Sirens

by Janet Fox

  Once, while Melody and Louie were deep in gossip, I went to the bookshelf, where I’d marked which book Rushton had been reading. Why did I feel surprise at Proust? Surprise and a twinge of satisfaction.

  At some point I began to smell the dinner that my aunt’s cook prepared, savory smells drifting through the apartment that made my mouth water. Melody may have smelled it, too, but not with pleasure; without warning she stood. “Must go potty.” She staggered out of the library.

  Louie murmured, “Probably time to be sick.” I put my drink on the table.

  Lou said, “So, you’re Teddy’s baby sister? Sorry about what happened to him.”

  I stared at my hands.

  Lou leaned over toward me. “Reason I’m here? I’ve been told to invite you along tonight, take you out on the town.”

  “By whom?”

  “My guy. Daniel Connor.”

  My hands lay folded in my lap, fingers laced tight. “Why should Daniel Connor have an interest in me?” I thought I knew, but wasn’t about to let on to her.

  “I have no idea. He’s a nice guy, that’s all.”

  Not so nice to my pops, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Connor’s hateful, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. Especially not to her. Because I did like her.

  She looked at me with those large eyes. “Danny doesn’t tell me everything, doll. But I gather you’re important.” She gazed at me for a minute. “What’d you do, get ahold of some dope on some high roller?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She stared at me, her eyes narrowed. “Danny’s taken an interest in you. He wants to introduce you around, or so he tells me. Wants to show you the town, you being a pretty thing and all.”

  I was so startled I picked up my drink and took another sip, avoiding her eyes. I stared into the glass, the half-melted ice cubes floating like small barges. “My pops sent me here. Pops said he was hoping that Uncle Bert and Aunt Mary would help me meet the right people, help me find a husband. I know that’s not true—well, maybe partly. But that’s not why I’m here, really.” Maybe that one little sip had loosened my tongue. I couldn’t tell Louie the truth, not her, since I was really here so that Pops could keep me away from Louie’s guy, Daniel Connor.

  What would Pops say if he knew that I was making friends with Daniel Connor’s moll?

  “So. Your old man wants you to find a husband?” Louie laughed. “Well, he’s a good father, then, looking out for his little sweetheart.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” What didn’t she understand? I stammered. “I have no interest in getting married.”

  “Ah,” Louie said. “You looking to score a good guy but not get married?”

  I looked at her. Those eyes were big and round, but they weren’t innocent. They were like giant drill bits, piercing me. And that voice, like gravel. I had the feeling she was testing me.

  “No,” I said.

  “‘No’ what?”

  “No, I don’t want to get married. I mean, I’d like to fall in love with someone who loves me, someday. Have a family, all that. But I have other things, other dreams, plans, you know.” Goodness. Now I was unloading my thoughts on Louie as if I’d known her all my life, for the second time in a matter of days.

  “Do I know?”

  I rushed on, more and more heedless. “I want to be a writer. Maybe a reporter. Something to do with words and books, anyway. I want to be independent. Have my own place. I want to work. Not like my ma, who’s slaved away all her life taking care of the family.” I looked at my hands, twisted them in my lap. “And there are other things I want to do, need to do, some things I have to take care of. Like Teddy…” I stopped myself. Yes, that little bit of alcohol had surely loosened my tongue.

  Louie sat back. “If I could offer a bit of advice.”

  I nodded, pinching my too-loose lips together.

  “Don’t go saying anything about your brother around Danny.” She pursed her lips as her eyes grazed the floor, as she seemed to retreat in thought.

  I nodded again, swallowed hard. “Okay.”

  She lifted her chin toward my drink. “You’re smarter than your cousin.”

  Good, a change of subject. But I thought, Are you sure? I sighed. “I’m supposed to watch out for her.”

  Louie snorted with laughter. “Good luck. Melody’s on a bit of a tear. Been that way for a few years now. Doesn’t know what she really wants—unlike you, doll—so she dives into the sauce. I suppose it’s her way of escaping.” Louie sat forward, put her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on her fists. “It’s tough, these days.” She was looking away from me, musing, talking almost to herself. “A girl doesn’t know what to do anymore. We have it all free and easy, right? Can do whatever we want. Wear whatever we want, smoke, drink, stay up all night, go necking with some stranger, have it all. There are no more scandals: why, we’re all scandalous. Even nutty Zelda Fitzgerald can dance in a fountain and drink like a sailor and everybody thinks she’s charming. Your pops is wrong. It’s not about finding the right husband. It’s about finding yourself. Isn’t it?” Louie looked up at me, her eyes bright. “What do you really think, doll?”

  Maybe my openness had unleashed her own. I shook my head.

  She watched me. “You said it yourself, about finding love someday. Is it all about the happily ever after, even if you do make something of yourself? I dunno. What do we want, really? Don’t we all want the happy home? The nice little hubby and the couple of sweet kids? And the freedom, the independence? Happily ever after. Yeah, we want it all.” She leaned back again. “You do, dollface. You just said so.”

  I tucked my hands beneath my knees and leaned toward her. “What about you?”

  Louie stared at me for a minute with those big eyes, then she reared back in a laugh. “Sure, I do. Of course. I want a nice happy home.”

  “With Daniel Connor?”

  She stopped laughing and looked at me sharp. “Daniel,” she said in a slow drawl, “is not the marrying kind.”

  “Then, why? Why stay with him?”

  For the first time, Louie seemed vulnerable. She looked away from me, fidgeted, tugged at the curls that hugged the nape of her neck, then stuck her index finger in her rope of pearls and wound the necklace around and around. She shrugged. “Lord knows.”

  But she sat right up and smiled, the act back in place. “I must love him something wicked.” And she peered at me. “You wouldn’t try to steal him now, would you?”

  I heard the edge in her voice; I shook my head and made my voice firm. “No. Never.”

  “Good, then. We can be friends.” And she flashed me that smile with only a hint of wariness.

  I heard the elevator door clang and the voices of my aunt and uncle as they entered the apartment. Melody came back into the library. “Well. That was titillating.” She looked better, freshly made up, her lips a dangerous red. “Everyone’s home, and the limo’ll be here at eight.” She looked from Louie to me. “I’m starved. What are you waiting for? Shall we eat?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Lou

  She had this funny thing going on, Jo Winter. She was innocent but savvy. She thought she knew what she wanted, but it was stuff right out of a fairy tale. I wanted to shake her and say, “Wake up, baby.”

  But I also wanted to believe. I wanted to believe in happy ever after. I wanted to believe Jo was as innocent as she seemed. I was that innocent, once upon a time. I’d traded up.

  John Rushton, he believed only in what he’d lost. I’d heard about the bombing; we all did. It was the time of the “Red Scare”—the “Reds” were coming to set off a revolution here in the good old U.S. of A. Whoever they were, they didn’t get very far. You fellows put out a reward for the Wall Street bombings: $20,000. You boys have some money in the bank, right, Detective? Gosh. That reward is almost as much as Danny paid for the mansion.

  But then you arrested those Italians, Sacco and Vanzetti, and now they’ll hang, so everyone�
�s saying, even though there’s no good reason to believe they were part of it.

  It’s interesting how no one ever claimed that reward. Who knows who the bombers really were? Maybe we won’t ever know. But blaming a couple of Italians? No different than blaming a couple of Irish. Or a couple of Negroes. Or blaming me—oh, don’t put on that face, Detective. You know what I’m saying.

  And in case you don’t, here’s a taste. It was like that time when Charlie and me were out on the town and we ran into one of Charlie’s friends, some guy he’d played in a band with. Okay, so the guy was a Negro. So what?

  There we were, on the street, having a nice conversation about the latest nightclubs, when some goon walks up and spits on the other fellow’s shoe.

  Charlie, his face went sour. I got real fearful there would be a fight.

  But Tooley—that was his name, the Negro bass player—he just bends down and wipes that spit off his shoe with a bright red hanky he pulls from his pocket.

  “Some folks have a hard time seeing in this light,” he said, squinting at the sun.

  “I’d be happy to go break his neck,” Charlie said. His dark eyes lit on the spitting guy, off laughing with his pals liked he’d scored something big.

  “Now, what you want to do that for, son?” asked Tooley. “You’ve got a gig tonight, and a fat lip won’t help your tuneless playing improve.” And he laughed, at least with his teeth, and tossed that spoiled hanky in the nearest garbage can.

  And we moved on, then, Tooley in his direction and we in ours, and Charlie, I had to rein him in when we passed those boys so he wouldn’t take revenge for Tooley’s insult.

  There are people who would rather take revenge than claim any amount of fortune. John Rushton, when he lost his brother, he kind of lost his soul. He didn’t believe any more than I did that it was the Reds that pulled that bombing, but I could tell he wanted to find out who it was. John Rushton was out for revenge.

  Oh, revenge. It drives the world, you know? From the first time some kid pushes you down on the playground, or some flirt steals your boyfriend, you think about revenge. About getting even. It’s the Hatfields and the McCoys, all over. It’s always the same: step up by stepping on top of the guy who once knocked you down.

  Little did I know back then how mixed up we all were—Danny, Charlie, Jo, Teddy, Rushton, me—with revenge. Or how that would all turn out.

  But I sure watched Jo like a hawk, especially right after we met, ’cause I could see what might happen to her. Heck, it happened to me. All that sweetness. Danny liked sweetness, even if he didn’t like me appearing to be dumb. He could easily like that sweet Jo Winter, which made me want to shake her, but hard.

  Yeah, buster, I was sweet once. So I knew. Life has a way of burning the sweetness right out of you and setting you up to take revenge.

  And don’t think for one second, Detective, that that was a confession. I’m just telling you a story.

  CHAPTER 18

  MAY 22, 1925

  About the spectacular dry raids of last week. There is nothing special to be said except that a number of naughty cabaret owners just won’t be allowed to sell liquor any more.

  —From the column “Lipstick,” The New Yorker, January 1, 1927

  Jo

  I’d ridden in a limo only once, when Ma and Pops and I crowded into a big black thing that took us to Teddy’s memorial service. Now I lounged with Melody and Louie in the Daimler sent for us from Daniel Connor, being driven by a quiet dark-skinned fellow named Sam who was wearing a gray uniform and hat. I was buoyed by the other girls’ high spirits.

  That is, until Louie leaned across the empty space between our seats and said to me, “You know, you could be the next Lois Long.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Lois Long. She’s that smart young gal over at Vanity Fair. She parties all night and writes theater reviews during the day. You even kind of look like her.” Louie regarded me, her head tilted in appraisal.

  I had no intention of partying all night, but writing theater reviews sounded interesting. “She gets paid for writing?”

  “Oh, boy, does she. And she’s one heck of a writer. She’s the new woman, all over.” The new woman. Now Louie’s observation made me uneasy.

  I thought about Danny Connor’s offer. My dream future in exchange for Teddy.

  I sat back against the leather. Louie looked out the window of the limo as it cruised downtown, lights of the city flashing by. Melody reapplied her lipstick with the aid of a small compact. The night was cool; a front had come in behind the rain. Melody and Louie were done up in fur jackets, and Melody had lent me a fur caplet. I dug my chin into the soft mink, the first I’d ever worn.

  Ma had a beat-up old fur coat—raccoon—and Pops swore he would one day buy her a “real” fur. And, he said, he’d drape her in real pearls. Before Teddy disappeared Pops would say to him, “When you’re a big shot, we’ll have everything we ever wanted.” When Teddy didn’t become a big shot, Pops changed his tune to “Prohibition’s gonna make us rich.”

  The only thing the Prohibition had done was to get Pops mixed up with Danny Connor, and a convoluted web of secrets, a web in which I felt more and more entangled.

  One week ago I was Josephine Anne Winter, high school student, whose ma had a ratty old raccoon coat and whose pops dealt bootleg liquor under the cover of his small grocery shop. I was an old-fashioned girl in a middy blouse and a too-long skirt, with dark hair that reached her waist. Now I was Jo Winter, riding through the streets of New York at night in a chauffeured limousine with a couple of honest-to-goodness flappers and sporting a mink and a bob and a short silk dress.

  I twisted; the scar on my back itched. I wanted to help my family. But I didn’t want to marry some rich guy I couldn’t stand. Wouldn’t it be better if I got a real job, like that Lois person? Went back, finished school, went to college? I twisted a curl of hair around my finger, pursed my lips.

  The lights of lower Manhattan flashed by; we were in a sweet cocoon, riding in this limo. I was closing in on my dreams. I was having fun. I liked my new look. I could be a “new woman” and make my own way, make scads of money, enough for me and my ma and pops.

  What would Teddy say if he could see me now: bravo, or boo?

  For the first time, I didn’t want to know Teddy’s answer. Because, looking over to the front seat, to where Sam’s dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead, never once glancing back—that would be too forward—I knew what Teddy would say. I knew.

  “Here we are,” Louie announced.

  We double-parked in front of a brick town house, and Sam hastened around the car to let us out. The street was empty. You wouldn’t have known there was any kind of club around here, it was such a dingy place. A few streetlamps glowed like orange balls, reflecting in the puddles. The street smelled like wet cement.

  I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the other girls, watching Sam as he moved back around to the driver’s seat, then pulled the car down the street to find a spot to park. My eyes followed the car, and then I saw something—saw someone, not Sam, but someone else—standing on the sidewalk opposite.

  The light, casting shadows, hid his face; but it had to be. Just like earlier that day, on the street after I’d met Charlie, the blond hair. Those eyes. I was sure it was Teddy. My muscles all went tight. I stared into the chilly dark, straining my eyes, but he was so deep in the shadows, could it be? And then as the thrill filled me I thought, Yes, it is, just like earlier, only this time he was wearing his familiar jacket and hat, and it was the way he stood with his legs splayed; it was him, standing just outside the circle of light. It was Teddy. My hand flew to my mouth as I tried to suppress a cry. I wanted to run to him.

  “Doll? What’s up?” Louie touched my shoulder, and I whirled to face her. “Whoa. You look like you’ve see a ghost.”

  I turned back and pointed, but the street was empty.

  Melody arranged her wrap, fussing with the catches. “Can we go in? This
street is giving me the creeps.”

  I stared back at the shadows, searching, but they were empty.

  “Come on, Jo.”

  I trailed them, glancing back. Nothing. No one.

  Louie led us down a flight of stairs to a door behind an iron fence that looked for all the world like a basement entrance to the tailored brownstone above it. We went inside and walked down a narrow, dim hallway to a single wall lamp that cast an anemic glow next to the only other door.

  Louie knocked, and the door opened a crack and then swung open all the way, the beefy man behind it sporting a broad grin.

  “Evening! Nice to see you again, Miss Lou. And ladies.” He eyed us as we shuffled, awkward, behind Lou. He looked us up and down, seemed to think that we passed some kind of test. He stepped aside. “Welcome to Walter’s place!”

  “Who’s Walter?” I whispered to Melody.

  She shrugged. “Don’t know his last name. Does it matter?”

  We were ushered into a joint so swank, it was hard to imagine it belonged to the hallway through which we’d entered.

  “Only been set up a couple of weeks. Would you believe it?” Louie waved her hand around the dim room. “Some swell guy with a wad of dough and a whole lotta friends.”

  Plush velvet banquettes lined the walls; scattered round tables with soft chairs filled all but the dance floor; recessed in the far wall sat a stage on which a small band played, accompanying a blond woman who was wearing a dress the color of a ripe tomato and singing “All Alone.” Cigarette girls in skimpy outfits and jaunty caps paced the floor between tables, and couples leaned toward each other over their iced drinks. Smoke rose in spirals; the ceiling was adrift in clouds of smoke. The smells of tobacco and whiskey mixed with perfume and aftershave and hair tonic. Six or seven couples fox-trotted on the dance floor, their bodies so close together I had to take a breath.