Strings Attached

Thirty



New York City

November 1950



Here was where Delia had moved and talked, read the papers, had a cup of tea in the afternoon. Maybe there was a whole other side to my aunt. Maybe she sang along with the radio. Maybe she painted her fingernails. Because I didn’t really know her.

It was dark outside when I summoned all my courage and dialed the number. When I heard Muddie’s voice, I almost hung up.

“Kit!” she said when she heard my voice. “Oh, the newspapers! It’s all over, that picture of you….”

“So you saw it.”

“What happened? How could they print such lies? Everyone in Providence knows you’re Billy’s girl.”

I hung on, wanting to cry. Muddie’s belief in me was a steady thing, no more noticed than the sidewalk underneath my heels. But now I was glad of it. “Did Da —”

“I don’t know — he’s not home yet. Any minute. Are you coming for Thanksgiving? I can meet the train. Anytime —”

“I don’t know,” I said, stalling.

“But you have to come! Is Billy with you?”

“No. I was hoping he was in Providence,” I said, my heartbeat speeding up.

“Gosh, I wouldn’t know. He hasn’t called, but I’m sure he will,” Muddie rushed to say. “I’m sure he won’t believe any of this nonsense. Oh, here’s Da! It’s Kit on the phone! Hurry, it’s long distance!”

“I know it’s long distance!” Da shouted into the phone. “Kit? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Da —”

“I’m going down to that editor’s office and string him up by his tie, do you hear me?” he roared. “I’m suing him for libel! How dare they print such a lie! So you’re dancing with the man — you’re a dancer, aren’t you? Calling you a chorus girl —”

I was crying, leaning against the wall, tears sliding down my cheeks. He believed in me. Believed without my explaining or begging. “I am a chorus girl, Da.”

“I know, but it’s the way he wrote it. I’ve a mind to —”

“You can’t do anything. It’s in all the papers here. I’m just glad you don’t believe it.”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Da, I have to ask you something. What happened between you and Nate?”

“What happened? What do you mean? I haven’t seen him in years.”

“No, I mean, long ago. Why didn’t you stay friends?”

There was a pause. Then, cautiously, “Well, now, we’re friends. Of a sort.”

“What does he blame you for?”

I heard the hiss of the phone connection. I pictured Da, still in his work clothes and boots, standing in the kitchen. “This isn’t something to be yelling into a phone long distance.”

“Tell me! I need to know. Was it about Delia?”

“He asked for Delia’s hand back then — when she was twenty and him twenty-two. And me being his best friend and her brother, he asked me. I said no. Well, of course I did! He was already mixed up with those gangsters up on Federal Hill. So much for his promises.”

“What promises?”

“That he was out of the rackets. That he would take Delia and they’d move away, to Boston, or even farther, to get away.”

“Why would she listen to you?”

“Well, that’s another question, isn’t it? I think she listened to herself, more’s like. But he blamed me, even though it was for the best. Anyone would say that. And he wasn’t even a fine lawyer then, just a skinny kid saying he was going to be a lawyer. Who knew he’d turn out to be such a big man? But wasn’t I right — isn’t he still a gangster? Just look at the papers!”

“I thought you didn’t believe the papers.”

“Well, they get things right once in a while. Listen, everyone makes their own road, I’m not throwing stones at the man. I just didn’t want him marrying my sister. That’s enough of the past, now. What difference does it make?”

I choked out a half laugh, half sob.

“Darling girl, come home. Muddie is all sparked up.”

I told him I would let them know, which he didn’t like, and that long distance was expensive, which he couldn’t argue with, and we hung up.

I was no further along than before.

If Nate had closed up this apartment after Delia disappeared in 1945, maybe there was more evidence of her having been here. I began to search. I had nothing else to do. I opened every drawer and felt behind it. I moved the rugs. I climbed on a chair to search the top shelves of the closet. I crawled on my hands and knees on the floor and ran my hand along every seam in the floorboards. I didn’t know what I was looking for — a stray earring, a scrap of paper, a key… something left behind five years before that would have been overlooked the same way the powder compact had. Nothing.

I suddenly sat up very straight, pierced by a thought. There was one place I hadn’t searched.



Down in the basement, there was no problem at all breaking the lock on the chain-link fencing for apartment 1A. The super kept his tools in the utility room, where the boiler sat. I broke the lock with a screwdriver and a hammer. Amazing the tips you could learn from growing up in a lousy neighborhood.

The door swung open. I walked right through. I removed a box from on top of the footstool and then sat down to open it with the tip of the screwdriver.

The box was filled with women’s clothes. Not folded and neatly put away, but thrown in and all jumbled together. I pawed through it and found expensive cocktail dresses with net and tulle and lace. Holding one up, I gauged the hemline and the style. A shorter hemline, out of date — the war years. A fox stole, a little black hat with a veil. Some rhinestone jewelry. And brassieres and underwear and girdles — all black, trimmed with lace, dainty things. Clothes to be seen in.

They couldn’t be Delia’s.

I pressed my nose to a sweater. Delia had never worn perfume, but a scent clung to these….

But wait. During the war years, there had been a bottle on her dresser. A little bottle with a gold top. Toujours Moi. I’d never paid attention in French class, but I knew that meant Always Me.

I breathed in again. Suddenly, my eyes smarted with tears. Delia burst into brisk, purposeful life, her fingers resting on top of my head, bending down to adjust a scarf or fix a button. I smelled her.

I slipped into a little gold jacket, nipped in at the waist with a small peplum. It fit perfectly. I vaguely remembered this one.

So this was why Nate knew how to buy clothes for a woman. He’d had years of practice with Delia.

A small chest was wedged against the grating. I opened all the drawers. Empty. I pulled them out and searched underneath and behind. Nothing.

Another box. This one, purses and shoes. Platform pumps in kid and sandals in black. Summer shoes. Shoes to dance in. And tiny purses, a clutch in black satin and one in red leather. A small beaded one for evening. The shoes had scuffed bottoms but seemed barely worn, and there was nothing inside the purses except a crumpled tissue. At the very bottom of the box was a green quilted rectangular box, the kind ladies kept their silk stockings in, instead of rolling them into balls and tossing them in a drawer. I opened it — nylons and silk stockings, tumbled together. I shut the box, then opened it again. Underneath the stockings, I’d caught a glimpse of white.

An envelope addressed to Nate at his office address on Federal Hill. In Delia’s handwriting. But there was no stamp, no postmark. I opened it.

Do you remember the night of the hurricane, when you picked me up and carried me through the water — do you remember? We said we could never walk away from something so true. We did once and we found each other again and so we’d never leave again. That’s what we said.



Are you afraid of me now? Is that it? Do we have too many secrets to keep?



I thought my heart had been broken every Sunday afternoon we parted. Every Friday night you put it back together. My life was full of waiting.



And now it ends with waiting. I’m waiting for you here and you aren’t coming. I know that now. You’re shedding your mistress. You are making that clear. Yes, I said mistress. I know, I was never allowed to use that word. I wasn’t your mistress, I was your love. How many times did you say that to me over the years? How could I have known that the language was as false as the promise?



I wish I could take back every tear I shed for you. I wish I could take back every kiss. I wish I could take back the years.



Keep your money and your clothes. On my forehead, the words are written in ash, and I am wearing scarlet and purple and I am leaving because



The letter stopped there. I could see Delia writing it, maybe wiping tears away while she did it, putting down her pen and picking it up again. I had no way of knowing if Nate had ever read it. It seemed the kind of letter you’d tear up if you found it.

The air was so chilly down here. The light was dim. I was suddenly aware of how alone I was, and how much time had passed.

Turning to go, I saw something I’d missed. A trunk, an old one with leather straps. Pushed to the very back, with an old rug tossed on top.

I stared at the trunk. Suddenly, fear seized me, a hard, cold fear that made it impossible for me to move, or even think for a moment.

Are you afraid of me now?

Do we have too many secrets to keep?

What would his mistress know about his business that no one else might know? What part of his life could she threaten if she became emotional? If she showed up where she wasn’t supposed to show up, like in a theater when his wife was there? If she suddenly brought a legal proceeding against her own brother, what would she do to Nate?

I knew it from the movies, and I knew it from Fox Point, where windows and doors were flung open and fights were like opera in other houses — men were afraid of desperate women. They’d do anything to shut them up.

I needed somebody else to open that trunk, because I was too afraid.

I felt the screwdriver in my fist. I made my legs move. All I have to do is break the lock and lift the lid. Just glance inside, quickly, and put it back down. Don’t think about what you’ll see, just do it. Because you have to know the truth.

I walked over to the trunk. I fit the screwdriver in the lock. My hands were perspiring and the screwdriver kept slipping. The clatter of the noise made my heart pound. It took long minutes before I was able to pop it open with a clatter that made me jump back.

I put my hands on the edges of the trunk. I tried to find courage, but could only come up with some sort of tattered determination and the knowledge that I couldn’t go to the police with a story like this unless it was true.

I pulled at the lid. It stuck for a moment, and I knelt on the floor and pushed harder. The lid sprang open and scraped against the fencing like a scream.

The trunk was empty.

Closing the lid, I sagged backward, placing a hand over my heart in a futile attempt to slow it down.

But if Delia wasn’t in the trunk, she was somewhere. Nate was involved in her disappearance, or her murder. Why hadn’t we gone to the police at the time? Because in our family, you didn’t poke at things. You just accepted them. Delia was angry, Delia moved away. There had been a short investigation, but it was clear that Delia had been rejected by her family and had chosen to go. We didn’t know where she’d kept her money; she’d handed over the rent to Da in cash every month. It made sense that she would just go. Never darken our door again, like in some melodrama.

If we suspected that Nate had done something terrible, we pushed the thought away, because it meant we were responsible for it. I’d been only twelve, so of course I would hide my head under my pillow and try to forget. But Da? What was his excuse? Was the answer so easy — that Da hid from everything?

I remembered his loyalty to me, how he believed in me, and I felt helpless against the great tide of his love. Delia had been right — he took the easy road. But he loved us and protected us. He was all kinds of things in one — liar and charmer and schemer. He was my da.

He wasn’t alone. We all chose to believe that Delia had left. We didn’t believe it — we chose to. We saw there was a mystery, but we decided to believe the easiest thing, the thing that made us the most comfortable. My father had led a whole life by that principle. Maybe choosing to believe the easiest thing was the worst sin of all.

And what about me? I had taken the easy road, too, accepting the apartment and the job and clothes…. How many things did I turn my face from, afraid of losing something?

I put everything back the way I’d found it and left. As I reached the stairway I realized that I was still wearing the jacket. The light was better here, and I looked down at it. For the first time I saw a stain on the front, near the waist. I slipped it off and looked at it closely. Dark brown, faded now, but an irregular stain that had splattered a bit, faint drops in a trail.

Wine?

Or blood.

Suddenly, I heard the whirr of the elevator. I looked over at it, my heartbeat thudding. It was between me and the stairs. Any minute the small round window would reveal a face.

I bolted backward, turning and running silently back toward the storage room. I heard the thunk of the elevator settling, then the sound of the heavy door opening.

I’d have to hide. There was no telling who it could be — a zealous reporter, or something worse… Nate. Footsteps headed toward me.

I carefully opened the door to Nate’s unit. The gate squeaked.

The footsteps stopped.

I reversed direction and glided across the concrete floor.

Maybe there was another exit toward the back. I slipped down the corridor, but it ended at a bare wall. I doubled back. There was a side room with a washing machine and dryer, and another where carriages and bicycles were stored. I took a cautious step forward when the lights went out.

It was like someone knocked me to the ground. I couldn’t see, and I was afraid to move. I tried to orient myself. How close was I to the first storage unit? How many steps to the door? I inched over, holding out a hand. When my fingers met cold metal I kept a hand there lightly as I moved forward. As frightened as I was, I was more frightened of standing still.

Inch by inch, I went forward. I heard a slithering noise, a footstep, but it was impossible to tell where it came from. I was breathing hard, I realized, and I tried to slow down.

As my eyes adjusted, the blackness dissolved into grays. I could make out shapes. Faint light from the barred window in the laundry room illuminated part of the basement. At last I could make out the shape of the door to the stairs.

The air and the darkness made panic surge. I ran. As fast as I could, eyes on the stairs. I collided with another body and went down. I screamed and tried to roll away.

“Kit!”

It was Hank. He was on his hands and knees, staring at me through the gloom, his eyes wild.

“What are you doing?” We both screamed the question at the same time.

I rolled on my back on the hard cement floor, gasping. “You scared the living daylights out of me!”

“Me, too. Why were you hiding?”

“Why did you turn out the lights?”

“I thought —” He got up and put out his hand to me, pulling me upright.

“You thought what?” I asked, dusting off my pants.

“Never mind. Mom sent me down for the Christmas box,” he said, gesturing to a box by the elevator. “She puts the Christmas stuff up the day after Thanksgiving. Everything has to be done the same way, every year, even this one. She’s crazy.”

Hank wasn’t meeting my eyes. He’d seen the headlines, too, of course.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you around. Happy Thanksgiving.”

I could see that he could hardly wait to get away. He must have hated me. And of course he was afraid of Nate.

Afraid of Nate… With everything I’d been thinking, I’d forgotten about that meeting with Hank. What had that been about? Nate’s hand on Hank’s shoulder, whispering…

“It’s not true,” I said.

He half turned. I could only see the side of his face. “What’s not true?”

“I’m not Nate’s girlfriend. I already told you he’s Billy’s father. That’s why he gave me the apartment.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“You’ve got to believe me!” I insisted. “I was mixed up with him, but not that way. And Hank — I think he might have killed somebody.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Hank said. “Just one?”

I closed my eyes for a second. “Please don’t joke right now. Please.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not… what they say I am. I’m not the best person, but I’m not… that.

Look, out of everyone in New York, your family should understand. Sometimes what they say about you? It just isn’t true. No matter how true it looks.”

He frowned. “Please don’t cry. It’s really hard to talk to you when you cry. Here.” He offered me his shirttail, and it made me laugh.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “The reason I’m down here — I’m looking for evidence. I think my aunt was Bridget Warwick. I think she took that name — and she lived in my apartment with Nate.” I spilled out the story as fast as I could, afraid he’d walk away. But I could tell that he wouldn’t, that he was believing me, every word.

“You thought she was in the trunk?” he asked, his eyes wide. “And you opened it?”

“I had to know. Hank, what happened that day with Nate? Did he threaten you about something?” Hank hesitated. The air down here was chilly and damp, and I felt goose bumps on my arms. “I didn’t send that message to come to my apartment. You saw how surprised I was to see you. Please tell me. I might be able to help you. Did he threaten you that day? About what?”

“I was there that night,” Hank blurted.

Slowly, I realized what he meant. “You’re the witness.”

“I just wanted to walk you home. I didn’t know if your boyfriend would come. I waited and you didn’t come out. Everybody else came out, and I just kept waiting around the corner. I wanted to talk to you, I guess. Make sure you were okay or something.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Finally I decided to go in and look. I used that door you told me about —”

“— the door to the lounge —”

“It was dumb, I know. I peeked in the dressing room but it was empty. I was just going out when I heard a noise. So I opened the door and saw — I saw it happen. I saw it, the whole thing.” Hank’s face twisted. “It happened fast— he got shot in the head. I don’t think he knew it was coming, because he didn’t try to get up. Or maybe he did know it. I don’t want to think about that part.”

“Was Nate there?”

“I don’t know! I couldn’t see anything, no faces or anything. All I saw were men in suits. Except for the killer. The big guy they caught? He did it.”

“So just tell the cops you didn’t see anything but that.”

Hank looked at me as though I were a transfer student from the dumb class. “It doesn’t matter if I didn’t see anything. They think I did. So that day Nate was just telling me that he couldn’t protect me. He could only get me out of town. He has contacts in Cuba.”

“Cuba!”

“I’d just have to go for a year or so, he said. And my parents… they were just… well, you can imagine. And they don’t trust the government, either. Trust the FBI? They think if we go to the FBI, they won’t protect the son of two Commies.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. They went to go talk to my uncle. They’re trying to figure it out. We thought we had it bad before. Now I got us into a worse mess.”

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. But, Hank, if I could prove that Nate killed Delia, you’d have something on him. And maybe you could make a deal.”

He looked puzzled. “Make a deal? But I have to tell what I know eventually.”

“Why? Then they’ll really be after you!”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. My parents are just trying to figure out how to do it. So that I’m protected. If I go to the wrong cop, he could inform, and then… it’s curtains.” Hank pulled a funny face and drew a finger across his throat, but I knew how scared he was.

“And you’re in a mess, too, I guess,” he said. “Billy saw the headline?”

I nodded, biting my lip.

“Those reporters… I think they’ve given up.”

“They’ll be back tomorrow.”

“But it’s Thanksgiving!”

I snorted. “You think those guys have families?”

Hank looked down at the box. “Want to help me decorate for Christmas?”

“No, thanks.” I didn’t think I could bear ribbons and bells. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

He walked me to my door. Without my asking, he went inside and looked around, in closets, under beds. He put a chair under the handle of the front door. Then he hesitated at the kitchen door.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not. It’s nobody’s. You couldn’t know I’d be there that night. Even you wouldn’t think I’d be such a drip.”

“Not a drip,” I said, touching his arm. “Just a good guy, that’s all.”

I closed the door behind him and locked it.

I climbed into bed that night, praying for sleep. I had one more night to feel safe. One more night.



But I didn’t sleep, of course. I tossed and turned, trying to escape my dreams. I woke up when it was still dark, not even seven a.m., which was the middle of the night for me. I knew I wouldn’t sleep anymore.

I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen. I reached automatically for the radio, but stopped. I didn’t want to hear the news.

I heard it now, the soft insistent knocking from the door to the street. Would reporters be out this early? I tiptoed to the door and leaned over the chair under the knob to get closer.

“Kit? Kit, are you there? Let me in.”

My heart lifted, and I felt giddy as I grabbed the chair and pushed it aside. I flung open the door.

I didn’t know why he was there, it was just a miracle that he was. I put my hands on his lapels and pulled him inside. Then I fell forward until my forehead hit against his chest.

“Jamie. You have no idea how good it is to see you.” My laughter bubbled out, fast and nervous. “Oh, I just remembered — it’s Thanksgiving! Did they send you down to make sure I’d come?”

Laughing, I pulled back from him, but he only hugged me harder. Suddenly, I realized that he wasn’t holding me in an embrace. He was holding me up, or preparing to, and the first alarm began to clang inside me.

His mouth was close to my ear and his voice was so much softer than the blow.

“Billy was killed last night.”