He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
She was suddenly nervous to be alone with him. She didn’t care much for propriety, but it was odd that the beach was empty, even at this hour. A few hundred feet away was a thick, salty marshland, and swarming the air by their faces, clouds of tiny black bugs found their way into Bess’s hair and mouth. She was becoming more and more uncomfortable next to Harry. There was something animal-like about his movements, the strength with which he’d grabbed her. He had seemed to joke with her before, but there was not a trace of play in his black eyes now. He was watching her with intent.
“I wrote you off, back when I watched you perform,” he said. “I thought you were just another flirt singing silly songs.”
“Oh,” she said, alarmed. “Well, I don’t know what to say to that.”
“But you knew about tonight. You were right that we were onto that lackey who tried to discredit us. And the trunk trick . . . I’m not saying you were right about that. I’m just saying no one’s ever come so close to seeing through one of my tricks. You’re smarter than I expected. And bolder, too, I guess.”
She could feel herself growing dizzy in the heat. The waves seemed to be pressing in on them both.
Something occurred to her. “How many times did you see me perform?”
“Three or four.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I was in the back. You wouldn’t have seen me. But we passed each other in the Bowery a few times.”
Bess was startled. “Why didn’t you say anything to me? Did you know it was going to be me here with Doll tonight?”
Harry slid his hands into his pockets. “I asked Dash to take Doll out, so you’d come.”
“Oh, that’s mean. Now she thinks he likes her. You should have just asked me.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“Sure.”
He smiled. “How much do you like me?” he asked.
“What?”
“Enough to marry me?”
Bess laughed. She couldn’t tell if he was serious now, or mocking her. “That’s a lark. And I don’t see how you’ll win me over by making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun. I’m serious. I’m twenty and you’re what—eighteen?”
She nodded. “Yes, we’re still young. What’s the rush?” She was playing along now.
“You’re not a child anymore, Bess. You’re a woman. Don’t you feel that’s what you are?” He put his hand on the back of her neck. She felt the churn in her stomach. “You’re old enough by now to know what it is you want.”
“I suppose I am.” The words didn’t sound as playful as she intended. He was as confusing a man as she had ever met. No one had ever professed his love to her before. In fact, some of the men Doll had introduced her to had told her frankly that they couldn’t take her seriously; she looked too much like a child with her curly hair and small lips. Now this man she had just met—who was, perhaps, as much still a boy as she was a girl—was declaring himself to her, and she wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious.
“Don’t you want me?” he asked, with utter seriousness.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean by that exactly. I’m not the kind of girl you might be thinking I am.”
He removed his hand from her neck and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, don’t you want to marry me?”
Rationally, it didn’t make sense. Neither of them had any money. She had known him for a night. He could turn out to be the kind of man who drank, who hit her when he was angry. He could miscalculate one of his tricks and die young. And she’d been in Coney Island only three weeks. Three weeks earlier, she’d been a schoolgirl, working at a shop counter in the evenings. She hadn’t had enough time to become someone else. What would she do if she became a mother? People who got married had children. Did she even want a child?
The sand hills loomed like mountains beside her, the scattered shells dimly white in the moonlight. She bent down and held one in her hand. The front was smooth, the inside rough with salt. She looked at Harry. He had his hands in his pockets and was staring at her expectantly. She laid her palm against her forehead. Harry knelt down beside her. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
She thought of what her mother would say if she brought home a Jew. “I can’t believe you’re actually serious right now. I can’t marry you, Harry. You don’t know a thing about me, nor I you.”
He considered this. “Harry’s not my real name. My real name is Ehrich Weiss. And no one here knows that but Dash, and you, now.”
“So you see then? I don’t even know what to call you.”
“You can call me whatever you like.”
“Harry—” she began.
He pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”
“No, I can’t.”