Bells of Avalon

by Libbet Bradstreet

“If Albert found out you fleeced me out of work, you’d be in worse trouble than me, kid.” He swiveled to face her full-on and smiled. She placed her arms on either side of his chair until her face was inches from his own. He looked at the simple, sexy quality of her red lips. Easy peasy. Her smile fell when she glanced over to a framed picture on his desk: Katie Webb sitting for a highly glamorized portrait.

  She straightened herself and looked down at him. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she was pouting. He eased forward and took her dangling hands in his. He gave her a slick, low-spirited smile that still managed to showcase his perfect teeth.

  “Another night, kid.”

  Chapter Twenty

  New York City, New York

  1966

  Katie told him to wait in the lobby while she went upstairs to get a heavier jacket. She’d heard it might get cold later. She’d talked him into tagging along while she finished up some Christmas shopping. She said she wanted to watch the skaters at Rockefeller, too. It was coming up on lunch, and he knew she’d try to make him eat again. She’d settled for Peruvian empanadas after he flat-out refused Lobster Newburg at stuffy midtown joint she’d recommended. He reached for his cigarettes deep inside the pocket of the Alpaca coat she’d insisted on buying him. His fingers felt the pagoda-shape of his lighter, but his cigarettes were gone. She’d hidden them again. He pulled the lighter out and flipped it in his hand. He took in a breath, albeit smokeless, and looked at the crystal chandelier above his head. It cascaded down into a dozen or so pieces, each one a prism to the yellow light of the lobby. He reached again for his cigarettes, an idle habit, before remembering again she’d taken them. She still thought she could fix him. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he couldn’t be fixed. No dice, satin doll. He looked down from the gaudiness of the chandelier and saw a young man in a straw fedora speaking to one of the porters. He slowly walked over until he could hear the basics of the conversation.

  “C’mon, Nate, I’ve always been good to you haven’t I?”

  The bellman nodded his head, even-steven.

  “I’ll give you a ten-spot free and clear—just tell me if she’s staying here and when she comes and goes. That’s all I need.”

  “Look, I’d like to help you out but the boss has been cracking down. Big-rollers like her aren’t coming around so much these days with reporters snooping around,” the bellman said.

  “I’m a writer—”

  “What?”

  “I’m a writer, not a—never mind.”

  “Yeah, like I said—if I get caught talking to reporters like you, it’ll be my job,” the bellman said and braced his thick arms on the brass luggage trolley.

  “Hey, I’m just a working man like you. I’ve got a boss that’s on my back for a deadline. Look, I know she’s here. Just tell me when she comes around is all.”

  “Well if you know so much, hot shot, what’ya need me for?” The bellman slapped his hand on the reporter’s shoulder and laughed. “Now get outta here and don’t bother me no more.”

  The bellhop pushed the luggage-laden cart up the lobby. The man removed his hat and raked his hand through his hair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. Catching Daniel watching, he lifted his chin to him.

  “Hey, buddy, lend me a light will you?”

  Daniel tilted his head and remembered the red lighter in his hand. He tossed the lighter to him. The reporter fired up his own cigarette then lifted the pack up to offer one to Danny. Danny took one and caught the lighter as it was thrown back.

  “That’s a lighter all right. I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid. How’d you happen by it?”

  “My father picked it up in the Pacific, during the war that is,” Daniel said.

  “No kidding?”

  “God’s truth.”

  “You look familiar to me, have we met?”

  “I don’t think so.” Danny shrugged.

  The young reporter placed the fedora back on his head and extended his hand for Danny to shake.

  “The name’s Coolidge.”

  Danny paused for a moment before taking his hand.

  “Lykkegaard.” Danny said and shook his hand.

  “That’s quite a handle you have there, Ruskie?”

  “Nah, Nordic.”

  “I see,” the reporter replied, “what business you in?”

  “Song and dance man, you?”

  “I work for Tempo Magazine.”

  “Yeah, a writer I hear.”

  “Something like that… but maybe not for much longer. I got a load of dead copy on my hands. This might be my third strike.”

  “That’s the breaks. I wish I could help.” Danny said.

  “Maybe you can. I’m looking for Katie Webb.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Danny smiled.

  “Nah, it’s nothing like that. Seen her around the hotel by chance?”

  “Can’t says I have. Must be a big story if you’re looking for her.”

  “Just a piece about some old pictures she did as a kid.”

  “What kind of pictures?”

  “Kiddie flicks put out by Smirk ‘a’ Gram in the 40s. There was a whole series.”

  “Oh yeah? Never heard of them.”

  “C’mon, you’re a song and dance man, right? They were huge right after the war, her and that Gallagher kid. I thought every kid in America went to see those pictures.”

  “Not me, I guess. Say didn’t he die?” Danny asked.

  “Gallagher? You heard that too, huh? I’d hoped to track him down first. My boss thought he’d be a lot easier to get to.”

  “I heard he wrapped his car around a tree back in ’55.”

  “Nah, that was Jackie Coogan—or maybe that Durkin kid back in the 30s.” Coolidge disagreed.

  “So which one was Gallagher then?”

  “Gallagher? You’d know him if you seen him. He wasn’t half-bad, actually. Made some good pictures, not the usual fuzz stuff for kids back then. Anyways, we’ll probably cut the piece seeing there’s no one left. It’s a shame though.”

  Danny felt his lips part. He sighed and looked away. He took one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the bottom of his boot.

  “Sorry to be your third strike,” Daniel said under his breath.

  “Come again?”

  “Probably best, I said.” Danny smiled. “A waste of time writing about a Technicolor no one’s probably watched in twenty years. I’m sure you’ll get some better material next time. Something more interesting than a bunch of dead actors,” Danny said. The reporter looked up and smiled.

  “Just because you’re dead—don’t mean people lose interest.” The reporter flicked the brim of his hat and nodded, “Thanks for the light, buddy.”

  Danny watched him step out of the lobby and into the cold winter light.

  When he was gone, Danny felt a light brush against his shoulder and smelled the weak, honey scent of soap still on her skin. Her hair fell long and straight over her shoulders. She’d changed into her lemon-colored jacket.

  “Who was that?” she asked looking over his shoulder.

  He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair away from her face.

  “No one special.”

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  Daniel waited until she fell asleep. He removed her socks and pushed a jumble of shiny packages off the bed. He laid a hand on her bare foot. When she didn’t stir, he put on his coat and grabbed her hotel keys. He watched her sleeping face, her mouth parted slightly, her strict little chin appearing relaxed for once. The hotel room door shut with a low click behind him. He stood for a moment outside the door, listening in case she’d woken. He heard nothing then made his way down the hallway, avoiding the elevator and taking the stairs instead. Downstairs, he walked out of the lobby entrance, not as sure-footed as the young reporter had been, but with the most conviction he could muster. He barely caught the
6 headed south to Bleecker Street.

  He’d never thought of his apartment as cozy, but now it seemed downright bleak. It was funny what you could get used to, especially if you didn’t go around hoping for something better. That something better had found him though. He searched his apartment, opening the few boxes he had until he found what he was looking for. He tucked it in his pocket and left, locking the door behind this time. Something better.

  He caught the subway back uptown. By the time he returned to the hotel, his bones were aching from the cold. He unlocked Katie’s door, relieved to find her sleeping in her street clothes where he’d left her. He took the small box from his pocket. He grabbed a shopping bag from the bedroom floor, the one with the candy-cane wrapping from the five-and-dime. He left the room for several minutes—then returned to her. He undressed and crawled in bed. She blearily turned to him, murmured something then wrapped her arms around his waist. Her breathing became heavy again and he fell asleep beside her.

  He woke a few hours later to the shift of her body next to his. A beam of light from the parlor room lit the gauzy outline of her hair. Her back was to the headboard, now wearing a nylon nightgown. She pulled her knees to her chest and looked down at him.

  “What is it?” he asked, pulling himself up so he too rested against the backboard.

  “I’m scared, of course,” she said, but her voice was calm.

  “I know.”

  “Let me help.”

  “The trip, Katie—anyways you can’t.”

  “But why, why do you have to go?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Can’t, or just don’t want to?” she asked, but he never answered.

  “I’m married, you know.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, “I think it’s real good, Katie.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Yeah, all of it.”

  He put his arm over her shoulder and turned her face to his. Her large, shiny eyes reflected against the parlor light. He skimmed the side of her face and kissed her lightly. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

  “Do you remember that night when we were kids—at the Riviera?” she asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “You don’t remember much?” she finished.

  “It’s not so bad as that.” He smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

  “We were on that hill by the club. You asked me what I’d been running from. Do you remember that?”

  “Of course I do. I remember it… because after that—I knew,” he said.

  “You did?” Her voice sounded frail in the dark. Her hands began to shake.

  “Uh- huh. I knew right then… that I was going to take you to Catalina one day.”

  She lifted her forehead from his, searching for the poker face—but there was only sweetness in his smile. Her hands stopped trembling.

  “You sure know how to make a girl wait. Why didn’t you tell me then?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I guess—because… not everything that happens is worth talking about.”

  She smiled and kissed him. He took her in his arms, lowering her until she was flat on her back. He smoothly pulled the nightgown over her head, and they were skin to skin. He lost his fingers in her hair, overwhelmed by the feel of her bare body in his arms. He buried his face in her neck, and groaned miserably when she wrapped her legs around his back. She found his mouth again.

  “Katie.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured against him.

  “Katie,” he repeated and pulled back breathlessly, looking over her confused face.

  “Katie—I—I can't,” he whispered.

  She breathed shallowly underneath him. She looked at him—and a tear fell from the corner of her eye. The questioning look in her eyes sank into the sad acknowledgement of something she’d already known. He buried his face into her hair.

  “I can't.”

  “I know. I don’t want you to,” she cried.

  He gathered her against his chest and pulled their blanket into a cocoon around them. He rocked her against him and spoke in her ear until the morning came. He told her everything she'd wanted to know, the answers to the questions she'd been too good to ask. He retold stories she’d almost forgotten, followed by those she had. When there were no more stories left to tell, and he'd answered all the bad questions—she fell asleep.

  He held her for a long time while she slept, his face tired and sad. But there was an exhilaration to his sadness—an exhilaration to his fatigue. He was weightless, yet mired down in the bittersweet scent of her hair, the image of how he thought they looked in that moment. How many times had they been here? But also how few. He thought of her yellow hair against the green bedsheets the night they came back from Catalina, his thumb twined in her hair at the jazz club. How she’d never asked anything of him.

  It didn’t take him long to gather his things. The only thing that really belonged to him was in his jacket pocket and wrapped in Christmas paper. Remembering, he pulled it from his pocket, his eyes never leaving her neutral, sleeping face. He placed it gently on the nightstand beside her.

  “Merry Christmas, Cloda,” he whispered—and left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  New York City, New York

  1966

  By the time she woke it was half-past noon. The sun was bright and she was punch-drunk and nude apart from her panties and thin socks. It was the elusive sleight of hand trick that would always be Daniel. She should have seen it coming—she hadn’t, nor had she seen the wrapped box on the bedside table as she threw off her blanket, sending the box flying into a corner.

  Later, she walked down MacDougal Street wearing a brown jacket and black pants. This time blending better against the cafés and hardscrabble tenements. She got to his building and saw that the entrance was propped open by a concrete cinderblock. She took the stairs to the third floor, seeing no sign of the hard-of-hearing Mrs. Rohrabacher, or the man in the camel-colored cardigan named Pete. The hallway was stark and empty— except for a little boy hunkered over some wooden toys. Sunshine flooded in as an apartment door creaked open, light reflecting off his hair. It was reddish brown—and unnaturally slick for a boy she guessed was only three or four. When she walked a bit closer, he looked up at her. His look was peculiar at first, but then he smiled with crooked teeth—one tooth nestled too high in the gum line. She thought those teeth would be very stubborn for whoever tried to straighten them one day.

  “C’mon inside, Kevin,” a woman called out. The boy gathered his toys against his small body and marched purposefully back into the apartment. It was the blonde who placed a hand on the boy’s head as he brushed past her. Her eyes followed him then looked at Katie and sighed. She wore a red body stocking that clashed brilliantly against her chopped, flaxen hair. She flipped a dishrag over her shoulder, and it jangled against her oversized plate earrings.

  “It’s you,” she said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “He’s not here, you know.”

  “I know. I’d like to talk to you if you don’t mind?” Katie asked.

  Celia nodded and gestured her inside. The apartment was less cluttered than before and smelled of ammoniated powder cleaner. Katie glanced at the large windows and then to the boy when he reemerged and asked how many toys he was allowed to take with him.

  “Only five or six, baby.”

  “Can I watch Batman?” he asked.

  “Yes, but only for a little while.”

  The boy moved with the same purposeful march to the large television sitting on the floor with wooden pegs. His hand whirled the dial until the screen illuminated. He sprawled on his stomach and rested his elbows against the floor. He hummed along with the theme song as it played through the opening credits.

  “How long will you be gone?” Katie asked.

  “As long as it takes.”<
br />
  “So that’s it?”

  “Yeah, what else?”

  “Let me help. I know people—doctors.”

  Celia scoffed and shook her head.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I just thought—”

  “I know what you thought. Listen, my grandfather helped finance the Panama Canal. You think I have trouble making a check clear?” Celia glanced at the boy as he watched television in the living room. She sighed, some of her frustration wearing off.

  “Look, we’ve tried. Pete and I have taken him to every decent doctor on the island of Manhattan. The army shells out a check every month because they can’t figure out what’s wrong either. If I thought you could do any better, I’d tell you to have at it. But as it is, I’ll just ask you leave it alone and let us do what’s best.”

  Katie looked at Celia’s modern, young face. She felt something ripped away from her insides—something she realized had never belonged to her in the first place. She looked at the boy in the living room and forced herself to smile.

  “Of course,” Katie agreed.

  “Hey, it’s no big thing. You know I appreciate your whole role here, coming from where you do and all. It just took me off guard. I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s not like I don’t understand the way he has about him—we wouldn’t be here in this fix if I didn’t, right?” Celia nodded her head towards the boy watching television and smiled as if to say that none of it really meant anything.

  But Katie didn’t understand, at least not in the same way that Celia might. She didn’t think she would ever understand. But then again, she’d never really understood Daniel either. She’d just tricked herself into thinking she had. In that moment, while she looked at Celia’s bright blue eyes and thick lashes, Danny seemed as foreign to her as ever. Just a strange boy crossing San Vicente and 26th as the men in grey suits drove her away.

  “He’s probably still at the park you’d like to see him.”

  Celia’s voice barely registered above the sad whooshing in her ears. She looked again at the boy on his stomach, his restless legs scissoring along with the sounds of the television. It should have been the loveliest thing in the world—the way his tiny body fizzled with energy, but she couldn’t help but grieve. Soon, he would come to know too much of the world—just as she had. Katie stood to her feet, smiled sadly, and asked Celia for her telephone.