Almost Famous Women

by Megan Mayhew Bergman

Give me the cookies, I said. We can’t show up naked. We can’t show up in grocery aprons.

  Violet held the cookie box in her right arm. I could let her have it, tackle her, or run in a circle. I was too tired for the game. We’d played it enough as kids.

  Fine, I said. Eat your damn cookies.

  We each had talents. Violet could disappear inside her imaginary shell. I could go without food for days.

  Martin Lambert had intended to take us to his sister’s house that first night in New York.

  I can’t have you home with me, he said. We’ll figure something out.

  He flagged down a cab.

  I can’t feel my feet, Violet whispered.

  I wasn’t sure we’d ever been up so late before. The lights of the Brooklyn Bridge pooled in the East River. The people on the sidewalks wore beautiful jackets. Soldiers were home with girls on their arms, cigarettes on their lips. Restaurants kept serving past midnight.

  I hoped Violet wouldn’t tell him it was our first cab ride. The stale smell of tobacco oozed from the upholstery. Martin lit another cigarette and rubbed his palms on his pants. He kept looking at us out of the corner of his eye. Staring without staring. Disbelief. Curiosity.

  I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to smell his aftershave, touch the hair under his cap.

  We sing, I said. We can swim and roller-skate, or play saxophone if you like.

  Well I’ll be, he said. Showbiz twins. Working gals.

  Martin shook his head and chewed his lip. One thing I’d learned—people saw different things when they looked at us. Some saw freaks, some saw love. Some saw opportunity.

  Violet was quiet.

  We want to be in the movies, I said.

  How old are you? he asked.

  Eighteen, I lied.

  I pulled the hem of my dress above my knees.

  Violet jabbed me in the ribs.

  Honest, I said.

  Violet placed a hand over her mouth and giggled.

  Cabbie, Martin said. Stop at McHale’s. Looks like we’re going to grab ourselves a few drinks.

  Our hats were out of style and out of season, but we were used to standing out in a crowd.

  Martin rushed over to a stocky man standing by the bar.

  Ed, he said. I want you to meet Daisy and Violet.

  Ed nodded but didn’t speak. The two men turned to lean over their beers and talk quietly.

  I felt a hundred eyes burning my back.

  Look at the bodies, not the faces, I told myself.

  Miss Hadley had said: Learn to love the attention. You don’t have a choice.

  There is no one in the world like you, I said to myself.

  The spotlight is on, Violet said.

  There is no one in the world like you.

  We should find a hotel, Violet said. Then go back south tomorrow. If we leave early, we could get to Richmond. Even Atlanta. Somewhere nice.

  With what money? I asked her.

  One gin and tonic later I pulled Violet onto the stage. The band was warming up. We could be seen and gawked at, or we could be appreciated, marveled over. I knew which I preferred.

  The first night Martin and I slept together, Violet said the Lord’s Prayer eighteen times.

  . . . hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . .

  Violet!

  On Earth as it is in Heaven.

  Just keep going, I said.

  Are you sure? Martin asked.

  Violet had her hand over her eyes, a halfhearted attempt not to watch. She kept her clothes on, even her shoes.

  Yes, I told him.

  The room was dark but Martin kept his eyes closed. He never kissed me on my mouth. Not then, not ever.

  During the day, Violet and I worked the industrial mixer at a bakery. We shaped baguettes in the afternoons. Nights, we sang at McHale’s. I began drinking. Ed and Martin sipped scotch at a corner table, escorted us back to our efficiency in the thin morning light.

  We primped for our performances like starlets. In the shower, we rotated in and out of the water. Lather, turn, rinse, repeat.

  Let’s go for a natural look tonight, Violet said, sitting down at the secondhand bureau we’d turned into our vanity table.

  I was thinking Jezebel, I said. Red lipstick and eyes like Dietrich.

  It looks better when we coordinate, Violet said.

  I painted a thick, black line across my eyelid.

  Let me do yours, I said, turning to her.

  Some nights I felt like a woman—the warm stage lights on my face, the right kind of lipstick on, the sound of my voice filling the room, Violet singing harmony. Some nights I felt like two women. Some nights I felt like a two-headed monster. That’s what some drunk had shouted as Violet and I took the stage. Ed had come out from behind his table swinging.

  We were the kind of women that started fights. Not the kind of women that launched ships.

  It took one year and a bottle of Johnnie Walker for Ed to confess his love to Violet.

  Can you, um, read a newspaper or look away? he asked me.

  I folded the newspaper to the crossword puzzle and chewed a pencil.

  I been thinking, Ed said. You are a kind woman. A good woman.

  Violet touched his cheek.

  Does anyone know a four-letter word for Great Lake? I asked.

  I watch you sing every night, and every night I decide that one day I’m going to kiss you, he said.

  Violet cupped the back of his neck with her hands.

  Erie, I said. The word is Erie.

  An hour later and they had moved to the bed. I watched the clock on the wall, recited Byron in my head.

  Ed cried afterward, laid his mangled face on Violet’s chest.

  I cried too.

  When the agent comes, I said to Violet, let me do the talking.

  We were taking a sponge bath in front of the kitchen sink, naked as blue jays. It was too hard getting in and out of a shower these days.

  A cicada hummed somewhere in the windowsill.

  Do you need more soap? Violet asked.

  This is my plan to get us out of here, I said. We’ll offer him the rights to our life story. We can get by on a few thousand.

  I dipped my washcloth into the cool water and held it between my breasts.

  Violet touched the skin between us.

  We’ll be okay, she said. I don’t want you to worry.

  Martin had never stayed the night. He had a wife. I wondered what she was like, what she’d think of the things we did.

  Normal people don’t do what you do in bed, Violet said.

  Since when are we normal? I asked.

  You could keep your eyes closed, I said.

  And my ears, Violet said, blushing.

  Martin is a man’s man, I told her. He knew what he wanted.

  He was rough, sometimes clutching my neck or grabbing my hair. Afterward he’d talk about the movies we’d get into, how he’d be our agent.

  The Philadelphia Story, he said, but instead of Hepburn, there’s Daisy and Violet.

  Then he’d wash his hands, rinse his mouth, wet his hair down, and leave.

  One month my period was late.

  Jesusfuckingchrist was all Martin would say.

  In bed at night I asked myself what I would do with a baby. What Violet and I would do. I convinced myself we could handle it. We had many hands.

  Ed slept over those days. I watched Violet stroke his hair, trace the shape of his strange ears with her fingertip. She slept soundly on his chest.

  One night Martin dragged us to an empty apartment around the corner from McHale’s.

  Stay here, he said, backing out of the door.

  A man came in—my body aches when I think of it. He opened a bag of surgical instruments, spread a mat onto the floor.

  Lie down, he said. Put your legs up like this.

  I wanted to do right by Violet, keep Martin happy.

  There was blood. Violet fainted. I no longer felt hum
an. I felt as if I could climb out of my body.

  We’re done here, the man said. You shouldn’t have this problem again.

  We didn’t leave our bed for weeks.

  Martin disappeared.

  He found the straight and narrow, Ed said. That operation of yours cost him two months’ salary. He’s somewhere in Cleveland now.

  Ed brought us soup and old bread from the bakery while I recovered.

  He continued to drink at the corner table nights when Violet and I sang. He was anxious, protective.

  One night, after we’d performed “Tennessee Waltz,” the bartender waved me over.

  We’ve got leftover birthday cake, Daisy-girl, he said, pouring me a gin and tonic.

  I ate half a sheet cake between songs.

  Daisy, Violet said. That’s disgusting.

  I pushed my empty glass forward for a refill.

  The great Houdini told us to retreat to an imaginary shell when we got tired of each other, I said to the bartender, rolling my eyes at Violet.

  We never met Houdini, Violet said.

  Next thing I knew, Violet was wrestling my finger out of my mouth in the bathroom stall.

  Stop it! she said.

  You drink too much and you never eat, she said. What did you have yesterday? Half a peanut-butter sandwich? An apple?

  We sank back against the wall of the bathroom stall. I still remember the pattern of the tile. Mint-colored rectangles with black squares. Ice cream, I thought. Tile like ice cream.

  And the lying, Daisy, she said. The lying.

  I watched ankles and shoes walk by the stall. Some women had beautiful ankles. Some women moved on two feet instead of four.

  I still had icing on my fingers.

  I need to stay here for a while, I said.

  Violet held her hand underneath the stall door and asked a pair of ankles for a glass of water.

  She had chutzpah when I least expected it.

  Two weeks later, she surprised us all by dropping her panties into the church time capsule.

  Did I ever tell you about our big break? I asked the agent.

  I pulled out a stock photo Violet and I had autographed.

  Violet and I might be broke and we might be strange but we were not ordinary.

  Why do you have that old thing out? Violet asked. What are we—seven or eight?

  She was eating saltines out of a dented tin box.

  Can’t whistle now, she said, smiling.

  I pinched her bottom.

  The agent is here, I whispered.

  I’d once seen Violet cover my half of the photo with her hand to see what she looked like alone. We’d both wondered.

  Here’s how we ended up back in Carolina. I’d been in talks with a man who said he needed us for some public relations work.

  It’s like this, he had said. You show up at the theater and do an introduction for my movie.

  We have to take the risk, I’d said to Violet.

  But we don’t, she’d said. We’re old. We’re retired.

  We can’t live on what we have, I’d said. Not for long, and I plan on living a long time.

  We fronted him money for travel arrangements. He promised a hefty return. But what he did was leave us stranded at the bus station. We had no money, no car, only our suitcase.

  I’m tired of trusting, Violet had said.

  We’d cried that night, propped up against the brick station wall. A minister had taken us in, fed us hot dogs, said he knew of a local grocery that needed an extra pair of hands.

  We have those, I said.

  One night Violet shook me awake. Ed was in the bathroom with the door closed.

  Get up, she said, switching on the bedside lamp. Get up.

  Your eye, I said.

  Violet had a red handprint across her face.

  We stumbled to the dark kitchen.

  He’s drunk, she said.

  Doesn’t matter, I said.

  I picked up the silver pot we used to boil noodles in one hand, grabbed a paring knife in the other.

  Ed came into the kitchen crying.

  Get out, I said.

  I shielded Violet with my body, backed her up to the sink.

  I flipped on the kitchen light. We all winced.

  Leave, I said.

  You’re crazy, he said, sinking to his knees. Violet?

  He’d said something else. What was it that he said?

  I slung the silver pot into his crooked nose.

  I can’t picture what the agent looks like, I said to Violet.

  Violet was reading the jokes in Reader’s Digest and eating outdated yogurt.

  There was the one in Texas, I said. And then the one in the city. The one with the Buick.

  We’re in Carolina now, she said. Why don’t you rest?

  When the agent comes back, we should do a number, I said.

  There hasn’t been an agent here, Violet said. You have a fever.

  The one in the blue sports coat, I said. With gold buttons.

  Do we have health insurance? she asked, the cool back of her hand against my forehead.

  When the agent comes back, I said, let’s do “April in Paris.”

  Let me get you a cool washcloth, she said, lifting me gently from the couch.

  Let the water run clear, I said. Tomorrow . . .

  Trust God on this one, Violet said. Rest.

  In our early days, people had trusted God’s intent. We were the way we were because He made it so.

  I remembered what Ed had said that night I crushed his face. His mangled, fighter’s face.

  You are not made in His image, he’d said. You can’t be.

  And now, ladies and gentlemen, the tortoise race.

  My eyes watered. I felt as though I could no longer stand.

  I jes’ want to see it walk.

  I’m sorry, I said to Violet, before I pulled her to the ground.

  If we have interested you, kindly tell your friends to come visit us.

  There was something about the body, our seam. Were we one or were we two?

  I touched the skin between us.

  One day soon, I said, you’ll walk out of here alone.

  Hush, Violet said. Hush.

  Get a new dress, I said. Eat all the goddamn cookies you want.

  M. B. “Joe” Carstairs, the fastest woman on water.

  Photo reprinted with permission of The Mariners’ Museum,

  Newport News, VA.

  THE SIEGE AT WHALE CAY

  Georgie woke up in bed alone. She slipped into a swimsuit and wandered out to a soft stretch of white sand Joe called Femme Beach. The Caribbean sky was cloudless, the air already hot. Georgie waded into the ocean and as soon as the clear water reached her knees she dove into a small wave with expert form.

  She scanned the balcony of the pink stucco mansion for the familiar silhouette, the muscular woman in a monogrammed polo shirt chewing a cigar. Joe liked to drink her morning coffee and watch Georgie swim.

  But not today.

  Curious, Georgie toweled off, tossed a sundress over her suit, and walked the dirt path toward the general store, sand coating her ankles, shells crackling underneath her bare feet. A lush, leafy overhang covered the path, which stopped in front of a cinder-block building with a thatched roof.

  Georgie looked through the leaves at the sun overhead. She lost track of time on the island. Time didn’t matter on Whale Cay. You did what Joe wanted to do, when Joe wanted to do it. That was all.

  She heard laughter and found the villagers preparing a conch stew. They were dancing, drinking dark rum and home-brewed beer from chipped porcelain jugs and tin cans. Some turned to nod at her, stepping over skinny chickens and children to refill their cans. The women threw chopped onions, potatoes, and hunks of raw fish into the steaming cauldron, the inside of which was yellowed with spices. Joe’s lead servant, Hannah, was frying johnny-cakes on a pan over a fire, popping pigeon peas into her mouth. Everything smelled of fried fish, blistered pep
pers, and garlic.

  “You’re making a big show,” Georgie said.

  “We always make a big show when Marlene comes,” Hannah said in her low, hoarse voice. Her white hair was wrapped. She spoke matter-of-factly, slapping the johnnycakes between the palms of her hands.

  “Who’s Marlene?” Georgie asked, leaning over to stick a finger in the stew. Hannah swatted her away and nodded toward a section of the island invisible through the dense brush, where a usually empty stone house covered in hot pink blossoms stood. Joe had never explained the house. Now Georgie knew why.

  She felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy, cut short by the roar of Joe pulling up behind them on her motorcycle. As Joe worked the brakes, the bike fishtailed in the sand, and the women were enveloped in a cloud of white dust. Georgie turned to find Joe grinning, a cigar gripped between her teeth. She wore a salmon-pink short-sleeved silk blouse, and denim cutoffs. Her copper-colored hair was cropped short, her forearms covered in crude, indigo-colored tattoos. “When the fastest woman on water has a six-hundred-horsepower engine to test out, she does,” she’d explained to Georgie. “And then she gets roaring drunk with her mechanic in Havana and comes home with stars and dragons on her arms.”

  “I’ve never had that kind of night,” Georgie had said.

  “You will,” Joe had said, laughing. “I’m a terrible influence.”

  Joe planted her black-and-white saddle shoes firmly on the dirt path to steady herself as she cut the engine and dismounted.

  “Didn’t mean to get sand in your stew,” Joe said, smiling at Hannah.

  “Guess it’s your stew anyway,” Hannah said flatly.

  Joe slung an arm around Georgie’s shoulders and kissed her hard on the cheek. “Think they’ll get too drunk?” she asked, nodding toward the islanders. “Is a fifty-five-gallon drum of wine too much?”

  “You only make rules when you’re bored,” Georgie said, her lithe body becoming tense under Joe’s arm. “Or trying to show off.”

  “Don’t be smart, love,” Joe said, popping her bathing suit strap. The elastic snapped across Georgie’s shoulder.

  “Hannah,” Joe shouted, walking backward, tugging Georgie toward the bike with one hand. “Make some of those conch fritters too. And get the music going about four, or when you see the boat dock at the pier, okay? Like we talked about. Loud. Festive.”