Swan Song

by Tracey Ward

  I frown, fighting the rise of my stomach at the thought. “No. It’ll only make it worse.”

  “Hmm.”

  My eyes are drawn to the massive painting behind him again. The woman captured in it has a frown frozen on her face and it strikes me that this is how she’ll be seen for all of eternity. People who have never met her will look at her here in Tommy’s office and think to themselves that she looks like one mean, ugly witch of a woman. But is she? What if this was just a bad rendering and she’s actually sweet as pie, making cookies with her grandkids, attending church every Sunday where she tithes double to help out the single mother sitting beside her who lost her husband in the war?

  Suddenly I feel the compulsion to know.

  “Who is this?”

  “Who is who? What are you askin’?” Tommy asks. He doesn’t look behind him, though. Instead he’s watching me. Examining me where I sit on his desk.

  “The woman in this painting. Who is she?”

  “How should I know?”

  “It’s on your wall. How can you not know?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t pick it. It was there when I took over the office.”

  “Who was the last guy? Who’d you take over for?”

  “None of your business.”

  I groan, sick of his games and too tired to play. “Forget it,” I snap, moving to go.

  Tommy stands quickly, grabbing my wrist. He pulls me back to the desk until I’m sitting in the center, directly in front of him. He looks down at me with his dark eyes and I know immediately what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling.

  He presses his body between my knees, spreading them as far as my skirt will let them go. His hands smooth out over the fabric on my thighs, running up and down slowly. I stare up at him, sure where this is going but unsure how I want to react.

  “You want to know why I keep that ugly woman on my wall?” he asks softly, his voice deep and vibrating.

  His fingers begin to gather the skirt. To pull it up with each movement.

  “Why?” I ask breathily.

  My knees are bare.

  “I keep it there,” an inch of my thighs is exposed, “so when I’m having an off night,” another inch, “and I’ve got some ugly dame bent over this desk,” he runs his fingers lightly under my garter, “I can remind myself it could always be worse.”

  His hot hands make their way to my inner thighs, pushing against them to spread me wider. His body immediately fills the space, his warmth and strength pressing against me. The feeling leaves me breathless.

  I stare behind his head at the painting, thinking what a horrible thing that is to do. Those poor women who look at this beautiful man and think his interest makes them beautiful too, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because Tommy is rotten on the inside.

  And what about me? What am I? I’m gorgeous in the mirror, but what about what lies beyond that? Below the surface where all the cracks are. Where the secrets eat at me like mice on Swiss cheese until maybe someday I’m just a hollow shell like Tommy. Maybe someday I’ll look in the mirror and I won’t see me anymore. I’ll see into me, the way Drew did the night I met him, and I’ll glare at myself and whisper—

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Am I?” Tommy asks innocently. He leans down, rubbing his face against mine softly. Almost tenderly.

  Suddenly he takes hold of my ass and yanks me forward on the desk until I’m flush with him. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his shoulders and clinging to him for support.

  “I can’t be too disgusting,” he breathes against my neck. ”Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Or do you like disgusting, Adrian? Do you like ugly?”

  “I don’t think I like you at all.”

  He smirks. “You know what? I think I believe that.”

  His lips crash down on mine as his hands move from my ass to my hips. They ride up my sides as his tongue takes immediate possession of my mouth, wasting no time. I’m breathless and dizzy as his hands rise higher and his tongue delves deeper. I’m lost and confused and so, so, so excited.

  I’ve never let it go this far with him. I shouldn’t be doing it now, but I haven’t been touched like this in years. Not since I first arrived here and learned early on that I needed to be an ice sculpture if I wanted to make it big. If I wasn’t looking to be used and abused. That’s a lot of years with a lot of pent up energy. I’m dying to be kissed this way, caressed the way I know Tommy is capable of, and even though it’s the wrong way with the wrong man, I consider taking that risk.

  As he kisses me, his hands split up to cover more territory. One goes north, taking my breast in his palm and squeezing it hard, while the other goes south. His fingers skim over my skirt, run the inside of my thigh, and brush gently across the fabric of my underwear.

  I jerk back in surprise and his mouth leaves mine, his eyes staring down into me with determination and desire. I try to breathe steadily as I look back, but I’m a jumbled mess that’s coming apart at the seams as his hands continue to move over my body, never letting up.

  “You may not like me, but you like how I make you feel, don’t you?” he asks darkly.

  I refuse to answer. To give him that thrill, but he’s right. He’s so right. Even my endless headache has receded to the back of my mind as his fingers toy with the hem of my underwear, threatening to breach that barrier. All I can think is that I want this release so badly. It’s different when it’s someone else doing it. It’s better, more exciting.

  Scarier.

  “Adrian,” he growls, warning me not to ignore him.

  “What?” I breathe, trying to focus.

  “Answer me. Do you like how I make you feel?”

  I watch him in amazement, noticing for the first time how his demeanor changes in moments like this. How different he is when he’s alone with me compared to how he is with his boys. The way his speech shifts, becoming more eloquent.

  Some part of Tommy is an act. I just don’t know which one.

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Do you want to feel even better?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Ask me.”

  “More.”

  “No,” he scolds. He withdraws his hand, leaving me feeling cold. Unfulfilled. “I didn’t say tell me, I said ask me.”

  I glare at him, and I hate the look I see on his face.

  Power. Control. Dominance. This is what it’s always like with him, with all the mobsters. They want control over everything they see and I refuse to play that game. I don’t care how unsatisfied I am. I’d rather have my pride than a moment of bliss that will leave me with nothing.

  I shove his hand aside and slip off the desk, smoothing my skirt and erasing the feel of his fingers from my skin.

  “No, thanks,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he asks, obviously amused by my act. “You sure you feel alright?”

  I turn to smile at him with my brighter-than-the-city-lights stage smile that’s so much whiskey I feel drunk off it. “I’m swell.”

  I slam the door behind me as I leave, staggering slightly down the hall and cursing myself with every step.

  Whatever has gotten into me, it needs to get out. Otherwise, I’m a goner.

  Chapter Eight

  As much as I don’t care for the holidays, I’m grateful when Ralph gives me an extra night off at the start of December as an early Christmas present. It comes out of nowhere, and I think it might be in part because Tommy knows I’m not feeling right. Even if that’s the truth, I need the break from the club. A break from the booze, the bright lights, and most of all from Tommy himself.

  We went too far the other day. In hind sight, I can’t believe I let him touch me like that. I also can’t believe how badly I want him to do it again. How much farther I’m dying to go with him, though I know I’d rather it was someone else. Someone who told me to take a hike, a reality that stings every time I think about it, and that sting is making me weak.

  “How are
you feelin’, Aid?” Rosaline calls from the kitchen.

  “Better, thanks. No headaches, no dizziness.”

  “You must be on the mend,” Lucy says happily. “I’m glad none of us caught whatever bug you had.”

  Alice snorts. “Speak for yourself! I had a killer headache yesterday. I even threw up.”

  “But you’re better today?” I ask her, frowning. I didn’t know she had felt sick.

  “I feel great now.”

  “Well, I’m happy most of us didn’t get sick,” Lucy says, bumping hips with Rosaline. “Are you guys ready to eat?”

  We all reply at once, talking over each other and hurrying toward the food.

  “Always!”

  “I’m starved.”

  “Finally!”

  We pile in around our tiny kitchen table that’s loaded dangerously with mounds of food, all of it discounted Thanksgiving leftovers we sweet talked from the grocer on the corner. Mashed potatoes, a meager turkey that will happily feed us all, gravy, biscuits, and some kind of pie that Lucy made. I don’t care what it is, I’ll eat it if she made it.

  “Should we say grace?” Lucy asks, offering her hand to Rosaline and I on either side of her.

  I hear Alice snort but I ignore her, along with everyone else. “Yeah, Luce. You head it up, alright?”

  We bow our heads and close our eyes as Lucy clears her throat. “Dear, Heavenly Father, we thank you for the bounty that we are about to receive. May you bless it to our bodies and give us strength. Strength in our bodies and in our spirits. And we ask you to be with those less fortunate than us in this holiday season and keep in our hearts and minds the true meaning of Christmas and charity. We ask these things in your name, Oh Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Rosaline and I whisper.

  I look over at Lucy and squeeze her hand before releasing it.

  “That was lovely, Luce” I tell her.

  “It was long,” Alice says curtly. “Pass the potatoes.”

  “So what’s the plan for Christmas?” Rosaline asks, taking a knife to the turkey. “Anyone going home?”

  “I might,” Alice says. “My parents offered to buy me a train ticket back to Boise. I’m thinking about it.”

  I frown at her. “You better decide fast. If you’re not here to be in the chorus line Tommy and I will need to find a replacement.”

  “You have Clara. Can’t she fill in?”

  “What if she’s going home too?”

  Alice shrugs, unconcerned. “It’ll work out.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Sure, mom.”

  I continue to frown at her.

  “What about you, Luce?” Rosaline asks her. “Are you going home?”

  Lucy blushes slightly. “No, I think… I think I might be going somewhere else?”

  I glance at Rosaline who casts me a curious smile.

  “Where might you be going?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says quietly, staring intently at her cranberries.

  “New York,” Alice says, her mouth half full of biscuit. “She’s going to New York to see some fella.”

  Lucy looks up at her sharply. “How did you know that?”

  Alice shrugs. “I read your letter.”

  “You what?!”

  “I read your letter. You left it sitting out on the coffee table. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that it’s private!” Lucy cries indignantly.

  Alice rolls her eyes at her, returning to her turkey. “If it’s private don’t leave it lying around.”

  Lucy continues to stare daggers at Alice who remains carefully oblivious.

  “Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, you may as well fill us in,” Rosaline prods Lucy. “Who is he?”

  A smile creeps onto her thin, pink lips. “He’s just some guy.”

  “Just some guy inviting you to visit him in New York City?” I ask doubtfully. “Is he helping you pay for your train ticket?”

  The smile explodes on her face. “He’s flying me there.”

  “He’s what?!”

  “He’s a pilot for the Postal Service,” she explains, finally looking at me. When she sees my face her smile fades a bit. “He flies on a route between New York and a couple other places. He’ll be making deliveries this way a few days before Christmas and he offered to fly me back to New York with him to meet his family there.”

  Rosaline is staring at Lucy in amazement. “Meet his family? How long have you known this guy?”

  “A few months now.”

  “And we don’t know about him because…”

  Lucy looks embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure what it was. He lives in New York, I’m here and we hardly ever see each other. Most of what we say to each other is through letters.”

  “How did you meet him?” I ask.

  Lucy glows at me. “It was back in the early fall when we had those horrible lightning storms. His plane was able to land here but it was too dangerous to take off again. He and his copilot were stuck here for the night so they came into town to get a room in a hotel. They chose some cheap one just a couple blocks from where I work and they ended up coming in to window shop and kill time waiting for the storms to pass. We met, got to talking, and they invited me and another shop girl to dinner.” She grins mischievously. “We stayed out most of the night just talking and laughing. Afterward he asked if he could write me and I said yes so that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen him since the fall?” Rosaline asks.

  “Once. I saw him once. He let me know a week in advance when he’d be landing and I got the afternoon off to be there. It was only for an hour while the mail was loaded on the plane and they refueled, but it was nice.”

  “Did he kiss you?” Alice asks bluntly.

  “No,” Lucy replies, not looking at her. “We’ve never kissed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Lucy glares at her again. “What?”

  “Nothing. I just wonder about a fella that doesn’t even try to kiss ya. Maybe he doesn’t like women.”

  “He likes women fine,” Lucy says hotly. “Especially me.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  “Do you have a likeness?” I ask, hoping to stave off a war. Lucy and Alice have never gotten along terribly well. In fact, Alice doesn’t especially get along with anyone.

  “I do,” Lucy tells me happily, standing up from her seat.

  She goes into the living room where she pulls a shoebox out from under the couch. It’s dusty and worn with use, but when she opens it I can see letters upon letters in neat little envelopes, all in a row. She pulls out a small rectangle and carefully lays it flat in her palm.

  “Here,” she says, showing it only to Rosaline and I.

  In the photo is a likeable looking fellow with light hair and a rounded, baby face, but he’s smiling honestly and there’s something approachable and easy about it. I can see why Lucy likes him.

  “He’s handsome,” I tell her.

  “What’s his name?” Rosaline asks.

  “Robert.”

  “Bob,” Alice mutters.

  Lucy shakes her head. “He hates the name Bob. His family calls him Robby.”

  “What do you call him?” I ask as she takes the picture back to the living room.

  “Rob,” she replies. “He asked me to call him Rob.”

  “And now he wants you to meet his family. In New York City. It must be serious.”

  “Maybe. I guess I’ll have to wait and see,” she replies carefully, avoiding the New York topic.

  Am I jealous? Absolutely. Of the relationship with likeable Rob I’m not so sure, but of the trip to New York in an airplane, yes. I’m blind with jealousy. I’m boiling over with it to the point where I’m like a teakettle that needs to be taken off the burner before I start to scream bloody murder. But I keep it all inside because Lucy is my friend and I don’t want to sour this for her. She looks so sublimely happy that I can’t i
magine taking any of that joy from her, no matter how much I want to claw at my hair and shout to the rafters that it’s not fair. I console myself with the fact that she won’t go to the Cotton Club. Not a chance. And she won’t see Drew. Not that it matters. Not to her. And it shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. It definitely does.

  Drew is like a song I heard being sung one night on someone else’s radio. One I caught enough of to know I liked it, liked it a lot and wanted more of it. But the street noise blocked it out, cars whizzing by taking the sound with it, and when everything finally settled down again the song was over. I never got to hear the rest of it and I never got the title or the singer. Odds are I’ll never hear it again and the part that I did get is on permanent repeat in my mind. It’s short, sweet, and driving me mad.

  Chapter Nine

  “Stop! Stop!” I shout, waving my hands at the stage.

  The men in the orchestra look at me out of the corner of their eyes, their real focus on the end of the chorus line.

  “Whatsa… whatsa matter now?” Alice slurs, waving from side to side like she’s on a boat.

  “Alice, for the love of—How much have you had to drink today?” I demand.

  She shakes her head loosely, her eyes splashing around in their sockets. It’s unlike her to get sloshed like this. She can usually hold her liquor better than the best of us and I honestly don’t remember seeing her drink that much today. I wonder briefly if she’s on something else. If the headaches that have continued to plague me are still bothering her as well.

  “I have… hardly any.”

  The other girls look at me doubtfully.

  “Well you’re hammered. Too hammered to work tonight, that’s for sure.”

  “You do—ya don’t know me,” she stutters. She’s staring at the floor now and I wonder if she even hears me.

  “You’re done,” I mutter angrily. I turn to the bar where some of the guys are sitting around smoking and drinking. “Hey, Mickey! Can you take Alice home? She’s toast.”

  Mickey frowns as he snubs out his cigarette and slides off his barstool, his long body moving lithe as a cat. “She’s been drinking?”

  “Can’t be that much,” Hal says doubtfully, still on his stool. He glances at the bartender who shrugs. It’s a new guy, but he seems sound. Honest.