Bells of Avalon

by Libbet Bradstreet

  After class, Mrs. Sloan stood next to two men in sensible shoes and suits while they told her that her father had died. One of them wrote something down on a pad of paper while Mrs. Sloane asked her in a soft voice if she had understood what was said. Katie told her that she had, which was true enough. Someone took her hand and she flinched. She saw that it was Danny’s mother. She heard whispers and thought they were discussing what was to be done with her. Danny’s mother spoke with the rolling rhythms of an accent she barely understood...but would soon know well.

  “Please, if she’s no family here—allow her with us. My Daniel she knows since they were small. Just for tonight if there is no one else.”

  They looked down at her. The taller of the two men knelt until her face was in line with his. He looked at her with tired eyes and, for one of the few times since she was seven years-old, she heard her real name said aloud by another. It sounded strange. She looked over to Danny, afraid to see some variation of the wicked face from before. But there was nothing. He stared at the floor, his newly-shined shoes swinging beneath him. He held tightly to her tattered book of crossword puzzles beneath one arm.

  Chapter Two

  New York City, New York

  1966

  They came between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six. Mid-western dollies out to make it in the big city. So many hopes, so many dreams sprung from the taxi-dancer films from a generation before. That was all old news. Nickle-dancing in the halls didn’t exist anymore. If a girl wanted to dance these days, she had to get in line with the hundreds of others fresh out of the American Ballet School—or the Brooklyn girls taught to tap eight ways from Sunday. Most were lucky to hostess in satin step-ins, sling drinks, or pass out cigarettes in a joint like this one. Still they came: well-shaped versions of the same girl—again and again. Max wondered if they knew how similar they were to the girls who’d come before. Even how similar they looked standing next to one another at the bar, picking at their panti-legs and chattering.

  The glasses over the low-curving bar were wiped down to a spotless shine. The tables were spaced and covered with cream-colored linens. Every other day the staff put out black or white, depending on what the man delivered back from the laundry. The cream-colored linens were reserved for Saturday. Max wasn’t certain when that tradition had started. He supposed it had evolved out of necessity or happenstance, as most things did. Regardless, he liked the fact that they marked the days of the passing week. He needed to be reminded. Lately it felt as though all his days ran together.

  But something about tonight was different. He couldn’t quite pin down the feeling. What was different about tonight wasn’t obvious. Not obvious like the difference between black and cream-colored linens. It was odd that he’d noticed anything. He wasn’t a man who typically noted what was less than obvious. Perhaps that was because he was an obvious man, both in appearance and manner. He was tall—and that was obvious. His eyes were the most obvious shade of blue. These qualities came together to make a man who was of course handsome—but only in the most obvious of ways.

  He turned at the dotting tap on his shoulder and it was Effie, standing before him in all her plainspoken prettiness. She looked at him, her delicate eyebrows arching into her hairline.

  “I’ve been looking for you for a half hour.”

  “Evening to you as well,” he replied blandly.

  Her eyes narrowed on him, pulling her clipboard against her chest.

  “What?”

  “The meat guy’s here.”

  “So?”

  “So? You gotta go talk to him. He's trying to ratchet up the price again.”

  “Well, give it to him. I can't open tonight without a freezer full of steaks.”

  “No, Max, he's been pulling this racket on us for the past three months. We can’t keep giving in.”

  “I appreciate the proprietary interests but I'm in a hurry. Can't you just deal with it?”

  “He won't listen to me, Max, I'm not in charge.”

  “Well go fetch Albert. He loves dickering over a dime. You know I don't deal with this stuff.”

  “I can’t find him. In any case, he’s in a mood—there’s some people…”

  “Look, he’s right there. Problem solved.” Max cut her off, pointing to the bar where the chattering girls had been moments before. He shouted his name.

  His brother glanced up and squinted before patting his pocket for the latest version of five-and-dime glasses he always wore. He put them on and the plastic earpieces clung to the premature gray at his temples. Walking towards them, he rolled his shoulders with little sense of warmth, cursed as he side-stepped a waiter carrying a tray of raw, white fish.

  “What is it now?” Albert grumbled, his eyes still on the waiter.

  “Effie has a T-bone emergency. Please, she's killin' me.”

  “Oh, Jesus, first press now this. I haven’t time for any of it.”

  “Al, it’s the guy from the meat market again. He’s trying…” Effie’s voice started strong but faded off.

  “Well, where is the bastard?”

  “In the kitchen pen with Agapeto,” she answered softly.

  Albert tugged at his tie and walked away, nearly colliding with another tray of raw meat before disappearing towards the innards of the kitchen. Max looked over to Effie and sighed. He placed an arm around her.

  “Oh, Effie, you know how he gets. You're doing well.”

  She sighed as if in agreement that she was indeed doing very well. She settled into him until he could smell her freshly-laundered hair.

  “Hey, Ef?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why didn't you tell me press was here?”

  With the moment gone, she drew the clipboard to her breast once again.

  “I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be interested,” she said, her lips parting in serpentine grin. “They’re still upstairs—that is, if you are interested.”

  He watched her sashay around a corner and smiled because he was still interested.

  He walked upstairs to his brother’s office. Craning his neck inside, he found it dark and empty. Down the hall, a gray-green light spilled out from the door of his own office. He glanced inside and found a slender man in a straw fedora, no more than twenty-five, scribbling on pad of paper. In his solitude, he’d stretched out his legs until Max could see the argyle pattern of his socks. The creak of the door sent the man to his feet. Newly alert, he launched up and grinned.

  He extended his hand, “Max Kitterage, what can I do you for?”

  The younger man looked him over with skeptical eyes before shaking on the introduction.

  “Max? Oh I'm sorry there's been some mistake. I was looking for Albert—Albert Kittredge.”

  “Albert doesn’t run the publicity, you see.”

  Max released his hand.

  “I apologize, I'm afraid we're zero for two. I'm Kenneth Coolidge from Tempo. I'm not here about the supper club.” He started to speak again, but stopped short and tilted his head, “Wait a minute, you’re the brother…the Kingly Kitterages, right?” he smiled.

  “Well, Mr. Coolidge, we may be up to par yet. Have a seat, won’t you?”

  “I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. The name rang a bell but I'd dismissed it as, well, happenstance.”

  Max waved it away as if it were no matter and sat behind his sizeable desk

  “Think nothing of it. We all change over the years, don't we Mr.—I'm sorry what was the name again?”

  “Coolidge. Kenneth Coolidge, from Tempo Mag—”

  “Like the president?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “The president?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Any relation?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Ah, that's too bad. I had an uncle who went on the campaign trail with him—the president that is. You said you were a reporter?” Max asked. Coolidge looked at his hands and sighed.

  “A writer. I’m from—”

&
nbsp; “The Sun, did you say?”

  “—no, sorry...you didn't speak with someone from The Sun did you?” he asked with a momentary flash of disappointment.

  “Oh no, I suppose not. I only thought I'd seen your byline.”

  “My brother writes for them, sports editor, boxing mainly—Les Coolidge.”

  “Oh, well you know the name rang a bell, but I just dismissed it as—happenstance.”

  The reporter looked over him with the same skeptical eyes as before.

  “I'm just screwing with you, friend.” Max smiled. The reporter shifted in his seat and clicked his pen before smiling back.

  “You know you ought to thank your luckies you caught me first. Albert hates talking about the old days. Even if you got him to—he'd make dull copy.”

  “Well I do appreciate your speaking with me. I'm sure you're a busy man.”

  “Ah, never too busy to take a trip down memory lane.”

  “I was hoping to get some information, if I could. Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “No, please do,” Max smiled at the pad of paper, “how can I help?”

  “Tempo is just getting some retrospectives—behind the scenes stuff on the Smirk ‘a’ Gram pictures of the 40s—the ones with Danny Gallagher and Katie Webb. My editor’s on the fence about the article…he always gets nervous about exploitation pieces. You and your brother filmed on the same lot. You knew them, right?”

  “Daniel? You're doing a story on Daniel?” Max asked leaning forward in his chair.

  “Him and others. You see, it’s coming up on the anniversary of the last picture. There’s some interest around certain crew and cast members.”

  “You’re writing a commemorative piece? Why? No one’s cared about those films in years.”

  “Well, there may be some interest very soon.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Coolidge shifted in his seat and laughed awkwardly, “How can I put this? Some unsavory rumors have begun to surface about the productions.”

  “Unsavory? How do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re aware of the new scandal around Willis Percy?”

  “The dancer? Can’t say I have. He’s been dead for years anyway.”

  “Probably best that he is…with all the underage girls and parties.”

  “Underage girls?”

  “Yeah, turns out the guy was a regular Errol Flynn—maybe worse. Some of the stuff I’ve heard would make your hair curl,” he smiled, “allegedly.”

  “Is that right?” Max asked, leaning back in his chair once again.

  “So you knew Daniel Gallagher?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Well?” Max asked.

  “Yes. Did you know him well?”

  Max paused, “Yes.”

  Coolidge’s dark brows furrowed, he stopped writing, “Yes? You knew him well?”

  “Of course,” Max finished. The reporter shifted in his chair. Max found himself staring at the virgin portions of Coolidge’s notepad.

  “Mr. Kittredge?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well—could you tell me about him?”

  “Oh, well, we saw each other on the lot. Not a lot—I mean, we saw each other on the lot, yes. The tutors taught us all in the same classroom. Then at the professional school in Los Angeles—Albert, Dan, and I. It wasn’t conventional, you see—set up for kids in the business. It used to be up there on Los Feliz— they tore it down years ago.”

  “I see. Well, if you could just tell me what you remember about him, about the set.”

  “What I remember?” Max laughed. Coolidge’s eyes narrowed on his face.

  “It's been a long time. Albert and I were just kids back then. Listen, I’m not sure I can help you with any of this. I haven't seen Daniel in years. Last I heard he got discharged from the army. There was a rumor he was building sets for some playhouse near Stuyvesant Square, but I don’t know if there’s much truth to it. You’ve tried contacting him directly?”

  “I have, no luck. He had some legal troubles years back but has kept a low profile since then.” Coolidge smiled.

  “What about his family?”

  “Gallagher's parents are both deceased, and he had no siblings. The only person he seemed to talk to regularly was his lawyer. He hasn't heard from Gallagher in several months.”

  “There's no one at all?” Max asked.

  “If you could tell me anything, Mr. Kittredge, anything at all. It doesn’t have to be on the record if you don’t want it to be,” Coolidge said. Max frowned and locked his hands beneath his chin.

  “Dan was married, not long but he had a wife. Her name was…” Max tried to remember it, one of those sexy but useless sounding names. The kind you forgot ten minutes after having heard it.

  “Fae?” Coolidge asked.

  “Yes, that's it. Barozzi was her maiden, I think.”

  Coolidge's eyes looked down. He sat his pen on the desk.

  “Yeah, we tried her. Unfortunately she passed away a few years ago.”

  “Oh, I didn't know.”

  “Car accident.”

  Max took a deep, defeated breath. “Well, I'll be damned. That's a shame. I didn't know her well. She was a sweet girl. None of us knew her well. The wedding was kind of—” Max stopped himself and looked at the nullified curiosity Coolidge’s face.

  “—it was a small ceremony,” he finished.

  “You attended his wedding?”

  Max sighed and rubbed his temple.

  “I was his best man.”

  “Oh,” the reporter nodded.

  “It was a long time ago,” Max said and struggled for an informal, aboveboard statement to end the conversation. None came.

  “Your brother as well?” the reporter asked.

  “Nah, Al and Katie they—”

  “Katie?” Coolidge asked, not bothering the hide the sharp smile forming on his thin lips.

  Max frowned and stood up. He gave his blazer jacket a tug and felt some bearing of locked-down diplomacy return.

  “You don't mean Katie Webb, do you?” Coolidge asked. Max said nothing. He didn’t have to. Coolidge picked up his pen and wrote a few short but heavily slanted sentences on the yellow paper.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Coolidge, I’ll have to excuse myself. I have a meat vendor to attend to.”

  “I thought you said you were the PR man?” Coolidge smiled.

  Max sighed. Albert was going to kill him.

  Chapter Three

  New York City, New York

  1966

  Katie dreamed.

  You think she’s pretty? She didn’t speak the words, not really. It was like the memory of what her voice had used to be. It was an important question, and she wanted the answer. She asked it again, calmer now…do you think she’s pretty? She spoke the words now, no longer just hearing the echo of what they had been.

  Her legs were sore. She felt the ache of her toes pressed into tap shoes. She felt the frothy texture of her leggings; they were thick, radioactive white. She knew that without looking at them. But yet, on that cue her vision came. Was that all it was this time? She turned her head slowly, so as to not break the spell. He sat beside her, his legs thrown over the side of a canvas chair, a comic book in his hands.

  “Finished already?” Was that what he had asked?

  It had to have been. The rest of the scene had already been written—or rather, it had already happened.

  “I’m done, the shot isn’t. They’re going to bring Vasillisa to finish it.”

  Now her words came effortlessly.

  “How’d ya know that?” he asked.

  “She’s a better dancer. She’s older and prettier.”

  Older and prettier. That had been the crux of it all, hadn’t it? She was older and prettier. That’s why it had happened. That’s why she’d been left alone, a waddling chick without mother hen.

  “Even if she is prettier, it will just
be her legs and then your face again.”

  “You think she’s pretty?”

  There it was again, or had she skipped it the first time?

  “Sure, she’s pretty enough I suppose. But Mrs. Sloane is coming soon so you’d better get as happy as Larry, Mary.”

  “Oh would you be quiet. I hate it when you say that—my name isn’t Mary.”

  “I know it isn’t. Your name is—” The ghostly sound of his voice echoed in her mind like strange laughter.

  “Hush,” she hissed.

  “Jeez, Katie.”

  “My crossword book? Where is it?”

  She turned her head to look around.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You took it again, didn’t you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Danny—give it back.”

  Fear pulled at her dream self when she heard Danny’s voice getting smaller and smaller.

  “I told you, Katie, I don’t have it.”

  It was the last she heard, followed by his laughter. She watched his eyes, those eyes she’d always thought a little bit strange, brim with devilry. Then he was gone.

  It all seemed in order. Every line said. Every mark hit.

  Her dream self walked along the studio’s second floor. She’d only wanted to go to the fancy upstairs bathroom. It had frosted windows, a vanity, and a beautiful full-length mirror. That was how it happened. How he’d gotten her alone. It had been all hers once…Mary Pickford—or had it been Vilma Banky? She couldn’t remember now. How could she remember knowing that he was behind her?

  Of course she hadn’t known that then. She hadn’t heard his steps. His feet were nimble, even in her dreams. Nimble dancing feet. She’d been only a girl and unable to keep up with the steps of a man over twice her age. A man old enough to remember both Vilma Banky and Mary Pickford—and where they’d excused themselves privately.

  His hands went to either side of her waist, twirling her around in a different kind of dance. The sound of his voice was in ear before she felt the shuttering pangs of pressure. He whispered things, so many things her girl’s mind couldn’t understand as his hands touched the tender skin under her clothing. She turned her head and felt the cold tile against her cheek, blue and beautiful—its reflection showcasing the world outside. She saw the long fingers of a branch, the pass of birds like darts through foamy clouds and—finally—a set of swings she’d never been allowed to play on until the moment she was suddenly there. She flew through the air, feeling the punch and pull of gravity in her belly. She flew higher and higher against the blue-tiled sky until the sun burned her skin. The blistering pain ripped through her, ripped inside of her. The last picture was his face. It came in patches…blue eyes and a strong jaw, and she was horrified to find it handsome.