Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel

by Rebecca Rotert

  David came in and stood in the doorway. What’s this? he said to Caroline. You going back to Charlie?

  Caroline took a garter belt, a pair of stockings, and a half-slip from the bureau and tucked them into the elasticized pocket in the lid.

  What’s going on here? David insisted.

  Our girl’s moving on, said Caroline.

  I slid past him and sat to put my shoes on.

  He followed me, standing close. What is this?

  I was shaking so bad I couldn’t fasten my shoes.

  He bent over. Doll, he said.

  I didn’t look.

  He got down on his knees in front of me, slid his arms along my body until he held me by the hips. Stop, he said. Just stop.

  I’m leaving, I said.

  He shook his head. Don’t be silly. What are you talking about? What’s she talking about? he said to Caroline.

  I fastened my shoe and thought, If I don’t stand up right this minute, I’ll never leave here.

  I understand, doll. It’s all too much. We can, we can slow it way down, right, Caroline? We can all just take her easy.

  No, I said.

  He put his forehead on my lap. I touched his hair, slid my palm along his whiskers one last time.

  I would have learned to love you better, he said, looking up at me. His longing washed over me, made me sweat. It’s what I wanted, to be looked at like that.

  Come on, doll. I’ve got no aces here.

  I have to go. I left then, telling myself all the while, This step. Now this. Now this. Now this.

  CHAPTER 38

  IDALIA’S FRIEND DROPPED her off at the bus station and they lingered by the car a long time. They hugged and her friend pulled away first, taking Idalia by the shoulders, before getting back in the car with a quick snap of her habit.

  Idalia watched her drive away, watching long after the friend was out of sight, then she walked slowly into the station.

  She nodded at me like she’d lost her voice.

  We bought our tickets and waited in silence.

  You can talk to me if you want, I told her.

  I know. She looked at her hands and closed her eyes. She was so sad she breathed slowly.

  Are you talking to God right now?

  She nodded.

  Tell Him I said hello.

  She smiled. Tell Him yourself.

  Oh, I can’t. I’m in the devil’s hands, I said with a grin.

  Are you, now? she said.

  I nodded.

  Her name is Sophia, said Sister.

  The nun? Your friend?

  Sister looked out the window. I met her when we were both novices, sat next to her in Latin. She was just terrible, had no knack for it. I don’t recall her ever conjugating a verb correctly. And oh, Sister Helen would get so angry, red in the face, but Sophia remained calm, unaffected. I fell in love with her, she whispered. I thought, Here is a person who can wear the world so lightly. Who wouldn’t love her? Who wouldn’t want to be by her side forever?

  You got in trouble for loving her?

  Of course. But there’s no real effective punishment for love. Is there?

  We boarded the big chrome bus, and in a matter of minutes, it felt like our whole lives were behind us, everything we’d known and done.

  I thought about my family, the kitchen table, Laura, school, Soldier Creek and David, Gill’s lesson and Caroline’s arching back, the small, hot stage at the club, and it felt like too much to have to let go of all at once. I cried. Then this voice in my head said, I’ll give you five minutes for this sadness and no more. Do you hear me? Out the window, the fields passed in a blur of gold and light.

  For the first few hours of the trip, I felt nauseous, a thin layer of sweat covered my body. Sister gave me a sandwich but I couldn’t eat, so I just let it sit on my lap.

  I watched Sister think about her love, pain radiating off her like a fever. I had long thought of love as a thing I’d like to hurt, and with Sister suffering from it, I wanted to beat it, rip its hair out. It was surely the thing to avoid at all costs.

  A woman across the aisle stared at me and at the sandwich in my lap.

  Would you like this? I asked her.

  She waved her head and hand no.

  Please, I said. I can’t eat it.

  She took it from me slowly. Dziękuję, she said. (“Thank you.”)

  Nie ma za co, I told her. (“It’s nothing.”)

  Her eyes grew large when she heard her native tongue.

  Moja matka jest Polkạ, I said. (“My mother is Polish.”) I thought about my mother and then I tried to stop.

  She continued to talk happily, though I understood little. Eventually she was content to just nod and smile occasionally.

  After a few hours, we crossed the border into Illinois.

  Have you been to Chicago? I asked Sister.

  Yes, she said. To see Ricky. Naomi, Ricky is not like other men.

  Well, that can only be good news, I said.

  Sister laughed. Aren’t you worldly now?

  Am I going to fall in love with him? I asked.

  Sister smiled. Probably, she said. But maybe in a way that won’t hurt as much.

  Oh, terrific, I thought.

  CHAPTER 39

  CHICAGO AT NIGHT was a rushing, sparkling, raging city that surged and sang with life. When we unloaded ourselves at the station and stepped out into the wind and the speed of the town, I was slammed with the certainty that this was my home.

  But first I had to go back into the bus station and be sick. As I steadied myself against the stall for a moment, I heard a woman crying in the one next to mine. I looked down and saw the brown carpetbag of the Polish woman from the bus. I left my stall and knocked on hers, asking if she was sick. Jesteś chory?

  She came out, her face wet, speaking way too fast. I gleaned that she was alone and lost but that somewhere in this big city there was an enclave of other Poles.

  Sister knew of the Polish Triangle and we took the woman there. It’s not out of our way, Sister told her loudly.

  There was a small grocery in the Polish Quarter with a sign in the window that read MÓWIMY PO POSKU (“We speak Polish”). I asked the man behind the counter to help us. You look like a proud man, I said, touching his arm. His back straightened and he introduced himself to the Polish woman, who flooded in her native tongue. They laughed as he led her to a chair, and they were already talking about the war when we began to leave.

  The woman rushed toward me then, digging in her bag for a piece of paper and a pencil nub. She asked me to write down my name and address. I wrote my name and Sister wrote Ricky’s address. The woman told me she’d send me a letter of thanks. W języku angielskim. In English.

  Sister nearly dragged me to Ricky’s apartment. There was so much to look at, so many different kinds of people, such a concentration of life. I felt nearly invisible in that rush of humanity—irrelevant—and it was refreshing. I got the idea that what I did, who I was, wouldn’t matter a lick in that big city.

  I stopped Sister and held her arms. This is the perfect place to make a new beginning, I said.

  She said nothing and smiled weakly like she had never wanted to make a new beginning.

  We turned on to a noisy, dirty street that was bustling, even at the late hour. Sister opened the front door of a tall old apartment building and we climbed three flights of stairs. She knocked and the door opened almost immediately.

  Her brother threw his arms around her and I was startled because he was wearing a long woman’s robe—blue with large orange flowers and white cranes—which I was sure belonged to a woman he had there.

  Are we intruding? I said, before I could even shake his hand.

  Heavens, no, he said, I’ve been waiting on this one for months. Months!

  Ricky took Sister’s face in his hands and said, Jesus, what did they do to you? You look perfectly terrible. Let me take your coat, he said, helping her out of it. When he snatched Sister’s h
at, she immediately put her hand to her head like she could hide it somehow. Ricky gasped, My God, your beautiful hair. He slowly reached out for her head, pulled it close, and kissed it.

  It’s just hair, said Sister.

  Ricky touched his own shaved head. We look like we just got back from the war, you and me. Happy homecoming, huh?

  And you, he said to me, the troubled girl?

  Sister shot him a scowl.

  What? I feel like I know her. It’s all so scandalous.

  We tell each other things, Sister said to me. I’m sorry.

  You don’t know the half of it, I said, dropping my coat on the hall tree. Neither of you.

  Ricky gasped. She’s terrible, he said as he walked a circle around me. Not to mention brimming with potential.

  I smiled at him and tried to figure out what was different about his face. It was his eyebrows. He didn’t have any. I looked around his apartment. There were scarves over the lamps, tapestries hung on the walls, piles of books and records on the floor, and it smelled like a mixture of hairspray and cigarettes. Surely a woman was around there somewhere.

  I studied a black-and-white photograph on the mantel.

  Veronica Lake? I asked. I love her.

  Ricky laughed and so did Sister.

  I knew we were going to get along, he said, and Sister shook her head.

  It’s me, kitten, he said. The lady is me.

  CHAPTER 40

  SISTER AND I slept on a pallet of blankets and pillows on the floor. I woke to Ricky tiptoeing around the apartment in pedal pushers and a red checked shirt with a bright blue scarf wrapped around his head.

  Oh, did I wake you?

  I shook my head no and climbed up on a stool at the little kitchen island. Ricky made coffee and filled the sink with water. He took a bottle of shampoo from the cupboard and poured a capful into the sink. The way he moved made me jealous.

  He lifted a long blond wig from the counter and slowly lowered it into the sink, moving it back and forth.

  Thanks for letting me stay the night. I’ll look for a place today, I told him.

  You will not, he said. I’m going to take care of you two, for a little while, at least. My refugees from the High Plains.

  Maybe you can teach me a few things, I said.

  He lifted the wig out of the sink, turned on the faucet, and let the water run over it. A few things? he said. I will need to teach you everything. Sitting there like a boy on a stump. Heavens.

  He dried his hands on a dish towel and threw it over his shoulder. And, kitten, I’m called Rita. “Ricky” is back in Kansas somewhere.

  Okay, Rita, I said. So, do I call you “he” or “she?”

  “She” would do nicely, said Rita, as she laid the wig on a towel and blotted it.

  Suddenly I felt the urge to be sick, and ran to the small bathroom. I sat on the floor, resting my head against the pink and black tile, and hoped this bug would pass soon. It was getting in the way of my new start.

  Once my stomach was steady again, I returned to the kitchen. Rita pulled two pieces of toast out of the toaster oven and set them on a plate. She put this and a cup of strong black coffee in front of me.

  Did I upset you? she asked.

  I’m feeling off. I wasn’t even able to eat yesterday, which is odd for me because I eat all the time. I’d say I eat every chance I get.

  I buttered the toast and tried to keep from devouring it while Rita watched, smoking a cigarette.

  So what brings you to Chicago, Naomi of Kansas? she asked. Or is this just the only town you’ve not yet been run out of?

  I stared at her until she laughed, a deep, bottomless laugh that made me feel a bolt of joy inside.

  We laughed while I ate my toast.

  Rita put more bread in the toaster oven. Do you have aspirations? she asked, studying me like she was sorting out something complicated.

  Well, I want to sing.

  She nodded, pulled a drag off her cigarette. So I heard.

  I looked at the coils growing red in the toaster oven, listened to its ticking sounds.

  It’s not enough, you know, she said.

  Beg your pardon?

  She retrieved the toast with a pair of tongs and dropped it on my plate.

  To want to sing. Or frankly, to be able to sing. Singers, pretty singers, are a dime a dozen around here. She nodded toward the window.

  I buttered my toast slowly as she perched on the stool next to mine, facing me.

  Look at you, slumped over your fourth piece of toast, your legs all twisted around each other. What are we, four? Five?

  I untangled my legs and sat up straight.

  Your body is a work of art, an enticement, and it must appear so at all times.

  I looked at her sitting on the stool, her body a beautiful zigzag perched on her hip, her cigarette raised. She took a drag, blew the smoke, raised her chin.

  You cannot afford a moment’s sloppiness, lest you forget yourself at the wrong time, she said, raising an eyebrow. Eyebrows. They were penciled in now.

  I understand, I said.

  She got up and retrieved a bag with strawberries on it from a drawer. She unbuttoned the bag and pulled out a handful of curlers, some green, some pink, then she fished around for the little plastic pins. One of these pins she held like a tiny paintbrush, making little strokes in the air while she talked.

  It’s like this. You are a fantasy and you must always appear as such.

  She leaned on the counter and pointed at me with the pin. So your public must never see that you are just like them.

  We stared at each other for a long time.

  I know, I know. It sounds like an impossible amount of work, to be so aware all of the time, but really, kitten, there’s just an initial hump, a period of adjustment, and soon you will forget that you were ever any other way.

  I heard the word forget. Teach me, I said.

  I will, kitten. She turned back to her wig and gracefully, artfully, wrapped sections in the curlers.

  Sister was up and moving around now. Teach her what?

  How to impersonate a woman, said Rita.

  CHAPTER 41

  WE WENT TO Rita’s club on Wells Street. With one of Rita’s scarves tied around her head, Sister looked like a bohemian. Some of the patrons recognized her and approached after we sat down. There were men dressed as women, women dressed as men. The rules of men and women seemed flexible here, something to play with. A few women approached our table and teasingly asked Sister who her new friend was. It took me a minute to realize we were being mistaken for an honest-to-goodness couple. It made me feel a part of something, this awareness, and it scared me to death.

  Close your mouth, said Sister.

  I can’t help it. I’ve never been anyplace like this.

  In all your world travels? she said.

  I grabbed her arm and wiggled her. She gently pulled away and looked around. No touching, she said. I threw my arm around her just to disobey. She pulled it off me fast. I’m not kidding. We could be arrested for that.

  What? I said.

  Just then a round bald man with the deep voice of a movie star hopped up onstage and raised his arms. The crowd applauded, whistled, and catcalled. He introduced the revue, which started with a large dance number involving feathers, large headpieces, and scandalous costumes. I saw Rita and soon realized every performer up there was also a man. The rest of the revue consisted of number after number of songs, dances, skits. My whole body longed to move like that, to hold a crowd like that, make them laugh, make them sigh.

  Do you like it? said Sister.

  I feel I could burst, I said, breathless.

  When it was done, Sister took me backstage, and Rita made a big show of introducing us to the girls.

  A new singer up from Kansas City, Rita said of me.

  Oh, the girls said, looking me over.

  A skinny gal in a fringe dress sang a little gibberish tune and did some country steps. Like that? she a
sked. I didn’t realize right away that she was making fun of me.

  Yes, just like that, I said.

  Maybe if she’s any good she could join us, said Rita, smearing cold cream on her cheeks.

  The other gals shot big-eyed, angry looks at her.

  The skinny one tilted her head. Might do us good to have a jam onstage.

  The others considered what she said.

  We’ll see, said Rita.

  I whispered to Sister, What’s a jam?

  She sort of tilted her head. A heterosexual.

  I started by hanging out backstage, helping the girls with their costumes, wigs, and makeup, learning their tricks—creating a waist where there wasn’t one, sculpting a jaw with shades of foundation, playing up the eyes with false eyelashes, shadow, and kohl. I’d never seen that sort of artistry in my life, a whirlwind of brushing, lining, pulling, teasing, squeezing, curling, turning a roomful of nondescript young men into a clique of bombshells.

  Over time, I got to know the numbers by heart. The strengths and weaknesses of each performer, what worked, and what didn’t. I learned that it’s not invisible, what goes on inside a singer’s head; it’s all over her face and body if you look carefully enough.

  Rita’s training went something like this: her studying and critiquing how I sat, stood, read, what I did with my eyebrows, how I moved my hands when I talked, how I wore my dress, the color of my stockings, the condition of my shoes. We listened to songs over and over, her picking up the needle and moving it back. Do you hear that? The way she moves, glides really, over the break in her voice, how seamless it is? Listen again.

  I worked the phrases over and over, learned every tune she had in bits and parts at first. Soon I was singing everything, and I was tired.

  Hang in there, kitten. We’re not just making you into a lady. That part is easy. We’re making you into an icon, Rita would whisper, and the hair on my arms would just lift right up. It would solve everything, fame. To be loved. Seen. To never be at the mercy of anyone else, ever again.

  Rita called herself the club’s artistic director. She managed everything—performing, choreography, costumes, wigs. When she first asked me to come with her to rehearsal, I went begrudgingly. When I got there the girls surprised me with a small wardrobe they’d put together from extra parts and spares. They even filled a small tackle box with makeup and brushes and sponges and puffs. I moved the little tray in the tackle box back and forth and touched the three tubes of Revlon lipstick. It all blurred through my tears.