“Vivian Snow, get your ass on the stage.” He’s joking but also not, and Carly’s hands go to her hips.
“Frank Broward! You watch your language,” she shouts back, and follows me out to the main hall, still talking.
“Is Tom coming tonight?”
“Get onstage, V.,” Frank orders. I’m walking quickly, but I refuse to run. The girl running from confession to the USO was Vivian Santini. Now that I’m checked in, my lips coated in Montezuma Red lipstick, and ready to step onstage, I’m Vivian Snow, and no one rushes Vivian Snow.
And Vivian Snow doesn’t get distracted by silly little problems with men.
“I don’t rightly know,” I say, trying to sound like Bette Davis in The Little Foxes as I climb up onstage and tap the mic while the band warms up behind me.
We do this every week, and I’m used to the simple sound system and the echo off the empty floors and barren walls. During our lessons, Carly always says, “A full room lies to you while an empty room tells the truth.” And she’s right.
I feel like a star when I sing to the cheers of GIs who might ship out at any moment. But when I sing to an empty room, I can’t help imagining what I’d sound like on a record or on the radio, and that’s when doubt tugs at my hem.
After sound check, I switch back to hostess duty. It’s easy to tell which soldiers are new. They take in everything like a child on their first day of school. Each batch looks younger and younger to me.
“Hello, soldier. What’s your name and where are you from?” I ask a young, wide-eyed GI with trembling hands who hasn’t stepped away from the back wall since he checked his hat. The other men are talking and laughing with each other and the hostesses, but this one seems out of place in the big room full of soldiers and pretty girls.
“I . . . I’m from Mississippi. Clinton, Mississippi,” he says with a heavy southern accent.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I say, my usual opening response. “And your name?”
“Thelwin Patterson. Though . . . though . . .” He stutters a little, and I see why he’s less social than the other men with their tongues of velvet. “My family calls me Winnie.”
I can imagine a sweet little house with a large porch and white rocking chairs as this young man walks down the dusty drive, still in uniform, a pack slung over his shoulder at the end of the war. “Winnie!” they call out, and all run to embrace him.
“Mind if I call you Winnie too, then?” I fight the instinct to adopt his accent like we’re in a scene together.
“You . . . you can call me . . . anything . . . you . . . you want,” he says.
“Don’t you want to know my name?” I say, knowing I’m flirting but seeing it as a necessary part of my job.
“S-sure do.” He’s nice, this Winnie. Young but nice and too sweet to face a line of gunfire.
Don’t think about it, I say, scolding myself.
“I’m Vivian.” I put out my hand and shake his daintily. His palm is drenched with sweat.
“Hello, V-v-v-v-vivian.”
Frank starts his announcements in the background. They’re boring and slow, and it’s nothing like the city clubs where the bandleader is as much of the entertainment as the musicians. But even with his monotone and literal reading of the rule book, the crowd listens attentively.
It’s a hot room tonight, and I can’t wait to get in front of it. For now, I’ll settle for a quick dance or two with Winnie before my performance. It’ll help to keep my mind off the stacked-up boxes in my rhetorical closet. I look up at Winnie and bat my eyelashes, hoping he’ll seize this opportunity to heroically ask for a dance instead of waiting for me to drag him onto the dance floor.
Just as he pushes his glasses up and opens his mouth—Private Gary Talbot from the front gate at Camp Atterbury taps me on the shoulder.
“Look who we’ve got here—the famous Vivian Snow.” Gary smells faintly of alcohol, and though he’s not drunk, it’s clear he’s on his way there. He’s not the first soldier to sneak in a beverage, and it’s usually tolerated as long as they keep their hands to themselves and don’t get too sloppy.
“Talbot,” I say coolly.
“You charming this young soldier? That’s not really fair. He’s brand-new here, and you still owe some of us old-timers a dance before you move on to new prey.”
“I think Private Patterson was charming me. Isn’t that right?” I wink. Winnie starts to say something, but his stutter slows him down.
“I’m sure if he’s such a gentleman, he wouldn’t mind if I stepped in for a dance.”
Talbot takes my hand without asking. I want to yank it away, but it’s frowned upon to turn down a soldier unless he’s getting too friendly. And since Winnie hasn’t gotten up the gumption to ask me yet, I have no other choice than to dance with Gary Talbot.
I’m not clear if Winnie says yes or no to the interruption. It doesn’t matter because Talbot guides me onto the dance floor and puts his hand on my waist. My stomach rolls, and I wish I could shake it off.
As the music swells, he spins me out and then back in. I try to let my body follow his lead but find his movements jerky and harsh; it’s as if he were barking orders and I were saying, “Yes, sir!” with every twist and turn. He flicks me inward so his arms come around me from behind. His hot breath is on my neck, heavy with whiskey and tobacco.
“You’re more fun than I thought you’d be,” he says, and twirls me out again like he’s playing with a spinning top.
“Well, you’re exactly what I thought you’d be,” I say when he finds a way to bring me close again.
The dance ends quickly, and I break away, leaving Talbot standing in the middle of the dance floor, alone and out of breath.
I escape to the women’s bathroom and hide for another song, patting my face with water and wishing I’d remembered to slide my compact into my pocket when I checked my purse. I walk out with Brenda and Tracy, seeking safety in numbers. Both girls chirp on and on about the new men. I scan the room.
Talbot is dancing with another girl; Lucy, I think her name is. I feel for her, but I’m glad that I got away when I did. Winnie isn’t leaning against the back wall, and I don’t see him out on the dance floor or by the refreshments.
I wonder where he went . . .
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone far more familiar. It feels like a rock drops into my abdomen. Leaning against one of the painted metal posts, sipping a cup of punch, and talking to little Pearl Benson is—Tom Highward. He’s smiling at her the same way he smiles at me—broad and bright like he’s seen only sunshine his whole life. Pearl giggles and twists her artificially lightened hair. She drives in from Columbus with her roommates. Pearl’s not shy about her quest for a husband, though she denies it whenever Carly and Mrs. Portia confront her.
“Is that Pearl Benson over there with Tom?” Carly asks, coming up beside me. The next song starts, and a refreshed set of dance partners takes the floor. But not Tom and Pearl. They stand talking like they’re the only two in the room.