Love Comes Calling

by Siri Mitchell

  He sent me a glance. “Do you remember when you first showed me this trunk?”

  “They never did find us, did they?”

  “And when we finally gave up and went looking for them, they were gone.”

  I smiled as I remembered. “They were out in the rain, mucking for clams.”

  “And then they all came down with a summer cold.”

  I had forgotten that part of it. We’d spent the better part of a week, just the two of us, sailing in the bay, swimming, and playing tennis. We talked over memories for a while as we waited for the boys to find us.

  Griff leaned back against the side of the chest. “We were quite a pair. That’s what my mother always said. You always talked me into doing more than I should have.”

  “And you somehow always talked me into doing less than I wanted to.”

  “I’m glad you invited me here.” He shifted again and stretched an arm across the back of the trunk. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.” When he looked at me like that, I had to remind myself I was leaving. And now, after the previous night, I would have to write him an even longer letter in order to explain my going.

  “About last night . . .” He knocked my knee with his. “I’d meant to tell you what a fine girl I think you are and how I’ve never met anyone like you and . . .” He’d been looking at our knees, but now he turned and looked into my eyes. Deep into my eyes. And then he put a hand up and pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I meant to tell you how glad I am to know you and then ask if I could kiss you. The way it happened wasn’t what I’d wanted for our first kiss.”

  First kiss? Did that mean he planned a second one? If he did, then I really shouldn’t be sitting next to him in an old sea chest, should I? But then why couldn’t I seem to get my legs to move?

  “What I’d hoped would happen is . . .” His hand cupped my neck and he leaned close.

  My visions of Hollywood disintegrated as I closed my eyes and lifted my lips to his.

  “Ellis!” My sister called out from downstairs.

  I jumped.

  The front door slammed. “Ellis?”

  “What?” I stood and scrambled out of the trunk. What was she doing here? She wasn’t supposed to be back until later. Much later!

  “Ellis Eton!”

  Maybe . . . maybe I’d just pretend I wasn’t here. No one had found us. We could still play sardines.

  But now there were footsteps on the stairs. Too late! And Griff had already come to stand beside me and . . . suddenly I realized we were in a bedroom.

  Together.

  Alone.

  I moved toward the door, but Julia opened it first.

  She looked at me. She looked at Griff. And then her mouth fell open.

  “We were playing sardines. With the boys.”

  “I leave the boys with you, and you have a—a—petting party!”

  “No!” Both Griff and I shouted the word in unison.

  “How could you even think of making the same mistake that—” She clapped a hand to her mouth.

  Mistake? What mistake?

  “That’s the last time I’ll ever trust you with anything again!”

  “Julia?” My mother’s voice came floating down the hallway.

  “Did you find them?” My father’s voice joined hers.

  “I can’t believe—! I don’t even know—! How could you?” Julia stormed out of the room and down the stairs.

  I followed.

  Griff came along too, trailing behind me. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  There was raucous laughter down in the front hall. Who on earth was that?

  Julia was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands. “Look at them. Just look at them!”

  I did. The boys were laughing like loons, clutching each other as if they might otherwise fall over. Marshall was holding a bottle much like the one King Solomon had thrown in our direction the previous night. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re drunk!” Julia flung the words at me like an accusation.

  “It’s not my fault!”

  “You were supposed to be watching them, Ellis!” My mother was nearly shouting.

  “We were playing sardines.” The whole point was not to watch anybody.

  “Do you know where I found them?” Julia gestured at Griff and me. “Up in my bedroom!”

  Mother’s eyebrows nearly shot right off her head. “Julia, go ask the cook for some ipecac and a bucket. Several of them. And Griffin . . .” He seemed to shrink before her gaze.

  Father broke in. “Griffin—why don’t you and I go see if we can figure out where they found that bottle.”

  Which left me alone in the hall with my mother.

  “Oh, Ellis.” She let out a long sigh. “I thought—I was beginning to think I could trust you. But now I see—” Now she was wringing her hands too.

  “We were not—”

  She looked at me, her brows cocked.

  “—doing whatever it is Julia thinks we were. We were waiting for the boys.”

  “For three hours?”

  “Three hours . . . ?”

  “We left at one o’clock. It is now almost four o’clock, and we have to leave for the train station in less than two hours.”

  “I guess . . . we lost track of time. . . .”

  “I’ve heard about all those terrible dances and . . . and . . . petting parties, but I told myself even though you might sometimes be flighty, you have a good head on your shoulders. I’ve always believed you have more common sense than Julia, so I’ve refused to think you would ever betray my trust . . . but tell me the truth, Ellis. Do I have anything to worry about?”

  “Mother!”

  “I have nothing against Griffin; indeed, I have always hoped you two would come to an understanding one day. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Mother, I am not lying. We were just playing sardines. We didn’t do anything.” Why wouldn’t she believe me?

  “I’ve never liked the idea of that game. Hiding in the dark, going to find someone, and then sitting down on top of them. Or—” she shuddered—“lying down beside them.”

  “It was not dark and we were not—doing any of that!”

  There came a horrible retching sound from the kitchen. It was immediately followed by the sound of wailing, which soon broke off into hiccups.

  “I don’t think this mixing of boys and girls nowadays does anyone any good. When I was your age—”

  “When you were my age you always did exactly the right thing at exactly the right time! You just don’t understand: I’m not like you, and I never will be!” I left the house at a run, slamming the door behind me, just like Colleen Moore in Flaming Youth. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Neither did seeing Father and Griff on the path, coming toward me.

  I just wanted to be alone. This was why I’d planned to go to Hollywood in the first place: so I wouldn’t hear “Oh, Ellis!” anymore. Or witness disappointed looks or . . . bad grades. Spending so much time with Griff this weekend had almost made me throw my plans to the winds.

  Wandering down to the beach, I kicked at the seaweed the tide had left stranded until I spied a big piece of driftwood. I sat down on it and stared out at the bay.

  Why did he have to be so nice, and why did he have to insist on liking me so much? Couldn’t he see how I always messed everything up? Why couldn’t he just be like everyone else and hate me?

  I heard a cough and turned to see Griff. Of course it would be him. It was getting to be a habit. He sat at the other end of the log, facing away from the bay, looking at me.

  I threw a glance at him. “Did you ever think maybe things would be better if I weren’t here? At least then people wouldn’t be mad at me all the time.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m more mad at me. I should have realized the boys would wander across some liquor with all the smuggling that goes on around here. And I shouldn’t have put you in that situation up there in the . . . i
n the bedroom.” A flush stained his cheeks.

  “But that’s just what I mean. I always get people into trouble. Even people who don’t mean to be or want to be. Everyone would be better off without me, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never thought that. Not once. And I definitely wouldn’t be better off without you.”

  It was nice of him to say that, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it. And I wouldn’t let it dissuade me from my plan. Just because Griff had said all those nice things about me and just because he was good at kissing didn’t mean I should stay. And besides, he had started down the path that would lead, as it had done for everyone else, to a full-fledged “Oh, Ellis!” I wasn’t good for him. Anyone could see that.

  When I got home that night, I pulled my Hollywood scrapbook out from underneath the mattress and went through my plan again. Once I got there, I’d go straight to Famous Players-Lasky Corporation and refuse to work with any director but Alan Crosland, because he was the best there was. And there would be palm trees and Spanish villas and swimming pools and tennis courts and . . . why didn’t it sound as perfect as it used to?

  I closed the scrapbook with a sigh. It would all be worth it—I knew it would be—and Griff would thank me for it. Someday when he’d married himself a Lowell or a Warren, he’d thank God he hadn’t married Ellis Eton. Although maybe, from time to time, when he’d see me in a movie, he’d think . . . “What if?” He would be the hometown boy, and I’d be the girl who got away, and everything would be just fine. There was nothing to worry about. I was a good actress, and I’d be a complete success. I knew I would be. Didn’t I have everyone down at the switchboard convinced that I was Janie?

  “Why—you aren’t Janie!” Some of the girls at my normal table were taking a correspondence class and had filled the table with books, so I’d sat down at a different table, and now one of the girls was peering over at me in the dining room as if I’d just revealed myself to be some awful ogre. All I’d done was ask did she know if there were any fish knives.

  “Shh!” Miss Hastings was nearing, and I didn’t want to be noticed by her any more than I already had been.

  “But—where’s Janie?”

  I smiled in an especially Janie sort of way, with my lips closed and my mouth turned up only ever-so-slightly at the edges. “She’s not here. But I am. She asked me to pretend to be her.”

  The girl looked at me askance. “Well . . . if it’s all right with her . . .”

  “Jane Winslow?” The supervisor looked out over the dining room.

  How would Janie have answered? I stood, hands folded in front of me. “Right here, ma’am.”

  “You clocked in five minutes late both Friday and today.”

  Those who hadn’t been watching us now turned around in order to do so.

  “If this job isn’t important to you, I’m certain I can find a girl to which it is.”

  “Oh! It is. I promise you it is. I won’t be late again. Ever. I promise!”

  She sent a doubtful look my way and then left.

  I made my way to Doris’s table with shaking hands.

  She greeted me with a frown. “I told you to stay out of her way.”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Being late is not the way to do it.”

  “I’m not trying. To be late, that is. But I am trying. I’m really trying.” I was!

  “Well, you better try harder, or Janie’s going to be out her job.”

  The other girls were glaring at me as if they agreed.

  “And she really needs this, now that her mother’s passed.”

  One of the girls crossed herself.

  “I know she does.” That’s why I’d agreed to help. I just had to get through to the end of the week without messing up again . . . and then I’d buy my train ticket and I’d go to Hollywood just like I’d always planned.

  After work, back by the orphan asylum, I climbed inside the car and let it take me home. Father hadn’t returned, so I ran upstairs, pulled the receipt with the telephone numbers from my desk drawer, and took it down to his office to start making telephone calls. You’d think it would have been easy, just calling up sixty different telephone numbers, but an hour later, I wasn’t even halfway through.

  “Tremont-4621.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The telephone went silent before someone on the other line picked up. “Hello?” A woman.

  “Is the man of the house in, please?”

  “Naw. He’s still at work.”

  I hung up and then drew a circle around the telephone number. I’d decided if I couldn’t get a man on the phone the first time I called a number, I’d call again later. I put a hand to my back and stretched as I looked at my list. I’d made twenty telephone calls, and I still hadn’t recognized a single voice.

  I picked up the handset again and put it to my ear.

  The operator picked up the call. “Hello?”

  “Tremont-4577.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Another silence and then a new voice. “Hello?” A man!

  “Hello. This is Miss Smith. Is John there?”

  “John? I think you got the wrong number, miss.”

  Something sounded familiar about his voice. If I could just get him to say royal. Or picture. “Are you sure this is the wrong number?”

  “It is if you’re asking for John.”

  “What if—” Think! “What if I weren’t? What if I were asking for someone else?”

  “Who you asking for?”

  “What if I asked for you?”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  Was I . . . ? “Sure. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “So whadda you want?”

  “I want to . . .” How could I get him to say the right word? “I want to . . .”

  “Listen, I haven’t got all day.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, I just was wanting to know something about . . . about hanging pictures.” Hanging pictures? Oysters and clambakes! He was going to think I was some kind of nut.

  “Pitchers?”

  It was him! “Yes. And I was thinking . . . what I thought was . . . maybe we could . . . meet.”

  “Pitchers? You want to meet to talk about hanging pitchers? Is this some kind of a prank?”

  “No! No pranks. Someone gave me your name and said you were good at hanging pictures. King did. King was the one. He gave me your name.”

  “King! King said that about me? I guess, I mean I’ve put up pitchers before . . . but . . . who are you again?”

  “He said I could count on you.” What on earth was I saying?

  “For pitchers? That’s a new one.”

  A female voice called out somewhere in the background.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low and hushed. “Listen. I’m kind of busy right now. But I could slip out later. Where you want to meet?”

  Rats! I hadn’t thought this far ahead. “We could . . .” It couldn’t be any place too obvious. I wanted to see him, but I didn’t want him to see me. “We could meet . . .” Where?! Not at the Common or the Public Garden. And I didn’t want him anywhere I’d normally be. “Why not at that—” I lowered my voice—“speakeasy. By that grocery in the North End.”

  “The grocery in the North End? There’s about fifty groceries in the North End. Who did you say you are again?”

  “It’s just . . . I can’t remember the name. It starts with a Z.”

  “The one by Zanfini’s? Sure. I know it. Give me an hour, and I’ll meet you there.”

  19

  An hour? I didn’t even know if I could find that grocery again. And now I had to be there in an hour?

  Someone rapped on the door.

  I pushed the telephone away, palmed my list, and folded my hands in my lap. “Come in.”

  A maid curtsied. “Your father is waiting in the dining room, miss.”

  Thank goodness he hadn’t come into the office! “Tell him . . . tell him I won’t be eat
ing tonight.”

  “Miss?”

  “I won’t be eating supper.” At least not here with him.

  “Are you—are you sure?”

  “Quite. And besides, I have to run out. For work. You can tell him that if he asks.”

  I went up to my room and replaced my dress with a middy blouse and skirt and exchanged my satin pumps for my galoshes just in case I had to do some running. I only hoped I wouldn’t have to dodge any bullets! Grabbing one of my mother’s old hats and my pocketbook, I tiptoed down the servants’ stair and found the driver playing cards out in the garage with the gardener.

  They both stood as they saw me.

  “I need to go to the North End.”

  “Where did you say again, miss?” The driver was squinting out the front window.

  “To a grocery.”

  He drove down a street that seemed impossibly narrow and then jerked to a stop. “Is it this one?”

  Was it? I bent to peer out the window. “No.”

  “But . . . you’re sure it’s here? Somewhere?”

  “I’m sure. It starts with a Z. Zanetti’s . . . Zeffanini’s . . . something like that.”

  He turned a corner and came face-to-face with a brick wall. “I’m afraid—”

  “It’s got to be around here somewhere.” We were in the North End. I could smell it: coffee, garlic, and . . . something rotten.

  “Yes, miss.” He reversed, turned the car around, and headed down the street in the opposite direction.

  “Perhaps . . . that way.” I pointed to the right.

  “We’ve already been that way.” He turned left.

  Really? All these streets seemed the same.

  He drove down one block. Then another. “Is it this one, miss?”

  I looked through the window. Zanfini’s. “That’s it!”

  “Should I wait?” A rough-looking character out on the street gave the car a long look as he passed by. “Are you going to be long, miss?”

  “I rather think not.” Although . . . I didn’t know. Not exactly. The man had said to meet him in an hour, but how dependable would he be? “Maybe . . . could you park around the corner?”