Juliana

by Vanda

  “Six months, Virginia? You haven’t gotten any word from—from the army? Maybe that’s good. If something serious happened the army would—”

  “Not contact me. I’m not his wife. They’d contact his parents in Oregon.”

  “Max comes from Oregon?”

  “He comes from a very conservative well-off family who don’t approve of the nightclub life or his being, you know, and they know nothing of me. Maybe they’ve been contacted already. Maybe they know what ….” She took her handkerchief from her purse and balled it up into her fist as if hanging onto it for support. “If something …. If Max were—gone”—tears came with the word ‘gone’—“and he probably is—he’d simply evaporate from my life, and I would never know what ….” She closed her eyes as the tears slid down her face.

  If something happened to Juliana, no one would contact me either.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  March–April, 1944

  In March, Aggie was offered a place in the chorus of the National Tour of Mexican Hayride and she really wanted it. She turned it down, though, spending the month taking the ferry almost every day to see Dickie at Halloran Hospital in Staten Island. Some days, I went with her, but it was hard seeing Dickie like that. Miserable. There were days, though, when Dickie perked up. He’d talk about becoming a choreographer since he probably couldn’t dance anymore. But other times, he plunged into a bleak solitude emerging only to say that his life was over and Aggie should divorce him and find someone else.

  I think there were times when Aggie wished she could divorce Dickie, too, but she never said that. She just cried a lot and told me how much she loved him and how she wished he’d get well so they could start their married lives. In the meantime, I was glad to have Aggie’s company.

  One cold, blowy April day, Aggie tied up her hair in a kerchief, put on an old dress that she only wore around the house and started the spring-cleaning. She scrubbed everything down with ammonia, starting with the living room windows. The ammonia got so thick I could hardly breathe. “How else you gonna know it’s clean?” she asked when I complained.

  She assigned me the easy chores, like mopping the bedroom and straightening the drawers. I kneeled down to clean out my bottom drawer where I threw the junk I didn’t know what to do with, like used tickets and playbills. That’s when I found it. The program. The one from the first time I met Juliana in person. I sat on the floor remembering back to that time. I was pushed up against the wall of her dressing room, surrounded by her perfume and seductive smile. I’d held out my program for her to sign, too terrified to speak to such a glamorous woman, but she wouldn’t sign it. “Save it,” she’d said, “for when we know each other better. Then it’ll really mean something.” Now, she would never sign it.

  Tears flooded my eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Aggie asked, walking in from the living room.

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah, kid,” she sighed throwing her dust cloth on the dresser. “Just a minute.” She dashed from the room and came back with a pack of Fleetwoods and an ashtray. She set the ashtray and herself on the floor beside me. “You keep saying it’s nothing, but you’re not right. You haven’t been right since January. Is it Norbert?”

  “Who? Oh. No.”

  “Tell me. I wanna help you. You’ve always been a good friend to me, but you never let me do the same for you. I want to.”

  Her face looked gentle, warm. Her eyes showed that she really did want to help me.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I began. “Do you remember that woman Max took us to see a few years ago before the war? It was near Swing Street. Her name was Juliana. Here. You see, in this program.” I opened the program to show Aggie where her name was printed. “She didn’t have a last name.”

  “I seem to vaguely remember somebody like that.”

  “Well … I’ve been seeing her. What I mean is we’ve become friends.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah.” I got up and sat on my bed. Aggie sat next to me, balancing the ashtray on her knee.

  “Only, she and I had this fight, so we’re not friends anymore. Or at least I don’t think we are. But I wanna still be her friend.”

  “Why don’t you call her up and talk out your differences like girlfriends do.”

  “Well, she’s not some place that I can call her up. She’s entertaining the troops somewhere on the front lines in Europe.”

  “Wow, that’s some girl.”

  “Exactly. She’s incredible, fantastic, gorgeous, brave—”

  “Okay, okay, you like her. You’ll talk to her when she gets home.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause …” I got up from the bed. I needed to walk. I needed Aggie to hear me. I needed not to be alone with this anymore. “I’m …” I took a deep breath. “I’m in love with her.”

  “What’d you say?”

  I turned to face Aggie. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

  “You’re in love with her? In love with her?” Aggie rolled the words around on her tongue trying to make sense of them. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I wanna be with her always. It means we’ve made love to each other. It means— ”

  Aggie jumped up. “No! I don’t wanna hear this. Where did my sponge get to?”

  “You left it in the bucket in the other room.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” She walked into the parlor leaving her cigarette burning in the ashtray. I put the cigarette out and followed her. She was wringing out the sponge into the bucket with two raw hands.

  “Aggie?”

  She scrubbed the window without answering.

  “You already washed that window.”

  “So? So, what? I wanna make sure it’s clean. Something’s gotta be clean around here.” She scrubbed more vigorously. “You know, Dickie’s been having those awful nightmares again, and that thing is infected again, and they don’t know when he’s gonna get out of that place. Maybe he never will. Maybe never, Al. So, what’s gonna happen? Huh? None of this is turning out how we planned. None of it. Are you outta your mind?”

  “I love her. I can’t help it.”

  “You’re sick. You have that disease. You know, that—that ….” She lit a cigarette, threw the sponge down, and ran into the bedroom. She lit a second cigarette without putting out the first. She walked back and forth in front of our dresser drawers puffing first on one then the other.

  “Please, Aggie. You gotta understand.”

  “I can’t stay here.” She stamped out both cigarettes, threw open her underwear drawer, and tossed bras and underpants on the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t stay here with you like this. Who knows what you’ll do? I gotta get outta here.”

  “And go where? Aggie you said I could talk to you.”

  “I didn’t know it was something that awful.”

  “You told me about being pregnant from that guy who wasn’t even Dickie, and I didn’t say you were awful.”

  “At least what I did was normal.” She slammed the dresser drawer shut. “What you did was unnatural. It’s like—like … not natural. People don’t do that.”

  “No.” I was shaking, my face soaked with tears. “No.”

  “You’re a sexual psychopath. Dickie learned about them in the navy. You’re not natural, you’re a sexual psychopath, and—and a homosexual addict, and a deviant, and that means your dangerous. You hurt little children. You should be locked up like your mother.”

  “No. Don’t say that.” I walked toward her, my arms outstretched, begging. “Aggie, please. I’m not.”

  “Stay away from me. I won’t let you do anything sick to me. You’re not going to capture me , you pervert.” She ran into the living room.

  I ran after her. “Aggie I’m still me. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  She screamed. “Stop! Stop! Get away from me. You’re sick. You’re danger
ous.” She ran into the corner of the room like I was a masher about to split her open with an ax.

  “Aggie, I’m not like those women. I’m not a sexual psycho, or a lesbian, or a homo, or any of those bad words. I only have this feeling for one girl. And it’s not all dark and ugly. It’s not like that.”

  “You disgust me.” With her hands in front of her face as protection, she walked past me to the closet. “I’ll start looking for a new apartment in the morning.” She pulled the rag off her head and shook out her hair. “In the meantime, I expect you to sleep on the couch.” She pulled off her apron. “And if you come near me, I swear I’ll scratch your eyes out.” She yanked her coat from the closet. “I’m such a mess,” she mumbled. “You see? ’Cause of you I have to go out looking like this.” She put on her coat. “I’m going to Staten Island to talk to Dickie. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Aggie, please don’t do this to me.” I was being punished, and I didn’t know why. “You’re my best friend.”

  “Not any more I’m not.” She slammed a hat on her head. “I always knew there was something odd about you. All that reading and writing and your crazy mother. You’re crazy like her.”

  “No.”

  “And always being with that faggot Danny. Maybe you caught the sickness from him.”

  “He was our friend.”

  “Why didn’t you stick it out with Eddie? He would’ve made you a good husband.”

  “A good husband? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She marched out of the apartment, slamming the door.

  I sunk to my knees. The program dropped out of my hand and lay on the floor next to my knee. This was all Juliana’s fault. She did this to me. I picked up the program about to tear it up but stopped. I took a deep breath and held it to my heart.

  I crawled into my bed under the covers with all my clothes on, even my shoes. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Tied tight under bedspread, blanket, and sheets, I took off my clothes. I lay there naked with the program pressed between my breasts, pretending as hard as I could that Juliana was in bed with me. I put my hand between my legs and imagined her touching me. I pretended so hard I could practically feel her fingers and hear her voice and taste her kisses. I’d never done it before ’cause my mother said it was evil.

  Juliana’s face and voice got clearer. I could see her; I could hear her. She smelled of warm lemons and flowers in spring. We were naked under her cool white sheets in the room that was only hers. She was kissing me, her hair tickling my face. Her hand wandered over my breasts and down to my stomach. Her mouth kissed my breasts; my hands filled with her hair. She slid her fingers and mouth down the whole of my body. Her fingers moved between my legs, and I could feel her—really feel her—as she slid between my legs and kissed me there. She was with me and in me. My breathing got faster and faster. I screamed out her name. I screamed it, and screamed it, and I knew, for one second, what it was to be whole again. I didn’t care that it was evil—that I was evil; it was the only way I knew to possess her and shut out a world that had no place for me.

  For the next few weeks, Aggie and I lived like a pair of phantoms. We barely spoke to each other, and when we did, we were overly polite, saying things like, “Excuse me” when we bumped into each other in the kitchen that was too small for two people anyway.

  I slept on the couch like Aggie wanted. I probably shouldn’t have been so willing to give up my own bedroom since I did pay half the rent, but the things she said about me made me feel terrible about myself. I started thinking that maybe nobody should get too close to me, that maybe I would do something horrible to them.

  One evening, I walked in from work and Aggie handed me the phone. “It’s for you.” She disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Hello?” I said into the receiver.

  “Alice, this is your mother. What is this Aggie’s telling me about you?”

  “She called you ? Aggie!” I shouted. “Get out here, dammit.”

  “Oh, so now you curse too. Is it true? Is my only living daughter a queer?”

  “No, Mom. Don’t call me that. You’re my mother.”

  “I knew something awful would happen if you went to the city. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I gotta go.”

  “Don’t you hang up on me.”

  “I’m not hanging up on you, Mom. I’m saying good-bye. Good-bye.” And I hung up the phone while she was still screaming about queers.

  I marched over to the bedroom door and slammed my fist into it. “Aggie! Get out here!” Now, I did want to smash her in two. “You told my mother?”

  “She had a right to know.”

  “What right? Dammit, Aggie, I should’ve called your mother and told her about what her good little princess did. When are you getting outta here and leaving me alone?”

  “Soon. There’s an apartment shortage, you know. I can’t find anything.”

  “I don’t care. Go live in a box with the bums. I hate seeing your ugly face.” I grabbed my old coat, the one with a rip down the front that I’d planned on giving to the Salvation Army, and dashed down the stairs.

  Oh, geez, I thought, when I got into the courtyard. Look at this coat. Now, I do look like a sexual psycho. I had no direction in mind. I only had to walk. The damn coat wasn’t even warm and I’d forgotten my gloves. I shoved my hands into the depths of my pockets and walked out the gate.

  It was getting colder as I headed down Sixth Avenue, so I ended up going into Bigelow’s Apothecaries to get warm. I couldn’t go home. I didn’t have a home.

  I scanned the magazines on the rack. Screen Album had a picture of Betty Grable saluting and Look had a picture of a WAC sergeant. Ginger Rogers hugged her soldier good-bye on the cover of Movie Story.

  The guy behind the soda fountain eyed me closely. Probably making sure I didn’t read any of his magazines. When he took his soda jerk hat off to scratch his head, I saw his gray head was balding. I slid onto a stool. “Give me a pack of cigarettes,” I said to the aging soda jerk.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And I spose I’m a mind reader.”

  “Oh, uh, I don’t care. Old Golds or no, give me Phillip Morris. Doctors say they’re good for you. They have throat comfort.”

  The guy slid a pack across the counter at me.

  I figured if I sat there and smoked cigarettes that he sold me he wouldn’t kick me out. It would’ve made me sick to eat anything. There was another customer at the end of the counter—another old guy. His jacket looked as bad as mine. He was finishing up his apple pie and puffing on a soggy Camel. He smiled and slid a pack of Crush the Axis matches over to me.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out some loose change to pay for the cigarettes. With the coins came a small rectangular piece of cardboard. It was the business card Shirl gave me that Thanksgiving at Max’s party in ’41. I counted out fifteen steel pennies and pushed them in a pile toward the soda jerk. I stared at the card. Shirl knows things.

  I slid off the stool and sat in the phone booth at the back of the store. I dialed Shirl’s number. She told me to come right over.

  The sun was low in the sky as I walked down Bleecker Street, gathering my torn coat around me. I weaved in and out of the pushcarts that dotted the sidewalks as they packed up their fruit, cloth, pork and other their wares for the evening. There was a long line in front of the sweet potato man’s cart. I was tempted to stop and get one, but instead, I kept going past cafés, and Italian restaurants, and old women in black yelling at each other in what I guessed was Italian. A couple of little boys ran past a vendor selling flowers; a horse-drawn cart filled with vegetables clopped over the cobblestones.

  I’d heard that Shirl was a wealthy businesswoman, but this was not a neighborhood where wealthy people lived. I stopped at a large brick building connected to other brick buildings that were set back from the hustle of the street. I grabbed hold of the wrought iron railing and ho
isted myself up the steps. I pushed past the front door and headed to the next set of stairs, and then the next, and the one after that until I’d reached the fourth-floor landing. I knocked on the door and a voice called, “Come in. It’s open.”

  When I pushed past the door, I found Shirl sitting in a broad leather chair in a room lined with books. A red and blue checked flannel shirt was tucked into her pants that zipped in the front.

  “Come in, dear,” she said. “Have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee or would you rather have a beer?”

  “Coffee in these times? Too much of a luxury. Save it for yourself.”

  “We always have enough to share with friends. I’ll have my wife bring us some.”

  “Your …?”

  Shirl struggled to get out of her chair. She waddled from the room, calling, “Mercy, bring two coffees, will you, dear?”

  She came back, holding a phonograph record. “I think you’ll enjoy this.” She slipped the record out of its brown paper sleeve and put it on the Victrola that sat near her chair. She placed the needle on the first groove and the sound of Juliana singing opera filled the room.

  Shirl sat back in her chair moving her head to the sound. Juliana’s voice slipped inside of me, vibrating through me, and for a time, I melted into the sound of her. When the last note was sung and the needle stuck in the final groove, Shirl said, “This is the true Juliana. This is what she should be doing with her voice.”

  “She told me she doesn’t have what it takes to sing opera professionally.”

  “Poppycock. The trouble with Juliana is she doesn’t want to outdo her mother, which wouldn’t be terribly difficult since it seems to me her mother didn’t do very much. To hear Juliana tell it, though, her mother gave up her own career for her. So why doesn’t Juliana want to pay her back by using all her gifts? Oh, don’t get me started on this topic. It’ll give me a headache. Do you know this piece? ‘Un Bel Di.’“