Juliana

by Vanda

  “Is this where you rehearse?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. Give me your coat and hat. I’ll hang them in the closet.”

  “I can’t stay long, I ….” I didn’t want to tell her about the curfew. It sounded so childish.

  “Well, you can’t drink tea with your coat on, can you?”

  “I guess not.”

  I probably should hurry back to Hope House, but I didn’t want to look at my watch. That might insult her. She slung her mink over her arm and scooped off her hat. Then she took hold of the collar of my coat to help me off with it. Her hand touched the back of my neck, and I felt that touch all the way down to my toes. I handed her my hat. I was surrounded by her perfume.

  “I’ll get the tea started,” she said as she hung the coats in the closet. “Why don’t you go and make yourself comfortable on the couch in the parlor. Turn on the lamp on the end table.”

  She lightly stepped into another room just off the music room that I supposed was the kitchen.

  I could barely see the lamp from the light that spilled in from the music room, but I found it. There was a large, Kelly green, overstuffed couch and two matching overstuffed chairs surrounding a fireplace with a broad mantel. At either end of the couch, there were two dark wood tables and in the center there was a matching coffee table. The floor was covered with an oriental rug of varying dark shades. My mother always dreamed of owning an oriental rug, so I knew this rug was special, and expensive. My mother would’ve perished if she’d known I was standing in such a room. I wished I could tell her.

  On the mantel were two gold candlesticks with white tapering candles in each. The wicks were black, so I could tell she’d burned them before. There were no family pictures anywhere, nothing to give me a hint of who this woman was besides a singer.

  I looked through the lacy white curtain that covered the window. Below I could see her street. A car whizzed by.

  Next to the fireplace there was a slightly ajar door. I looked back toward the music room to see if she was coming. I didn’t see her, so I pushed lightly against the door. I found myself in a bedroom with a bed in the center and two end tables with lamps on either side. Moonlight peered through the small window above the bed. She sure had a lot of bedrooms.

  I hurried out so she didn’t catch me snooping. I sat down on the edge of the couch and laid my violets on the coffee table. I would press them in a book when I got home.

  I glanced at my watch. It was twelve fifteen. I can drink the tea and run to Hope House in forty-five minutes.

  The teakettle whistled and Juliana appeared with two small glasses, rimmed in gold, on a silver-serving tray. She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat on the couch.

  “I don’t imagine you’ve ever had Turkish tea.”

  “No.”

  “My mother spent a few years in Turkey before I was born. These tea glasses were given to her by the sultan’s son. Shall I be mother?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. My family lived in Great Britain for some years, and the mother is usually the one who serves the tea at teatime. When there is no mother present, then—”

  “Someone plays mother.”

  “Exactly.” She poured the tea from a silver teapot into the glasses. “Careful. It’s hot. After a while, you get used to managing these little glasses and you don’t burn your fingers. One cube of sugar or two. Or none? ”

  “One,” I croaked out, not knowing if I liked cubes of sugar in my tea since I never drank tea.

  She used a tiny glass spoon and dropped the cube into my glass and then one into her own.

  She picked up her own glass between her thin fingers. Her fingernails were filed into perfect white ovals that were exactly even with the pads of her fingertips. This seemed strange ‘cause I thought glamorous women always had long nails. Her black hair caressed her neck and shoulders in loose curls; her skin didn’t have one single mark on it that wasn’t sposed to be there. She looked even more beautiful close up than when she was on stage. She looked like a movie star—I don’t know which one, but one of the most glamorous ones, like Veronica Lake or Vivian Leigh. I couldn’t believe I was sitting right there on her couch, just a couple feet away from her. I was so close I could’ve touched her. Not that I would’ve, but I could’ve. She took a sip of her tea and said, “So you’re the girl from Huntington, Long Island, who likes to jump in the leaves at her grandma’s house.”

  “I guess it was silly of me to tell you about that.”

  “No. I enjoyed your story. Did you have your acting lesson with Mrs. …? What was her name?”

  “Mrs. Viola Cramden. Yes, I did. I’ve had quite a few lessons with her. You know, she’s been to Paris. Uh, before Nazis took them over, of course. Imagine, Paris! Have you ever been there?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “It must be a wonderful place.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But Mrs. Cramden is kinda funny.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, she’s got this pillow on top of this chair that you have to sit on while you’re waiting for your lesson and it says, ‘Passion is at the bottom of all things.’ “

  I waited for Juliana to laugh, but she didn’t. Instead she looked confused.

  “Well, you’re sitting on it with your bottom and it says ….”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “It’s not that funny.”

  “No, you’re right, it is. Ironic.”

  “I shouldn’t have said ‘bottom’ in front of you. Now I did it again. I’m sorry.” I covered my eyes with my hand.

  “It’s all right. Really.”

  “There are certain things you don’t say where I come from. I guess country people and city people are different, but I shouldn’t have said that word to a woman like you.”

  “A woman like me? That’s the third time tonight you’ve called me that. What kind of woman am I? ”

  “You know, sophisticated, worldly, successful.” I could feel my face getting hotter by the minute.

  “Sophisticated? Worldly? Maybe. Successful? I don’t know about that one.” She took a sip from her tea glass.

  I thought about the huge house we were sitting in with its large downstairs parlor and this second parlor upstairs and the Oriental rug and all the bedrooms and I wondered how successful she wanted to be.

  “Mrs. Cramden says I need heat.”

  Juliana laughed out loud, almost choking on her tea. I liked making her laugh.

  “I’m becoming more impressed with your Mrs. Cramden by the minute. And I don’t think she’s entirely wrong. Or that her pillow is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Passion is at the bottom of all things. At least, the things that are truly worthwhile.”

  “I don’t think I know what passion is.”

  Juliana put her hand on top of mine; I felt the warmth of her touch climb up my arm. I was relieved that there was one person in the world who didn’t think Mrs. Cramden was a nut or that I was for taking lessons with her.

  “But I don’t get to do too much acting,” I said. “Only exercises. I thought she’d want me to practice my Saint Joan speech by Bernard Shaw, but she never wants to hear it.”

  “I would.”

  “What?”

  “Like to hear your Saint Joan speech.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. Here?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well …” I stood up looking down at the rug. “Saint Joan says this speech just before they’re about to burn her at the stake.” I stood up straight and Joan took over. “I could drag about in a skirt; I could let the banners and the trumpets and the knights and soldiers pass me and leave me behind as they leave the other women, if only I could still hear the wind in the trees, the lark in the sunshine ….”

  I sat down.

  “Don’t stop. It’s beautiful.”

  “I know.” I felt tears in my throat. “I love those words.”

  “And you said them beauti
fully.”

  I leaned toward her. “Did you ever feel like you didn’t deserve words like that?”

  “I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

  I leaned back on the couch. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. You’re a really good singer.”

  Juliana took my hand in hers. “You do know what passion is, Al …” and squeezed my fingers. “You sing, too, don’t you? ”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like you.”

  “Let’s sing. Together.”

  “No.”

  She hurried into the music room, her heels clicking marvelously between the two rugs.

  “We’ll have no false modesty here.” She played some chords on the piano. “Come on,” she called to me, and I couldn’t just hide out on her couch so I forced myself up.

  One leg lumbered after the other until I reached the piano where she sat.

  “Do you know ‘The You and Me That Used to Be?’“ She played the introductory notes and started singing, waiting for me to join in. I stood there moving my mouth with nothing coming out. The music gradually took her over so she forgot about me singing with her. I was surrounded by the lilting sounds of her voice and the smell of her perfume. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and pressed the memory of that night deep inside me.

  After she finished the song, she pulled out a record from a brown sleeve and placed it on her Victrola. “This,” she sighed. “I made this gramophone record about a year ago.”

  “You say gramophone like Mrs. Cramden.”

  “I was raised in Great Britain. Maybe Mrs. Cramden was, too. I made this phonograph record about eight months ago. No one bought it.”

  “But I’m sure if you keep trying ….”

  “Do you mind if I play it a little? Sometimes I like to harmonize with it, and it has a whole orchestra backing me up that sounds better than just the piano.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to hear it.”

  It was the same one Max had played for me—“ My Romance.” She played the piano with the record, her live voice melding with her recorded voice. Then she got up and let the record play without her.

  “Let’s dance,” she said.

  “No. I, uh, I don’t dance very well.” My body was freezing up.

  “I’ll lead. Put your arms around my neck,” she instructed. I did, and she pulled me close to her. Our bodies were touching, and my heart was pounding. She sang right to me, her perfume floating over me like a Sunday morning haze. This glamorous movie-star type was singing to me. I could barely catch my breath. She moved me over the rug. “See? You’re doing it.”

  I let my feet go wherever she moved them. Things I’d never felt before were …. I felt breathless and giddy and …. She lifted my chin with her finger and sang right into my face and ….

  “The way you’re looking at me,” she said. And she kissed me. Right on my lips. Her tongue slid into my mouth, and then my tongue met hers and a vibration shot into my stomach and down to that place between my legs. I’d never felt a kiss there before. I didn’t want her to stop. Her mouth and her tongue around me and in me .

  She pulled away ever so gently. “I’m afraid that’s all for tonight, sweetie.”

  “Huh?”

  She took a deep breath and sighed. “As much as I’d like you to stay, you have to go home now, dear heart.”

  She went to the closet and got my coat and hat. She placed my hat on my head and my coat around my shoulders. I listlessly put my arms into the sleeves as she buttoned me.

  “Oh, I got lipstick on you.” She took out a handkerchief and lightly rubbed my mouth. “There. I think I got it all.” Her hair smelled of warm lemons. Guiding me out she said, “When you’re ready, come see me again.”

  I think she may have pushed me out the door. My body still hadn’t started moving on its own yet.

  Walking down the stairs wasn’t easy. My feet kept missing the steps, and I had to hang onto the banister to keep from sliding down to the bottom. It wasn’t till I hit the cold air that I thought to look at my watch—“12:52 a.m.!” Oh, no, I’ll never make it. I gotta. A cab! I ran to the end of Juliana’s block, but the streets were empty—not a cab anywhere. I had to go, had to make it. I ran as fast as I could, barely conscious of red lights. I had to get there. On time. I had to.

  I saw my mother standing at the door. “You think it’ll be easy out there in the world without your mother?” Her voice echoed in my ears. “Don’t forget what happened to that Lindbergh baby. Chop, chop, chop.” The door slammed.

  I had to get there. I ran down Eighth Street past the Eighth Street Playhouse, The Brevoort, and the Tom Kat Klub. Only a few blocks to go. I pumped my legs harder. Broadway, Fourth, Third. The door to Hope House was open. I dashed up the steps. The door slammed.

  “No. Please.” I banged my fists against the door. “No!”

  I looked over at the window. Mrs. Minton stood there; the curtain pushed aside, her arms crossed over that enormous chest. I lay both hands flat against the door’s face.

  “No! No!” I pressed the front of my body against it. “No!” I yelled. “Open this door.” She walked away. I slammed my fist into it. I kicked it. I punched. “Let me in.” The Lindbergh baby was stolen and killed. Mothers shivered and warned us to be good. I slammed my fist into the door again and again and again. “Mommy, I won’t be bad anymore. Open the door.” I was about to collapse into a curled heap on the stoop, when I … “No! I’m not gonna do that.” I gave the door one last kick and limped to the top porch step. The cold air whooshed up my skirt. I hugged my coat around me and pulled on my gloves. A lot of good those gloves were. Made for looks not cold.

  It was dark, the streetlights dim; the trees, so full in the summer, were now naked sticks knifing through the black sky. Shadows from garbage cans and parked cars crawled over the sidewalk. Shivering, I walked down the steps trying not to cry. What am I gonna do? What am I …? Danny! Of course .

  I ran all the way to Cornelia Street and slammed into the building door; it was locked. “Dang! It has to be locked tonight?” I pushed my body against the door trying to make it open. I banged my fists against it, hoping someone inside would hear me. “Danny!” I cried out, knowing it was useless. He was on the dang second floor. “Danny, please, I’m so cold.” My hands and my feet grew numb. A telephone! A phone booth. Where?

  I headed toward Eighth Street looking for something open. I passed by the park and didn’t see one single person anywhere. The wind howled through the trees and laughed at me for being such a dumb donkey for missing curfew. I remembered reading about the white slavers taking girls away, and I ran all the way over to Eighth Street where there were street lamps. I passed the Whitney Museum. Of course, that wasn’t open. But neither was anything else. Not Sam’s Deli or Miss Jolley’s Tea Room or Whelan Drugs or Nedick’s. I ran from place to place, desperate, but nothing was open. What am I gonna do? Mommy, let me in. I dashed down to University Place when I remembered—the Cedar Bar. That’d be open. My heart thundered with each step that took me closer to it. Juliana had warned me that the Cedar was a rough place—dangerous—I should never go in there. But they would have a telephone booth. Then Danny would save me from this frozen night. The wind blew cold down my neck and through my hair. I had to hold onto my hat to keep it from blowing away. I stood outside the door, my heart slipping down to my feet. I had to do it. I’d never been inside a bar before. Only men and bad women went into bars. I stood outside listening to the noise for a long time until it got so cold I couldn’t stand it.

  The place was packed with men shouting, and laughing. It smelled like beer, cigarettes, and throw-up. The bartender stared at me.

  “Whatcha doin’ here, girlie? Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

  A few men leaning on the bar laughed.

  “The telephone,” I squeaked.

  “In the back.”

  I followed his pointing finger and knew I had to get by a wall of drunken men before I could make that call to Danny. I swallowed and s
tarted to walk. I felt their eyes on me as I squeezed past them. Hands crawled into my coat and landed on my breasts, my rear. I was surrounded by kissing sounds and laughter. I kept moving. I had to get to that phone. I squeezed my way through the mob and could see the wooden booth in the back near the tables where they must’ve served food. I sat down in the telephone booth and pulled the door closed, my heart banging against my ears. I dialed Danny’s number.

  It rang and rang. “Come on, Danny, pick up.” And rang. “Danny, you answer this phone.” And rang. “You answer this dang phone!” I shouted. And rang.

  I slammed the receiver down. Metal against metal clattered as it bounced out of the cradle. I stormed out of the booth and slammed the door shut. “What am I gonna do?” I heard my mother’s voice. “See? You’re turning into a bum with no place to go.” I glared at the phone booth, forgetting the mob by the bar. Hundreds and millions of people can be reached by dialing that phone, and I can’t reach a single one.

  The phone still hung down out of its cradle; it hung there the way I’d thrown it. So what? Let it hang there. Who cares? I got worse problems than that. I paced, thinking if I waited a little bit longer and tried again maybe …. The phone was still hanging there. I don’t care that you’re hanging there. Leave me alone. I gotta think. I walked past the booth again, trying to come up with a plan. Two ladies sat at a table looking at me and giggling. The phone was still hanging there. Maybe I should go hang it …. No, dang it. I won’t! I paced back the other way. I won’t! Ya hear me? I won’t! I’m gonna leave ya there and … . I yanked open the door. “Dang it!” I slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Dickie and Aggie! They’re gonna be back by two thirty. I gotta get back to St. Mark’s Place so I don’t miss them. I pushed past the men who tried to grab me. I think I might have slugged one of them. My hand hurt awful bad. I ran all the way back to Hope House and stood near the steps waiting. When they get here I’ll go back with Dickie. I looked at my watch. Almost an hour.

  I sat on the steps my body shaking with cold, watching each minute tick by, my mind wandering into a sleepy haze.

  “Well, what are we sposed to do now?” Mom says to me at the supper table. “Why doesn’t this man bring in any money, Alice?”