Maria reached up to unfasten a button at the collar and turn under the high neckline. Her communion dress was of soft, white rayon with eyelet embroidery at the neck, at the cuffs of the three-quarter-length sleeves, and the hem. Around the waist had been a white sash which Anita had promised to replace by something dark red or blue and Maria could wear a complementing band in her hair.
But the neckline was too high and the sleeves too long; still, if she had to make a choice between the sleeves and the neckline, she wanted something done to the neck.
Maria reached for a pair of scissors. “I want you to fix the neck,” she said. “Make it like the dresses you wear.”
“You’re going to make me swallow pins,” Anita said. She was working with a ruler to mark the new hem of the dress, which would be slightly below the knees. If Maria had been someone else, not Bernardo’s sister, she would have recommended a length two inches above the knees, but that would have made Bernardo furious, and not in the way she looked forward to that night.
Man, there were times when he became so angry his eyes were filled with fire, so hot they did all sorts of wonderful things to her. Then she helped him get rid of the anger and they were both happy in their exhaustion, and Bernardo spoke to her in the lowest, sweetest whispers.
“You’ve got to stand still,” she warned Maria, “otherwise you’re liable to get a pin you know where.”
“You’ll do something about the neck?”
“The neck’s all right. All the girls I know should have such lovely necks.”
“I’m talking about this dress,” Maria protested. “Two, three inches what difference does it make?”
“Too much difference,” Anita snapped and rolled her eyes expressively to make Maria laugh.
“You’re making this dress over for me to dance in,” the younger girl argued. “To dance in,” she repeated. “It’s no longer for kneeling in front of an altar.”
Anita placed another pin in the hem. “With those boys you can start in dancing and end up kneeling, begging them to take you to the altar.”
“If not three inches or two inches—one inch.” Maria showed how little this was between her thumb and forefinger. “One little, little inch.”
“Bernardo made me promise,” Anita sighed. From her place on the floor, she could see the graceful slenderness of Maria’s legs. Lucky girl… she would never have to shave her legs and be forever committed to using creams and lotions to keep the skin soft. “It’s not me,” she explained to Maria. “Bernardo made me promise to take care of you. And that includes altering the dress.”
“Bernardo made you promise,” Maria scoffed. “I’ve been here one month now, and still he walks me in the morning to the shop. And if Chino can’t meet me, Bernardo comes to walk me home. Sew all day and sit all night,” she complained. “Just what I did in Puerto Rico.”
“You were a little girl in Puerto Rico and you’re not much older here.”
“Is that so?” Maria said. “If I’m a little girl, how come it’s been arranged for me to marry Chino?”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Anita explained. “You’re old enough to get married, but not old enough to wear a low neckline.”
“But I’ll be old enough not to wear any clothes,” Maria continued, then hid her face because she had to blush and laugh at the same time. “You mustn’t tell anyone I said such a thing, not even Chino.”
“Certainly not Chino,” Anita said. “How is it”—she fluttered her hands—“does your heart do that even when you look at him?”
Maria shook her head. “When I look at Chino nothing happens.”
Anita groaned as she got to her feet. “What did you expect to happen?”
“I don’t know.” Maria was serious. “Something, I guess. He’s nice, but… he’s nice.” She took several steps to stand before the mirror and see how long the dress would be. It was an inch below her knees, but enough of her legs showed to please her. Now if she could only get Anita to do something about the neck, and one way to do it was to keep Anita talking about other things. “What happens when you look at Bernardo?”
“I can’t look,” Anita replied. “He fills my eyes with stars until I’m blind. Then it happens.”
“I see,” Maria said. “That’s why you go to the movies and can’t tell anyone what the picture was. Yes,” she continued, “now I understand what happens when you and ’Nardo sit in the balcony. I wonder if I should tell my mother and father why you know nothing about the movies?”
Anita fastened her fingers on the collar of the dress. “I’ll rip it to shreds,” she warned.
“Perhaps if you could manage to lower the neck…” Maria suggested, her eyes assuring Anita that she would never reveal so personal a secret.
“Next year,” Anita tried to look severe but had to smile. “There’s time enough.” For a moment her eyes were sad. “Believe me.”
Maria pouted and raised the dress a bit; there, her knees showed, that would have been a better length. “Next year I’ll be married and if I’m wearing a dress who’ll care how long it is?”
“All right,” Anita raised both hands in surrender. “How much do you want the neck lowered?”
“Down to here,” Maria touched her breastbone, then frowned at herself in the mirror. “I hate this dress!”
“Then don’t wear it and don’t come to the dance,” Anita said, and hoped Maria would take the suggestion.
Quite certain that no matter how she altered the dress, ’Nardo would find fault with it, Anita wondered why she had to put up with something like this when she could have been at home lying in a tub filled with bubblebath. She would have raised her legs and arms as if in a striptease, thinking the most delicious, immoral thoughts, which was a good way to get rid of the sadness and envy over Maria. Tell the truth—she told herself—you might’ve been like ’Nardo’s sister, but never looked it. Dress Maria in robes and she would look like the Madonna.
“Don’t come?” Maria was shocked. “You or no one else is going to keep me away. My mother gave me her permission.” Again she deliberated by tapping a fingertip against her lower lip. “Couldn’t we dye the dress red? You looked so wonderful in your red dress.”
“No we could not!” Anita was firm. “Maria, please. There is enough to do just to get the dress ready…”
“White is for babies,” Maria complained. “I’ll be the only one there in a white…”
“… if you’re going to be there, it’s going to be in a white dress,” Anita said. “So make up your mind, please.”
“The white dress,” Maria capitulated, “with the neckline lowered just a little bit.” She insisted upon this. Suddenly she grasped Anita around the waist and kissed the older girl’s cheek. “You’re so good, Anita, and I love you.”
The hard knocking on the front door gave Anita an excuse to free herself and avoid the shameful folly of tears. Possibly if she had been lying in the tub she might have thought about something else: how much time had passed since she had been like Maria. But she never had been, not from the first moment she had become aware that boys were different.
She opened the door, her smile warm and sensuous as she saw Bernardo, with Chino behind him. The tip of her tongue flicked between her lips, and Bernardo gave her a quick wink before he shifted his features into blankness.
With his shoulder he gestured for Chino to come into the store and step aside as Anita locked the door. Hands clasped awkwardly behind his back, Chino bobbed his head and spoke hardly above a whisper as he greeted both girls, but looked only at Maria, still posing in the white dress.
“How’d things go today?” Bernardo asked, after he permitted Anita to kiss his cheek.
“Pretty good,” Anita said. “A couple of customers came in. And one of them said she wished her son was marrying a girl as pretty as either of us.”
“As pretty as you,” Maria corrected Anita.
“I heard it otherwise,” Anita said. “Chino, why are you leaning against
the door?” She pointed to a chair. “Sit there.”
“This is a shop for ladies,” Chino explained. His nervous fingers plucked at his shirt collar and he fanned himself with his light straw hat. “Some day outside,” he observed, because weather was the only thing he could discuss with girls and not feel awkward.
“Forget about the day,” Maria ordered him. “It’s this night that’s important, ’Nardo.” She turned to her brother. “It’s most important that I have a wonderful time at the dancing tonight.”
“Why?” Bernardo asked. He tried to catch Chino’s eye, to urge him to say something, even one of the things he had suggested on the way to the store, but Chino insisted upon staring at his shoes. “What’s so important about tonight?”
Whirling, pirouetting before the three-paneled mirror, so that her reflection was multiplied again and again, until, from where Anita stood, it appeared as if a full ballet dressed in white was interpreting a dance of innocence, Maria pointed and skipped toward her brother who smiled now as he had in the old days. Tonight was going to be so wonderful, Maria thought, that she had to imitate Anita, so she kissed Chino on the cheek. His skin was very warm, very nice, and nothing more.
“Because tonight is the real beginning of my life as a young lady of America!” Maria sang. “Chino”—she grasped his hands—“I want to dance tonight. And dance and dance and dance! Even when there is not playing music.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Several years earlier, two congregations of a religious denomination had combined, and the older of the two churches on the West Side, the one more in need of repair, had been put up for sale. For almost a year the church had stood vacant, its windows a natural target, until the religious denomination had offered the building to the city authorities if they could find use for it. The gift had been accepted and the church converted into a community center. A variety of clubs for boys, girls, and adults had been started and the center creaked along, never quite successful enough to instill pride in the social and community workers assigned to it, but never an outright failure.
Although the community center had been open to everyone, its primary purpose was to get boys and girls off the streets and to offer them supervised play and instruction. The program was intelligent and well meaning, but it suffered from one major flaw. It was available to everyone in the neighborhood, including the Puerto Ricans.
Once it was understood that the Puerto Ricans were welcome, the original and older inhabitants of the neighborhood began to avoid the center and it was almost impossible to get their children to use the facilities. And then the Puerto Rican families stayed away too because they did not want to use the center if it were boycotted by Anglos.
Most of the time the clubrooms were empty, the books and games remained on the shelves, the basketball court had no one on it, and the social workers congregated in an office to brood over cups of coffee and mourn their choice of career. It was a rotten, thankless job.
On this June night, however, Murray Benowitz was happy and confident of the future. As in the past, he had publicized this dance without optimism, had encouraged the youth workers to do what they could about getting kids to attend, but had urged them not to be disappointed.
If this was a bitter, jaundiced point of view, it was founded in experience. As do many of those who make a career of social work, Murray Benowitz had viewed the world through rose-colored glasses and had seen it as the best of all possible places. Now he knew differently; the world was gray, grim and bleak. But he had to smile to keep from crying, to smile when the kids destroyed equipment, scrawled obscenities on the walls, and derided him for being a square. They called him Glad Hand, but he took it and strangely enough, still managed to think of them by their proper names.
Since eight o’clock that night, teen-agers had been swarming into the center, and Murray had had to call on two additional workers to come and help him. Standing by the record player he glanced at the fireproofed crepe-paper decorations strung gaily above the dance floor.
There were good records to be played. The punch was cold. There were reserve sacks of ice cubes and plenty of cups and napkins.
Although both Sharks and Jets had shown up, no fights had started. Murray had shivered with apprehension but the Sharks moved off to one side of the dance floor, the Jets to the other, and each group danced in competition—as if there were a wall between them.
Well, Murray thought, it was a beginning. Soon he and the other workers would attempt to get both groups together, but boys and girls were still coming to the dance, and he was far too busy.
Moving along, calling out to boys and girls whose names he remembered, stopping to chat and managing to laugh when he was greeted as Glad Hand, Murray decided not to notice that the dancing was becoming wilder and more primitive. He had always correlated mixed dancing with sexual aberration. Later, if he could ever gain the confidence of these neighborhood kids—prove that he was their friend and wanted to help them—he might speak to the district supervisor about the need for a dancing teacher.
Murray’s eyes blinked behind his glasses as he looked toward the door and saw the Sharks gathered near it. He recognized Bernardo, whose girl friend was wearing a bright red dress, and crossed to welcome personally one of the boys he most hoped to influence.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a stirring where the Jets were congregated, so he moved more quickly. He reached the door just as Riff, Action and Tony Wyzek appeared.
This was really going to be a night! Over the weekend he was going to write a full and glowing report to let them know downtown that at last, at long last, he felt optimistic about the progress he was making.
Years of hard experience told Murray that the air around him was becoming charged as the Sharks grouped themselves behind Bernardo and the Jets formed a phalanx behind Riff, Action, and Tony.
Could he have heard wrong, Murray wondered? Doc had told him Tony Wyzek was working steadily and had dropped all association with the Jets. Still, the boy might be a throwback, who had become lonesome for his old associates and their dog-eat-dog attitude.
He had to think rapidly, speak quickly, because it looked as if both gangs were going to tangle right then and there. He saw that two of the girls with the Jets had removed their shoes, ready to use the high heels as weapons.
“All right, boys and girls.” Murray made himself beam as he waved both hands for recognition. “May I have your attention, please? Attention!”
He waved a hand at a police officer who looked in through the door and signaled the uniformed man that everything was all right, under control, no trouble anticipated.
“That’s fine,” Murray approved the response to his request, which, he knew, had been considerably helped by the uniform. “It’s sure a fine turnout tonight. The best we’ve had in a long time. But the night’s young, only a little after ten and we want to make it better.” He paused for breath, and compelled himself not to hear the boys and girls as they mocked his professional heartiness. “I hope you’re having a good time?”
“You said it, Glad Hand!” a girl shouted.
“Fine, but I’ve noticed that you’ve been dancing on different parts of the floor, as if the Grand Canyon were between you.”
“Whee,” a boy called as he postured with a hand on his hip, “do you want the girls to dance with the girls? And the boys with the boys?”
“I want you to dance with each other,” Murray gestured in the direction of the Sharks and Jets. “So you can get to know each other.”
“We know them stink-bomb merchants!” a Shark called out.
Murray raised his hands again. “Let’s not talk about the past,” he suggested. “We’re having a good time tonight. As we get to know each other, we’re going to have an even better one. So let’s start with a few get-together dances. You’ll form two circles. Boys on the outside. Girls on the inside.”
“Hey, Glad Hand, where will you be?” Snowboy yelled.
Murray forced himself
to laugh. “All right. We’re going to start the record and the boys will move in one direction and the girls in another…”
“Dir-ty!” someone shouted.
“Two circles, kids.” He swelled his voice so it could be heard above the lubricous, sly laughter. “Then when the music stops, each boy dances with the girl opposite him. Okay? Okay. Two circles, kids.”
Cheeks and forehead beaded with perspiration, glasses misted, he could still see that they did not move, that the Jets and Sharks continued to glare at each other.
The highly rouged, elaborately hair-styled girls in tight dresses, their breasts made prominent by nature or design, also signaled their challenges. The silence became heavier, more pregnant, and with an explosive sigh of relief that made him ashamed, Murray saw that the first policeman had returned with another, whom he recognized as Officer Krupke.
He waved, called out to Krupke, and as the Jets and Sharks saw the policeman staring hostilely at them, they moved to form circles around their own girls. Bernardo stood opposite Anita; Riff paired himself off with Graziella, who snapped her fingers impatiently for the music to start, because she loved to dance and they were wasting time.
But this was not what Murray wanted, and again he explained. He looked at Krupke who barked that the instructions seemed simple enough for anyone to follow, so how about it?
There was no way to defy orders, so the proper circles were formed, the record was started, and Murray clapped his hands as the boys and girls began to move in opposite directions. “That’s it, kids. Keep the ball rolling. Round she goes and where she stops, nobody knows! All right, here we go!”
Murray shouted and signaled one of the other social workers to stop the record. He blinked, opened his eyes wide and was disappointed. Although the circles had stopped, so that some of the Jets were opposite girls who had been escorted to the dance by Sharks, they only glared at each other, until Riff, with a manifest expression of disgust, turned away from the Shark girl in front of him and beckoned for Graziella to come to his side.
West Side Story Page 5
