Lucy’s brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed as she cocked her head. “No.”
Betty Ann nodded.
“No. Not with a white officer.”
At one time Betty Ann would’ve confided in Lucy with guilty pleasure. Now all she felt was a burn beneath her breastbone.
“You haven’t told anybody.”
“Of course not,” Betty Ann said.
“So what about Mrs. H.?”
Betty Ann recounted the Grayson House scene with the general and his wife. She left out the smooching but included the bare feet. Again, she knew her friend would get the picture.
“You still seeing him?” Lucy asked.
Betty Ann shrugged and shook her head.
Lucy leaned back. “Girl, you sure take the cake. I always thought you just liked to flirt.”
“I swear this is the only time that it’s gotten this far.”
“Um hmm.” Lucy’s eyes narrowed. She must be thinking about the threat of leaving her own husband alone with her friend. Betty Ann would have to be extra careful with him from now on. No more casual touches or flirty remarks. This friendship now meant more than those fleeting satisfactions.
“He must be awfully special,” Lucy said.
Betty Ann bowed her head.
“You ever throw him in Ray’s face?”
Betty Ann pursed her lips. Her dimples appeared, but there was no mirth in her look. She shook her head. “Never.”
“Better not. He’s a good man.”
“This whole thing might land on him anyway. What if Mrs. H. recognizes me and winds up sending him to Iceland or something?”
Her husband could be exiled with a mere flick of a pen without the commander’s involvement. The husbands wouldn’t know the significance of the orders, but the wives would.
“Wait a minute. Now you’re dragging me and Sonny into it,” Lucy said. Betty Ann hadn’t thought about that. Lucy snatched a nonpareil cookie from the plate and popped it into her mouth.
The coffee table picture was no longer perfect, but Betty Ann couldn’t chide the friend she had just imperiled. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” She looked at her watch. “You still have time to make a getaway.”
Lucy glanced around the studio as if she were taking stock of the worth of everything in it. Her gaze paused on each of the girls at work at their stations and lingered on her own portfolio on the table. At last she turned to Betty Ann and took the ring. She rubbed its onyx face and peered into its inner circle. She paused without expression before shaking her head and letting out a bemused hum.
“Ah hell. With everything going on, both our men could be sent to Timbuktu or worse, with or without Mrs. H.” Lucy flipped the ring back to Betty Ann, who automatically put it on her finger. “Besides, we can’t let the old biddy act up in your shop.”
“No, ma’am.” Betty Ann smiled for the first time in their conversation.
“Every good fighter needs a wingman. Guess I’m it.” Lucy tossed the Ebony on top of the carefully positioned mainstream magazines. “Battle stations,” she said as she got up. She crossed the studio and sat on the stool nearest to her portfolio. Betty Ann left the Ebony on top of the other magazines but couldn’t resist turning it so it fell in line with the fanned display.
She moved to a vantage point near the door and listened as Lucy chatted with the girls about a coat sale. The light in the stairwell wasn’t on, and now that the afternoon shadows had moved across the entrance, the stairs were dark. Betty Ann opened the door and flicked on the lights and let the door fall back into place. A man in an Air Force uniform grabbed the handle of the glass door downstairs and pulled. A flash of mushroom gray skirt swept past him.
Betty Ann briefly touched the black eagle to her lips, then said, “It’s show time.” Terry and Mimi stood and smoothed their skirts with identical motions. Lucy leaned on the cutting table and raised her eyebrows. Betty Ann smiled, making sure her upper teeth rested just so on her bottom lip, and opened the door.
Mrs. Hepplewhite led her group up the stairs. The full skirt of her greige dress floated over what must have been several layers of crinoline petticoats. It was too elaborate for an afternoon visit to a Negro dressmaker’s shop. After the tall, auburn-haired general’s wife came Sonia K., her arm and cast cradled in a deep purple scarf that complemented her lavender blouse. She carried a carpetbag, which had a bolt of blue cloth sticking out. The soldier, who must have been Mrs. H.’s driver, trailed them and stopped at the top of the stairs. After the women entered, the driver executed a smart about-face and descended the stairs. Betty Ann let the glass door swing to a close.
Sonia introduced Betty Ann as they stood just inside the door. Mrs. Hepplewhite smiled with a slight squint. “Have we met before?”
“No, ma’am,” Betty Ann said. The true answer itched in her throat. She ushered her guests into the lounge area, where she made introductions to Lucy and her assistants and served coffee. Mimi and Terry returned to their workstations while the older women chatted for several minutes.
Being close to the action, their talk naturally lit on the day’s editorials about Berlin and Castro. Betty Ann asked whether the United States would invade Cuba. Mrs. Hepplewhite replied, “The general thinks we might have to, but he doesn’t want to dog fight the Russians. We’d lose too many boys, and for what?”
Lucy turned to Betty Ann. “With this invasion talk, you must be glad your son’s still in the Pacific.”
“You have a boy in uniform also?” Mrs. Hepplewhite asked.
Betty Ann nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Lonnie’s in the Navy. On the Princeton.”
“Why Betty Ann, you don’t look old enough to have a son in the Navy,” Mrs. Hepplewhite said.
Betty Ann laughed, but it was true. She’d had him when she was a baby herself, when Ray was her ticket out of town, long before a career as a military wife clashed with her aspirations as a businesswoman and owner of a dress studio.
“Our oldest is in the Pacific also.” Mrs. Hepplewhite set her coffee cup on its saucer. “At least I think so. Marines. They get moved around. A lot. Of course, I would be much happier if he were behind a desk somewhere, but you know how it is.” She looked from Lucy to Betty Ann. They both nodded. “And of course the general wouldn’t dream of pulling strings for him.”
Betty Ann doubted that, but as she watched her guest’s pale hands caress each other, she felt the mother memory of the time when your boy fit into the safety of the curve of your arms. Even rank and privilege couldn’t keep your boy as safe as he had been then, and for a moment Mrs. H. was just another mother hoping that her love was enough to bring that boy home again.
Eventually the talk turned to Mrs. Hepplewhite’s style. “I’m moving her into slender two pieces,” Sonia said. “But she just loves her petticoats.”
“I do.” Mrs. Hepplewhite smiled and patted the fluff of her skirt.
Betty Ann leaned over to examine the fabric. “Such an elegant dress for your visit here.”
“I’m meeting the general at a reception in the District immediately after this. Otherwise . . .” She surveyed the room but didn’t continue.
Betty Ann sat up straight. Her hands tightened in her lap. That look, just on the polite side of a sneer, reminded her of the only other white lady who had come to her studio. When the major’s wife had realized who had sat on the couch before her, she leapt off of it as if it were covered with the smallpox blankets the Army had given the Indians on the frontier. The association proved to be too much for Betty Ann. “You and Mrs. Kennedy. First her wedding dress, made by a Negro dressmaker who sews for the society ladies up in New York, and now your White House dress.”
“You do flatter me with your comparison to the First Lady.” Mrs. H.’s stretched smile did not reach her eyes.
Of course, you do have Miss Sonia.” Sonia’s murky background was clearer to some than to others, but Betty Ann woke from her momentary lapse and scolded herself for skating so near the color li
ne before the commission was hers. Lucy looked away, intent on the hi-fi as the first record finished and the second one dropped.
“Let’s look at the design, shall we?” Sonia stood, and the moment passed. “We don’t want Mrs. H. to be late for her reception.” The group moved to the worktable so Sonia could lay out her designs and unfold the icy blue silk she had brought. Lucy sketched as the women discussed lines and darts, buttons and necklines.
Sonia pulled out a listing of Mrs. Hepplewhite’s measurements, but Betty Ann asked if she could take her own. The general’s wife looked at Sonia, who nodded her encouragement. One woman’s thirty-eight-inch bust curved differently than another’s, and if Betty Ann were going to cut this outfit perfectly, she would need her own sense of the body to be fitted. She directed her guest to the triple-mirrored changing booth. Betty Ann draped her measuring tape around her neck and waited outside the booth.
Sonia skirted the table to look at Lucy’s sketch. “That’s very good.”
“It’s not finished,” Lucy said. She lay down her shading pencil and picked up a beige stick.
“I can tell from what you already have. You’ve obviously had good training.”
“That oil is hers, also,” Betty Ann called from her post outside of the changing booth. She pointed across the room.
Sonia went to examine the painting more closely, then turned to Lucy. “Did you work from a photograph?”
“No. Miss Betty Ann told me what she wanted and I imagined the rest.”
“That’s great. I have an idea for a show but can’t do a thing while this monster is on my arm.” She tapped the cast. “Maybe you could help me out?”
“What did you have in mind?” Lucy asked as Sonia sat beside her. Betty Ann beamed. This was the kind of connection she was hoping for when she invited Lucy. Now if she could just banish the shadows of Martin and the Grayson House, the appointment would be perfect.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Hepplewhite said.
Sonia looked up from the sketch pad. “Mrs. H., do you want me too?” she asked in a raised voice.
“Beg pardon?” Mrs. Hepplewhite peeped out as Sonia stood. “Oh, no, sugar. I’m fine here with Miss Betty Ann.”
Sonia sat again and Betty Ann stepped up into the booth. She gave the curtain a firm tug to close it completely. Not a sliver of daylight was to be seen. Of course only women occupied the studio, but each client deserved her privacy. Mrs. Hepplewhite’s rosewater eau de toilette infused the booth with the light scent of an English tea garden. Her dress hung on a satin padded hanger on a hook above a stool. She faced the mirrors in her bra, girdle, and stocking feet in the middle of the platform. Her pale skin glowed against the plain maroon velvet that lined the inside of the curtain. Her lacy petticoat mounded like snow in the multiple reflections of the triple mirrors.
Betty Ann dropped her clipboard on the small stool in the corner and stepped in front of her client. She flipped her tape from around her neck and snapped it taut. “We’ll start with your bust.”
Mrs. Hepplewhite raised her arms. Her gaze became more intent as she watched dark hands wield the tape measure. She then whipped her head up and stared into the mirror over Betty Ann’s shoulder. Her whole body stiffened. Some white women didn’t like to be touched by blacks, but Betty Ann had assumed that Mrs. Hepplewhite’s Southern upbringing had included Negro maids. Her client’s reaction puzzled her, but she had a job to do. She slipped the tape under Mrs. Hepplewhite’s arms and around her back. With a deft touch, she quickly completed the circles around the bust, chest, waist, and hips. She made notes on her clipboard, then dropped it on the floor and knelt to measure skirt lengths.
She searched for a topic to distract Mrs. Hepplewhite and to soften her stiffness. “What type of shoes are you thinking of wearing?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?” Mrs. Hepplewhite’s words were crisp and distinct, but she spoke too softly to be heard by the others.
Betty Ann felt a brief relief that the other woman’s problem wasn’t her touch, but as her situation became clear, the warmth in her limbs rushed to her center. A burst of angry self-survival rushed her blood out again. She wanted to rise and stare her tormentor in the face, but that would have aborted the commission. She could not afford to be impetuous. Not again. She swiveled on her knees and confronted the other woman’s multiple mirror images. A few strands escaped from Mrs. Hepplewhite’s otherwise perfectly smooth bun. Betty Ann appeared darker than usual against the frost of the petticoat behind her.
“Ma’am?”
“Captain Bledsoe. The Grayson House,” Mrs. Hepplewhite said.
Maybe Betty Ann could bluff. She’d been in worse fixes. She cupped her chin and shook her head with a polite smile, as if a stranger had just stopped her on the street. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The curtains.” Mrs. Hepplewhite pointed into the mirror at the curtains behind her. “Maroon with silver fringe. Did you sew them yourself?” She stooped over and pointed the same slender finger at Betty Ann’s hand. “Maybe there was a sale on maroon velvet, but that’s his ring. From Germany. I admired it that day. He let me try it on.”
Oh, Jesus. She had worn it so often, and when Lucy had flipped it to her, she automatically slipped it on her finger, and it felt natural there. She’d forgotten all about it. She covered the ring with her other hand and sank back onto her heels. “So you don’t want me working on your dress.”
“Oh please. I’m not going to let some officer’s indiscretion ruin my chance to wear a dress that Jackie Kennedy herself will envy.” Mrs. Hepplewhite picked up her petticoat and gave it to Betty Ann, who, after a moment’s hesitation, got up onto her knees and stretched open its waist.
“You two okay in there?” Both women flinched, as Sonia sounded close enough to be just on the other side of the curtain.
“Right as rain.” Mrs. Hepplewhite’s voice was clear and bright. She steadied herself with a light hand on Betty Ann’s shoulder while she stepped into and pulled up the petticoat. Betty Ann rose and retrieved the gray dress and helped Mrs. Hepplewhite slip its smooth fabric over her head and down into place. Mrs. Hepplewhite watched herself in the mirror as she brushed her hand over her dress. Betty Ann looked down at her clipboard on the floor; picking it up now would be too much of a reminder of their earlier encounter.
“Here’s my card,” Sonia said from the other side of the studio.
Mrs. Hepplewhite nailed Betty Ann with a look and stabbed a finger at her. “Sonia says you’re the best,” she said with the hiss of a whisper. “That’s what I deserve. The best. That’s what you’re going to give me. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Betty Ann put on her beauty pageant smile and left the booth to join the other women at the table.
When Mrs. Hepplewhite emerged from the booth, she had her gloves in hand and her purse over her arm. Sonia quickly gathered her notes and pens and dumped them into her carpetbag. Mrs. Hepplewhite shook hands with Mimi and Terry and exclaimed over the sketch. Lucy rolled it up and handed it to Sonia, who nestled it in her bag. After a final round of pleasantries, Betty Ann escorted her guests to the door and opened it.
Mrs. Hepplewhite waved Sonia into the stairwell but paused before entering it herself. Her driver waited outside with his back to them, but at the sound of Sonia’s low heels clattering down the stairs, he turned and opened the door.
Mrs. Hepplewhite offered Betty Ann a gloved hand. “Get rid of the ring,” she said with a smile, her lips barely moving. “I’m not the only one who knows where it came from.” She swept through the door and down the stairs. Betty Ann watched until Mrs. H.’s skirt floated from sight. Only then did she return to the others clumped around her work table.
“That went well,” Lucy said. An upswing at the end of her sentence asked for confirmation.
Betty Ann’s body felt heavy and uncomfortable as she lit on the familiar perch of her work chair. “She knows.”
“Knows
what?” Terry asked.
“You girls pick up the lounge,” Betty Ann replied.
“Yes, ma’am.” Terry threw a look at Mimi but held her tongue. They moved off to their chores.
“She say something?” Lucy asked.
Betty Ann nodded. A real conversation would have to wait. Until then Betty Ann was alone with her troubles. She dropped the ring into her pocket and rubbed her bare finger over the icy blue silk that Sonia had left. She picked up her notes from the meeting. They had work to do.
Chita
The Discretion of the Monteros 4
ROSITA AND I lounged on our striped beach blankets in the shade of the palm trees. It was past the heat of the day but before the clouds on the horizon grew large enough to cover the sun and deliver the daily showers. Rosita was boring me with the details of the quinceañera she was planning for her daughter.
Although the sun didn’t beat down with the strength of summer, it still was fierce on skin, fair and dark. All the Cubans hugged the choppy sand beneath the palms. Only a few beach umbrellas, shading visitors on lounge chairs from the nearby hotel, dotted the white expanse of beach. No one splashed in the rippling waters beyond. Besides the ever-present waves lapping lower on the shore, not much movement intruded on the afternoon’s repose, so the figure at the curve of the beach immediately caught my eye. Even from that distance, I could see that it was Lola. She knew the hard, damp sand at the water’s edge made walking easier, so I wondered at her laboring steps across the brow of the beach.
Lola ended her trek across the sand by plopping down in the middle of my blanket, forcing me to the edge. I asked what was the matter, but she just shook her head. Although her drawn face concerned me, I wasn’t in the mood for her games. Our other sister continued on about the party for Virginia, her oldest, who was becoming a young lady. Rosita was determined to celebrate her all-important fifteenth birthday in pre-Revolutionary style. She described the amount of black market food served at a recent quinceañera. Two cold-water lobsters had set on ice in front of the birthday girl. Rosita didn’t want to be a copycat, so instead she wondered if she could get enough salmon so all of the guests could have a taste.
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