Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  The noise of the factory drowned out my thoughts. I pushed the sadness back into a corner of my heart and locked it away, focusing on the task in front of me, drilling. In two hours’ time I would see my precious Olive. And she would run to me with her chubby arms outstretched, and I would know in my heart that I had made the right choice.

  When the whistle sounded again, signaling an end to our workday, I wiped the sweat from my brow and removed my gloves. My muscles ached as I walked with Agnes and Emmy Lou toward the bus stop. Jiminy Cricket, I was dog-tired. Drilling from dawn until dusk with only a short lunch break had taken its toll on me.

  “I’m spent,” I said, clutching my purse. “I hope there’s hot water tonight. Last week the shower was on the fritz.”

  “Remember how you used to moan about the humidity?” Agnes said, nudging me in the ribs.

  “Well, Oregon sounds cool and lovely,” Emmy Lou interjected. “You can’t blame the gal. What’s your hometown again, doll?”

  “Eugene,” I replied, a lie I had repeated so many times, it had become my truth. “The Emerald City. I miss its lush green grass and trees.”

  “Then you’re not a Hoosier,” Agnes said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Because she misses her hometown? Agnes, not everyone can be an Indiana native like you. We’re all Hoosiers. We take pride in where we live and what we do.”

  The factory chimneys billowed smoke into the rust-colored sky, and the sticky air smelled like tar. My heart ached for the rush of the ocean and the tingle of cool sea spray against my face. Would Santa Cruz fade from my memory, like a place I’d once seen in a dream? Even if I never returned, it would live in my heart forever.

  Paying our toll, we boarded the bus. Emmy Lou and Agnes chatted as we passed rows of wood frame houses with covered porches. I remembered my first time riding this bus route to our boardinghouse. Emmy Lou had told me about the different neighborhoods. “This here’s the East Side,” she’d said. “It’s a nice place. You’ve got the West Side and south of the train tracks is South Side, near Ninth Avenue. There you’ve got your Negroes and your immigrants, lots from Poland and Russia.”

  I’d become accustomed to the bustle of downtown Gary, a small strip with the Palace Theater, a few churches and the grocery store, where Negro women in smart hats chatted and did their shopping. I enjoyed the mix of people, who were different from the familiar faces I’d known all my life in Santa Cruz.

  The bus stopped on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Arthur Street, and we stepped out, walking toward the tall brick boardinghouse. Its lobby smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, but it was clean. Other female factory workers who lived here had children as well, and Olive loved to run up and down the hallway with her playmates, shrieking with delight.

  Though it would be nice to have a place of our own, at twenty dollars a month, our single room at the boardinghouse was what I could afford.

  Emmy Lou checked her mailbox, then came away teary-eyed, finding it empty. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? Not knowing when our boys will come home?” Her blue eyes met mine. I touched her arm, wishing I could take away her pain. She’d shown me a photograph of a handsome man in uniform, her beau, George, who’d been sent to Europe to fight. She sniffled. “I pray to God every night to keep him safe.”

  My stomach turned, thinking of Charles. He had remarried, a socialite named Grace Vanderkamp, and I’d felt sad instead of relieved. I’d seen their wedding announcement in a California paper, which I’d purchased for twenty cents from the newsstand downtown. A firm isolationist, he had managed to dodge the draft, still hiding behind his false Quaker pacifist status. My friends in the factory were braver than he was.

  When the girls had gone, I unlocked the door to my room on the second floor. At least my tired legs didn’t have to climb more than one set of stairs.

  “Mama!” Olive bounded toward me, her dark curls bouncing and her chubby arms outstretched. My heart filled with love. I knelt down and opened my arms, pulling her into a tight hug.

  “My darling! How I’ve missed you.”

  I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of soap. Klara stood, gathering the wooden-colored blocks they had been playing with.

  “She was good girl today. Ate her cabbage soup.”

  “Good girl,” Olive repeated. “I eats it all.”

  “Of course you did,” I said, hugging her close. My sweet, spirited little girl—I longed to give her the world. In our cramped and narrow room, we shared a bed. I’d brightened the brick walls by taping Olive’s drawings up, and I kept a vase of sunflowers by the window. I’d purchased yellow fabric with a daisy print and sewn curtains to replace the dirty beige ones that smelled of stale smoke.

  I thought of my former wardrobe: designer heels, red silk and green velvet dresses, mink coats and stylish hats. My vanity with its oval mirror held drawers of pearl necklaces, gold bracelets and ruby rings. Charles could have given Olive anything she desired, and I had deprived her of that. But what I lacked in wealth, I made up for in love. My daughter would know I loved her fiercely.

  I cracked open the window to let in some air, despite the oppressive humidity. Cars honked on the street below, and the bus hissed as its doors opened.

  “Good night, Klara,” I said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Klara waved at Olive. “Bye-bye, honey.”

  “Come here,” I said, patting the bedcovers next to me after Klara had shut the door. Olive hopped up and giggled as I tickled her.

  “Did you have fun today?”

  “Uh-huh. When we go lake, Mama?”

  “Soon.”

  The blue ache of nostalgia colored my thoughts when I remembered the sounds and smells of the Beach Boardwalk. How Olive would delight in dipping her toes in the Pacific Ocean, in riding the bumper cars, in touching the horses on the Looff Carousel. I’d taken Olive to the shores of Lake Michigan last weekend, but they weren’t the same, though beautiful in their own way.

  “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “To the moon,” she said, opening her arms wide.

  “That’s right,” I said, kissing her forehead. And as I sat there with my daughter cuddled in my arms, the city sounds faded away, along with the ache in my muscles. This moment was enough. This was perfect.

  THE AIR-CONDITIONING ALONE was worth the price of admission. The scent of buttery popcorn filled the theater lobby, and to be in the darkness for a few hours, my thoughts pulled far away from the war, was definitely a welcome escape. With Klara babysitting, my friends had managed to drag me out.

  Emmy Lou turned to me. “Vera, why don’t you sit down? Get us a group of seats together and we’ll be back with the popcorn and soda pop.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, go on. Today’s half price because the film is not a new release. Look how full the theater is!”

  “All right,” I said, realizing I hadn’t even asked what film we were seeing.

  I made my way down the aisle, my eyes trying to focus in the darkness, the rows of seats already mostly full. Under the flickering film reel, faces stared at the screen. Cripes. What were my chances of finding three seats together?

  My eyes came to rest on a sandy-haired man who sat alone toward the end of the aisle. He had an empty seat to his right, and two empty seats on his left. He hadn’t slung his coat over the back of the chair next to him to claim it, like many moviegoers had. I took a deep breath and strode over.

  “Excuse me,” I said softly. “Is this seat next to you taken?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, his blue eyes shining. He had quite a pleasant face, handsome, really—and I was grateful he couldn’t see the color of my cheeks in the darkened theater. I hadn’t thought about anyone that way in years.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but would you mind moving over one? You see, I’m with two girlfriends, and we’d like to sit together.”

  “No trouble at all,” he said, p
icking up his hat and coat.

  “Thank you,” I said, setting my purse and cardigan down on the seats next to me, to save them for Agnes and Emmy Lou.

  I settled next to him, aware of the squeak in the seat and the weight of my body. In the darkness, it felt strangely intimate to be in such close proximity to a man. I could smell the crisp scents of his cologne and his hair pomade. Both were sweet, and slightly spicy. I liked the smell, very different from Charles.

  “Are you sure I can take all three?” I asked. “You’re not waiting for anyone?”

  He shook his head, an embarrassed look on his face. “No, no, I’m alone.”

  “Oh,” I said, regretting that I had asked a foolish question. I hadn’t meant to make the poor fellow feel bad.

  He chuckled. “You must think I’m odd, going to the pictures alone. As one of the few young men in the theater, I already feel odd enough. Trust me, my mind is as much with our brothers at war as yours. But why not see a picture show? We all need a little escape sometimes, don’t we?”

  Whether it was the darkness concealing our faces or the earnestness in his voice that prompted me to ask such a bold question, I couldn’t say. But I felt like I knew him, and that I could speak to him as a friend. “Why aren’t you at war?”

  He shrugged. “Flat feet. It’s a damn shame, because I would be honored to serve my country. I teach music at West Side High School.”

  “Music?” I leaned in closer. “What instrument do you play?”

  “Piano. I teach classical, but I love jazz.”

  “Really? Who’s your favorite musician?”

  “Duke Ellington.”

  “You don’t say. He’s my favorite musician too.”

  It had been so long since my fingers had touched piano keys or my voice had warbled in song. To think I had won the Miss California bathing beauty pageant, that I had moved to Hollywood and been featured as an extra in a film. I felt much older than my twenty-three years. Motherhood and working in the factory had aged me.

  He smiled. “I like the tone of your voice. Are you a singer? You remind me of that jazz tune ‘Summertime.’ Do you know it?”

  It was the song I’d sung at the Miss California pageant.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a lovely tune.”

  “Sorry. I haven’t even asked your name.”

  “It’s Vera,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m a factory girl. I work at the steel plant, installing rivets for the aircraft going to war.”

  His warm hand enveloped mine, sending shivers through me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Agnes and Emmy Lou making their way down the aisle with the soda and the popcorn, looking for me. But I didn’t want them to arrive just yet. Because that would mean my conversation with this man would end. And I didn’t want it to.

  His eyes met mine, twinkling in the darkness.

  “I’m Eugene,” he said, his smile kind. “That’s swell. You gals are amazing. And it’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I answered, my heart skipping a beat.

  The music started and the curtain rose. Emmy Lou and Agnes pushed past me, settling to my right. Noticing that I had been speaking with Eugene, Agnes nudged Emmy Lou in the ribs. They both giggled. My cheeks burned.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “These are my friends Agnes and Emmy Lou. This is Eugene. He was kind enough to give us these three seats.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” Emmy Lou said, her eyes brimming with mischief. She’d tried to set me up several times over the course of the years we’d known each other, but I’d turned down her offers to attend dances and potlucks.

  The screen crackled and the music cranked louder, drowning out their giggles. I ate a handful of buttered popcorn, enjoying the opportunity to sit in silence. But when the title flashed across the screen I gasped, nearly knocking over the paper popcorn bag and our sodas.

  “What’sa matter?” Agnes hissed, leaning over.

  “Nothing,” I whispered. “I thought I saw a rat.”

  “Did you?” Emmy Lou asked, picking up the hem of her skirt, her eyes widening as they darted to the floor.

  “No. I imagined it.”

  As the girls settled down, I stared at the screen as if it were a portal to another time. This was the John Huston film I had auditioned for, where I’d shared a scene with Humphrey Bogart. I’d never seen it.

  Agnes and Emmy Lou whispered throughout the film, giggling and swooning at the handsomeness of the male actors, and gasping when they wondered if Humphrey Bogart’s character was in fact a killer.

  I was aware of Eugene’s hand resting only inches from mine. It was as if I could feel the warmth of his skin, soothing me. Even without touching, I felt his presence. I held my breath, waiting for the bar scene, to see if I would see myself on-screen, an auburn-haired beauty in a red dress.

  Then I appeared in black-and-white, my waves sultry, obscuring my face. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I watched myself staring into the gin glass and remembered everything—Roxy, Tommy, Benny Bronstein, the Tropicana, the Beverly Hills Hotel and Bungalows, the lavish party at Ernst Lubitsch’s mansion.

  “She’s beautiful,” Eugene whispered in the darkness. “But not as pretty as you.”

  I turned toward him. “What?”

  “Forgive me if I’m being too forward,” Eugene said, leaning in close to me. “But I would love to take you out sometime. Would you let me take you out?”

  The scene changed, and my former self vanished as if she’d been nothing more than a mirage. If Emmy Lou and Agnes had recognized me, they hadn’t reacted. They sat with their heads together, whispering and munching on popcorn.

  “Yes,” I said, a sense of calm coming over me. “I would like that.”

  “Wonderful,” Eugene said, smiling.

  Eugene.

  I liked the sound of his name. It sounded like the ocean waves. Like home.

  Chapter 30

  Violet Harcourt

  2007

  Sun poured through the large, arched window in the family room, warming my aching bones. I practiced tai chi in the park every Sunday with my elderly friends, but I could feel myself slowing down. At eighty-seven, I figured death could come for me at any moment. But I didn’t fear it. I had lived a wonderful life.

  “Gene,” I called, watching my husband as he sat in the kitchen. “Stop feeding that dog table scraps. He’s getting fat.”

  My husband ignored me, handing our dachshund another piece of bacon. Kielbasa lapped it up gratefully, wagging his tail. I smiled, realizing my dear doggie boy was getting gray around his muzzle, also entering his final years.

  “You spoil him,” I said loudly.

  “As he should be,” Gene called back, sipping his coffee.

  I looked at the back of his head, dotted with liver spots and completely bald except for a ring of wispy white hair. This year marked our sixty-third wedding anniversary—I loved the man more and more each year.

  After I quit working in the steel factory in Gary, we’d lived in an old brownstone in Chicago’s Wicker Park. Division Street was known then as “Polish Broadway,” there were so many Polish immigrants, and Eugene had felt right at home. His loud and large family had embraced me, his new wife, with open arms. And I’d finally begun to shed my ghosts. Vera Stanek’s identity fit me like a second skin.

  Taking jobs in Chicago had been good for us both. Eugene taught music classes at the local high school while I taught private voice lessons in our home. In the evenings, we’d danced to records in our living room, our hearts pressed together. For every painful memory I wanted to erase, Eugene planted a new one like a seed waiting to bloom.

  Do you remember when you burned the curtains because you insisted on lighting all fifty candles on my birthday cake? Do you remember when we made love on a blanket under the stars? Do you remember when I kissed you in the rain?

  My husband was a treasure. Kielbasa was the sixth dog we’d owned, from a long line of dachshunds. Our brick Dutch
Colonial in the suburbs of Illinois had been filled with children’s laughter, the tearing of wrapping paper at Christmastime. First there was Olive, and then Edward, our son. Gene agreed to adopt Olive as his own, and we changed her last name to Stanek.

  As she grew older, she began to look more like Charles, her hair a rich chestnut color whereas Edward’s was strawberry blond. When she was old enough, I told Olive the same lie I had told Gene—her father had died at war. In truth, Charles was very much alive, and for many years I looked over my shoulder wherever I went.

  “Such a nervous girl!” Gene’s mother would lament, clucking in her thick Polish accent. “Nerves not good for health.”

  I looked at our wood-burning fireplace and smiled, remembering the Christmas stockings that hung there. Our first dachshund, Dottie, had eaten some tinsel off the tree when Olive was five and Edward was two. I’d burned the cookies that morning, and spent the whole time fretting whether the damn dog would be all right.

  A knock sounded at the door, startling me.

  “Gene,” I called out. “Are we expecting visitors?”

  He shuffled his newspaper. “What?”

  “Heavens,” I muttered, walking toward the door.

  No matter how many times I nagged him, Gene didn’t like to wear his hearing aids. I’d urged him to get the implant, but unlike me, Gene felt wary of new technology. I prided myself on my understanding of the computer—my grandchildren had explained the Internet to me. What a marvel it was! I had my own Facebook page and followed my grandkids on their adventures. Of course, they were young adults now, older than I was when I married. But times were different.

  “Who is it?” I asked, my hand resting on the brass knob. My front door had a window carved into the oak, but I’d shrunk in my old age and couldn’t make out the face of the person on the other side, only a shock of thick, brown hair.

  “It’s me, Grandma.”