5
BY THE TIME THEY STEPPED DOWN ONTO THE STREET with Norma, the brass-haired girl, and three others, the night had already begun to swing. They could hear laughter bubbling up from half-cracked car windows or from invisible gatherings on rooftops, and Letty, arm in arm with her best friend, began to see that the hilarity might have less to do with her own backwardness, and more with something very gay in the atmosphere. The girls glided forward, their eyes gemlike and sparkling.
“Where are we going?” Cordelia called out to Norma, who twirled and walked backward for a few strides, as though she needed to look them over before giving a full answer.
At that time of year, in that particular town, they might have knocked on any number of doors and stumbled into a party in progress. Speakeasies of every imaginable variety lined the streets; speakeasies for the right kind of people and speakeasies for the wrong. There were private clubs, where rich men kept their own store of illegal liquor; sordid clip joints for suckers; places to watch a water ballet while sipping juleps; rooms done up in the style of Louis XV; basement spots with dark red walls where no one said much and a lone trumpet wailed mournfully from a shadowy corner, expressing for all those people just what it looked like inside their souls. But the newest girls to alight in Manhattan could not possibly have known yet how pregnant with possibility every closed door should appear to them.
“To Seventh Heaven, of course,” Norma said at last, and pointed straight ahead, to the speakeasy most Washborne girls experience first, perhaps because of its proximity but also because it was, in May of 1929, the place everyone wanted to be.
Letty followed Norma?s gaze and saw a stone structure with a bell tower several stories high at the front and arched stained glass windows along the sides of the main building. “The church?” she asked, incredulous.
“Well, I suppose drink is a kind of religion for some,” Cordelia quipped.
Norma?s reply was no more than a silvery laugh. Soon enough the big church with the bell tower was looming over them. The street was quiet, and there was no sign that the building housed a nightclub. But then Norma knocked against the wooden door exactly four times, and it popped open.
“We?re here for the wedding,” she informed the slick-haired man whose head appeared in the doorway.
“Which wedding?”
“The Murphy wedding,” Norma replied, with supreme confidence. After the passing of a few seconds, Letty realized there was no wedding, and that this must be some kind of password. It reminded her of her younger sister Laura, and how she would sometimes hide behind the sheets hanging on the clothesline and demand to hear the magic word before showing herself again. But before Letty could get lost in melancholy thoughts, the girls were being swept inside the archway.
People were out walking along the sidewalks at that hour, but even so, Letty felt as though they had stepped in from some quiet graveyard; for inside the old church on Seventh Avenue were a hundred people to look at and a thousand things to see. They stood for a minute on the homely stone floor of the entry, taking in the busy spectacle of what had once been a house of worship. Most of the pews had been removed, and the open space under the high ceiling was now occupied by round tables and people in shimmering clothes. Cigarette girls, dressed in outfits that some women might have been shy to bathe in, trotted across the floor, offering colorful packages from trays strapped to their narrow torsos. Waiters in black suits dodged them, ferrying full cocktails as though gravity were just some fiction they did not personally subscribe to. On every table in the room sat glasses of all shapes, stuffed with festive green leaves and bright straws. A ten-piece band played on the altar.
“Oh,” said Letty, realizing that her mouth had been open for some time.
“Five of us,” Norma said to a small man in a tuxedo, brushing past a crowd of people loitering in the entryway, with the rest of the girls following close behind.
The crowd, which was mostly male, made grumbling noises, but the man in the tuxedo must have known Norma already, because he whisked the girls through the room to two round tables near the bar. Letty didn?t know where a girl learned to talk that way, but she was relieved Norma could do it for all of them. Before they had settled in, a waiter appeared demanding to know what they would drink. Letty hadn?t the faintest idea—she had never taken a drink in her life.
“Beers for all of us,” Norma said brightly. When he was gone, she leaned in toward Letty and said, “Don?t worry, doll, we?ll get something more exciting once we meet some fellows to buy them for us.”
“So this is a speakeasy,” Cordelia whispered reverently on Letty?s other side.
Their eyes roved across the spectacle, darting from women with bare shoulders draping themselves over men in sharp suits, to girls not so much better dressed than themselves, wearing no jewels but sparkling with laughter at whatever jokes their escorts told. Even so, Letty felt a little self-conscious about her red cotton dress with the square collar—it was cinched at her natural waist, unlike nearly every other dress in the room. When she?d worn it to country dances, she used to think it was pretty. Cordelia was wearing the white dress she had married John in, and Letty couldn?t help wondering if her old friend hadn?t been thinking more of a place like this than of him when she had stitched its low waist and high, scalloped hem.
“Five beers,” the waiter announced, plunking them down on the table.
Letty contemplated the tall glass in front of her, the bubbles rising up through the pretty amber liquid, before lifting it to her lips. The first sip was sour in her mouth, and she swallowed it quickly so that she wouldn?t have to taste it any longer. Then everything in the room around her became a little too vivid, and she found that the only thing that might steady her was another sip. But she must have made some kind of noise, of disgust or surprise, because over her shoulder, a male voice commented: “Five bucks says her friends have to carry her out of here.”
The white skin of Letty?s cheeks grew pink, and she cast her eyes down at her toes.
Beside her, Cordelia felt that old fury, familiar from when the Haubstadts would accuse Letty of being too scrawny to do as many chores as the rest of them, or when other girls in Union would call Letty?s legs skinny. She swiveled in her chair and saw a man not much older than she was, with a great square jaw and light hair darkened with the grease that held it back from his face. He leaned against the black lacquered bar that curved below a wall of stained glass windows with a superior air that made Cordelia bristle. His eyes were brown and unkind and spaced wide apart under a low brow. The strong arc of his shoulders reminded her of a snake coiled, loaded with ready aggression.
“What makes you an expert?” Cordelia said, coolly but loud enough that he wouldn?t miss it.
The man smirked and lit a cigarette. “You?ll find out.”
“Doubt I?ll care much, if in fact I ever do,” she drawled. Then she picked up her beer and drank it in one long, theatrical gulp. The bitter liquid fizzed in her belly and up in her head, but she placed the glass back on the table so that it made a decided thud, and raised one controlled eyebrow at the man who?d mocked Letty.
Disgustedly he turned to the bar, so that his back faced the girls. His friend, who had been standing close by and wore a similar dark-colored suit, but whose slouching posture and unfocused gaze made him appear far drunker, came toward them, leering at Letty. “Hey, little lady,” the man slurred. “Come on, and I?ll show you we didn?t mean no harm.”
Then he practically lifted Letty up from her seat and danced her across the floor, up toward the band, where Cordelia could just glimpse him knocking into couples and causing a scene. She wanted to go help her friend—after all, it was her fault they?d drawn that fellow?s attention—but she was afraid that if she stood up, everyone would see how unsteady she was after downing her drink like that. Norma and the other girls were involved in a conversation with a table of sailors and were no longer paying attention to their new friends. Anyway, the dance didn?t last long—one of the cigarette girls cut in, and began dancing Letty to safety, away from the man who?d accosted her. The girl was wearing a cream jumper, and her dark hair was marcelled into wide waves. She was a good deal taller than Letty, her long legs accentuated by the heeled shoes she wore. Cordelia decided she looked like a good sort, and she closed her eyes, willing the dizziness away.
From over her other shoulder she heard a faint chuckle, and turned to see who was milking a laugh out of the two girls from Ohio now. She tried to put on a prideful expression—but she soon realized that it was going to be impossible to maintain. The boy who had laughed was sitting at a table just behind her, and though his body was facing away, he had twisted his torso around to look at her. His coppery hair was parted and combed from the side, and he had an angular quality to his face, as though a sculptor had carved out slabs from either side of a strong nose. One of his legs was crossed over the other in an easy, careless way that suggested he had never known worry or want. His deep blue suit fit his long limbs somewhat loosely; from the chest of his mauve dress shirt, he produced a gold object that, cupping his hands, he used to light a cigarette.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” he answered, his moody green eyes flicking up to hers.
The air was thick with fast music and chatter, and every atom of her body was suddenly full of a ticking boldness. All that day had been a process of transformation. What fun it would be to meet someone as her new self, she thought, just after she had. And how lucky that he happened to be someone who looked just like the personification of everything bright and urbane she?d been seeking when she left home. “I hope you weren?t laughing at me.”
“Not you—that man,” he answered, gesturing at the fellow with the broad shoulders who?d first insulted Letty.
“Oh.” A smile played at the edges of Cordelia?s lips. “But I don?t find him interesting at all.”
“I like the way you shot him down. Anyway, don?t I know you?” He pushed back his chair so that he could more fully face her. “Are you some kind of actress or something?”
Cordelia made a scoffing noise and tried not to glance down self-consciously at her homely white dress. White, she had noticed while glancing around, was not a color to wear to a nightclub. But the taxi driver had asked them a similar question—perhaps that was a line all pretty girls in New York heard sooner or later.
“An aviatrix?” His voice was what she would imagine an educated man?s voice was like, especially when he used words she?d never heard before.
“What?s that?”
“I?ve got it … You?re a moral crusader, here to shame us for our law-breaking, bourbon-drinking ways!”
“Lord, no.”
“Three strikes.” He shrugged and sighed. “Excuse me, I?ve been very rude, you have no drink. Can I get you one?”
Cordelia pretended to waver a moment and then gave a little nod. He gestured to a passing waiter, who seemed to require no more than a flourish of a pinkie finger to take the order. Sitting so close to this boy, the backs of their chairs almost touching, it was obvious how alike in size and presence they were. Then she became exquisitely aware of how near their hands, idling on the backs of their chairs, had crept.
“Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“Don?t smoke?” He turned down the corners of his mouth.
“No …” She rolled her eyes upward. “I don?t smoke or not smoke as a rule … only it sounds like a lot of distraction just now.”
“Ah.” A ghostly white spiraled up from between his index and middle fingers, where he rested his cigarette, and for a moment it obscured her view of him. “This much I am sure of: I haven?t met you before, because a girl like you I surely would have done everything in my power to keep on knowing.”
“You do say pretty things, don?t you?” she replied, leaning away from him and narrowing her eyes, as though he were not to be trusted. And perhaps he wasn?t to be trusted. In this city, how was she to know? But talking to him was thrilling, and she wanted to go on doing so regardless of the consequences.
“So—you take offense at the innocent suggestion of moral crusading …” He paused, contemplating her. It was a long, searching look, as though he could see the pulsing of her heart or somehow read the transmissions of her thoughts. “Perhaps your living is robbing banks or holding up unlucky pharmacists and the like?”
A wry smile spread across Cordelia?s face. “That would take some style—committing crimes by daylight and then spending your nights in a busy joint like this.”
“True. But, in my humble opinion, style is one thing you?ve got plenty of.”
The flattery almost overwhelmed her. And it had come so quickly. She couldn?t help but think, briefly, of John, who was always so gentle but could never quite keep up with her. Resting her cheek against her palm, she let her eyes drift across the room, taking in the movement all around and the glint of the table candles reflecting on white teeth when people laughed.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “Compliments make you sad, don?t they?”
She pushed the image of John from her mind—she didn?t see any logic in dwelling on those she?d left behind—and smiled wide. “Now what kind of girl doesn?t like compliments?”
“I hope you like old-fashioneds, too.”
“Is that what the waiter is bringing us?” she asked. “I?ve never had one.”
“How unfortunate!” he replied. “Rest assured: They are delicious. If you find I?m in error, we?ll see to it that you get something that truly pleases you. The bartender is a friend.”
Both her eyebrows rose. “You have a lot of friends, don?t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“It?s the way you carry yourself.” She paused, considering, and took a breath of smoky air. Everyone around them was jittery and excitable and chatting at high speed, and she was amazed to realize that, despite the crowded room, she had perhaps never had a conversation that felt quite so private as this one. “And also the fact that you don?t mind sitting alone amongst all these people.”
He smiled faintly. “But how do you know I am not waiting for someone?”
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked, a hint of flirtatious challenge wavering in her voice. There was something about the way he said it that made her believe him and suspect one of the well-heeled ladies seated at the bar of biding her time until she left. But before he could answer, the waiter returned. Whatever they had been saying was lost among the placing of glasses on napkins, the administering of soda water, the relighting of his cigarette.
“To you, whoever you are,” he said, raising his glass once the waiter had departed.
She raised her glass just the way he?d done, and touched his so that it made a sound.
“To a perfect moment. May it never end,” he concluded, and drank.
She drank, too, but not with his assurance. The sensation on her tongue was sweet and scorching at once, and when she swallowed the mouthful of thick, sugary liquid, she felt dizzy and had to close her eyes. The glass was still cool against her palm, but then she felt the warm sensation of his fingertips on her wrist.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied and opened her eyes. It seemed remarkable that only yesterday she?d woken up in a very far-off place and now she was here, and then she heard herself say: “I grew up in Ohio, but in fact I was born here in New York. It?s my first night back in town. I?m here to find my father.”
All of that ought to be followed by a great deal of explanation, she supposed. Yet she was in no particular hurry. He had said he hoped the moment would never end, and indeed she felt that she might go on contentedly like this forever. The air was rich, and the drinks were cold. In every corner of the room, a gentleman or lady was watching or being watched, and Cordelia paused, taking in the crowd, until she realized that she was in fact one of the ladies being observed.
“Your father?”
Letty was standing over her, wearing a new shade of lipstick.
“But I thought we were here because …” The room had grown blurry, and Letty found she couldn?t finish her sentence. Already tonight she had been accosted and then saved by a cigarette girl named Paulette, who had taken Letty aside and cleaned her up and made sure she understood that that kind of thing happened to everybody, and she needn?t go to confession over it or quit the city before she even got a real taste. Paulette had then given her a swipe of red lipstick and a shot of brandy to calm her nerves. After that Letty began to see that good people could be found anywhere.
But that new sense of calm waned when she came to stand beside her old friend and overheard her saying something that didn?t make any kind of sense. “I thought we came because I was meant to be a star,” she finally said, though it sounded foolish to her now.
Cordelia?s cheeks had grown rosy, and her eyes were dark and mysterious. She sat up straight and then paused. The other Washborne girls had been absorbed by the crowd. Everything in the vast room swam toward Letty and away.
“My father—he?s here.” The dim light accentuated Cordelia?s cheekbones, as well as the haughtiness of which she was sometimes capable. She glanced back at the man she?d been talking to, as if they shared something, though he?d already looked away and begun to recede into the background. Then she turned the glass of amber liquid in a circle across the table and went on in a nonchalant tone. “Not here at the club, here in New York. I?m going to find him.”
Letty?s red mouth stood open, and the whites of her eyes expanded. Up until that moment she had believed she?d known everything about Cordelia; now she wondered if she knew anything. She wanted to ask why her oldest friend had never told her of this suspicion before, or how she had come by it, and if it was the whole reason they had left everything they?d ever known for a vast and fearsome city, or if Letty?s hopes and dreams had played even a small role in the decision. But she was afraid that if she spoke again, she would begin to cry. Then she?d have to be taken aside a second time and cleaned up again, and she already felt sufficiently humiliated.
Letty turned and hurried toward the exit.
“Letty, wait!” Cordelia yelled after her.
But Letty was pushing through clots of people, all straining in the opposite direction to be in the spot she had just vacated. Even in the entryway a raucous good time was being had, and she probably should not have been surprised that with all the shouting and revelry, her stricken expression went entirely unnoticed.
“Letty!” She heard Cordelia yell again once she had traveled halfway down the block. There were fewer people outside now, and the warm windows of a few brick houses illuminated the darkened street below.
Although Letty did not turn around, Cordelia?s long strides soon brought the two girls side by side.
“Don?t be angry,” she said.
Letty did not at first glance up as they continued at a furious pace back toward the Washborne. “I didn?t even know you had a father,” she said eventually. “You never told me. I tell you everything, and you never even—”
“Well, I don?t know for sure,” Cordelia went on, in a placating tone, as they turned off the avenue and onto their own twisting street. Then she sighed as though she had stumbled upon an irritating but simple misunderstanding. “I know where he is, because he?s famous. At least, I think he is. He?s that bootlegger, Darius Grey. It?s not coincidental that we have the same name. Aunt Ida always said that I should keep my father?s name as a reminder of the sinful life that had begot me … And I?ve read the papers: It would have been right around the time Mr. Grey had to leave Chicago for New York. He was small-time then, and that?s what Aunt Ida always implied my daddy was: small-time and crooked. Of course, she doesn?t keep up with the news. She doesn?t know what he?s become.”
“We came all this way because you think Darius Grey is your father?” Letty shrieked. Her body had gone cold, and the great distance between her and everything she?d ever known felt suddenly more real and more painful than before. “You really believe he?ll just take you in? He?s a criminal. You think a man like that wants a daughter to take care of? You think he doesn?t have a dozen forgotten children all over the country?” For a moment, Letty thought she might cry. Instead she heard herself wail: “You?re deluded!”
“Me? You?re the one who?s deluded,” Cordelia shot back, just as quickly. “You think you can just show up in Manhattan, and instantly you?ll be a star? There are thousands of girls trying to make it in this city.”
The night air was cooler than it had been during the day, but both girls had grown hot by now. They had ceased to notice anything about their surroundings, or whether any of the old men on stoops watched them. By the time they spotted the Washborne, Letty?s throat was sore and all logic had gone out of her sentences.
“You?re a liar!” Letty shrieked, her tiny mouth like a balled fist as she looked up at the girl who had once been her best friend. She placed a hand on the railing of the Washborne?s steps.
“I am not.” Cordelia stared back, her eyes wide open and full of fire.
“What?s this?”
They both turned, startled, and saw the housemother through the crack of the doorway, her hair in the same ornate arrangement, her body covered in a full-length dressing gown. The blood drained from Letty?s face.
“What?s what?” Letty asked, drawing herself up innocently. Overhead, the leaves of the trees rustled, but everything else was quiet.
The housemother?s long fingers clung to the doorway, and she put her head forward to sniff the air dramatically. “Alcohol,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Cordelia replied.
But their faces were flushed, and there would be no convincing the housemother now. Her eyes had grown narrow, her mind hardened with conviction. “There is no drinking and no carousing in this house.” The old lady?s nose pointed upward and the corners of her mouth turned down. “I thought you were good girls, but I was wrong. You?ll have to be going now, before you corrupt the others.”
Of course, it was not their malignant natures that had gotten them in trouble, only their newness; had they lived in the city a few more days, they would have known how to fool the housemother. As it was, they were escorted to their room and watched as they packed their few things.
“But we?ve paid for the whole week,” Cordelia protested, once they were back in the lobby.
“Perhaps God saw that and will take it as partial penance for what you?ve done,” the housemother answered coldly, before slamming the front door against their faces.
Outside, the moon dressed the cobblestones in pools of white, and the air felt damp. Letty was so shocked and ashamed to have been put out on the street that she almost ceased to remember her rage. Almost. She stood watching Cordelia in the moonlight; her features and her stance were the same as always, but there was something strange about her. She had been cruel to Letty for the first time, and Letty found she wanted to be cruel back. “I don?t know that I like you anymore,” she managed finally.
If Cordelia flinched, it was subtle. “I suppose you?re on your own, then,” was all she said, and then she turned and walked alone into the night, her suitcase bouncing against her hip.
The city howled all around, and a chill settled into Letty?s bones. She wanted to call out to Cordelia and beg her to stay, to tell her that she couldn?t possibly survive alone. But over the course of that day, she had already felt her heart swell and sink, and then she?d shouted with a fury she had not known herself capable of, and at that late hour, it seemed her voice was no longer up to the task.