Gloria hadn’t ice-skated since she was twelve and her father had taken her to a private gala in the Chicago Arena. But she knew this was not what Jerome was hinting at.
“You know what, why don’t we go somewhere else that’s less—”
“No!” She stopped him, tugging at his arm. “If you can teach me how to sing, then I’m sure skating will be a cinch.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll fit right in,” he said, pulling her in the direction of the skate shack. Not one white person was skating on that ice. In fact, not one white person was anywhere in sight.
Jerome had taken her to the South Side. But after all, where were they supposed to go and be together—high tea at the Blackstone? It was absolutely out of the question to be with him anyplace where white people predominated. Being around Jerome at the Green Mill was one thing. He’d been a musician, she’d been a singer—sort of. But being with him in public was another story entirely: holding hands, touching, kissing … It simply couldn’t happen. A black boy and a white girl would draw a whole lot of attention—and not the good kind.
Boys and girls whizzed past them, running and laughing with each other but pausing to notice her. She felt their gaze, but in a much different way than when she’d performed.
She looked at Jerome. Was this what life was like for him every day in places that were mostly white? How did one deal with it—with standing out when all one wanted to do was blend in?
They sat on a bench, and Jerome tied her skates for her. He must have sensed her unease, because he leaned in and whispered, “I’ve seen you face much tougher crowds than this before. And they loved you, remember?”
“It seems as if all that never happened now, doesn’t it?” she said, grasping his arm as they wobbled toward the pond. Twice she almost fell flat on her face, and they weren’t even on the ice yet. “As if it was part of some dream.”
“How about now? This doesn’t feel real to you?”
“I don’t know what is real anymore.”
Jerome took her hand. “Then let’s see if we can change that.”
Holding hands, they stood at the edge of the pond. As the skaters circled past, she could feel their eyes—couples, parents, kids—all, all of them, homing in on her and Jerome. She could hear the whispers, too, not so different from the first day she’d gone back to school after the Green Mill Incident.
What was she doing here? If she could barely survive being stared at during a fun activity like ice-skating, how could she possibly consider life with Jerome beyond the rink? She didn’t know any mixed-race couples—did they even exist?
Without another word, he led her onto the ice.
Jerome pulled on her arm and slingshotted her past him. She couldn’t help herself: She shrieked.
Behind her, he hooted and scrambled to catch up while she struggled to keep her balance. And then she had it—she was upright, and it wasn’t all that hard, was it?—and he was beside her, still laughing. “What’s so funny?” she asked, but he only laughed harder.
And she was laughing, too.
Maybe it was her easy glide across the ice, or the biting chill of the air against her face, or the soothing warmth of his hand in hers—but suddenly, her mind emptied until it was as smooth and placid as the ice beneath her feet. She felt the way she had in those first few uninterrupted moments on the Green Mill stage: blissful and full of something that felt like promise.
Then it began to snow.
Tentatively at first, a few soft flakes from the whitewashed sky. The skaters all stopped, wherever they were and whoever they were with, and just looked up. Palms extended, eyes filled with wonder, childish squeals of delight. In that holy moment, Gloria experienced the same joy as everyone around her.
By the time they’d circled the pond a few more times, the snowflakes had become the first hint of a snowstorm. The first of winter, earlier than usual this year. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet.
Gloria and Jerome tumbled off the ice, out of breath and laughing as though nothing in life had ever been more fun. They crashed onto the nearest bench and leaned against each other in exhaustion.
Snowflakes caught like crystals in Jerome’s long black lashes. Gloria impulsively kissed his eyelids, the wintry flakes melting in her mouth.
“You shouldn’t do that in public,” he said, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. “What did you go and do that for?”
Gloria shrugged. “For my hot date.” He crouched in front of her and began unlacing her skates. “You know what they say about the first snow?”
“Hmmmm … a cue to migrate south for the winter?”
“If only.”
“Why, you don’t like it here?”
“That’s one off,” he said, moving to her other skate. “This town is a part of me, whether I like it or not. My family is here, jazz is here. But I’ve got a traveler’s blood pumping in my veins—I’m ready to shake things up somewhere else, like—”
“New York?”
“Yes!” he said, seeming surprised by Gloria’s suggestion. “That’s exactly where I had in mind. What made you say that?”
“I didn’t think you meant Cuba. Though now”—she shivered—“even that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.” She paused for a moment. “But couldn’t you just see us in New York?”
“Us?”
She didn’t know what she had meant by it, only that she liked the way it sounded. Us. “Can’t you see it?” she asked. “Taking our act to a brand-new city? To Greenwich Village, or Harlem, even—we would be the talk of the town. J.J.’s Jazz Band, featuring Gloria Rose.”
“I like the way it sounds.”
“And with nobody to hold us back—no parents, no Green Mill mobsters, no catty former best friends, no—”
“Fiancés?”
It hung in the air like a dirty word. “Don’t talk about him—I don’t want to ruin this perfect date.”
“Perfect?” he said. “You’re telling me, Miss Gloria Rose, that this is your perfect date?”
“Yes,” Gloria said. “That’s precisely what I’m telling you.”
“I know a way to make it even more perfect.” He raised himself up. “How ’bout some hot cocoa?”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” she said.
He led her to a small shack next to the ice-skate rental that sold coffee and hot cocoa for two cents a cup. As they stepped up into the line, the girl working the stand looked startled.
“Well, look who decides to show up.” She appeared to be about Gloria’s age, with bewitching almond-shaped eyes that glistened beneath a black knit cap. She was wrapped in a battered black peacoat.
“Max.” Jerome shifted his weight and dropped Gloria’s hand. “How are you?”
“That question’s coming a little too late, don’t you think?” she said. “Would have been nice if you’d asked it a month ago.”
“I’ve been real busy—”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Her gaze shifted sharply to Gloria. “Too busy playing with little rich white girls?”
“Careful, Max. Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
“You’re right, I know nothing but what I heard—about some redhead shacking up at your apartment last week. At night.” She cut her eyes at Gloria. “Must have been total make-believe.”
“We came here for a hot drink, not for your icy tongue.” His voice had dropped at least an octave.
“I’m sorry, but read the sign: We only serve hot cocoa and coffee. Dark drinks. Black drinks.”
Dumbfounded, Gloria stared at the girl. She had asked for “real” and she’d gotten it, hadn’t she? She wasn’t welcome here; she and Jerome weren’t welcome anywhere. And this was nothing but some stupid girl selling hot chocolate.
“It’s fine,” Gloria said. “I’m not even thirsty—”
“No, it is not fine!” Jerome threw a nickel onto the counter, rage glistening in his eyes. “You will serve us two hot cocoas, just like you’ve b
een serving everyone else.” Max was about to respond when Jerome placed an arm defiantly around Gloria’s shoulder. “Now.”
Max clucked her tongue but placed two cups of cocoa on the counter. She made a small gesture of presentation with her gloved hands. “I hope it’s to your liking,” she said smugly to Gloria. “Enjoy it while it lasts, honey.”
Jerome took their cups and they headed back toward the street in silence. It was dark now, and the snow was still lightly falling. Except for the distant squeals of the remaining skaters and the occasional passing car, an eerie quiet had settled over the frozen city. Jerome handed her one paper cup.
“I don’t even want this anymore,” she said.
“That girl, she’s a friend of my sister’s,” he began apologetically. “I don’t want you to think she was anything—”
“You don’t have to explain. I don’t even want to know.” And really, she didn’t. She’d never actually considered the other women in Jerome’s life. Surely there had been many; he was surrounded by throngs of them at the Green Mill every night. But who was she to talk? She had a diamond burning a hole in her purse—
The engagement party! She had completely forgotten! She could not be late, under any circumstances. It was 5:15. If she hopped into a taxi now, she could be home by 5:35, in the shower by 5:45, hair dried by 6:15, dressed by—
“Come here.” Jerome tugged her by her coat sleeve into an alley off the street, then looked carefully around to make sure they were alone.
He kissed her softly. “You know, I never told you what they say about the first snow,” he said. “Whoever you’re with during that first snow of winter will be the person who will change your life in the year to come.”
She laughed. “You made that up.”
“Hey, Red, where’s your faith?”
They left the alley and went to the corner, and he hailed a taxi for her. He took the paper cup she was still holding from her hand. “Now, go enjoy your party,” he said softly.
As the taxi drove off, she watched him through the window. He poured their drinks onto the ground, turning the snow the color of cocoa, before walking away.
“I can’t do this.”
Gloria slumped on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in a peach-colored towel, her hair dripping water down her back. A half hour before the party and she had made no move to get dressed. “I don’t have a fake smile left in me.”
“Take a deep breath,” Clara said, inhaling dramatically to demonstrate. She had been reading aloud the list of all the reporters expected to be in attendance. Now she folded it up and tossed it on the marble vanity. “I won’t attempt to fix your feelings, but the least I can do is fix your appearance. Don’t move an inch!”
“Where would I go?” Gloria mumbled as Clara whizzed out of the room.
Gloria had been doing just fine until she’d begun to shave her legs in the shower. She’d spotted a ripe bruise blooming on her knee—right where she had fallen on the ice with Jerome—and her mind had gone back to the afternoon. Bastian would never have taken her ice-skating.
Sopping wet, Gloria dragged herself out of the bathroom and belly-flopped onto her bed.
“Up! Up! Up!” Clara clapped her hands briskly as she reentered the room and quickly shut the door. “Didn’t I say not to move?” She climbed onto the bed and jumped up and down.
“I get the point!” Gloria forced herself to sit up.
“I brought the goods; all you need to do is sit still and do what I say.” Clara waved a flask under Gloria’s nose. “You need a dose of medicine.”
Gloria seized the flask, turning it over in admiration. It was brushed gold, with a butterfly engraved across the front; C & H was etched on the stopper. “Where did you get this?” she asked, unscrewing the top and sniffing the contents.
Clara made a tut-tut sound. “No time for asking questions, only time for following orders. Now, drink up.”
Gloria did as she was told. It felt as if her esophagus had been swiped with the lighted end of a cigarette. “Are you trying to poison me?” she demanded, coughing. “What the hell is this?”
“The Green Fairy.” Clara sniffed at the flask herself. “Though why they call it green when it tastes like black licorice, I have no idea.”
“Are you speaking English?”
“Absinthe, my dear.” Clara repositioned Gloria at the edge of the bed.
Gloria could feel the alcohol spreading through her, making her feel loose-limbed and calm. She could almost feel it in her fingertips. “I can’t be owled in front of those reporters!”
“Would you rather they see you in the charming state you’re in now?”
“Point taken.” Gloria swigged another mouthful.
Clara set a small black leather valise on the bed and unlocked the brass clasps. Inside was a veritable cosmetics shop: powder tins, lipstick tubes, rouge pots, foundation jars, rows of pencils and brushes.
Gloria blinked. “Are you starting a stage career?”
Clara laughed. “This family is only big enough for one showgirl. Now close your eyes.” She unscrewed a jar of milkweed cream and rubbed it onto Gloria’s cheeks.
“This stuff smells vile.”
“The things we do for beauty,” Clara said, dabbing and blending concealer under Gloria’s eyes and around her nose. “Can I ask you something?” Gloria said.
“As your makeup artist, or as your life advisor?”
“As my cousin.”
“Now, that’s a hat I haven’t worn in a while.” Clara dipped a puff into translucent powder and blew on it, filling the air between them with a chalky cloud.
“What about for Marcus?” Gloria asked curiously. “What hat do you wear for him?”
“I thought we were talking about you right now.”
“We are, in a roundabout way,” Gloria said, spotting the eyelash brush that was nearing her face. “And please don’t poke my eye out with that thing.”
“I’ll tell you why I like Marcus.” Clara stroked black mascara over Gloria’s pale lashes. “With Marcus, I feel I can be the girl I want to be. Not was in the past, or should be, or whatever …”
“Are we talking about Marcus Eastman here?” Gloria felt the exact same way when she was with Jerome, but that didn’t change the impossible circumstances.
Clara dragged Gloria to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you dressed,” she said, leading Gloria behind the Oriental dressing screen and lowering Gloria’s dress over the edge like a descending curtain.
It was the most extraordinary dress Gloria had ever seen. A sheer champagne netting flowed over intricately woven gold silk, with a metallic chiffon sash at the dropped waist that tied in a bow at the hip. The skirt was a billowing waterfall of chiffon, ending at her ankles. The dress was elegant but still true to the flapper’s look-at-me appeal—although Gloria had to admit she hadn’t felt like a flapper since her last night at the Green Mill.
“So I’ve been thinking about your difficult situation,” Clara began. “Listen, love is a roll of the dice, just like anything else. And sometimes, love alone is not enough to sustain a life together—in the same way that money or status alone is not enough. Look at Bastian. Look at your parents! Money and status have done nothing for them but tear them apart.”
Gloria poked her head around the screen, the dress halfway on. “So you’re saying I lose either way?” Clara’s eyes now looked as stormy as Gloria felt. “Are you all right?”
“I told you: No time for questions!” Clara shooed her back behind the screen. “Except for one, and I get to ask it: Who will ultimately make you happiest?”
Gloria emerged once again, fully dressed this time, and Clara gasped. “Oh, Gloria!”
“You like it?”
Gloria was about to dash over to the pier glass in the corner of her room, but Clara stopped her. “Don’t look yet! We need to fix your hair first.” Gloria followed her into the bathroom.
She thought about Bastian, and she thought about Jerome. Th
is whole question of love versus duty suddenly seemed ridiculous. It wasn’t that simple. Was love “right”? Was duty “right”? She looked at her nails and knew her answer. In the end, duty didn’t stand a chance. The love she felt for Jerome—and yes, it was love, why pretend it was anything else?—defied everything she had been taught to think or feel or do. A future with Bastian would be unbearable.
Clara massaged some pomade into her bob. Then she spun Gloria around and stepped aside. “Now would you take a look at yourself?”
Gloria looked into the mirror and sucked in her breath. “Clara!” she exclaimed, leaning closer to the mirror in disbelief. “How did you do this?”
Clara dusted a speck of powder off Gloria’s cheek. “It’s all you, babycakes. You have an inner glow.”
Gloria did. Her cheeks radiated a peachy luminescence, seeming to brighten her eyes to a spearmint green and her hair to a gold-flecked copper. It was as if she were seeing herself in color for the first time. “Are you sure this isn’t the absinthe?”
“Hold that thought!” Clara dashed out and came back a second later with the butterfly flask. She placed it in Gloria’s palm. “I want you to keep this.”
Gloria traced the mysterious C & H. “Clara, I can’t—”
“Consider it my engagement gift to you. Tuck it somewhere safe, like your garter, and use in times of need,” Clara said.
Gloria impulsively hugged Clara. “Thank you,” she said into the shoulder of Clara’s dress. She was finally grateful to have Clara here. “Thank you for everything.”
“Hey now, don’t smudge your face! Or my dress!” Clara teased, holding Gloria at arm’s length. “Last word of advice for the night,” she said. “Make up your mind and never look back.”
Gloria nodded. Clara was right about life and love. Gloria was going to have to make a choice, and she was going to have to make it quickly—with no regrets. Before an irreversible choice was made for her.
CLARA
Clara leaned over the banister and peered down the stairs.
The house was alive with people and noise—hundreds of guests eating, chattering, and laughing; bright darts of music from Isham Jones and his all-white jazz orchestra, specially hired for the occasion. Usually, the place was so empty: only her, Gloria, and Aunt Bea—and the help. Tonight, however, the house was thick with fancy faces—gray-haired old members of the Chicago elite, gray-faced friends and family of Sebastian’s, pie-eyed acquaintances of the Carmodys. Even a few local celebrities had been invited, but no one expected them to show up.
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