When I exit through the grand doors and into the humid night air, I’m lighter than when I walked in, and my mind is clear. I rush down the stairs to the street like I’m flying, ready for new opportunities.
Check-in for the dance is in ten minutes, and the dance hall is several blocks away. I let my renewed energy carry me down Main Cross Street, as close to running as propriety and my shoes allow.
I’m eager to make it to my gig because we need the money, yes, but also because Tom is likely to be there. I haven’t seen him since that tense lasagna dinner at the POW mess hall. After the confrontation, we moved to the front of the line and were served immediately. We then joined a group of US guards and officers in the mess hall. Tom sat beside me, his back straight as a rod, a different man from the one I’d been getting to know at dances and on walks to and from the bus.
I watched Tom engage in small talk with the surrounding men and officers and nibbled at the meal I’d been so looking forward to without tasting it.
I wasn’t brave enough to turn around and look for Trombello and the rest of the committee, but every bite I took reminded me that there were other eyes watching the whole dinner play out. And when I took my tray to the dish return, I found the young priest doing the same by my side.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” he whispered in Italian, the clinking of our plates acting as a perfect cover.
“Yes,” I said, my smile plastered on. “Buono.”
“I know Marco will be pleased. He was a chef before the war.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Everyone’s waiting to hear your review.”
“Me?” I asked loudly, dropping my fork with a noisy clank. I lowered my voice to a whisper again. “Me? Why?”
He shrugged, a little smirk crinkling his sun-bronzed cheek. “You remind them of home—sisters, girlfriends, mothers, and wives.”
My anxiety swelled like a sponge taking in water. I had that feeling again, of being watched when I’m not onstage. And as flattering as that comment was, I also knew it wasn’t safe for me to be the object of affection for men who are our enemies.
I checked my watch without responding to his compliment, aware of the line behind us and knowing Tom was somewhere in the room watching too.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, in English this time, my heart pounding. Trombello searched my face, his eyes taking in what I couldn’t say out loud. I’m not sure if it was the whisperings of God inside the man or if it was the man inside the Godly vessel, but when he stepped aside so I could pass by, I could tell he understood.
“Sì,” he said and then, “Buona serata,” or good evening.
And with that, I snatched my purse and rushed out the door, ignoring the hundreds of eyes watching my exit. Tom didn’t follow me. He also didn’t show up at my bus stop that night, nor has he shown up any night since then.
I’ve found no way to excuse his anger in line that day, or his behavior during our dinner. Yet I find his sudden absence painful. His mute punishment hurts far more than the raging fury of my father’s explosions. I’d choose papà’s brazen fire over Tom’s silent frozen wasteland.
I’m just as confused about Trombello. But I don’t let myself think about him. I keep my feelings locked away like a box in a dark closet.
But Tom doesn’t fit in a box. He’s unruly. He pulls me too close on the dance floor; he begs me for dates he knows I can’t accept; he meets me at my bus stop and finds me in line at the internment camp instead of staying safely on base. He’s made himself impossible to ignore—and then he disappeared without warning. No wooden crate or steel strongbox could keep him; I’m sure of it. And that only makes me think of him more.
If he shows up at the dance tonight, I’ll perform in front of him as though he’s no more special than the other uniformed men staring up at me. Perhaps he’ll remember why I first caught his eye and thaw out of his deep freeze. Or, if I’m very lucky, when I see him, I won’t get that flip in my stomach that makes me desperate for the warmth of his attention.
As I approach the burgundy door in the brick-lined alley next to the dance hall, I hold my arms away from my sides to keep the perspiration from soaking into the cotton of my summer dress. I’m one minute late. When I knock, Pauly, the piano player, opens the squealing door, and relief comes over his face.
“There you are, girlie. Frank was ’bout to panic. He sent me to drive out to your place to hunt you down. Where have you been?”
“Church,” I say, wiggling past his belly as he holds the door open for me. The sign-in is gone along with the senior hostess. I feel like a trapdoor has unlatched beneath me.
“Church?” he says, sounding puzzled, with a bit of outrage.
“Pauly, where’s Carly? You know, Mrs. Tawny? I need to check in.”
“Mrs. Tawny? I don’t have any clue. Only thing I’ve got a clue about is warm-ups. A whole new shipment of young’uns came into Atterbury this week, and the place is ’bout to get a whole bus full, so we need to get warmed up and playin’.”
“I don’t have my card checked yet.” I hold up my hostess card. The only way a girl is allowed to dance in this hall is with a signed card.
“I’m not so worried ’bout you dancing as I am you singing,” he says, basically chasing me into the familiar hall. Fans do little to cool the already oven-like heat of the room. Girls with perfectly curled hair and pressed dresses set up chairs and arrange plates of sandwiches and cookies on the refreshment table. The windows are open, and there’s a slight breeze that’ll mean nothing in a few hours when the room is a mass of humanity.
“There you are,” Carly says, lifting a giant punch bowl to allow a newer girl to straighten the tablecloth underneath.
“Am I too late?” I ask, holding up my card. Carly wipes her hands on her apron and sighs.
“Too late?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you mean. Got you on my list already.”
“You got me on your list?” I repeat slowly.
“Yup, right here.” She holds up the sign-in sheet, pointing to the last name on the list that looks a lot like, but definitely is not, my handwriting. She’s giving me a pass, and all I have to do is play along, and she’ll sign my card later on the sly.
“Oh goodness, I’m so forgetful,” I say fairly convincingly, and return the card to my purse. Carly slips her arm through mine to guide me to the coatroom where I can stash my belongings.
“Yes, you are,” she says, loud enough for the room to hear, and then more quietly asks, “Now, where were you really?”
“Church.”
“Church?” she asks with the same doubting incredulity as Pauly.
“Yes!” I hang up my things, powder my nose, and reapply my brightest red lipstick that matches the tiny red roses on my white dress. “What do all of you think I am? A heathen?”
“No. But it’s Friday night. Who goes to church on a Friday night?” She smooths my hair in a maternal gesture that reminds me of my absent mother. Frank shoves his head through the door, yelling.