Love Comes Calling (21 page)

W
hen I got home, I put “That Old Gang of Mine” on the phonograph. For a long time I sat there in the dark, trying not to remember the way Irene's hair had felt beneath my palm, or the way she'd looked at me just before she'd collapsed in my arms.

But closing my eyes just made it all worse, and leaving them open meant it was all real.

I pulled out my Hollywood scrapbook, but this time the pictures of Mary Pickford's mansion and palm trees and swimming pools didn't transport me anywhere. And visions of sharing a marquee with Douglas Fairbanks or Rudolph Valentino didn't make me want to climb out my window and hop a train to California. Life wasn't
Through the Dark
or
Mabel's
New Hero
or even
The Ninety and Nine
. I lived in a place where the good guys had become bad guys and the bad guys had turned into good guys. There weren't any Keystone Cops, and I wasn't Mabel. There were just people like Jack and people like me. People who had sat around and watched while a girl like Irene had drunk herself to death. I
needed to talk to someone, and there was only one person I could think of who would understand.

Though it was after nine o'clock, the butler let me in when I knocked at the Phillipses' door. A few moments later Griff greeted me from the parlor. He gestured toward the table. “I'm still working on the books. There's lots of different accounts to go through, so it's slow going.” He glanced over at me, but I still didn't quite know what to say, so I sat down on the divan and did nothing at all.

He worked for a while, making notes on a sheet of paper, and then he put down his pencil. “What is it, Ellis?”

“What is what?”

“Whatever it is that's on your mind. You've been sitting there for a full quarter of an hour.”

“I'm tired.”

“You're never tired. You're always doing something. And right now, you're not even fidgeting.”

“Can I . . . ask you a question?”

He closed the book and rubbed at his eyes. “Sure. Ask me anything.”

“When your mother died . . . how did you go on? How did you stop remembering?”

“I didn't. I haven't.”

“Then it—it never goes away?” It felt like the bottom of my soul had dropped out and left me with nothing at all.

“It changes. You start remembering other things too. Things besides the death. You start remembering the life.”

“The good parts?” Irene and I'd had fun when we'd roomed together. I wouldn't mind remembering those parts.

“And the bad parts. All of it. Together.”

“Were you there when she died?”

“No. She was quarantined, along with all the others.”

“What if you had been? What would you have said? What would you have done?”

“Nothing . . . at least, I don't think I would have . . . maybe . . .” His gaze slipped from mine. “I might have told her I loved her.”

Had I said anything to Irene? I couldn't remember.

“I don't know . . . I just . . . as much as you might want to, you can't stop people from dying.”

But that was just it. Maybe I could have. If I'd dragged Irene out of the speakeasy when I'd first seen her, insisted that she come, maybe she wouldn't have died. I should have made her take my help. I should have told her I didn't like that Floyd of hers or the way he treated her. I should have done
something
.

“You can only . . . I guess, when they're leaving, actually dying, you can . . .” He swallowed. “You can let them know how much they meant to you. You know?”

“I was at one of those . . . one of those speakeasies—”

“What!”

“And—just listen. Don't say anything. While I was there, Irene died.”

“Irene
Bennett
?”

“She . . . I don't know . . . maybe she drank some bad liquor or something.”

“Irene is dead?” He spoke the words as if he couldn't quite believe them, and then he slammed the book shut, making me
jump. “That's why all this has to end. One way or another! And the sooner it happens, the better. For all of us.”

“Just . . . will you listen? Please?”

“I'm sorry.” He looked contrite. “I won't say anything else.”

“Nobody even noticed. She was there, she was laughing and dancing and then, all of a sudden, she wasn't.” She was alive and then she was dead. Had she even known what was happening?

“Are you thinking it's your fault?”

“I don't know, Griff. I mean, it wasn't me who gave her the drink. I'd told her she oughtn't be drinking. But I was there.”

“It's not your fault.”

“But whose fault is it?” Didn't it have to be someone's fault she'd died?

He rested a forearm on the ledger. “It's the fault of people who made a law that can't be enforced and the fault of the people who could enforce it but don't and people like the mayor who ought to care but look the other way instead. But most of all, it's the fault of all the people who think it just doesn't matter. All the people who don't care what happens to others just as long as it doesn't affect them.”

“What would you have done? If you had been there.”

“At that speakeasy?”

I nodded.

“I would have tried to get her some help.”

“But what if it was too late? What if there was no time?”

“Then I would have taken her to the hospital.”

“But what if there was no way to call an ambulance?”

“Then I would have carried her there myself. I would have done what any decent person would do.”

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe there just weren't
any decent people left anymore. “You wouldn't have left her? Even if you could have gotten in trouble if you'd been there?”

“Is that what people did?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“As if her death might spoil their good time?”

“I don't know that it was really like
that
.”

“Then what was it like? Did they just refuse to notice because it would have been inconvenient? Is that how it was?”

“You wouldn't have left her there.” He wouldn't have. I knew Griff wouldn't have.

“No. I wouldn't have.” He peered over at me. “You're shivering.”

Was I? I just couldn't seem to get warm anymore.

He shifted in his chair, swinging his legs to the side. “Come here.”

I flew to him, to that sure and certain goodness that was Griff. He wrapped his arms around me, and suddenly I was crying into his starched white shirt. “I just . . . I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . oh, Griff . . .”

I stayed there for a long time. Well past the point when I stopped crying. Long enough for my hiccups to go away. For my breathing to match the strong, steady beat of his heart. To pull my knees up and curl into his chest. Long enough for him to encircle me with his arms and tell me everything was going to be all right.

But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. Irene was dead and that changed everything.

Nothing would ever be the same.

I almost told him, right there, sitting in his arms, that I loved him, because I did. Really and truly. But I had to go
to Hollywood now because I couldn't stay, not with what had happened to Irene. So I didn't say anything at all. And after a while, Mr. Phillips came home from wherever he'd been, and I slipped off Griff's lap, said good night, and went home.

I still couldn't sleep. I couldn't get Irene out of my thoughts. I could still feel the awful weight of her body as I tried to hold her up. I could still see the glossy waves in her hair and smell the perfume she wore.

Was it like Jack said? Were people entitled to do what they wanted? Or was it more like Griff insisted? Was the law meant to be obeyed and upheld?

And whose fault was it when people like Irene died?

Jack had been to war and come home. And then he'd become a policeman, for heaven's sake. He was a real, honest-to-goodness hero. But Jack had done nothing at that speakeasy, and Griff would have done everything he could have.

It was all so confusing.

I rolled over and wondered what the actor William Hart would do. The right thing, probably. But I was starting to think that only worked in the movies. This was real life with real people. And sometimes it was difficult to figure out what the right thing actually was.

Why didn't people just do what they were supposed to? Why didn't they just obey the laws? Then no one would ever drink and no one would ever die.

From drinking, in any case.

Because everyone died eventually. Griff's mother had died
of the influenza. Janie's mother had died of a heart attack. Irene had died from a drink.

You couldn't force people to choose the things you wanted them to. You could hope. I guess . . . you could make laws that punished them if they did the wrong thing. But you couldn't make their choices for them.

Even God Himself had always let people choose, hadn't He?

But that didn't seem quite right, just leaving everyone to their own devices. That's what all those people in the speakeasy were doing. But weren't we supposed to be our brothers' keeper?

That's what Griff was trying to do. He was trying to look out for people.

And what
was
the wrong thing, anyway? Jack said a fellow deserved a drink once in a while. It didn't seem that terrible of a thing, to want to have a drink. People drank in their own homes all the time. Why shouldn't that be okay?

Because of the law.

It was the law that had turned them all into criminals, whether they drank at a club or whether they drank in their own dining room.

So maybe . . . maybe the problem was the law. Maybe if there wasn't a law, then everything would be all right.

I thought about that for a while, but that didn't make any sense either.

I beat at my pillow to punch it into shape and then lay back down again. Nothing made any sense anymore. I wished I weren't so stupid. It seemed like there was something about it all I couldn't quite understand. If the law was working, then people would be better, wouldn't they? They certainly wouldn't be worse. But then why were there so many speakeasies? And
people like King Solomon? And why were there smugglers out in Buzzards Bay?

The law
wasn't
working.

But I couldn't figure out why.

It just didn't seem fair a person like Irene had died from just one drink. Or one of many drinks. She'd probably had more than one. But was it right that just one drink could kill someone?

Maybe the problem was speakeasies. If there weren't any speakeasies, then people just wouldn't drink. But even as I thought it, I knew that wasn't right. Of course they'd drink. They'd just do it somewhere else.

People
wanted
to drink.

That was the problem.

There was a law, but people were stubborn. They just kept breaking it. So maybe there shouldn't be a law. But then what would happen? People would just drink any old thing whenever they wanted to and wouldn't that be even worse than now?

But didn't you have to draw a line somewhere? Didn't you have to look out for other people when they weren't willing—or weren't able—to look after themselves?

Why did people have to be so . . . people-y? Why couldn't they see drinking didn't do them any good? The problem was definitely people. They just didn't know what was good for them, and they wouldn't make the right choices.

As I drifted off to sleep, I knew I'd figured it out: The problem wasn't drinking. The problem was people. And what they needed wasn't a new law; what they all needed was a new heart.

A
s I left Central after work the next evening, Jack fell into step beside me. “Don't look at me.”

Too late. I already had. As he nudged me toward a diner, I gestured to the driver to wait for me.

Jack grabbed my forearm, opened up the diner door, and shoved me inside. He could have done it a little more gently. “What do you think you're—”

He marched me over to a booth in the very back. And then he plunked me into a seat and sat down across from me. “Something kept bothering me after I saw you down at Faneuil Hall that night. It was the guy you were with, that Joe Brooks. He looked familiar. And I kept thinking about it and thinking about it and then I remembered where I'd seen him before:
at a football game
. So you know him.” It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

“We're neighbors.”

“So that bit about wondering what was going to happen to the kid I was talking about . . . you knew I was talking about him.”

I nodded.

He ran a hand through his hair. And then he swore. Looked up at me. “Sorry.”

It was nothing I hadn't heard in the dormitory.

He pulled a torn bit of newspaper from his pocket and pushed it toward me.

I picked it up. It was Irene's obituary.

“I thought she was just some bearcat, but she was a co-ed! Why'd she have to get mixed with all of this? And what am I supposed to do now?”

I shrugged. “What were you supposed to do before?”

“Nothing. Unless I thought you knew something.”

“And what if I did? What were you supposed to do then?”

“I was supposed to let them know.”

“Who? King Solomon?”

He grimaced as he grabbed a menu. “Doesn't matter.”

I pulled the menu from him and stuffed it back between the salt and pepper shakers. “It matters to me. And I'll just bet it would matter to you if you were me too. But you're not the one in danger of being murdered!” I waited for him to deny it, to tell me those people, whoever they were, had no such plans, but he didn't. Which made me even more angry. “What are you doing going around with people like that anyway? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What are you supposed to do? What am
I
supposed to do? And what's
Griffin
supposed to do?”

“Who's Griffin?”

“Prince!” Good grief. They may be bad guys, but they sure weren't smart guys!

“Just . . . calm down. Give me a minute to think about all this.”

The waitress came by with a coffeepot and held it up.

“Sure.” Jack took the cup in front of him from its saucer and turned it right side up.

She moved to turn mine over too, but I stopped her. “No, thank you.” After she left, Jack picked up his cup. He must have drunk a good half of it in one long swallow.

“Isn't that hot? Doesn't it hurt?”

“Never mind. We have to figure this out.”

“Just tell whoever the person is that doesn't matter that I don't know anything.”

“But you know him. You know that Prince Phillips kid.” Jack put his head in his hands and sat there staring at his coffee cup. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to know you. You weren't supposed to know anything . . . no one I knew was supposed to get hurt, see? It wasn't supposed to matter because . . . it didn't matter. I'm just doing a favor for a friend.”

“So you're telling me it's all right to do the wrong thing as long as it doesn't hurt the wrong people?”

“I don't know what I'm saying. Just . . . let me think.”

I'd already let him think, and it didn't seem to be doing much good.

He looked up at me. “Could you just get the kid to do what he's supposed to?”

“What he's
supposed
to do or what you want him to do?” Somehow I didn't think they were the same thing.

“Just tell him it's for his own good.”

“No.”

“You understand what's at stake here, don't you? He's going to end up getting himself in trouble.”

I already knew that! I knew all of it. That's why I was trying to keep him
out
of trouble. “You're telling me you want him to stop doing the right thing so the bad guys won't do the wrong thing?”

Jack stared at me for a long moment. “Yeah. That's what I'm telling you.”

“But he's been working so hard at all of this—”

“Working . . . ?”

“And he's found some really—”

“Found some . . . ? Why should I care what he's found?”

“Because it's important.”

“Listen to me:
It doesn't matter
.”

“Something has to matter. Don't you care that the mayor—” Wait a minute. Something wasn't making any sense. “If it doesn't matter, then why should anyone care? If no one was worried, then . . . they wouldn't be worried. But they are. So it does too matter!”

“If you would just listen to me, then no one would get hurt.”

“Stop shaking your finger at me! Why can't you just tell those—those—bad people to stop?”

“Stop?” He snorted. “What, you want me to tell them to just . . . be nice?”

“I wish . . . I wish people would just do what they're supposed to. Why can't they just . . . obey the law?”

“Because they're people. And laws that can't be enforced just . . . can't be enforced. Do you know how many Feds there are in the city to enforce the Volstead Act? Less than forty.”

That few? “How do you know?”

“They offered me a job, but I turned it down. Couldn't live on what they wanted to pay me. But listen: There are over a thousand speakeasies. Close down one and three more start up to take its place. How do you expect me . . . how do you expect anyone to do anything about that? This law has turned everyone into a crook.”

“But . . . I'm not a crook. I'm honest.”

He raised a brow. “Sure,
Janie
. I don't even think that's your real name, is it?”

“I'm only trying to do a favor . . .” A favor for a friend, the same way he was doing a favor for a friend. Could I really say my favor was any different than his?

“So it's all right for you to lie and do favors for people, but it's not all right for me? Where's the difference?”

“I don't know.”

“Good. So now you're back to being the I-don't-know girl. I liked you better that way anyway.”

“Better than what?”

“Better than the too-good-for-the-likes-of-you girl.” He downed the rest of his coffee.

“I never said I was—”

“Oh yes, you did. In more ways than one.” He nodded, jammed his hat on his head, and walked out of the diner.

Another sleepless night. Even bigger circles under my eyes the next morning. Pretty soon I wouldn't have to use a kohl pencil to look like Theda Bara. As I was eating breakfast, the butler came in and laid an envelope down beside my plate.

“For—for me?”

“Yes, miss.”

I opened it to find a telegram.

TO: ELLIS ETON

BEST OF LUCK STOP COMING TO SEE YOU

MOTHER

“Are you sure this is for me?”

He took the envelope from me and turned it over. “Miss Ellis Eton. Louisburg Square. Boston.”

I'd never received a telegram before. Whatever did it mean?

Father came into the dining room, newspaper in hand. I might have asked him, but he didn't give me time to say anything. “Good luck, Ellis!”

“ . . . thank you?”

“We're very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” I supposed I needed all the luck I could get, only . . . what on earth was he proud of? I finished my tea and left the table puzzling over what had come over everyone all of a sudden and why Mother was coming back, but I soon put it out of my thoughts. I still had my eyebrows to draw on and my teeth to brush. And by the time I was finished, the driver was waiting for me.

It was nice to be wished the best, though, and I walked into Central with a veritable spring in my step.

I remembered to turn my beads around.

I remembered to put my headset on.

I remembered to flip my switches and remove my cords. And to write down all my numbers before I transferred to them. It was almost easy. I'd finally become a real hello girl!

Only my inability to figure out what those men intended to do to Griff marred what was an otherwise perfect day.

The supervisor tapped my shoulder around noon and I followed Doris up the stairs.

“Well, look at that!” Doris was staring at the lunch counter.

“What is it?”

“They're serving giblets. Things are looking up!”

I asked for extra and then I sat down with the girls. I ate while they talked about the latest Valentino movie. I hadn't even known it was out.

Someone started playing “Hinky Dinky Parlay Voo” on the piano, and we gathered around and sang until someone whispered that the supervisor was coming. The tune changed to the much more sedate “Linger Awhile.” I was really going to miss these girls when I left for Hollywood.

As Doris and I headed toward the switchboard after lunch, we saw a commotion outside on the street. “I wonder . . .” I craned my neck, trying to see beyond her. She turned to look, then gave a dismissive wave. “It's just the orphan asylum.”

“Orphan asylum?”

“Sure. They're having some kind of pageant today, and all the bigwigs are coming to see it. Clogs up the traffic. Happens every June.”

I picked up my headset and put it back on. Spying a blinking light, I picked up a cord, wrote down the number, and patched the call through. The board stayed busy until about three o'clock; then all the lights seemed to go dead. A rare moment of peace. No one was talking on the telephone.

I hoped the street traffic would be back to normal by the
time the driver came to pick me up. It was amazing a pageant at the orphanage would cause such a stir. Poor little orphans.

Orphans!

Good luck? Best wishes?
Coming to
see you
?

Oh no!

No, no, no, no,
no
!

I was supposed to
be
at that pageant. At least, that's what my parents thought. That's why they'd wished me good luck. I ripped my headset off, bounded from the stool, and dashed—right into the supervisor.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“I have to—”

“Your shift doesn't end for another two hours.”

“I have to go.”

“If you want to keep your job you'll—”

“I'm sorry.” I pushed past her and rushed toward the door.

Please, please, please!

I suppose it was a kind of prayer.

Please may they not have noticed I wasn't there.

There were still an awful lot of fancy cars parked on the street.

I walked up the steps of the orphan asylum and pushed open the door, crept in, and then tiptoed down the hall. It sounded like . . . I walked toward a buzz of conversation and peeked around the corner. A reception was still taking place. If I could just sneak over to the punch table and pick up a few cups, then I could make it look as if I'd been helping out.

My mother and brother were talking to the Oliver Bradlees.

I sidled over toward the refreshments table and then veered away when sour old Miss Mary Adams appeared. I knew her. She knew me. And if she were in charge of the table, then I had no hope at all of making it look as if I'd been helping.

What could I do?

I found what I assumed to be an orphan and started up a conversation. She turned out to be a Quincy. We were related. At least . . . I think we were. Somehow. Back a few hundred years ago. I supposed . . . I could try to do something in the kitchen. That would look good, wouldn't it?