Now my mind races and I try to figure out whether or not the question is a trick. My voice shakes and I fall back on familiar words, reciting, “God says not to—”
“Let me stop you there. Instead of thinkin’ ’bout what God says not to do, I reckon it makes more sense to focus on what he says to do. Ya know, like forgive and forget when na?ve girls insult you.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should stop now. I’m that na?ve girl, flinging insults, but I keep babbling. “Well, God says to follow the laws of the land. Being that this place is illegal, you certainly ain’t doing that.”
She stares at me blankly, as if disinterested.
And my mouth goes on moving. “For there is no authority ’cept from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. And therefore…”
I can’t remember the therefore. This place, this girl, has me all shook up. My nervous ranting comes to a close. I stand here awkwardly, still squeezing the wet glass.
“I ain’t much for authority.” Mary shrugs, yawns, takes a drag from her cigarette. “Besides, you seem to be picking and choosing what you follow, too.” She pushes off the table, sashays toward me, stopping inches from my face. “For tonight,” she says, and slams a handful of bills onto the counter beside me. “But let me be clear. We don’t need you. Plenty of pretty girls out there. I get the sense you need us, though. Let me know what the Man Upstairs says ’bout that.”
Then she’s gone, the volume of the music growing louder as she slips through the door.
6
I open my hand, where a few coins and a crumpled bill are left in my palm. In front of me, in all its pathetic glory, is my one-day home. At my feet, two paint cans sit unopened, ready to nice up our porch and fence. A few houses down, our pantry’s stocked a mile high and a lamp shines in Ma’s picture window—and will keep shining, for this month at least, now that our electric’s been paid.
But what ’bout next month?
Taking a deep breath, I slump down, using the paint buckets as an uncomfortable seat.
Perhaps that’s why uncomfortable thoughts—rather, Mary’s voice from last night—gather like ants on a crumb. She’s right ’bout me. I mixed right and wrong together ’til I found a comfy spot in the middle.
I lied to my ma, to Roy. I spent last night at the juice joint, telling myself it was fine ’cause I wasn’t the one serving drinks, dancing, or letting men fondle my hair. I scratch my neck and along my collarbone. Then, today, I had no problem sneaking ’round while Ma’s at the factory and Roy’s sleeping off work, spending the money I made from an illicit juice joint, and now—I’ll admit—I wish there was more of it.
No matter how bad Buster’s hand turns out to be, I imagine what working another night, two nights, or more could do for us.
I could buy Little Billie new clothes so she doesn’t get picked on.
I could ensure the lamp in our picture window stays on.
I won’t have to drop out of school.
Only two days ago I asked Blanche, What part of “illegal, underground establishment” do you reckon sounds like something I’d do?
The answer to that question is suddenly a bit fuzzy, even if the idea of Doc’s and of getting locked up behind bars still gives me the shakes.
With an unsteady hand, I pick two pennies out of my hand. Next door, at the library, I slip ’em into the public phone. There’s that same nasally voice, that same hello from Blanche.
No sooner have I hung up the phone, it seems, than Big Bertha sits idle at my curb, and then I’m back in front of the physician’s office, acting like Duke Dog chasing his tail. What am I doing? What am I doing? That same question circles in my mind, always coming back to how Mary was right ’bout something else: I do need Doc’s.
“Don’t be having a panic attack on me.” Blanche inhales, blows out a puff of smoke. “I’ll give you two more minutes.”
’Til we go inside.
Blanche filled me in on how staff can enter at any time through a special door—the entrance for the apartments upstairs. For everyone else, there’re rules.
Men and women can never enter together.
Never in groups more than two.
Only two groups at a time.
Only between the hours of five and eleven, unless you work at Doc’s, then being there before five is preferred.
Men on the thirteens and fifty-threes.
Women on the twenty-threes and forty-threes.
That’s a selective total of ninety-six people a night, not counting us staff. Us staff. I shake my head, not believing I’ve gone and referred to myself that way, yet hoping it can stay that way and Mary won’t make me leave.
“God, Bonnelyn,” Blanche says, with humor in her eyes. “Don’t look so guilty, like we’re ’bout to rob a bank.”
Not looking guilty: an unspoken rule I keep breaking.
“Okay, let’s go,” she all but sings. “You’ve delayed enough, and I want to get inside before the next group arrives.”
She takes a final drag from her cig. My wristwatch says 5:12.
If it weren’t for the rules, and for Blanche, I’d hesitate. But she’s already upset it’s after five. I don’t want to make us later or disrupt this well-oiled machine called Doc’s. A layer of uneasiness already lines my stomach at the thought of seeing Mary again.
Of course, it had to be not only the boss but also the doctor’s niece who I insulted last night with my high-hat morals. Something Blanche hooted ’bout on the car ride here. “High-hat” was her word, not mine. I’m going to have to do some major butt kissing tonight to get back into Mary’s good graces and prove to her my worth.
For once, I welcome Blanche’s vise grip on my hand, ’cause I’m not too sure I’d be able to move on my own. She yanks me toward Doc’s. With the week halfway gone, throngs of adults crowd the sidewalk, looking to reenergize. And with summer dwindling down, normal kids—the ones not sneaking into a speakeasy—hover outside the soda shop, wanting to enjoy every last minute of freedom. One of those normal kids calls Blanche’s name.
Blanche looks over her shoulder, waving wildly back. “Hi there, darling! Sorry, running late! Save me a soda.”
Those few seconds are all Blanche spends on a girl named Hazel I ain’t too fond of, from school. Two men pull open the door to the physician’s office. We slip through the adjacent apartment door.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask Blanche, eyeing the staircase leading to the second floor, and, off to the side, a single door.
“There’re three or four apartments upstairs. But this door”—she knocks—“is a back entrance into the office.”
The door creaks open and a boy’s face stares back. It takes everything not to gawk at the huge mole on his forehead.
“Buck’s girl?” he asks Blanche.
Considering I only see the back of her head, I miss her expression, but I’d say this fella should be counting his blessings that Blanche lets his greeting slide.
“And Saint Bonnelyn,” the boy says, noticing me.