Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  “Wait,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Your grandfather, Ricardo Cruz . . . he was a Mexican, right?”

  “Yes?” Mari answered warily.

  “Charles, Violet’s husband. He despised Mexicans. I remember now, Ricky invited Violet and me to a party . . . at a bowling alley or some such place. I told him no, for Violet’s own good. But she went. That was the night she left for Hollywood. I heard through the grapevine she caught a ride with Harry Goodman, a comedian she and Ricky were both friends with at the time.”

  Mari paused, thinking of the postcard in her grandfather’s box of things. Had Abuelo helped Violet escape that night, unbeknownst to Charles?

  Evie’s eyes popped open. “Another thing. In the grocery store, Violet gave me a bag, and she was adamant I give it to Ricky Cruz. I told her I didn’t know the man well enough, and she could give it to him herself, but she insisted.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Clothing. She’d sewn a ladies’ suit for his mother. The woman must’ve been petite, because the skirt and jacket were rather small. And the red fabric . . . so flamboyant! But Mexicans, they favor bright colors.”

  “His mother?” Mari replied, flabbergasted. Abuelo had left the strawberry farm in the Central Valley when he was fourteen, and hadn’t seen his mother since then. He’d told Mari he sent his mother money hidden in a bag of flour for her tamales and tortillas, but what use would she have had for a red suit?

  Evie’s hands fluttered to her stomach, resting there. “Or perhaps it was Vera or Roxy whom she’d sewn the suit separates for. Those were Violet’s Hollywood friends.”

  Mari frowned. “She wanted my grandfather to give a suit-dress to one of her Hollywood friends?”

  Evie looked down at her hands. Then she looked up at Mari with hooded eyes. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m confused. This has all been quite a lot.”

  “Of course,” Mari said. “I hope you can get some rest. Thank you for your time.”

  But as she turned to leave, she paused in the doorway. “Did you give the clothing to my grandfather?”

  “The misses suit? Oh yes. I took the package to the post office. He had a box there. You know, the old post office downtown?”

  Mari’s heart skipped a beat. Had her grandfather kept a PO box that he’d never told anyone in her family about? She brought her hand to her lips, thinking of the brass key in her grandfather’s trunk. There was one way to find out.

  Chapter 21

  Violet Harcourt

  1940

  Morning sun filtered through the white curtains, and I pulled the covers up over my head. Placing my cool fingertips against my cheek, I winced in pain. My body ached, and dark bruises covered my arms and neck like a rash.

  A tear slid down my cheek. How many nights now had I endured beatings from Charles? I had lost count. The telephone jangled, the sound making me flinch. My heart clenched, knowing Evie was calling to check on me. Charles forbade me from answering the telephone or leaving the house, but I had heard him talking to my friend in his charming voice—the picture of a doting husband.

  Listening to his heavy footsteps cross the living room floor, I waited. Charles answered the phone.

  “Yes, hello, Evelyn. Unfortunately, she’s still quite ill. No, please don’t bring any food by the house. It’s a stomach bug. Sure, call again tomorrow. Bye now.”

  I stared at the dark bruises mottling my arms, and the welts on my thighs. Last night, I had turned off my brain to get through what I once would have called lovemaking. This was not that . . . it was terrible.

  Charles sat on my chest and smothered me with a pillow until I saw stars. I thought surely I would die. Fighting against him, I felt my breath trapped in my lungs until they burned. But at the last moment he released me. I’d fallen to the floor, clawing at the carpet as I gulped air.

  Trembling, I sat up in bed, feeling a sharp pinch in my side. Perhaps Charles had broken one of my ribs. Since we’d returned to Santa Cruz, I’d tried my hardest to be the perfect wife. I wanted to love the fight out of him—to love him so much that he wouldn’t hurt me any longer. I only spoke when spoken to. I cooked his favorite meals. But he found fault with everything—meals weren’t served quickly enough; he believed I had been lusting after “that Jew screenwriter.”

  Wrapping my robe around my naked body, I rose from the bed and walked down the hall into the kitchen.

  “There you are,” he said, smiling as though last night hadn’t happened. “What are you cooking for breakfast?”

  I opened the cupboards, which were nearly barren, save for half a bag of sugar and a bag of flour. Opening the refrigerator, I peered inside. We had two eggs, a wilted head of lettuce and a quarter of a bottle of milk.

  “I’ll need to go grocery shopping. We’re low on food.”

  He gave me a patronizing look. “I’ll send one of the maids from the Oceano.”

  I swallowed, my heart sinking. Charles spent all day with me at home, making business calls from our phone. He stayed to “care for me while I recovered from my stomach bug.” I wondered how long the arrangement would last.

  Removing the final two eggs, I turned on the gas stove and cracked them into a pan. My stomach rumbled, but he would want to eat both. My throat tightened, thinking of little Olive, growing bigger. I needed to eat too.

  “I’ll be goddamned!” Charles said, slamming his fist down on the table.

  I jumped, nearly dropping the spatula.

  Cripes, what had I done now?

  Charles stared at the morning paper, his dark brow furrowed. His large hand crumpled the pages. I looked out the kitchen window at the ocean waves, breathing in the scent of autumn. Damp leaves mingled with the sea spray. How many more weeks of abuse could I endure? I braced myself against the sink, too frightened to move.

  Charles leapt up from the table. I cringed in anticipation, but he passed me and went straight to the telephone. The newspaper pages fell to the floor in a flurry. Bending down, I reached to gather them before he could reprimand me for the mess. Seeing the bold headline, my breath caught.

  SEPT 16, 1940

  PEACETIME DRAFT SIGNED; STATE GUARD CALL OCT 15. REGISTRATION IS ORDERED FOR 16, 500,000 U.S. MEN.

  My heart began to pound. The United States would enter the war? My eyes raced across the text. President Roosevelt had signed the Selective Training and Service Act, the first-ever peacetime draft in U.S. history. All men between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five were required to register. If drafted, a man would serve for twelve months.

  A small swell of hope filled me. Charles was twenty-five. He was healthy. And by next month, he would be required to register. I had a window for escape. In spite of knowing the situation was awful, I silently thanked President Roosevelt. Charles’s voice rose as he spoke to someone on the telephone.

  “This is preposterous! How do I get out of it?”

  I returned to cooking the eggs, eavesdropping on his conversation.

  “Well, you’re my lawyer, tell me what I ought to do.”

  I scrambled the eggs with a spatula while my mind wandered to the Tropical Gardens Nightclub, where I’d sold Chesterfields and Montecristos. Had I filmed my bar scene on the Paramount lot a mere few weeks ago? It felt like another lifetime.

  I wondered if Roxy was dining at the Chateau Marmont, Schwab’s Pharmacy or the Brown Derby. Perhaps she was eating a Cobb salad or tanning by the pool. I stared at the iron frying pan, pondering if my name would be in the credits of John Huston’s film. But none of that mattered now. I thought of Vera’s kindness, and how she’d showed me the ropes. Perhaps she’d go on to become an actress. I’d be lucky to still be alive in a year’s time.

  “I don’t give a damn about the Jews!” Charles bellowed from the hallway. Hunching over the pan, I tried to make myself small. I turned off the gas and waited.

  “. . . If I need to pretend to be a goddamned Quaker then I will.”

  I slid the eggs onto a plate, and then I brought
them to the kitchen table. Charles hung up the phone with a thud. Carefully, I set a clean fork and knife on either side of the plate, and then retreated to the sink.

  Charles walked into the kitchen and glared at me. “Why are you standing there slack-jawed, you fat cow?”

  His words felt like a punch to the gut.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, though I had no idea what I was apologizing for. Reaching for the soap and sponge, I began to scrub the pan.

  “You’re an idiot,” Charles muttered. “No one else is ever going to want to be with you. And if you try to leave me again, I’ll find you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Even if Charles returned to the Oceano and left me alone, I felt too frightened to run. He would stop at nothing to find me. I’d left him once, and now he was wise to the fact that I could do it again.

  Taking a bite of egg, Charles made a face, and then spat it out. “These are cold.”

  “No, they can’t be. I’ve only just served them.”

  He stood up, his eyes glassy with rage. “Are you telling me I’m wrong?”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  But he backhanded me across the jaw and then knocked the plate of eggs onto the floor. I shielded my face from a second blow, my cheek smarting.

  “You eat them,” he said.

  “Off the floor? Charles, please.”

  But he stood over me, waiting. My stomach rumbled. With tears trickling down my cheeks, I picked up the bits of scrambled egg and put them in my mouth.

  “Don’t use your hands.”

  Never had I felt so debased, eating food off the floor like a dog. That’s how he saw me—as nothing more than a worthless mutt.

  The days went by in a blur. More than once I heard knocking on the door, and saw Evie’s face peeking through the window. I hid in the kitchen, knowing I would be dead if I opened it. I thought about taking my own life, to put myself out of my misery. But playing jazz tunes on the piano and thinking of little Olive growing inside me kept the dark thoughts at bay.

  Charles returned to the Oceano, but there were men parked outside my home, watching me. An employee I didn’t recognize stepped out of a black car and dropped a bag on the porch. Too frightened to open the door, I allowed the groceries to sit there all day in the sun. Charles hit me for my mistake. Oftentimes I feared he suspected I might be pregnant. But he said nothing of it. Soon I would begin to show. My window for escape grew smaller and smaller. Every day I prayed he would be forced to enlist.

  The next morning, Charles seemed in a jovial mood. He smiled at me.

  “We’re joining a new church. A Quaker church.”

  “But we’re Catholic,” I said, thinking of our large wedding at St. Peter’s.

  His eyes narrowed. “Not anymore. You tell anyone who asks that we’re Quakers and we always have been. I’m donating a large sum of money to the American Friends Service Committee. It’s a U.S.-based Quaker aid society.”

  “That’s very generous,” I replied, confounded by this new behavior. Perhaps the guilt he felt about how he’d been treating me had driven him to a new faith?

  He laughed. “Yes, I am generous. I’m selling the Oceano and moving my assets to an account in Switzerland. To the outside world, I am now a penniless pacifist.”

  Sell the Oceano? I knew I ought to keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t. “Why?”

  He grinned like a cat that’d caught a canary. “My lawyer advised me to. As a Quaker, my religious beliefs are opposed to any kind of war. I shan’t be forced to enlist. And I won’t serve.”

  Was that possible? Surely anyone would see through this charade. But Charles was a man of wealth and power. His lawyer wouldn’t have trouble convincing U.S. Army officials that he needed to remain on American soil. My heart sank.

  “You thought I would leave you?” he asked, a frightening lilt to his voice.

  “No,” I whispered. “I know you’ll never leave me.”

  “Good,” he replied. “Because you’re mine until death do us part.”

  After he left the house, I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Once again, he’d hinted that he intended to kill me. I had to act now. If I went to Evie, or to Mother, what could they do? Charles would find me there—he would harm them.

  I thought of Ricky Cruz, and of the words he’d said the night I departed for Hollywood. I won’t ask you what’s happening at home. If you’re in trouble, I can help.

  Charles hadn’t suspected Ricky when he helped me the first time. He wouldn’t look to Ricky if I asked him for help again. And then I had the most outrageous idea. It was likely to fail in every way, but what did I have to lose?

  Running to the sitting room, I uncovered my sewing machine. In the closet, I had bolts of unused fabric. My fingers trailed along the cloth, then settled on bright red rayon. Pulling the yardage from the shelf, I looked around for my scissors. Ricardo Cruz was my only hope if I wanted to stay alive.

  Chapter 22

  Marisol Cruz

  2007

  Mari walked down Front Street, past the homeless sleeping on the sidewalk, toward the marble and limestone landmark, the Santa Cruz post office. At nearly one hundred years old, it was the oldest continually operating state post office on the National Register of Historic Places.

  Clutching the brass key in her palm, Mari could feel her heart beat faster. After speaking with Evie at the nursing home, she’d returned to Abuelo’s trunk, finding the small key etched with the number 777. If it opened a PO box here, what would she find inside?

  Stepping through the doorway, Mari admired the 1912 Renaissance Revival building, which had been modeled after a fifteenth-century foundling hospital in Florence, Italy. Her eyes took in one of the colorful murals by the American artist Henrietta Shore. The lunette depicted farmers harvesting artichokes, which made her think of Abuelo, and his childhood picking strawberries.

  There were four murals in total, which had been commissioned in 1935 by the federal government’s Treasury Relief Art Project. President Franklin D. Roosevelt putting artists to work with the New Deal was the best thing to come out of the Great Depression. Henrietta Shore had painted the laborers with dignity, a quality the working class weren’t always given.

  Maybe the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History would want to do something to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the post office? They could dedicate a plaque. Mari could already envision postal officials and local historians at the celebration . . . a celebration she organized.

  She was getting ahead of herself. But in the past few weeks, she’d begun to feel different. Maybe it was confidence, “getting her groove back,” but today Mari felt like she could be working for the Santa Cruz museum in five years’ time. Why not? She’d won the Swanson Grant, after all.

  “Hi,” she said, approaching the clerk behind the desk. “I have a key which I believe belongs to a box here, registered to my grandfather. Do you have any post office boxes that have been in operation since 1940?”

  The clerk nodded. “We do, indeed. Turn down the hall and take a left. You’ll find our boxes in that room.”

  Mari did as she was instructed. When she stepped inside the room, thousands of antique PO boxes lined the walls. They were so beautiful, made of brass and marked with black numbers. She walked along the wall, searching for number 777.

  She bent down, finding the small square box toward the bottom of the rows in the back corner. Her palm had become sweaty with the key clutched in it. She stuck it into the lock and twisted, letting out her breath. It was a perfect fit.

  Swinging the door open, Mari peered inside. At first the box looked empty, but then something small and silver caught her eye. Another key? Mari removed it, staring in bewilderment at the small metal object. Her phone jangled with a notification.

  Crap! She had ten minutes to walk to the Jupiter Café for her shift, and then she had to call back the dentist to confirm Lily’s appointment, not to mention the ten million loads of laundry that needed to be done. As
much as she wanted to find out what this key belonged to, her search would have to wait. Mari slipped it into her pocket, shut the door to the box and locked it. What secrets had Abuelo been hiding?

  TRANSFERRING THE LAST load of laundry to the dryer, Mari listened as Lily giggled, watching an episode of Maya & Miguel. She tried not to let her daughter watch too much TV, but the show was funny and charming, plus it taught Lily Spanish words.

  Swallowing, she felt a heavy knot in her stomach. The city planning commission meeting was tomorrow night, and she’d rounded up neighbors who’d promised to attend. But that didn’t mean she was ready to face Travis. Sometimes her rage toward him rose fast and furious as a tsunami. What if she hadn’t been joking with her mom and she really punched him in the face? No one would take her seriously then, and she could kiss her grant goodbye.

  Paulina walked into the laundry room, scooping up a basket of Lily’s clothes, warm from the dryer.

  “I’ll help you fold these.”

  “Oh Ma, you don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” She smiled. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Mari said. “Te amo.”

  “I love you too,” Paulina said, picking up the plastic basket and carrying it into the living room. Mari sat down on the soft couch, lifting one of Lily’s T-shirts. Lily giggled in front of the television, completely engrossed in her cartoon show. Dropping her voice to a whisper, Mari turned to Paulina.

  “Ma, I found a key that belongs to a PO box downtown. It was in Abuelo’s trunk. I know this sounds crazy, but I think he had a connection to Violet Harcourt, a beauty queen from 1940. She was Mayor Harcourt’s father’s first wife.”

  Paulina’s eyes widened. “Que?”

  “I found a picture of Abuelo with Violet. She worked as a waitress at the boardwalk. I think they were friends. I also found a postcard she may have written to him. I think she may have been in an abusive relationship, and I’m pretty sure he helped her escape to Hollywood. But when she returned, she committed suicide.”