Bright Young Things

by Anna Godbersen

  “Not you—that man,” he answered, gesturing at the fellow with the broad shoulders who‧d first insulted Letty.

  “Oh.” A smile played at the edges of Cordelia‧s lips. “But I don‧t find him interesting at all.”

  “I like the way you shot him down. Anyway, don‧t I know you?” He pushed back his chair so that he could more fully face her. “Are you some kind of actress or something?”

  Cordelia made a scoffing noise and tried not to glance down self-consciously at her homely white dress. White, she had noticed while glancing around, was not a color to wear to a nightclub. But the taxi driver had asked them a similar question—perhaps that was a line all pretty girls in New York heard sooner or later.

  “An aviatrix?” His voice was what she would imagine an educated man‧s voice was like, especially when he used words she‧d never heard before.

  “What‧s that?”

  “I‧ve got it … You‧re a moral crusader, here to shame us for our law-breaking, bourbon-drinking ways!”

  “Lord, no.”

  “Three strikes.” He shrugged and sighed. “Excuse me, I‧ve been very rude, you have no drink. Can I get you one?”

  Cordelia pretended to waver a moment and then gave a little nod. He gestured to a passing waiter, who seemed to require no more than a flourish of a pinkie finger to take the order. Sitting so close to this boy, the backs of their chairs almost touching, it was obvious how alike in size and presence they were. Then she became exquisitely aware of how near their hands, idling on the backs of their chairs, had crept.

  “Cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Don‧t smoke?” He turned down the corners of his mouth.

  “No …” She rolled her eyes upward. “I don‧t smoke or not smoke as a rule … only it sounds like a lot of distraction just now.”

  “Ah.” A ghostly white spiraled up from between his index and middle fingers, where he rested his cigarette, and for a moment it obscured her view of him. “This much I am sure of: I haven‧t met you before, because a girl like you I surely would have done everything in my power to keep on knowing.”

  “You do say pretty things, don‧t you?” she replied, leaning away from him and narrowing her eyes, as though he were not to be trusted. And perhaps he wasn‧t to be trusted. In this city, how was she to know? But talking to him was thrilling, and she wanted to go on doing so regardless of the consequences.

  “So—you take offense at the innocent suggestion of moral crusading …” He paused, contemplating her. It was a long, searching look, as though he could see the pulsing of her heart or somehow read the transmissions of her thoughts. “Perhaps your living is robbing banks or holding up unlucky pharmacists and the like?”

  A wry smile spread across Cordelia‧s face. “That would take some style—committing crimes by daylight and then spending your nights in a busy joint like this.”

  “True. But, in my humble opinion, style is one thing you‧ve got plenty of.”

  The flattery almost overwhelmed her. And it had come so quickly. She couldn‧t help but think, briefly, of John, who was always so gentle but could never quite keep up with her. Resting her cheek against her palm, she let her eyes drift across the room, taking in the movement all around and the glint of the table candles reflecting on white teeth when people laughed.

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “Compliments make you sad, don‧t they?”

  She pushed the image of John from her mind—she didn‧t see any logic in dwelling on those she‧d left behind—and smiled wide. “Now what kind of girl doesn‧t like compliments?”

  “I hope you like old-fashioneds, too.”

  “Is that what the waiter is bringing us?” she asked. “I‧ve never had one.”

  “How unfortunate!” he replied. “Rest assured: They are delicious. If you find I‧m in error, we‧ll see to it that you get something that truly pleases you. The bartender is a friend.”

  Both her eyebrows rose. “You have a lot of friends, don‧t you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It‧s the way you carry yourself.” She paused, considering, and took a breath of smoky air. Everyone around them was jittery and excitable and chatting at high speed, and she was amazed to realize that, despite the crowded room, she had perhaps never had a conversation that felt quite so private as this one. “And also the fact that you don‧t mind sitting alone amongst all these people.”

  He smiled faintly. “But how do you know I am not waiting for someone?”

  “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked, a hint of flirtatious challenge wavering in her voice. There was something about the way he said it that made her believe him and suspect one of the well-heeled ladies seated at the bar of biding her time until she left. But before he could answer, the waiter returned. Whatever they had been saying was lost among the placing of glasses on napkins, the administering of soda water, the relighting of his cigarette.

  “To you, whoever you are,” he said, raising his glass once the waiter had departed.

  She raised her glass just the way he‧d done, and touched his so that it made a sound.

  “To a perfect moment. May it never end,” he concluded, and drank.

  She drank, too, but not with his assurance. The sensation on her tongue was sweet and scorching at once, and when she swallowed the mouthful of thick, sugary liquid, she felt dizzy and had to close her eyes. The glass was still cool against her palm, but then she felt the warm sensation of his fingertips on her wrist.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied and opened her eyes. It seemed remarkable that only yesterday she‧d woken up in a very far-off place and now she was here, and then she heard herself say: “I grew up in Ohio, but in fact I was born here in New York. It‧s my first night back in town. I‧m here to find my father.”

  All of that ought to be followed by a great deal of explanation, she supposed. Yet she was in no particular hurry. He had said he hoped the moment would never end, and indeed she felt that she might go on contentedly like this forever. The air was rich, and the drinks were cold. In every corner of the room, a gentleman or lady was watching or being watched, and Cordelia paused, taking in the crowd, until she realized that she was in fact one of the ladies being observed.

  “Your father?”

  Letty was standing over her, wearing a new shade of lipstick.

  “But I thought we were here because …” The room had grown blurry, and Letty found she couldn‧t finish her sentence. Already tonight she had been accosted and then saved by a cigarette girl named Paulette, who had taken Letty aside and cleaned her up and made sure she understood that that kind of thing happened to everybody, and she needn‧t go to confession over it or quit the city before she even got a real taste. Paulette had then given her a swipe of red lipstick and a shot of brandy to calm her nerves. After that Letty began to see that good people could be found anywhere.

  But that new sense of calm waned when she came to stand beside her old friend and overheard her saying something that didn‧t make any kind of sense. “I thought we came because I was meant to be a star,” she finally said, though it sounded foolish to her now.

  Cordelia‧s cheeks had grown rosy, and her eyes were dark and mysterious. She sat up straight and then paused. The other Washborne girls had been absorbed by the crowd. Everything in the vast room swam toward Letty and away.

  “My father—he‧s here.” The dim light accentuated Cordelia‧s cheekbones, as well as the haughtiness of which she was sometimes capable. She glanced back at the man she‧d been talking to, as if they shared something, though he‧d already looked away and begun to recede into the background. Then she turned the glass of amber liquid in a circle across the table and went on in a nonchalant tone. “Not here at the club, here in New York. I‧m going to find him.”

  Letty‧s red mouth stood open, and the whites of her eyes expanded. Up until that moment she had believed she‧d known everythi
ng about Cordelia; now she wondered if she knew anything. She wanted to ask why her oldest friend had never told her of this suspicion before, or how she had come by it, and if it was the whole reason they had left everything they‧d ever known for a vast and fearsome city, or if Letty‧s hopes and dreams had played even a small role in the decision. But she was afraid that if she spoke again, she would begin to cry. Then she‧d have to be taken aside a second time and cleaned up again, and she already felt sufficiently humiliated.

  Letty turned and hurried toward the exit.

  “Letty, wait!” Cordelia yelled after her.

  But Letty was pushing through clots of people, all straining in the opposite direction to be in the spot she had just vacated. Even in the entryway a raucous good time was being had, and she probably should not have been surprised that with all the shouting and revelry, her stricken expression went entirely unnoticed.

  “Letty!” She heard Cordelia yell again once she had traveled halfway down the block. There were fewer people outside now, and the warm windows of a few brick houses illuminated the darkened street below.

  Although Letty did not turn around, Cordelia‧s long strides soon brought the two girls side by side.

  “Don‧t be angry,” she said.

  Letty did not at first glance up as they continued at a furious pace back toward the Washborne. “I didn‧t even know you had a father,” she said eventually. “You never told me. I tell you everything, and you never even—”

  “Well, I don‧t know for sure,” Cordelia went on, in a placating tone, as they turned off the avenue and onto their own twisting street. Then she sighed as though she had stumbled upon an irritating but simple misunderstanding. “I know where he is, because he‧s famous. At least, I think he is. He‧s that bootlegger, Darius Grey. It‧s not coincidental that we have the same name. Aunt Ida always said that I should keep my father‧s name as a reminder of the sinful life that had begot me … And I‧ve read the papers: It would have been right around the time Mr. Grey had to leave Chicago for New York. He was small-time then, and that‧s what Aunt Ida always implied my daddy was: small-time and crooked. Of course, she doesn‧t keep up with the news. She doesn‧t know what he‧s become.”

  “We came all this way because you think Darius Grey is your father?” Letty shrieked. Her body had gone cold, and the great distance between her and everything she‧d ever known felt suddenly more real and more painful than before. “You really believe he‧ll just take you in? He‧s a criminal. You think a man like that wants a daughter to take care of? You think he doesn‧t have a dozen forgotten children all over the country?” For a moment, Letty thought she might cry. Instead she heard herself wail: “You‧re deluded!”

  “Me? You‧re the one who‧s deluded,” Cordelia shot back, just as quickly. “You think you can just show up in Manhattan, and instantly you‧ll be a star? There are thousands of girls trying to make it in this city.”

  The night air was cooler than it had been during the day, but both girls had grown hot by now. They had ceased to notice anything about their surroundings, or whether any of the old men on stoops watched them. By the time they spotted the Washborne, Letty‧s throat was sore and all logic had gone out of her sentences.

  “You‧re a liar!” Letty shrieked, her tiny mouth like a balled fist as she looked up at the girl who had once been her best friend. She placed a hand on the railing of the Washborne‧s steps.

  “I am not.” Cordelia stared back, her eyes wide open and full of fire.

  “What‧s this?”

  They both turned, startled, and saw the housemother through the crack of the doorway, her hair in the same ornate arrangement, her body covered in a full-length dressing gown. The blood drained from Letty‧s face.

  “What‧s what?” Letty asked, drawing herself up innocently. Overhead, the leaves of the trees rustled, but everything else was quiet.

  The housemother‧s long fingers clung to the doorway, and she put her head forward to sniff the air dramatically. “Alcohol,” she said.

  “Excuse me?” Cordelia replied.

  But their faces were flushed, and there would be no convincing the housemother now. Her eyes had grown narrow, her mind hardened with conviction. “There is no drinking and no carousing in this house.” The old lady‧s nose pointed upward and the corners of her mouth turned down. “I thought you were good girls, but I was wrong. You‧ll have to be going now, before you corrupt the others.”

  Of course, it was not their malignant natures that had gotten them in trouble, only their newness; had they lived in the city a few more days, they would have known how to fool the housemother. As it was, they were escorted to their room and watched as they packed their few things.

  “But we‧ve paid for the whole week,” Cordelia protested, once they were back in the lobby.

  “Perhaps God saw that and will take it as partial penance for what you‧ve done,” the housemother answered coldly, before slamming the front door against their faces.

  Outside, the moon dressed the cobblestones in pools of white, and the air felt damp. Letty was so shocked and ashamed to have been put out on the street that she almost ceased to remember her rage. Almost. She stood watching Cordelia in the moonlight; her features and her stance were the same as always, but there was something strange about her. She had been cruel to Letty for the first time, and Letty found she wanted to be cruel back. “I don‧t know that I like you anymore,” she managed finally.

  If Cordelia flinched, it was subtle. “I suppose you‧re on your own, then,” was all she said, and then she turned and walked alone into the night, her suitcase bouncing against her hip.

  The city howled all around, and a chill settled into Letty‧s bones. She wanted to call out to Cordelia and beg her to stay, to tell her that she couldn‧t possibly survive alone. But over the course of that day, she had already felt her heart swell and sink, and then she‧d shouted with a fury she had not known herself capable of, and at that late hour, it seemed her voice was no longer up to the task.

  6

  THE TOWN OF WHITE COVE HAD BEEN FOR SOME generations unyieldingly small and outrageously expensive; it was close enough to the city to attract a great deal of wealth, but offered enough natural beauty and quiet that one could go there with his secrets and count on seclusion. The grand houses were surrounded by buffers of hedges or high gates or arboretums, and were either completely invisible to their neighbors or only willing to reveal themselves in coy parts: a few white columns here, a tiled roof there, a lap pool reflecting the orange and pink glow of sunset above. To Astrid, reclining in the spacious backseat of a Daimler that did not belong to her, it was a sky deliciously reminiscent of sherbet.

  So, she thought, as they proceeded through the gates and up the long gravel path, it is not to be a small party after all. The narrow public road that connected the estates did not look like much—pine trees and intermittent pavement—and the whole stretch on either side of the Greys’ place was lined with automobiles, pulled to the side so that their right tires were in the ditch. Guests in willowy dresses and lightweight suits strolled through the gates, where they were observed by discreetly out-of-view gunmen, before venturing up the lawn. They did not have to be told that only known vehicles were allowed on the property.

  “Mr. Charlie says I should bring you ‘round the side,” the driver announced when they had almost reached the house.

  Astrid smiled and said nothing.

  Her forehead was mostly covered by the band of a turquoise and silver beaded headpiece, which skimmed over her ears and was fastened at the back of her skull under a curve of rich yellow hair. Her lips were very red, and the skin of her eyelids was shaded deep purple; the dress she wore was made up of exquisite diamond-shaped pieces of silver-colored silk, with a rather low neckline supported by whisper-thin straps. Charlie had given it to her on her seventeenth birthday; he had delivered it to her at school himself, along with a hundred white roses. Only girls were allowed on the camp
us, of course—it was still a mystery how he had managed it without getting caught.

  The fading day had cast the grass the color of straw, and the guests were trailed by their own long shadows as they ascended toward the vast white tent, strung up with tiny lights, where a band had already begun to play. But Charlie wanted Astrid to be dropped not at the tent or even on the grand stone steps of the house, but around the side, and she couldn‧t help but wonder, as she often did with Charlie, if it wasn‧t because there was some treat in it for her: a bracelet he wanted to slip on her wrist before the party, or a room filled with the smell of hyacinth, or baskets laden with pink grapefruit shipped all the way from Texas. So she went on smiling, and once they‧d come to a stop, she let the driver help her out of the backseat and up to the side entrance. She shivered—it was almost a premonition of the chill that would really come only late at night—and wondered if Charlie hadn‧t chosen a new fur for her. It was hardly the right time of year for it, but that would be just like him.

  She went through a darkened spare room and then into the gothic library with its showy, uncut books. When she saw Charlie, she stopped. His back was to her, the broad expanse of it crossed by dark suspenders that held up light brown pinstriped pants. As often happened when she entered a room and saw him for the first time after a matter of hours or weeks, she found that she had forgotten how unusually tall he was, and had to let her heart calm a few seconds. She loved the size of him. She wondered if it was possible to love someone as much as she loved Charlie.

  Beyond him, in a stuffed leather chair by the window, was Elias Jones, who always seemed to be in Charlie‧s father‧s wake, doing him some discreet and loyal service. He was probably in his late thirties, and he had a long horse‧s face capable of only a few expressions. His gaze rose slowly to assess Astrid, and then Charlie turned. When she saw his eyes, she knew there was no gift for her.