Beautiful Days (20 page)

Chapter 18

LETTY HAD KNOWN PLENTY OF MELANCHOLY IN HER seventeen years, but melancholy had no hold on her when she woke up at Dogwood on Friday morning, even after she realized that another night had passed without her oldest friend bothering to inform her of her whereabouts.
Tonight is my first night onstage
, she thought with a smile. On her way into the city her sense of wonder mounted, and by the time she disembarked the wound of Cordelia had shrunk to almost nothing. Instead her attention was grabbed by the whimsical angle of the hats on the women who were filling the train, clusters of shopping bags in tow, for the return trip to Long Island, and the sound of a solo violinist on a nearby platform, and the faint smell of car exhaust mixed with hot dogs.

The glowing sign at the theater that bombastically announced the Paris Revue greeted her like the warm expression of an old friend. As she went in through the side entrance, a heavy young man with a kind, soft face held the door for her.

“You one of the new chorus girls?” he asked.

She nodded and turned to smile at him as they advanced up the stairs.

“I'm Sal.” He offered her his hand.

“Are you in the show?” Letty asked.

It was dark in the stairwell, which had been painted black a long time ago and was papered with well-worn posters and notices, but light enough that she could tell he was giving her a twitching sort of smile.

“What do you play?”

“I'm the fat man, of course!” he said. Letty drew her brows together and wanted to tell him that he wasn't really so fat as all that, but then she saw the lunatic light in his eye, and knew he didn't mind.

“Do you make them laugh?”

“Oh, I'm a dangerous sort.” He gave a ghostly flourish of his stubby fingers and bulged his eyes. “Grown men have choked to death laughing over the things I do!”

“I'll watch myself around you, then,” she replied with a giggle. They had arrived on the second floor, where a hall led to the women's dressing room on one end and the men's on the other.

“No, no, you need not worry about me! I'm made of jelly beans.” He grasped his rotund middle in a goofy way that made her want to laugh again and leaned forward conspiratorially, as if to tell her a secret. “The one you need to worry about is Lulu.”

“Lulu?” Letty whispered back, biting her lower lip. “Who's Lulu?”

“You haven't heard of Lulu yet? Don't let
that
on. Lulu's the diva who sings the big numbers, and she despises it when people don't know who she is.”

“Is she very mean?” Letty returned his smile and opened her eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.

“She tortures all the new girls, so be warned!” It was possible, she thought fleetingly, that he was drunk, for he had a way like Union's town drunk, in whom any ordinary event could cause fits of laughter. But Letty knew that she herself was not drunk, and in Sal's presence she was finding everything funny, so perhaps it was just his way.

“Is she terribly vain and proud?” Letty went on, matching Sal's near hysterical tone.

“Is who terribly vain and proud?” A tall woman with white-blond hair was leaning in the door frame at the end of the hall, wearing a Chinese-style robe. Beyond her, Letty could see girls rolling down panty hose and taking curlers out of their hair.

Letty giggled again, and answered her. “Lulu!”

“Oh, Lulu.” She cleared her throat and arched one of her thin brows. “Well, I guess you don't know yet that I'm Lulu.”

“Oh, no no no! We must have been talking about some other Lulu!” Letty said quickly and absurdly, waving her hands as though that might clear the air of her gaffe. Her cheeks were red and her stomach had dropped, but Sal didn't seem the least embarrassed—he was snickering into his big, meaty hands.

“Get out of here!” Lulu barked at him, although it seemed possible that she herself was smiling. “Stop trying to get the kid in trouble.”

Sal gave a low, courtly bow, and reached for Letty's hand, which he kissed once very properly, and then thrice more with a voraciousness that suggested he might soon begin to eat her fingers. It tickled, and she had to swallow another laugh as Lulu reached out, sweeping Letty under her wing, and bringing her into the women's dressing room. “Lesson number one, my dear, never trust funny men. They don't even know what
they
mean half the time, and even if they did, they'd say anything for a laugh.”

“I'm sorry about that—you don't seem vain at all.” Letty willed away the blush, but her stomach was still aflutter from her misstep. She had been so happy to have someone talk to her, and Sal had seemed so doughy and amusing, and then he'd set her up. “You seem awfully nice, really!”

“Don't be absurd, honey. I am
terribly
vain—proud, too. But
mean
I am not. No, I like to keep all the new girls in my good graces. ‘The diva who is cruel to her underlings merely cultivates her own successor.' An Ital named Nicky Machiashtelli said that.”

“So you don't hate me?”

“Not yet, honey.” Lulu winked at her. “What did you say your name was?”

“Letty Larkspur.”

“You're over there,” she said and pointed Letty in the direction of one of the cubbies that lined the wall. “Better go get ready, call time is now.”

The space of the dressing room was filled with girls who were chewing gum or talking or smoking or singing to themselves or gazing into hand mirrors. None seemed particularly interested in the new girl, and yet Letty couldn't help but brim with delight to think,
I am one of them.
The chorus girls were easy to identify—they were the young, sylphlike ones. There were older girls, too, and girls that weren't so conventionally pretty, who she supposed played types and made jokes or sang beautifully. They were all in various stages of undress but seemed blissfully unaware of their partial nudity, and they made a racket with their passing back and forth of makeup items and hair tonics and sweet-smelling things.

“Thank you,” Letty said, turning toward Lulu. But Lulu had already drifted away to her corner, which had its own vanity mirror and cushioned seat. Shyly, Letty went forward, through the mass of bodies, to her own cubbyhole. Here, her breath was stolen, and she fell in love for the first time.

Under the name
LETTY LARKSPUR
, in a worn wooden cubby, in the soft light of many bare Edison bulbs, hung a white costume covered with downy feathers. The neckline was a subtle sweetheart shape, and the waist was marked with ivory grosgrain ribbon. A feathered cap hung next to it on the hook, along with a pair of white hose. Letty caught her breath finally, and ran her fingers down the costume, and closed her eyes. The mingled smells of stale smoke and tuberose perfume filled her nose, and for a moment she thought she might cry, because she had never been so happy.

At evening time all manner of cars were passing through Manhattan, some looking for trouble, some with trouble already in their backseats. Many others had by then committed to their first stop of the evening. Cosmopolitan New Yorkers had been called upon by their personal bootleggers and were pouring drinks in the carpeted sunken living rooms of their apartments, or otherwise they had been led to a corner table at their favorite restaurant. And in one particular theater, the orchestra was launching into the resounding opening strands of its final number.

The chorus girls lined up in the wings, and Letty, sixth of eight, held her breath and waited for her turn to enter stage right at a theatrical prance. Like the other girls, she kept her hands at her waist and her elbows high and lively and she put her feet forward in such a way that her hips swiveled back and forth. Her mouth was open, wide and red and happy, and she looked into the audience as she went out. The stage lights were bright, but she could still see all the people in suits and dresses, inclined forward, animated by the dazzle of the show. As the chorus girls swirled onstage, Lulu was lowered, singing, on a golden swing, her twenty-foot-long feather boa dangling across her bosom and down to the floor.

The song was about the show itself and thanking the audience for lending their hearts to the endeavor, and as Lulu came closer and closer to the stage, the girls began to dance around her, their bodies rising and falling in a wave, their voices backing hers up. The girls were supposed to each make their own individual gestures—by turns goofy and graceful—and though earlier Letty had feared she would forget the timing of her parts, and had rehearsed them obsessively in her head, she didn't need to think now. She moved naturally with the other girls, as though everything she did really was spontaneous. When Lulu reached the stage floor, she stepped off her swing and advanced toward the audience, her arms raised toward the corners of the theater with an invincible smile.

Then the music was over suddenly and the audience stood and began to clap. The applause, when Letty heard it, seemed almost like a tangible thing, a great lumbering friendly animal coming toward her. Her chest was pumping, and though they had been instructed to wear giant gleeful smiles at that moment, she could not possibly have done otherwise. In front of her stood Lulu in her gauzy gown taking several sweeping bows before slinking off the stage. When she was gone, the chorus girls popped up and, holding hands, went forward to take their bows. They bowed twice, turned at the same time, and skipped off the stage in a line. The applause was still strong as Letty left the heat of the stage lights and passed through the slightly cooler darkness on the stage's margins, and it went on ringing in her ears and buoying her up as she hurried after the other girls toward the dressing room.

“I can't believe we did it,” Mary said, putting her arm around Letty's waist. “That was better than I ever could have imagined.”

“Yes,” Letty said, because there was no word to describe the amazement she felt. “Yes, yes, yes!”

As they came into the dressing room, Letty saw Lulu sitting at her vanity. The blond hair was gone—or rather, it was perched on a nearby mannequin's head—and she was removing a hairnet from her short, mousey brown locks.

“Larkpsur,” she said when she saw Letty. “You were good.”

“Really?” Letty said, unable to hide the happiness this brought her.

Lulu shrugged. “Someone thinks so—there are flowers for you in your cubby.”

“Oh.”

Mary lifted her eyebrows at her and gave a squeal of excitement. A second wave of girls—the more experienced dancers, the ones who did the really ornate routines—were coming in from their bows now, wearing gold tap pants and black tops, and they flowed around Letty. Everyone was talking—someone's costume had broken mid-performance, and another girl was shouting that she was in a hurry to get to her date. The word
date
made Letty think of Grady, and then her heart skipped when she realized that perhaps he had been out among the audience, that he had seen her onstage her first night, and that he was going to forgive her.

This prospect set her aglow as she advanced toward the vase of two dozen red roses. Her hands floated up to cover her mouth when she got close to them, for she'd never seen buds so dark or so big.

“Who are they from?” Mary urged, as she bent to pull down her tights.

Though Letty was tempted to tell her the entire story of the millionaire who lived in a garret down in the Village, she just gave her new friend an excited shrug and plucked the card.

Her body slumped when she saw instead Cordelia's familiar handwriting, and the words:

“Ah, me,” she said and sighed.

Mary glanced over at her, but didn't say anything, for which Letty was grateful, because it gave her a minute to straighten her spine and let the disappointment roll away. Once she had accepted the fact that Grady probably hadn't sent a limousine to pick her up after her show, and almost certainly wasn't going to whisk her off for an intimate dinner at the Plaza, she began to melt somewhat toward Cordelia. The person to whom she had first whispered her visions for a grand life still remembered her, still cared about those long-ago hopes. And she'd sent a gift that was making the other girls shoot Letty winks and good-naturedly envious glances. Plus, the flowers
were
very striking. They were good enough for a star.

“Some of the boys in the band invited me to a coffee shop down the street,” Mary said as she pulled a brush through her hair. “Want to come?”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” Letty bent to roll down her tights, and knew that she needed Cordelia to see her like this, shimmering with the confidence of her performance. “But tonight I have something I just have to do.”

“Well . . . maybe tomorrow?”

Letty unzipped her costume and returned Mary's smile. “Yes, I'd like that.”

Chapter 19

“WHERE TO?” THE MARSHES' DRIVER SAID AS THEY came off the bridge into the city.

In the backseat lounged Astrid, her fire-engine red dress spilling down over her slim torso and across the baby-soft white leather upholstery. The silky dress skimmed her limbs in a way that was just suggestive enough, and since it so flattered her actual form, she had decided that she needed no jewelry or ornament of any kind. Beside her sat Billie, wearing wide-legged navy trousers, her eyes lined in kohl and her hair shiny and pushed straight back. Both girls' legs were crossed, and tipped toward each other, and a silver flask of whiskey lay between them. They had already taken nips, which had heightened Astrid's anticipation for the evening ahead and made her feel all golden inside.

“The Jungle, Girl Leslie's, the Kentucky Room?” Billie suggested. “Or we could keep it classy for once and just go straight to the Ritz.”

“I think I'm class enough without the Ritz.”

Billie gave her a sly smile. “That's fair enough.”

Astrid closed her eyes and tried to imagine the place where she'd most like to go. Velvet curtains and potted palms and convex mirrors and cleverly attired cigarette girls were fine, but at that particular moment she felt she wanted something more. She imagined a simple room with rustic wood walls and beautifully carved chairs where the men were handsome in a seafaring way, and they all competed to talk to her.

“Darling.” She leaned forward and gripped the front seat and tried not to make it obvious that she couldn't remember the driver's name. “Do you think you could find a place on the West Side called Barry's Tavern? I think it's near the waterfront somewhere, I'd guess maybe in the Fifties . . .”

The driver assessed her from under the black visor of his hat. “I suppose,” he said reluctantly.

She liked the idea of going someplace that her mother's driver didn't want to take her, and she patted his shoulder and said, “I knew you were a good sort.”

They drove up and down the streets as night began to fall. The driver had to stop and ask someone. But they found it eventually—an old shack built right on the wharf, illuminated by a neon light that proclaimed
BARRY'S TAVERN
, and seemed clearly to be younger than every other aspect of the place by twenty years or more. The river was beyond the tavern—though you could barely see it for the giant ships themselves huddled on the water.

“Is that the joint?” Billie took a doubtful pull from the flask.

Astrid rolled down the window to smell the sea. It was not as lovely as she had imagined, and she wrinkled her nose. The salty, breezy air mingled with tar and something faintly like dying animal. But the picture that Victor had put in her mind that night when they were playing cards was still strong. Plus, by then she had fixated on the notion that it would become one of her discoveries, and soon all the young night creatures would go there, and marvel in her cleverness at finding it.

“I don't know,” the driver said, his gloved hands clasping the wheel nervously. He had not yet cut the engine.

“Oh, don't be dull!” Astrid laughed and took a sip of the whiskey and jogged her shoulders irreverently. “It'll be
such
a gas.”

As she stepped out of the car the skirt of her dress unfolded and swirled down around her legs, and the loose bodice, which was gathered below the waist, kissed her skin. The night was warm and twinkling, and she was happy that she wore no man's ring. Billie came around and they linked arms and walked forward with rocking hips, mindful not to put their elevating shoes into the cracks of the wharf.

“Oh, dear,” Billie whispered as they stepped into the room.

The walls were covered in unfinished plywood, and though the floor was made of the same, it was painted a far darker shade by the many dirty boots that had trod it over the years, and had acquired a texture from the coins and lemon rinds and other detritus that had been ground into it. A decidedly sour smell emanated from somewhere, which might either have been beer or the men who occupied the place, of whom there were fewer than ten, arranged around three large tables. Half of them grinned like wolves to see the posh girls in their midst, and the other half glared suspiciously.

“Hello, you chaps!” Astrid sing-songed, and then strode to the bar, which was only large enough to accommodate four stools. Neither liquor bottles nor barkeep were in sight. Billie followed Astrid at a less eager pace, and perched on the stool beside her stepsister.

Slowly, one of the men at the tables stood and came around behind the bar. “We only have whiskey and beer.”

“We'll have whiskey, then,” Astrid replied brightly.

“If this is one of the ‘experiences' your Charlie treated you to,” Billie said as she lit up a cigarette, “you've done fine to move on.”

“Don't be mean, they'll hear!” Astrid winked at one of the smiling ones and accidentally let the strap of her dress slip. “Anyway, I think even Charlie would be a little nervy coming in here, so give credit where credit is due, darling. I found this one myself.”

Meanwhile, the barkeep returned from the back room with two mismatched teacups that held a brown liquid in it.

“Lovely,” Astrid said, looking into his eyes and putting her whole torso into her thanks.

Billie just exhaled and brought the teacup to her mouth. “Gah!” she exclaimed. Astrid turned in time to see her spit the brown liquid back into the cup. “Don't drink that,” she told Astrid. “That will make you blind.”

“Oh, hush,” Astrid replied quickly.

“Believe me, some hicks down in Jersey made that in a dirty old barn.” She coughed and pushed the teacup back toward the man behind the bar. “I hope you don't charge money for that stuff.”

Over at the table by the door, one of the men who had been smiling was now frowning. “Wha's wrong with my whiskey?” he said. Either some harm had been done to his tongue or his teeth had been knocked crooked, because he didn't talk right.

“Nothing, sir,” Billie replied blandly, brandishing her cigarette. “Except it ain't whiskey.”

After that no one said anything, although it was clear enough that he and the other two at his table had thoughts in their heads they weren't voicing. Astrid flashed decadent little smiles around the room, and then the awkwardness ended, because two new men—somewhat better dressed than the rest, but with a tough quality to their faces and their postures nonetheless—came through the door and sat down at an empty table. The barkeep went over to them and conferred in low tones and then he went to the back room.

“Say, I been wondering.” It was not the man who made the whiskey, but one of the other men at his table, whose work shirt was rolled back to reveal faded ink markings on the skin of his forearm. “You, the dark-haired one. The not-as-pretty one.”

“Ye-es?” Billie answered with perfect indifference.

“I been wondering—are you a boy or a girl?”

A cloud of smoke came out of Billie's mouth and obscured her expression. If this comment wounded her, she did not let on. Without a trace of hurry, she stood up and squished the cigarette out on the wood of the bar. “I've had enough,” she said to Astrid. “I'll be in the car.”

Astrid only nodded. Everyone in the room watched Billie as she walked to the door, her gait swaggering but untroubled. When the door swung shut behind her, Astrid took a breath and sat up straight in her chair. “Well, that wasn't very nice!” she said, attempting gaiety. “You may prefer one girl to another,” she went on with a friendly wag of her forefinger, “but you should never express your preference when both girls are present!”

Chairs shifted against the floor, and sips of beer were taken across the room, but Astrid's comment appeared beyond the scope of these fellows. “Well, you are prettier,” the whiskey maker grumbled eventually.

Astrid's posture softened and she turned her face to the side girlishly. “Thank you, really, but . . .” She reached for her cup and took a nervous sip. Nothing so bad had ever touched the inside of her mouth. She tried to smile at the whiskey maker, but the sip was burning her tongue, and she knew that if she didn't spit it out soon, she'd regret it.

As casually as she could she stood up and moved toward the back room, where she assumed the ladies' lounge would be. She shot smiles in every direction, and when she crossed paths with the barkeep, he pointed in the direction of a door. Through the door she went, into a closet of a bathroom, where she bent toward the sink and spit the whiskey out. For a moment she thought she might be sick, and she held on to the sink with both hands. But then it passed and she looked into the small shaving mirror that had been nailed to the wall and smiled at her reflection.
This certainly was an adventure
, she thought to herself, and decided that while she was very impressed with herself for braving Barry's Tavern so long, the experiment was over and she was ready to go someplace with comfortable seats.

That was when the door opened behind her. She saw a man over her shoulder in the reflection, and she fixed her gaze on him. “If Charlie sent you to bring me home, you can tell him I don't need him anymore.”

But she didn't get to see the reaction on his face, because that was when the burlap sack came down over her head.

Almost before The Vault opened its doors, it was predetermined to be a success. This had been decided by all the chattering about the young lady who was said to be in charge of the place, and then by the chattering about the handsomeness of the building itself. It was decided by the reputation of the Greys' liquor and the reputation of the Greys themselves, who might have fizzled away like so many criminal enterprises when their leader had gone, but had instead grown stronger, more brazen, and then had made themselves into hosts. It was decided by the newspapermen, who had taken a liking to Cordelia when she went out and found that she made good copy, and by the children of the night, whose limousines inched down Fifty-third Street, honking in their eagerness to be already at the center of everything.

Although Charlie had told Cordelia that the droves would flock to her if she opened a club, she could still not quite believe what she saw, even right there in the middle of it. The place pulsed, the whole room swaying to the exuberant band. The mosaic tiles on the floor were impossible to see, because girls in their newest and chicest dresses and boys in suits were packed in next to every type of person: sportsmen and card players and tourists and writers and fortune tellers and politicians. Men who had never worked a day in their lives, shoulder to shoulder with those who had been working since they were tall enough to see over the counter at the candy store.

As she moved through the crowd, in a pomegranate dress with voluminous sleeves and a devastatingly low back, the guests reached out to grab her by the arm. There were kindly gentlemen who wanted to tell her a story about her father, and girls who hoped she'd lend them some of her light by pausing at their tables. Soon enough she discovered that there were people who wanted to know about private stores, and whether they could have the
really
special champagne, and also those who had lost their precious tickets, and wanted them replaced free of charge. These soon learned that her youth did not make her easy.

Cordelia had just departed the table of a sharply dressed man who claimed to have run liquor down from Canada with Darius in the early days of Prohibition when she was stopped by a throaty female voice saying, “Hey, doll.”

Mona Alexander wore a plum velvet evening dress, the V-neck of which went nearly to her navel. She was sitting at the bar with men on either side, and when Cordelia saw her she went straight over.

“What a place you put together,” Mona said, patting the waves of her black hair. Her eyes were droopy and heavily made up, and her cheeks were flush with her own celebrity. “Your daddy would be proud of you. I'd say you have a little of him in you, even.”

Cordelia beamed. “Is the barman being good to you?” she asked, and Mona bobbed her head exuberantly and lifted her Ball jar of champagne in Cordelia's direction.

“I'll see she gets what she needs,” said the man next to her, who was dressed in a deep green suit that almost shimmered in the low light. He gave Cordelia a nod and drew the singer back into his conversation.

Already that night Cordelia had overheard a few of her guests speaking in awestruck tones of “the legendary Mona Alexander,” and so she was grateful for the lucky coincidence of meeting her only weeks ago. Of course, these days, luck seemed like nothing less than her due. But there was much to see to, and she was happy not to dwell on the events that had led up to this moment. Without fanfare, Cordelia moved on, along the bar that flanked the old teller windows.

A line had formed by the hat-check girl, and she paused there to see why. The girl was a wisp named Connie who had come in yesterday asking for a job, and now she was run off her feet, her bowl filled up with bills.

“Connie.” The girl was wild-eyed, and Cordelia had to call out to get her attention.

“Is everything all right?” Connie asked as she hurried toward her boss.

“Put the bowl behind the window. You never know which one of these fellows is going to run off with everything.”

“Yes, ma'am. Oh! And this came for you.”

Connie bent and retrieved a paper box, the lid of which she pulled back with a smile. Inside was a corsage of white orchids set in crimson tissue paper.

“I hope you don't mind that I peeked,” Connie explained shyly.

Despite the fact that Cordelia herself had visited a florist earlier that day and ordered flowers to be sent, she was taken aback now by how lovely it felt to receive a gift of that kind. No one had ever sent her flowers before. She glanced over her shoulder, as though expecting to see the sender. When she looked back, Connie had already fastened the corsage to Cordelia's wrist.