Dodging and Burning

by John Copenhaver

  After taking in the bouquet wafting from the mirror-topped perfume counter, I departed Woodies, having snatched up a smart, dun-colored Vera Maxwell coat with a pleated back and a pair of faux-crocodile wedges. Once I returned to my car, I tossed my bags in the back seat and spent a few minutes reacquainting myself with my true destination—the Howard.

  Although I knew DC had a significant black population, I didn’t know where their neighborhoods were. I had only been exposed to the “agreeable” sections of town. As I drove north, the brickwork on the row homes became less ornate and the bay windows gave way to porches. Shiny new Cadillacs, Pontiacs, DeSotos, and Oldsmobiles became dinged and scuffed older models, from the years before the war. The sweet perfumes and powdered noses of the pretty store clerks at Woodies faded away, replaced by sidewalks of grimacing black faces, mouths opening with quiet astonishment. “What’s that little white girl thinking?” they seemed to say. “Dorothy ain’t in Kansas no more.” Come to think of it, that memory makes me think of a line of Joseph Conrad’s: “There it is before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, ‘Come and find out.’”

  The Hotel Howard was a series of Victorian row homes integrated to form one large building. A scaffolding of fire escapes crisscrossed its brick façade, and a weather-beaten canopy printed with the street address hung over the entrance. The red-carpeted lobby was cramped with a low ceiling and a pervasive odor of mildew. Against the back wall was a row of brass mailboxes labeled with residents’ names. The Howard seemed to be more boardinghouse than hotel.

  A young, well-groomed black woman sat at the front desk. Her glossy hair was crimped and bobbed and framed a lovely face with long, elegant cheekbones. Her bright red lipstick shone like glossy enamel. She was on the phone, lost in gossip of some sort. As I stood in front of her, waiting for her to glance up and notice me, I scanned the names on the mailboxes. None were familiar to me.

  “Hang on,” I heard her say to the person on the other end of the line. “Excuse me,” she said to me in a more pleasant tone than I had expected. She rested the receiver against her collarbone. She articulated her words clearly, assertively, which led me to believe she was more than a concierge. I was certain she either acted or sang.

  “Hello,” I said. “I have a friend who I’m trying to track down. I was wondering, perhaps, if she was still here.” I tried very hard to keep my voice light and direct, avoiding any inflection that might give away my eagerness.

  Lifting the receiver to her mouth, she said, “Can I call you back?” She hung up. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Her name is Lily Vellum.”

  “Don’t know her. She doesn’t live here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry, honey.”

  “May I ask you,” I said, “if you’ve ever heard of this establishment—Croc’s?”

  “It’s a bar. Crocodile Tears.” An enigmatic smile quivered at the edge of her red lips. I liked her a little less. Always mute with an air of whispering.

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I can give you directions, but it won’t open until eight tonight.”

  My heart sank. I was expected at home by then.

  Croc’s was only five blocks away, at the corner of U and 11th Street. In need of familiar surroundings, I retreated to my car and sat quietly for a moment, watching pedestrians on the street. I studied their clothes, the way they walked, and their faces. Everyone was purposeful. A group of men in uniform, both black and white, passed close to my car. Their army greens were crisp and snugly fitted to their frames, the insignia and badges glinting in the sun, but they seemed casual to me, perhaps because they were laughing. The sight of their clean, handsome faces made me feel more at ease. I wondered what it would be like to live in the city, to have friends like these men or even the Howard’s concierge. I wondered if they were going to celebrate the attack on Japan tonight. In retrospect, it was a horrible thing to celebrate, but at the time, it was a glorious final strike for the Allies. We hadn’t seen the images of the devastation.

  A sudden burst of confidence surged through me. I decided I would phone my mother and tell her the Oldsmobile broke down and I would have to spend the night. I would tell her I was safe and I could pay for the repair with the money she gave me. I would describe the clothes I had purchased and how I was looking forward to a nice dinner. I would tell her I was, despite it all, enjoying myself.

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  I returned to the Howard and asked the woman if they had any rooms for overnight stays. They did. Once I settled in my room, I called Mother from the pay phone in the hall. She supported the idea of me making the best of it. When she asked for a diagnosis of the car trouble, I said, “Something with the ignition.”

  She simply said, “I see.” She knew I was lying, but she understood that sometimes adventures require a little deceit.

  After spending a few hours wandering through the National Gallery, its paintings having recently been rehung after being held for safekeeping at the Biltmore Estate, I returned to my room. I wanted to convert my conservative pink polka-dotted dress into an evening dress, but as much as I attempted to adjust it—unfastening the top buttons, pulling the thin, black belt tighter—I couldn’t alter its appearance. My hair and makeup would have to create the desired effect; I twisted my hair on top of my head, allowing a curl or two to escape, and pinned it there. I also applied a thick layer of lipstick, giving my lips a deep red luster.

  It was six by the time I was ready. I was tired from my day, so I opened a window and let the evening breeze in and, being careful not to muss my outfit, lay down on the bed. The smells from the street weren’t pleasant—car exhaust mingling with the greasy mist from the restaurant at the corner of U and 8th—but the cool air was refreshing, and I drifted into a deeper sleep than I had intended. When I awoke, the bright rectangle of my window was now a gaping hole, emitting echoes of laughter from the street below. It was nearly midnight. Dinner was over, and nightlife had begun to flood into the streets. I had planned to get to the bar early and search for Lily before a crowd descended on the place. My stomach growled, and I felt homesick. But I rallied a bit, fluffing my hair and freshening my lips, and set out.

  Many of the windows in the buildings along U Street were curtained, a preemptive measure in case of a blackout drill during the war and now most likely the result of habit. The commotion on the street was a blur of gray shadows, broken only by the lighting of a cigarette, indiscreet automobile headlights, or the opening of doors as men and women flowed in and out of restaurants and bars. After finding my way to the corner of U and 11th, I combed the block, soon becoming convinced the receptionist at the Howard had given me the wrong address. I huffed and slapped my hands on my hips.

  “Excuse me, miss. You look lost,” a voice said.

  I turned to find a short young man in a crisp suit and fastidiously parted blond hair. His face was smooth, almost waxen, but not uncomely, and his lips thin and pursed. A vermillion kerchief plumed from his breast pocket.

  I smiled, happy to see a friendly face, and stammered, “I’m looking for Croc’s.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Are you sure you have the right place, darling?”

  “I think so.”

  Finger to his chin, he gave me a casual once-over. “You’re the real thing, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly,” I conceded, a little perplexed.

  “Very well. Follow me. We’ll find out if it’s the place you’re looking for.”

  We went behind the hardware store around the corner, into a dank alley, and down a flight of steps to a nondescript door. Over it hung a small sign that read crocodile tears in dark blue letters. The man knocked on the door in a distinct pattern—Morse code, I think. It happened too quickly for me to catch the rhythm.

  The door flung open, and a puff of smoke es
caped, trailed by laughter. A tall, horsey woman, wrapped in a horrible bright purple evening gown, emerged. She recognized my new friend and rushed forward, giving him a hug. The little man disappeared into a blob of purple organza and then reappeared again, extricating himself from her gossamer cape, taking a moment to complain she had ruffled his freshly pressed blazer.

  “Oh, Timmy,” she cooed. “Wrinkles make you more rugged. Too much polish on and the boys won’t want to rough you up.”

  “This is my friend …”

  “Bunny,” I supplied.

  “Bunny,” Tim repeated.

  “Hop! Hop!” The purple horror screamed with joy, her large mouth gaping to reveal cigarette-stained teeth.

  “She’s come to see the show,” Tim said.

  “Little Bunny better hop-hop on inside.”

  “Indeed,” Tim said.

  The purple horror stepped aside, motioning for us to enter, her diaphanous plumage rippling and fluttering with each exaggerated gesture. Mellow guitar, a Reinhardt-esque tune of some sort, drifted across the room through the haze. I followed Tim down a few stairs, dropping below the veil of smoke.

  The space was a deep, buttressed basement, supported by two or three large brick pillars. The windowless walls were painted a wine red and lined with booths. Much later in my life, the Roman underground cistern of Istanbul would conjure memories of this place. The city’s cavernous architecture and lush darkness, although much grander, had a similar and equally disconcerting atmosphere, like being in the belly of a whale. In the center were round tables of odd sizes, set with mismatched chairs and lit with red votives. At the far end of the room, a thick, velvety curtain was pulled back, revealing a thin, well-dressed black man, perched on a stool and playing the guitar. His eyes were closed, deep in the moment of the music. At the back of the room stood a makeshift bar, cluttered with stools and the greatest number of patrons.

  “Does this look like your sort of place?” Tim said.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Lily Vellum.”

  “That name rings a bell. I remember hearing something about a Lily a few months ago, but I never met her.”

  “What about Teddie B.?”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  “I’m a friend of a friend.”

  “Oh, you’ll get to meet Teddie B., all right. He’s crooning his dreadful repertoire tonight. Just hang around. I’ll bet my toes he’s the next act. God save us if he’s doing Dietrich.”

  Remembering another name from Lily’s letter, I said, “Do you know a George?”

  “Which one do you want? George Abernathy? George Wills? Georgie Goodbottom? Although I seriously doubt that’s his real name. George Gershwin? George Washington? You’ll have to be more specific.” I was bewildered, which he clearly saw, because he said, “Darling, why don’t you have a seat at an empty table and let Timmy find a drink for you? What do you want?”

  “I’m fine. No need to—”

  “Darling, name the drink.”

  “An old-fashioned.”

  “Whatever your heart desires.” He clucked and left me.

  I found a small table near a pillar and sat down. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the submarine blues and ruby reds of the room, and I discovered there were several groups of patrons that I could observe without seeming conspicuous. Around the table nearest me, three young men sat together, craned over their drinks, whispering and laughing and smoking. Occasionally, one of the men would extend a slender arm over the center of the table and tap ashes into an empty glass. The gesture had a certain irreverent grace about it, a feminine haughtiness I had never observed in men, except perhaps at my birthday by the lake. Jay had seemed so different that night.

  At another table, a man and a woman sat across from each other. The woman wore a dark velvet dress, the color of which was difficult to discern, and she seemed angry, or at least unwilling to look the man in the face. The man was impassioned, pleading with her. I wondered if he was in love and she wasn’t—or at least not with him. At one point, she slouched and put her hands to her face. She melted into tears, and the man rose and walked around the table and put his hand cautiously on her shoulder. She shook him off. He was utterly bewildered. I decided I didn’t like the woman.

  The table on my right, at the edge of my peripheral vision, was half-submerged in darkness, and in that restless shadow I saw two shapes conjoined, moving against each other, in soft, uneven undulations. I stared for a moment, uncertain what I was looking at. Then the two shapes separated and assumed the more recognizable forms of two sturdy, square-shouldered men. One of the men was still leaning forward slightly, his hand gripping the other man’s thigh. My heart rate increased, and I turned away. Before I could process what I had seen, Tim was standing over me, dangling my drink precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Here, darling. Take your drink. I hate the condensation on my palms.”

  As he sat, he nodded toward the two men. “It looks like Ben has a new boy tonight. They simply worship him. That’s only because his favorite activity doesn’t require conversation.” He took a swig of his drink. “Don’t mind me. That’s just jealousy talking.”

  “I don’t understand,” I sputtered.

  “Of course you don’t.” He smiled.

  “Is he … ?”

  “A fairy. Yes, darling. As am I.” He tipped his glass to me. “Cheers!” He took a deep swig, swallowed, and paused to absorb the alcohol. “You really don’t know where you are, do you?”

  “I do. It’s just … I’ve never been to a place like this.”

  “Are you a lessie?”

  “A what?”

  “A dyke. There are better places I can recommend if you are.”

  “I don’t—No!”

  “You look pale, darling. Have your drink. You’ll feel much better.”

  I picked up the tumbler, removed the thin orange slice—which Tim snatched from my fingers and ate—and took a gulp of the tangy liquid. After the alcohol settled, I took another, more ladylike sip and spoke: “I’m here because someone I care about has a connection to this place and to the people I mentioned to you.”

  “Teddie B. and this Lily person.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What sort of connection?”

  “I’m not sure. The more I discover, the less I understand.”

  “You’re beginning to intrigue me.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Indeed.”

  In a clumsy flutter, the purple monster was suddenly with us. I could see now that she was in fact a he. The liberally applied makeup, the waxy red lips, and the cockeyed wig served only as an immediate distraction from the burly man hiding underneath. I felt embarrassed for him, not to mention a little afraid of him. I moved my chair back a few inches to give him room.

  “Don’t be scared, little Easter Bunny,” he cooed.

  I sipped my drink.

  “This is her first foray into the fairyland,” Tim explained. “Be gentle with her.”

  “She a dyke?” the purple monster asked.

  “She says no. She says she’s looking for friends. She says Teddie may know something about these friends. It’s all very mysterious.”

  The monster brought his arm across his face, his sheer purple dress veiling his nose and mouth in parody of the Shadow: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”and he mimicked the Shadow’s signature laugh. To say the least, it was odd. But it made me laugh.

  “She thinks you’re funny, Henry,” Tim said dryly.

  So the monster had a name.

  “Henrita,” he corrected Tim.

  “Why not Henrietta?” I asked.

  “Henrietta is a heifer’s name. Henrita has Latino mystique. South-of-the-border spice. The clatter of castanets.”

  Tim rolled his eyes, and I laughed again. I was tipsy. It felt good, though. I could feel my anxiety slip
ping away.

  “You’re the one to comment on names, Easter Bunny,” the monster said.

  “It’s a nickname. My real name is Bonita.”

  “Oooo, I like that. Henrita and Bonita. We’re going to be best girlfriends!” At that, he reached over, snatched up my drink, and took a gulp. I was taken aback. “Don’t worry, Miss Hippity-Hop. I’ll get you another one.”

  The lighting on the stage had darkened. The guitarist had disappeared, although the lilt of his music lingered in the room. There was a shift in the mood around us, a shuffling, and the stage was suddenly flooded with light.

  “Here we go,” Tim said. From stage right, a tall woman surfaced, swathed in a tight black gown. Her hair was a blond bob with large sculpted curls, and she held a fur stole around her. She moved gracefully to center stage and raised a faux-diamond cuffed glove to the audience in exaggerated appreciation of the decidedly unenthusiastic applause. Her face was as white and smooth as a Japanese porcelain mask, with eyebrows like twin circumflexes and lips as dark and glossy as ink. Teddie B. was Marlene Dietrich.

  An accordionist appeared out of the darkness of stage right, a still shadow in the background. The accompanying piano was in the corner of the room, lit only by the inconstant flicker of candlelight. “Lili Marlene,” her signature war song, was the first of the night.

  His rendition was all camp, replacing Dietrich’s world-weary-woman-who’s-seen-it-all with pure melodrama. I glanced around at the grinning faces and rolling eyes, particularly among the men. I couldn’t tell if Teddie was making fun of Dietrich or himself or, worst of all, if he thought he was doing a passable impersonation.

  As the songs rolled out of him—“The Boys in the Backroom” and “You Go to My Head” and, of course, “Falling in Love Again”—his façade began melting, literally. His sweat made the pancake makeup lose its soft, powdered surface. There were moments, though, particularly in “Falling in Love Again,” where his voice—the man’s voice, not the faux Dietrich—broke the surface with a touch of authentic emotion, part humiliation and part desperation to master the song and embrace his muse. However brief these slips were (and they were most definitely unintentional), I found myself cheering him on, hoping that at least for a chord or two he could make the transformation complete.