for granted. All these years. I haven’t seen you clearly. But I do now. I do.

  He shakes his head. I don’t know.

  Give me another chance. I can be better.

  He puts his hands on her hands. You live in fantasies. Can you see that? It’s good to have aspirations. It’s swell. Hell, I got them, too, but this is what’s real. Her, me, us.

  The phone rings.

  Don’t, says Jim.

  She shakes her head and answers it. Listens. Yes, we are, she says. We are done. No. I will call you. She hangs up carefully.

  I close my eyes and turn around so I’m facing the back of the davenport. Please, God and the angels and saints, please let us all be normal again. Please don’t make me move to the suburbs. Please don’t let anybody drop a bomb on us. I will be good. I will be good. I will be good.

  When I wake up in the middle of the night, I go to the kitchen to get a drink of water and I hear Mother crying softly in her room. Light little sobs. The way you cry when nobody is there to hear you.

  I open her bedroom door quietly in case she’s crying in her sleep. She and Jim are sitting on the bed, naked, sweaty; her legs are wrapped around him and she is crying. He is holding her hair in his fist and kissing her neck. I close the door and go back to my room.

  Lying awake, I look at the ceiling and think: If only my brain were bigger. If I had a big brain like Sister Eye or Mr. LaFontaine, I would know what to think, how I’m supposed to feel. I squeeze my eyes and try to make my brain bigger. Nothing happens. I don’t know what is going to happen next. There is no way of knowing that.

  Naomi

  CHAPTER 34

  KANSAS CITY TO CHICAGO, 1955

  IN THAT LITTLE apartment above the club, I fell for David, despite all my good reasons to steer clear of him, that I still loved Laura, that Caroline was his girl, that he was my boss. But all that closeness—in the club, the apartment, all the time brushing past each other, sharing a sandwich, catching each other’s eyes, smells—it was more than I could withstand. Day after day I put all my steam into my job, cleaned the Sam Hill out of the club with the radio turned up.

  One hot afternoon Nat King Cole was on the radio, his voice butter melting on a hotcake. I cleaned and I sang along. “The world is mine. It can be yours, my friend. So why don’t you pretend?” Suddenly I realized that Elaine was behind the bar, turning off the radio, and David was standing in the door with his arms folded.

  Was that too loud? I asked, embarrassed.

  Do that again, said Elaine.

  What?

  Sing a phrase of that song, she said.

  I looked at David.

  Forget him. Look at me and sing for me. Stand up.

  I didn’t want to say no to Elaine, so I stood up and sang a sentence.

  More. The whole refrain.

  I sang the whole refrain.

  Now like this room is full and your life depends on it, she said.

  I dropped my scrub brush by my feet and felt damp all over, sweat even in my eyes. So I opened my mouth and filled the whole goddamned room with my voice.

  Elaine sighed. Well, I’ll be.

  How’d you learn to sing like that? asked David.

  Sister Idalia. Records. Elaine, I added, though quietly.

  Let’s go buy that dress, said David.

  Elaine looked confused, What dress? The two of you? she said, her arm dropping to her side like it had been shot. I’d like to see what sort of frock the two of YOU pick out.

  David drove to Giddy Mary’s Boutique. It was cool and quiet inside.

  Mary looked from him to me and said, What can I do you for?

  A dress, I said. Grown-up. Pretty.

  She took my measurements and brought me several to choose from. In the little room with three mirrors, I noticed how different dresses produced different effects. I looked back and forth at the three versions of me and it occurred to me that I could watch my life from an angle, like it wasn’t mine, just watch and see what happens. I put the blue dress back on.

  You already tried that one, said Mary.

  I know that.

  It’s a bit . . . provocative, she said.

  Is that a problem?

  Well, no, not exactly, said Mary. It’s a matter of appropriateness.

  But it’s your dress. Do you carry inappropriate dresses?

  Of course not, said Mary. It’s just . . .

  I settled on the blue one.

  Don’t you want t
o ask Mr. Miller’s opinion?

  No, I do not, I told her.

  David stepped up to the counter to pay and I stopped him. He looked at my envelope of money. Hey, where’d all that come from?

  Don’t worry. It’s not yours. I don’t steal. I saw in his face that he didn’t believe me. I saw what he thought I was.

  Well, where’d it come from?

  It’s your father’s, actually. Your father paid me to leave Laura alone, to leave Soldier altogether and never come back. “You little cunt.” To quote him.

  David took a sudden breath and Giddy Mary gasped behind the counter.

  Well, I asked Giddy Mary, do you want the nine dollars or don’t you?

  After that, David bought us lunch at a diner. I had a hamburger and a Coke float.

  You feeling better? he asked.

  Yes. I’m perfectly fine.

  I didn’t think you stole from me.

  I know what you thought.

  Honestly, all I can think about right now is you singing. For me. At my club. You clean up good, you got chops.

  I shrugged and told him, I’m going to be famous someday. I’m going to be on the cover of an album. Maybe lots of them.

  He tilted his head.

  I wiped my mouth with my napkin and continued, So it doesn’t really matter what happens next. It’s all going to the same place. This creek or that creek. Same place in the end.

  I see, he said. If you’re going to be famous someday, you might need to work on your social skills.

  Caroline was at the club when we returned. Her face stubborn, she eyed me up and down and asked to speak to David alone.

  For the next week we were all extra polite to one another because she and David had worked it out, whatever it was. They got back on their relationship like you get on a new horse—slow, hand on the pommel like it’ll save your life, hoping he’s going to be fine and he is until a leaf falls in front of him or a turkey bellows and he throws you off into a fence. That was their love. Always about to throw them into a fence. I watched Caroline. How she moved, lit her cigarette. I watched David watch Caroline, took note of what caused him to stare at her—Caroline walking across the room, Caroline drinking straight from the faucet on the kitchen sink.

  I told Sister. David and his girl are back together again, so that helps. I love singing more and more. It makes me feel like a better person than I am. You gave me this, I told her. Thank you. Also, please write me sometime. It doesn’t have to be long, just a word. Maybe when the boss lets you out of that cell, you can come get me?

  Most days I tried to help Caroline in the bar but the looks she gave kept me at arm’s length.

  Once Elaine started singing, everything else fell away. I sank into her voice every night. Sometimes I would catch David watching me and Caroline watching him. Then there would be a big display on David’s part—a squeeze for Caroline or a pat on the bottom. My girl, he’d say to his friends. I watched it like I was a spider on the high shelf where the expensive stuff was stowed.

  It was very late one night, Elaine was done singing, the jukebox was playing, and chairs and tables had been shoved aside for dancing, when Caroline’s other man came in, drunk and hollering. The crowd divided almost evenly between those who wanted to scatter out the door and those who were just waiting to hop on the coattails of someone else’s rage, to get a few swings in. One fella hit another and set the whole thing off. Sloppy swings because of the booze, stumbling, scary at times, and funny, too. Until I saw David getting the business. Caroline’s man pounding him with his fists like it was nothing.

  After he was done, Caroline left with the man, looking back at David as he climbed to his feet. Until we meet again, he called to their backs.

  Elaine was ushered out of the club by two friends of hers.

  I went to David, grabbed his arms, and looked in his eyes. He was bloody and inflamed. I felt like throwing myself on this fire of his like a blanket—to put it out or be consumed by it myself, I didn’t care which.

  Come on, I said, and led him up to the apartment by the hand. He stared at me in total silence while I cleaned up the cut on his eyebrow.

  He walked toward the bedroom. I watched. He stopped before the door and looked back at me, still saying nothing. I followed.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. I stopped him, took the pack of cigarettes, and set them on the end table.

  You’ll want to pay attention, I told him, and proceeded to take off all my clothes and stand before him.

  He studied me silently and reached for me but I stopped him, caught him by the wrist. He put his hands on his thighs and looked. At my body, at my eyes, at my body, and then only my eyes, and I didn’t let him touch me until I was sure he was as terrified as I, as uncertain. I would not try to be Caroline for him, or any other woman he’d known—I didn’t know how. He put his forehead against my stomach and I held his head. He moved his hands slowly over my body, recording my skin with his rough fingers. All my skin, my hands and mouth and bones and breath, ached for him. So much so that I had to slow it down, control where he touched me and when, keep us just apart, so we couldn’t lean all the way in, hide in each other, eyes closed. There was no other way but eyes open. I made him ask me what I wanted and I made him tell me what he wanted, so that what was happening would be marked by us, with words. To make it real, witnessed, spoken aloud. Over and over, I made him speak. What do you want now? Now what? Tell me. I made him ask.

  The next morning, I slipped out of bed before he woke up, wiped the makeup from under my eyes with a washcloth, put on my old dress, and went for a walk. As I walked a low, mean voice in my head said, You’re terrible. Possessed. Hearing it made me stand up straighter, to say to the voice, Go on. Just go on talking like that. Try me. I had been changed. I was ready to go to blows with myself.

  When I got back David said, Can I steal a few hours from you this afternoon? I want you to meet someone.

  Yes, I said. You can steal me.

  CHAPTER 35

  ON THE OTHER side of town there was a quiet neighborhood with trees, little brick houses, and respectable cars parked in front of tidy lawns. I’d never seen anything like it. Neat rows of houses for the comings and goings of untroubled lives. It seemed like a neighborhood the devil let alone.

  A man in a bow tie, sweater vest, and horn-rimmed glasses opened the door and held it with perfect posture while gesturing us inside.

  Ah, Davie, he said, shaking David’s hand by holding it with both of his.

  This here’s Naomi Hutnik. The kid I told you about.

  Harvey Gilbert, he said to me. But everyone calls me Gill.

  Everyone calls me Naomi.

  I see, said Gill, smiling at me with perfectly straight teeth. And to David, Interesting.

  Well, I’m just curious as hell and don’t want to waste another minute. He turned to David. Surely you’re anxious to get on with whatever it is you do, hmm?

  David nodded at us and left.

  Don’t slouch, darling, Gill said, pointing in the direction of my chest. I hate to be crude but with a pair like this you cannot slouch. Not ever. Understood?

  Yes, sir.

  I followed him to the piano. We’ll start with scales on a nice, open “ah.” He sat down and sang a scale; I mimicked.

  Again, please. And this time as though your jaw is NOT wired shut.

  I went again, my jaw hanging open. I yawned. Excuse me.

  It’s a good sign, said Gill. You’re opening up.

  He turned on his stool and pushed his fingers between my ribs, below my breasts. I was startled. Try to push my hand away.

  I swiped away his hand with mine. He laughed. From here, he said, poking the two-inch space between my upper ribs. Push with this. Use your ribs.

  I tried to control the space, and once I figured out what he meant, I was able to move his fingers in and out.

  Most of the work of singing will happen right here.

&n
bsp; Then he had me lie on my back and place my hands on my diaphragm, abdomen, chest, neck, to put the breath here then there. I stood up straight and trilled my lips and made siren noises up and down the range of my voice—one embarrassing sound after another. Soon I felt tired, light-headed.

  Can’t we just sing songs? I asked.

  Gill looked at me over the top of his glasses, stared. My back itched but I didn’t dare move under that stare.

  He stood up and reached to a shelf behind him, taking down a trumpet, and handed it to me.

  Play, he said.

  I don’t know how.

  Try, he said.

  I blew on the mouthpiece. It sounded like air on metal.

  Why can’t you play? he asked.

  Because I’ve never learned. I told you. I don’t know how.

  Mm-hmm, he said, carefully removing the trumpet from my hands and placing it back on the shelf. He raised his hand above the piano and glared at me.

  I have no interest in trumpets, I said.

  He sighed. You will play your instrument after you LEARN to play your instrument. You will “sing songs,” he said, mimicking a girl’s voice, when you learn HOW to sing songs.

  I scratched my back.

  Let’s just take a little break here, said Gill. He shut his eyes and took deep, slow breaths.

  I looked at the ceiling and could feel David all over my skin, everywhere, like he was still holding my legs open. I didn’t want to take a break, to remember.

  What’s next? I asked.

  He opened his eyes. Consonants, he said. Starting on a nice G. Bright. Lee-lee-lee-lee-lee, he sang. The lips relaxed, the tongue tapping the roof of the mouth like the wing of a hummingbird. Now you.

  My jaw sprang open and shut like a marionette until it ached.

  Can you teach me to sing like Elaine? I asked.

  No, I cannot, said Gill, turning the page of the Marchesi book. Elaine is being done, darling. By Elaine. I can teach you to sing like Naomi. Does this interest you? If not, we can stop now.

  Fine, I said.

  He sat back down. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.