by T. Greenwood
When they arrived at the Hotel Clarendon, Sally couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. How grand. It looked like a castle, with turrets and red-and-white-striped awnings. This was where they’d be staying? Mr. Warner had said it might be a few days before she was able to see the judge, but she had no idea where he would keep her until then. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible after all. She could at least pretend she was on a lovely vacation at the shore.
In the cool lobby, he said to them, “Wait here,” then marched up to the counter.
She and Miss Robinson sat on a velvet circular settee that was soft against her bare legs. She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat down. If she were to lie down on this soft cushion right now, she might just fall asleep. She peered at Miss Robinson and thought about asking if she knew when she would get to see the judge. Mr. Warner had assured her that if she just told the judge how sorry she was, all of this mess would be over. She’d get back on the bus and head home to her mother in no time. She felt terrible about lying to her, but it was better this way. Her mama would never know the truth.
“As soon as I’m checked in I’m going to go see what’s happening at the Steel Pier,” Miss Robinson said, touching up her lipstick again in her compact. “All the best performers play there. Tommy Dorsey. Peggy Lee. Frank Sinatra. Do you like music?”
Sally thought of her stepfather. He had cleaned houses during the day, but at night, he played trumpet in a jazz quartet. He loved music. He was always humming something. When he died, her mother dragged his old Philips record player out onto the porch, along with his collection of 78s. They sat out there all summer long until one day Susan salvaged them, brought the record player and the collection up to their room. But when she put the record on, it sounded ghostly. The vinyl had melted, warped, in the heat. When they listened to Duke Ellington and Johnny Mercer, the strange mournful lament of those damaged records, it was like all their sadness was trapped in the grooves.
“Got you a room with a view!” Mr. Warner said, dangling a key from his finger. “The talent agent will meet you here in the morning to conduct the audition. I got a good feeling about this, kid. Make sure you get your beauty rest tonight.”
Sally had no idea what Mr. Warner was talking about.
“Will I be staying with Miss Robinson?” Sally asked hopefully. She liked Miss Robinson. She was gentle and kind. Perhaps they could go together to listen to music on the pier. Frank Sinatra. She’d seen him with Gene Kelly in Anchors Aweigh a couple years ago. Was it possible he was here in the very same city she was?
“Well, of course not,” Mr. Warner said. “We’re meeting my wife and daughter at the other hotel. Not quite so fancy as this one here.” He winked at Miss Robinson, who smiled coyly.
Wife and daughter?
“Well, my dogs are certainly tired,” Miss Robinson said, slipping off her shoe and rolling her ankle.
“I always say nothing cures tired dogs like a good cat nap,” Mr. Warner said, and chuckled.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sally,” Miss Robinson said. “I hope you get to see that diving horse.”
Sally’s stomach turned. Why couldn’t they stay here? This hotel seemed so nice. And wasn’t Miss Robinson here to chaperone?
Outside, Mr. Warner grabbed Sally’s arm. He steered her up Virginia Avenue and then turned onto Pacific Street, walking briskly eastward. Alone with Mr. Warner now, she felt anxious, scared. She wondered if she’d see Miss Robinson again. She was his secretary, after all. Or was she?
As they walked, she realized she could see the shore from here, and a towering structure ahead at the corner of Pacific and Vermont.
“That there’s the Absecon,” he said, noticing her looking up at it. “One of the oldest lighthouses in the country.”
Sally had read about lighthouses but had never seen one in real life. Lighthouses were made for sailors, the beacons of light to guide them home. She thought about home; maybe this shining light might lead her mother to her. It was foolish, she knew, but the idea brought an odd, momentary comfort.
“Been out of commission for years. Real eyesore as far as I’m concerned.”
Eyesore. At the word, Sally’s eyes stung and blurred.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“When are you taking me to the courthouse?”
He stopped short, and she nearly tripped over him. He turned to her, his milky eyes softer now. “Well, you see, there’s been a slight change of plans.”
Maybe the change in plans was that he would take her home. Maybe that was why they didn’t check into the hotel. Was this the way back to the bus depot?
“Mister, I’m real sorry about the notebook, sir. I swear I’ll never ever steal anythin’ from anywhere ever again.” She didn’t even care about that stupid club anymore. She just wanted to go home.
At this, he chuckled, and for a moment she thought he might just pat her on the back and say, I know it, Sally. I hope you learned your lesson. But instead, he gestured to a rundown house across the street, the brass numbers 203 nailed to the front, a cardboard sign in the window: ROOMS FOR RENT. Could this be where his wife and daughter lived? Or was that not a true story? She could barely keep track of the lies anymore.
“There’s been a bit of a delay in scheduling the hearing. Meanwhile, we’re going to stay here.”
“Here?” she asked, looking at the dilapidated row house.
“Now, you come with me, and let me do the talking.”
He ushered her across the street and took the steps up to the front porch two at a time, gesturing for her to follow. He rapped his knuckles against the door, and a large woman with large hands and legs like the trunks of a tree answered the door. Was this his wife?
Mr. Warner thrust out his hand. “Name’s Frank Warner. This here’s my daughter, Florence.”
The woman put her hands on her hips and tilted her head, like she was waiting for the rest. She peered at Sally, who looked down at her feet.
“Her mother’s just passed, you see,” Mr. Warner continued. “Couldn’t bear to be in the family house no more. We’re in need of a place to stay for a week or so. I thought a little holiday at the beach might cheer the poor girl up.”
Sally looked up again. The woman in the doorway was taller than most men, but she seemed to soften, if only momentarily. She spoke with a heavy accent. “I am Mrs. Krauss. Rooms are twenty dollars a week. No gambling, no music, no guests.”
Mr. Warner nodded and reached for Sally’s hand, gripping it so tightly her fingers ached.
“My mother died when I was just a girl, too,” she said to Sally. “You’re lucky to have your father still.” And with that, she opened the front door, wide enough for the two to pass through. Frank took Sally’s suitcase in one hand, his in the other, his valise tucked under his arm, and followed Mrs. Krauss into a kitchen and then up a narrow stairwell to the second story.
The whole house smelled of cabbage and vinegar. The wallpaper was yellowed and curling; the floors felt almost soft beneath their feet. The air was damp. A toilet flushed, and pipes moaned behind the walls.
“Breakfast is included, but not the other meals. There’s a washroom down the hall with a bathtub and toilet. Be considerate of the other guests, and if you don’t want nothing stolen, keep the door locked. I try to keep the criminals out, but better safe than sorry.”
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a key, and handed it over to Mr. Warner. “Lock’s a double-key deadbolt. You’ll need the key on the inside and the outside, so don’t lose it.” Then without another word, she waddled back down the hallway and disappeared into the stairwell.
“Here we are,” he said, as he fitted the key into the lock and opened the door, which creaked on its hinges. The room was small and dusty, musty. Twin beds, a small desk and chair, a braided wool rug on the floor, and a window that looked out toward the lighthouse. Mr. Warner set their suitcases down, and Sally stood still, unsure of what she should do next. H
er chest felt heavy.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to the bed. Sally sat at the foot of the farthest bed and crossed her feet at her ankles like she’d been taught to do in church.
Mr. Warner paced back and forth across the floor. She noticed his shoes were scuffed, the hems of his slacks frayed. He took off his hat and set it on the bureau, taking a cursory look in the beveled mirror hanging crookedly above, running his hand over his sparse hair.
“Listen up, Sally,” he said, turning to her. “Until your court date, you’re officially under arrest. You’re in my custody, do you understand?”
Sally didn’t understand. Not at all. But she nodded, because she was too afraid to ask him the questions that were burning on her tongue. Like why weren’t they staying with Miss Robinson? And when exactly would she see the judge? Where would he sleep?
“I gotta go out for a bit. I’ve got some business to attend to,” he said. “But while I’m gone, I’m gonna need you to make sure you don’t get any funny ideas about escaping.”
“No, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “I promise I won’t go anywhere. I just want to see the judge and tell him I’m sorry.”
Mr. Warner stopped pacing and turned to her. He squatted down so that he was eye level with her. He was close enough that she could smell the onions from his lunch.
“I trust you, Sally,” he said, cocking his head. “You got to understand, I know you’re a good girl in your heart. Seems to me you just got caught up with some delinquents. Way I see it, this is a learning lesson. If I had my way, if I were the judge, I’d give you a good talking-to, a little slap on your wrist, and send you on your way.”
She nodded. Please, please, she thought. Please let me go?
“But,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I’m just the one that enforces the law. I took an oath, Sally. You understand what that is?”
An oath. That was what the girls had called it, the girls with the blades. A blood oath, swearing to be sisters forever.
“A promise, sir?”
His face brightened and he clapped his hands together. “Yes, ma’am. A promise. I’m bound by my oath to uphold the law. Which means, I got to do whatever I can to make sure you don’t run away before you meet the judge. No matter how much I trust you, and I do trust you, Sally Horner, I got to do this, because it’s my sworn duty.” And with that he went to his valise, unlocked it, and pulled out a thick rope. It made her think of the skipping song the girls sang. She could practically hear Irene with her high sweet voice as she stood at one end of the rope while Bess stood at the other: Not last night but the night before, twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door … And her heart beat, knock, knock.
He motioned for her to go to the chair by the window and gently pulled her hands behind her. As I ran out, they ran in, knocked me on the head with a rolling pin. Vivi would jump out, then in.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. The rope was tight around her wrists.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “I promise. And I’m real sorry I got to do this. I know you’re a good girl. I know, I do. I’m just doin’ my job, see?”
She opened her eyes when she heard him shuffle over to the door. He glanced at her and smiled apologetically. I asked them what they wanted and this is what they said …
He came back over to her and squatted down again, reached out, and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She flinched at his touch, felt her body flushing with heat. Tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, please don’t be sad, Sally. What can I get for you? I’ll bring you a treat. On account of you being so agreeable. Saltwater taffy maybe? Something sweet for my sweet girl?”
SUSAN
When they pulled up at Susan’s mother’s house for dinner on Friday night, Al had to help her out of the car. The baby wasn’t due until August, but she had already gained nearly forty pounds. Everything was swollen: her hands, her fingers, her ankles. The night itself seemed bloated. She was miserable in this sticky heat. It was only June; she couldn’t bear to think of what July and August might bring. And while she was excited for the baby to come, she sometimes wondered if it was too soon. After the war, Al came home and they’d gotten married right away. She was barely a wife; she could only dream of what it meant to be someone’s mother.
“Don’t forget the pie,” she said.
“Got it,” Al said, reaching into the backseat. He held out his free arm for her, and they walked up the steps to the door. “Ready?”
Ready as she’d ever be for another Friday night with her mother. She and Al had only been dating for a few months when he got called up to the Navy, but back then Friday nights were reserved for going out, for getting away from this house. And while Camden wasn’t Philadelphia, it had its share of things to do: dinners at Jake’s, movies, or a show. Every now and then they’d go dancing at Jimmy’s Tavern. Before she got pregnant, Susan was a good dancer. And Al was the best. As they Lindy Hopped across the floor, she knew they turned heads; she saw the envy in other girls’ eyes as he gazed into hers as if she were the only pretty girl in the world. At least he still looked at her the same way, even though she felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.
“Oh, this looks just awful,” Susan said, gesturing to the little dirt plot in front of the house. It had been a few weeks since they’d been to visit; it had been busy at the greenhouse now that summer had arrived. “We really need to remember to bring her some annuals at least next time. Maybe some zinnias?”
People came from all over to buy seedlings for their gardens, potted plants, flowers, shrubs, and trees from Al’s family’s greenhouse. Since they took over the business, Susan had become somewhat of an amateur botanist. Before, she’d never known the difference between an annual and a perennial; now she could tell you the growing season for everything from cabbage to corn. She spent her days helping people pick out the best plants to grow in the shade, the best bushes to attract butterflies, and the best houseplants for cat owners. She loved the greenhouse, the way it smelled like earth and all things fertile. She didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, although it meant a permanent thin black line of dirt under her nails even after going at them with an old toothbrush and soap each night. She felt useful at the nursery.
Russell had loved gardening, too. He’d turned that tiny front yard into something magical; hummingbirds used to come by the dozens, wings beating, tiny bodies vibrating and trilling at the geraniums that grew in crimson bursts in the window boxes. Fireflies hid in the bushes he planted. Children from the neighborhood plucked strawberries from the plants that crept near the sidewalk. But after Russell passed, her mother let the weeds consume the tiny plot, and eventually most everything but the stubborn perennials died.
Susan had few memories of Bobby Swain, her real father, and the ones she had were like those fireflies flickering in the hedges: just bright flashes, illuminating the night before being extinguished again. Memories of Russell were the ones that lingered, that buzzed and thrummed like a hummingbird before flitting away again; she recalled dancing on his feet across the kitchen floor, the clink of ice in his glass, the way he made silly faces at her in church until she could barely contain her laughter. The sound of his trumpet rising up from the basement where he and his bandmates practiced until all hours of the night. Sally had adored Russell, too. He’d play Go Fish with her, Chinese jump rope. Hide-and-seek. One, two, three, he’d count, covering his eyes with his hands as Sally looked for a hiding place in their small house. Where could she be? he’d ask, opening the icebox door, the medicine cabinet, as she tittered inside the linen closet or hamper. Sally and Susan had both loved Russell as if he were their real father. They’d felt just as betrayed as her mother had when he did what he did. But it had been five years now, more than enough time to grieve. Life would move on, had moved on, without him in it, but her mother seemed stuck in the muck of her heartache.
“It’s still warm,” A
l said, smiling at her, lifting the rhubarb pie to his nose and inhaling.
“You know she’s going to complain about there not being any strawberries in it.”
Susan had used Ella’s recipe for the crust with cold butter and ice water to make it flaky. Ella had taught her how to navigate a kitchen, and she was grateful. Her best friend, Cynthia, didn’t even know how to turn on the oven when she first got married. If it hadn’t been for the local diner down the street, she and her husband might have starved to death that first year. Ella might not have been warm and loving like other mothers, but she had made sure Susan had the knowledge she would need later in life. But now Susan had gone and forgotten the strawberries, and so the pie seemed like a big mistake.
It felt odd ringing the doorbell at her own home, but since she’d left the house, it hadn’t felt right to just barge in anymore, and so she and Al stood at the doorstep like visitors instead of family. Sally was the one who usually greeted them, skipping down the steps or running from the back of the house, skidding across the wood floors in her socks, so she was surprised when her mother opened the door.
“Come in, come in. Don’t let the mosquitoes inside,” Ella said.
“Hi, Ma,” Al said, and kissed Ella’s cheek. He took the pie to the kitchen, while Susan hugged her mother and studied her face to gauge the pain. Her mother’s rheumatism had gotten worse in the last few years since Russell died, as if all that bitterness she felt about his suicide had seeped into her marrow. Al (wonderful Al) had offered to take her to see a specialist in Philadelphia, someone who might know how to alleviate the pain, which varied from mildly irritating to crippling depending on the day of the week, or the weather. But Ella had dismissed the idea as she dismissed anything she didn’t want to think about.
“Where’s Sally?” Susan asked as she slipped off her shoes, the delicious relief of which she couldn’t have anticipated.
