Bess lay back on the bed, fanning herself with the rest of the newspaper. “How do you think we’re going to manage in the South? It’s supposed to be sweltering.”
“You’ll like it,” Harry said. “People are dignified there, I hear.” He pulled his cardboard suitcase from under the bed and began sorting through the clothes he’d thrown around the room. “When I am rich,” he said, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. We can go to California if you’d like, and buy a swimming pool, and hire a servant who’ll spray you with water all day, and you’ll never be hot again.”
Bess smiled. “Don’t pack all your clothes yet,” she cautioned him. “Save something nice for tonight.” Doll and Dash and some of the other performers were giving a party for them. “And please don’t wear something that’s wrinkled.”
Harry surveyed the room. “Everything I have is wrinkled.”
Bess wet a cloth and leaned toward him, sticking the fabric inside his ear.
Harry jumped. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Your ears are filthy. Don’t you ever clean them?”
Harry thought about this and then sat down on the bed. He winced as she finished the job. “You’re not still upset about your mother, are you? She’ll come around.”
Bess shook her head. “She won’t, but I’m not upset.”
Downstairs, they heard the loud thumping of a bed against the wall. Another married couple had moved into the apartment directly below them, and it seemed as if they spent half their day in bed. Bess blushed.
Harry heard the thumping, too, and pulled her down with him onto the pillows. “Kiss me,” he said.
She did. He was a confident kisser, and he had the most wonderful, strong hands. But he still seemed unsure of himself at times.
“I want to try something,” he murmured, struggling out of his clothes. He pulled her hand down his stomach, between his legs. He gasped when she touched him, and she held him in her hand, her own body throbbing. “I want you to put your mouth . . . down here,” he told her. “I want to see what it feels like.”
Bess snatched her hand away and sat up. “I will not!” she said. “That’s—that’s a whore’s behavior.”
Harry sat up beside her, his voice livid. “And what do you think making love in the hallway of my mother’s apartment building was? That certainly wasn’t a lady’s behavior.”
Bess slapped him hard across the cheek. Harry sat back, startled.
For a moment, she was afraid he was going to hit her back. She threw her arms over her face. Harry yanked them away. “Who do you think I am?” he demanded. “Do you think I’m the kind of man who would strike his wife?”
“I’m not sure what kind of man you are,” she said slowly, realizing it only as she sounded out the words. She had fallen in love with his love for her, with the certainty of his devotion. “I don’t really know you.”
Harry stood up in disgust and pulled on his clothes. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “We’re going to be late for our own party. I’ll wait for you outside.” He paused in the doorway. “Sometimes, you look at me like I’m not a good man,” he said sadly. “And it’s not fair.”
They were met with cheers in the beer hall, where Doll and Dash waited to greet them with beer and flowers. The other performers, crowding the hall, raised their glasses, calling, “Hooray for the newlyweds!”
It appeared they had been waiting for some time, and almost everyone was already drunk. Bess looked around at the group of them, her friends—Billy the strongman, and Doll and Anna and the other musicians, and Tony the fire-breather, and the comedians. She had known them for only a month, but she would miss them if she and Harry made up and went south after all. Bess took a yellow flower to match her skirt and put it behind her ear. She was wearing one of the outfits Mrs. Weiss had given her, and she felt older and more like the kind of woman who could do such things, even if they were in a beer hall. It was all anyone could afford, but she hated the place—the waiters with their stained white aprons and the smell of stale tobacco and the constant influx of drunken sailors, who spat lewd, drunken comments at the women. She imagined the kinds of places she would frequent if she were wealthier—tearooms papered in pink and white, quiet except for low voices and the tinkle of porcelain cups. Working in the restaurant at Siegel-Cooper had spoiled her; she had seen how it was possible to live. She had carefully observed the dress and mannerisms of the women who came for lunch, admiring their flowered silk gowns and egret plume hats. Of course, she couldn’t imitate their polished behaviors with her own friends—they would only laugh at her—but she filed the memories away for later use.