Learning to See

by Elise Hooper

  Fronsie smiled sweetly, but started blinking her eyes as though she might begin weeping. Leave it to her to pull out a bit of theater. I held back a grin as she spoke in a quivering voice, “Oh, Mrs. Weber, why, we’ve just had the most dreadful turn of events. We’ve been robbed!”

  “Robbed?” the older woman repeated, looking us up and down with narrowed eyes.

  “Yes, at the cafeteria you recommended. But have no fear, we are fine and plan to remain here in San Francisco. I mean, one bad apple can’t ruin this whole place for us, right?” The downward set of Mrs. Weber’s mouth made it clear she believed bad apples to be in abundance, but Fron kept up her prattle. “The only thing is, we have very little money now and need permanent quarters. Someplace affordable but safe and befitting two respectable young women.”

  “Vithout letters of assurances from your families, no one in der right mind will take you two in. At least, not da type of establishment you vant.” She folded her arms across her chest, tucking the ledger against her bosom.

  “Well, the good news is that Dorothea and I are very employable. I worked at Western Union in New York City and was employee of the month back in February. I have a letter of introduction and the boss promised me a job in any of its offices around the world should I ever want one. I’m going to visit the office here later today to inquire about resuming my employment.”

  Mrs. Weber grunted and turned to me. “Vat about you?” she asked, making a point of eyeing my right foot dubiously.

  I felt my face flush and shoulders tighten, but Fron took my hand firmly in hers and leaned in to speak conspiratorially. “Dorothea is very talented. She’s trained as a professional photographer, so it’s just a matter of time before she owns a successful studio here in the city. Just think: you’ll be able to say you knew her! What luck for you.” She straightened up, looking as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Now, where do you recommend we look for longer-term rooms? With your high standards, I have no doubt you’ll steer us in the right direction.”

  Fron’s friendly voice took the edge off my resentment, but it still simmered as I watched Mrs. Weber nod as she put down her ledger on a side table. She scribbled on a corner of paper, ripped it off her book, and handed it to Fron. “See dat you two have new rooms by tomorrow.” She shook her head at us. “And my girl is scrubbing at da front stairs, so don’t go making a mess of her work. Take da back stairs up.”

  Fron nudged me past her and we walked through the door into the kitchen and its stink of onions and liver. My stomach turned at the sight of a platter of raw brats lying on the counter, glistening in their fleshy casings. We climbed the stairwell until we reached our room on the second floor. I sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the thin seersucker quilt as Fron shut the door behind her and leaned against it, a bemused smile on her face. “I thought you were going to blow a fuse on that old battle-ax.”

  I shook my head. My gaze dropped to my feet. I flinched at the sight of my practical black boots next to Fron’s stylish heeled Keds. My withered right lower leg looked pathetic. I hated that it gave people a chance to doubt me.

  She dropped to the bed beside me. “Pay no attention to her.”

  “Thanks, but we better hightail it to Western Union and see about a job for you. At least one of us needs to be employed by the end of the day.”

  Fron nodded and reached into her purse. “At least I’ve still got these,” she said, holding out her sterling silver cigarette case toward me. I slid one out with a grateful nod. Tucking it into the side of my mouth and using both hands and a whole lot of elbow grease, I jimmied the one small window between our twin beds open while she fished around for her lighter. The satisfaction of lighting up underneath the handwritten ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING sign posted next to the window made me grin. We sat on the sill, alternating turns exhaling out the window.

  “So, what kind of a job are you going to get?” Her voice had a careful edge to it that belied the casualness with which she asked the question.

  From the alley below, doors slammed and men called to each other in languages I didn’t recognize, no doubt preparing midday meals for the handful of restaurants in the area. The yeasty smell of freshly baked rye bread made my mouth water. “Not sure. I don’t want to work as an assistant to a portrait photographer anymore. I’ve done that already. Twice.” I took a deep drag, absorbing the feeling of smoke burning down my throat, the fine line between pain and pleasure.

  Wham! Our door banged open. There stood Mrs. Weber, hands on hips, face purple with anger. “I knew I smelt smoke!”

  “Say now,” Fron began to protest. “You can’t just barge—”

  “Out! Both of you. Right dis instant! Dis city almost burned down once, you fools!” She raised both her fists toward us, trembling in fury. The pale face of the kitchen girl gaped at us over Mrs. Weber’s hulking shoulder.

  Fron and I looked at each other, aghast. Tossing the butts from the window, we scrambled to our feet. Fron said, “You can’t—”

  “Out!” Mrs. Weber bellowed again. She picked up Fron’s suitcase and tossed it into the hallway, where it landed with a clatter. Silk stockings and a couple of shirtwaists spilled across the hardwood floor. We grabbed at our remaining items scattered around the room. A hairbrush, Fronsie’s shower cap, my slippers. Tossing everything in my suitcase still at the foot of my bed, we scurried past Mrs. Weber, pausing only to shovel Fronsie’s possessions back into her suitcase and snap it closed. We fled down the stairs and out onto the street, cringing as the heavy oak door slammed at our backs.

  Shaken, I turned to Fron, knowing my face looked every bit as white as hers. “Well, I guess I can’t be picky about my next job.”

  In the distance, church bells clanged for a noon Mass. The day was getting away from us. Fron fell to her knees, unclasped her suitcase, and riffled past a herringbone wool skirt and a felt cloche until she pulled out an envelope and held it to her cheek. “Oh, thank goodness, I still have my Western Union letter.” The relief stamped across her face morphed into horror as she patted her pockets. “But oh no! Where’s the boardinghouse list?”

  We both looked back toward the closed doors of the YWCA. No doubt the scrap of paper lay fluttering around on the stairs like a feather fallen from a bird in flight, but there was no chance either of us would knock on that door again. Not if we wanted to live another day. What now? Evening would arrive before we knew it. Where would we spend the night? My heart thudded in my ears. No, no, no, this isn’t the way our adventure ends. I tried to quell the panic rising in my chest. Think, one step at a time. Then I reached for Fron’s shoulders and looked into her red-rimmed eyes. “This isn’t your fault. No more tears. Let’s go to Western Union and get you a job.”

  I stood, pulling her up with me and slapping the dust off her skirt as she ran the backs of her hands across her cheeks. I hated to see her look blue. This was my fault. Fron, beautiful Fron, she could have been back in New York City choosing a handsome beau from a long line of suitors if she hadn’t left it all behind. She could have married any of the dapper bankers or lawyers who’d come knocking—and there were so many of them, all their knocking had practically chipped the paint off her parents’ front door—but Fron was a gal who never failed to surprise me. She had it all: good looks, smarts, and a sparkling personality. But rather than taking the easy road to settling down, she claimed she wanted some adventure first. Well, I was dishing that up for her in spades.

  “Jeepers creepers, why is everything in this city uphill?” Fron huffed as we pushed ourselves up the street after asking a store clerk where we could find the city’s Western Union office.

  “But the fellas are mighty handsome here, remember?” I asked, forcing a laugh. Fron joined me, her laughter real. She could move from anxiety to confidence with an ease I admired. “So, when we get to the office, I’ll wait outside with our suitcases while you go sweet talk your way into a new job.”

  “You’re not coming in too?”

  I
smiled at her. “I know what you’ll do, and you’ll be swell. March on in there and act like you own the place. We don’t want them to catch a glimpse of our luggage and see how desperate we are, do we?”

  Fron shrugged. “I suppose not. Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Atta girl,” I said, pushing up my sleeves and switching my suitcase to the other hand. The early afternoon sun beat down on my back, making a steady trickle of sweat drip down my spine. My head throbbed from the clanging of the street traffic, yet we continued to trudge along. We had to catch a break soon. Didn’t we?

  Chapter 3

  True to form, Fronsie landed a job at Western Union without even breaking a sweat. She emerged from the shop’s doorway, a triumphant grin on her face. I knew exactly what had happened: while leaning onto the counter, gazing up at the saps behind it, she had held out her arm, dangling her letter of reference from the New York office, her long, pale fingers cradling her chin. The manager’s mouth would have fallen open, as he wished it was his hand caressing her cheek. She probably topped the whole thing off with a winsome smile and batting her lashes. The girl could always be counted on for an impressive show.

  “I know I’ve told you this a million times, but your talents are wasted,” I said, glancing back at the shop, expecting to see all of the men’s noses pressed to the glass. “Why aren’t you onstage?”

  “Oh heavens, you know I want nothing of the sort. I’m just a simple girl.” She flipped a penny into the air and caught it with the same hand. “Just want to find and marry the man of my dreams and settle down.”

  “Well, at this rate, you sure are going to break a bunch of hearts on your way to the chapel.” My stomach growled. Breakfast had been ages ago and supper hour neared. “How ’bout we find a bite to eat before we figure out where to look for a lodging house?”

  Fron snapped her fingers. “For once, I’m a step ahead of you. I told the boys at Western Union I was looking for new digs and one of ’em has a sweetheart who lives in a good place. He gave me the address.” She slipped a strip of paper from her breast pocket with exaggerated ceremony.

  “Quick thinking.” I reached for the paper, but she held it aloft.

  “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to add a little sugar to your own act.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying, you’re so determined to get what you want. Your headstrong ways worked in New York, but you may need to sweeten things up a little out here.” Her smile never faltered, but she fiddled with her pearl earring, a nervous tic if I ever saw one. “Maybe we should go back to Western Union and get something to hold you over until your game becomes clearer.”

  I pressed my lips together before speaking, my voice firm. “I’m going to open my own portrait studio.” But even as I said it, I doubted myself. How was I going to pull this off? The only San Franciscan I knew, Mrs. Weber, had just thrown me to the curb. With no knowledge of this city, no contacts, how was I going to make things happen?

  “But . . .” She stopped next to a store window and whistled. “That outfit is the cat’s meow.” My gaze followed her pointing finger and landed upon a shop mannequin modeling an emerald-green hobble skirt made of silk with a matching batwing chiffon blouse.

  “Don’t try to distract me,” I grumbled, but momentarily blinded by the sun’s glare on the window’s glass, an idea flickered through me. “Wait a minute, let’s go in.”

  “Now you’re talking!”

  I pulled on the brass door handle to enter and stepped onto a marble floor with Fron trailing me. The din of Market Street’s streetcars banging along their tracks receded as I took in the rows of pastel walking suits and silk evening gowns.

  “Welcome to Eaton’s. May I help you find something?” A young woman with dark hair styled into perfect marcel waves appeared before us.

  “May I look at your business directory?”

  Her carefully arched eyebrows knit together. “Our business directory?”

  “I’m looking for a store that specializes in photography service and supplies.”

  The woman smiled. “Hon, you don’t need a directory for that. I’ll tell you where to go: Marsh’s, farther that way on Market.” Her crimson lacquered fingernails fluttered toward the door. “Head outside, turn left, and you can’t miss it. It’s where everyone goes for cameras and film.”

  I thanked her, pried Fronsie away from caressing an oyster-colored linen suit, and steered us out of the store. Though every ounce of me wanted to head straight to Marsh’s, I knew we needed to find lodging before it got much later. We bought a couple of apples from a corner grocery and headed toward the address Fron had written down at Western Union. Biting into the crisp skin and hearing the crack of the fruit’s flesh brought tears to my eyes. Lord, I was hungry. I paused midway up a steep block to catch my breath and nibble my way around the fruit’s core.

  “I almost swallowed mine whole.” Fron giggled. “So, the address should be right . . . here.” She pointed to the brass numbers tacked to the wooden doorframe of a narrow brick building. We rang the bell and a scowling dark-haired woman came to the door. While Fronsie spoke, her Western Union letter pushed out in front of her chest like a parade flag, the boardinghouse matron frowned. “Sorry, no rooms available,” she said, pushing the door shut right on our noses.

  Fron spluttered in indignation, but it was too late. The lock clicked inside.

  “Well, let’s try another place,” I said, guiding her elbow in my hand and leading her down the steps back to the sidewalk.

  “What other place?”

  I sighed. My stomach let out a low moan. If anything, the apple seemed to have awakened my belly to how hungry I felt. “There’s got to be something else around here. Keep a lookout for any signs advertising rooms to let.”

  We made inquiries at four more lodging houses. Each time we were told no. Unused to being refused, Fron tightened. Her shoulders worked their way up to her ears and her tone became high-pitched, a little more frantic with each attempt. “Why on earth is this happening?” she gasped to me as a fifth door closed upon us.

  Violet light filled the evening air though the streets still bustled with people as if it were midday. Despite the late hour, the city crackled with energy. Nighttime would be upon us soon. I had seen the way each rooming mother gave my gimpy leg the side-eye. I knew what they were thinking: If she’s damaged on the outside, imagine what’s wrong with her inside.

  “Come on, we will find something. We have to,” I said over my shoulder to where Fron stood wilting like a daisy in need of water.

  A white placard dangled off a nail toward the end of the block. I rapped on the door. A small woman opened it, her hair covered in a paisley-patterned scarf. Fron opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “We’ve just arrived from New York and are interested in your room.” No theatrics, no flirting, we just needed a place to sleep. As I spoke, the scent of oregano and garlic seeped past me, thick enough that I could have wrapped my hands around it. I gasped and almost lost my balance as I leaned into the delicious aroma. The woman caught my arm.

  “New York?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  She said, “My two sisters live in East Harlem. You’re far from home.” With a pitying pat on my shoulder, she gestured toward the back of the house. We staggered in, our suitcases clunking against our kneecaps, past the grim crucifixes dotting the hallway, past the peeling wallpaper and into a poorly lit kitchen. Moments later, our chins only inches from the rims of our plates, Fron and I bent over steaming homemade spaghetti noodles swimming in thick red sauce. Our new boarding matron explained the terms of our room while we shoveled the food into our mouths faster than you could say grazie. She wore a severe expression, but as she scooped more food onto our plates, satisfaction danced in her dark eyes.

  THAT NIGHT I dreamed of being tied up in a dark place. I attempted to cry out to Mother, but only a gasp emerged. Father? Where was he? Bound into place, I felt intense heat flame inside my skin; I
bucked and writhed, trying to escape my capture. I awakened, my nightgown and sheets drenched in sweat, and sat up gasping, throwing off the sheets clumped around my arms, legs, and ankles.

  Across the room, Fronsie lay sleeping on her back in the other twin bed, her breathing steady, her long limbs graceful in their effortless sprawl. I could practically reach out to touch her pale shoulder, given the floor space between us was scarcely larger than a bath mat. I raised the window shade to let the glare of moonlight fill the space around us. Pushing away strands of my hair plastered to my damp cheeks and forehead, I placed my palm on my chest. Beneath my skin, my heart beat with the fervor of a hurricane. I stared at the cracks in the plaster wall beside me, breathing hard. One, two, three. By counting the lines rooting up to where the wall met the ceiling, I steadied myself.

  That dream hadn’t visited in months, maybe years. But even though I was almost twenty-three, it still possessed the power to transport me back to my terrified seven-year-old self, trapped in the feverish ravings of my sickroom and my bout with polio.

  I wriggled my misshapen foot out from the sheets, staring at how the light fell upon the spaces between my rigid toes, the way my foot curved inward. I could travel anywhere in the world but this would remain with me. This was the part of home that I could not flee. I’d trained myself to walk in a way that disguised my limp and could wear trousers that covered the awkward bend of my lower leg, but I was stuck with that foot, no matter how hard I worked to hide it. I pulled off my sweaty nightgown, tossed it on the floor beside me, and stretched out my arms and legs against the scratchiness of the pilled white sheets. I yanked down the window shade, curled back into bed, and closed my eyes, listening to the mournful lowing of foghorns coming from the Bay.