The voice singing quietly upstairs was clear and light. Mom didn’t have Gilda’s smolder, but she had something. She could harmonize really prettily with the voice of the man singing. The door squeaked as Birdie pushed through it back into the hallway, and the hardwood groaned beneath her feet as she approached the stairs. The singing turned to humming, then stopped. “Back already?” Mom’s voice sounded happy and girlish and unlike Birdie remembered. “You can set those things right there in the parlor!”
She heard Mom rustling around and smelled cigar smoke. Birdie followed the sound up the stairs and peered through the doorway of a bedroom. Mom had her back to Birdie, hair braided simply down her back, her shoulders curved forward. She looked young. When Birdie caught the profile of Mom’s face, it was like she was looking at her own reflection—the same straw-colored hair, although Mom’s was beginning to gray. The same round cheeks. Without her mouth set so unhappily, Mom looked like the person Birdie remembered when she was little, sitting on the divan in the living room, laughing as Dad whispered something against her neck. She was holding a record, examining its title. A few more sat on Dad’s desk from his study, which was tucked against a wall. Another stack sat in an open valise on the floor. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray.
Mom turned to set the record on the desk, humming a few bars. She reached for the cigar and picked it up. She straightened, and her eyes met Birdie’s.
She dropped the cigar back into the ashtray, her hand going to her heart. “Oh my God.” Her eyes welled, and she stumbled around the desk, knocking records to the floor. “Oh my God. Birdie.” She caught Birdie up in her arms. The tobacco smoke made her smell like Dad, but she also smelled like herself, baby powder and Chanel No. 5. “Mom,” Birdie whispered into her shoulder, squeezing her hard. She hadn’t missed the Mom who had been so hard on her recently, but she had missed the one who would hug and hold her.
Mom pushed Birdie back abruptly, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Birdie, I could kill you.” She grabbed her shoulders and shook her, looking sternly into her eyes. “Don’t you ever run off like that again!”
“Mom,” Birdie choked. What could she say? Everything from the past two weeks clogged her throat. Every revelation, every emotion. “I—I’m sorry I—I was trying to—” Her voice trembled.
“Oh dear.” Mom wiped her eyes, went to the desk and stubbed out the cigar. “Come here, sit down. Or—maybe we should have some tea? Or something to eat.”
Birdie warily followed Mom down the stairs into a tiny, neat kitchen. Mom put a kettle on the stove, then opened the refrigerator and pulled a glass bowl out, sniffling a little as Birdie sank into a chair, bracing herself for more reprimands now that Mom had gotten over her shock.
“When you didn’t come back that first night, I didn’t worry.” Mom cleared her throat. “I figured you’d gone to that air show from the flyer, and I knew you were angry. But then the next day, once it got late—I got a bit hysterical.”
Birdie had wingwalked for the first time that day. She’d seen a man fall from the sky. She had been a whole different person before she’d left.
Mom put the bowl on the counter. It looked like chicken salad, and Birdie’s stomach growled. She couldn’t remember the last time Mom had fixed food for anyone; there’d always been someone else to do it. “I’d been so afraid since your dad left.” Mom opened a bread box and pulled out half of a white loaf. “I was so ashamed he’d left me, and of everything that happened with the bank. I just wanted to disappear. But when you ran off—nothing else mattered. And when I started reaching out it was such a relief. People came to check on me, tried to help find you.” She took a bread knife from beside the sink and began slicing, tears clearing from her voice. “Then Izzy called to let me know you’d phoned. I was furious, of course. But it was good to hear you were okay.” She paused and said softly, “She said you’d gone to find Bobby.”
“You knew where he went,” said Birdie, anger welling up. “Gilda told me you called her.”
Mom turned away and opened a cabinet. “I’d rather people think he was dead, than know he just ran out like that.” She pulled down two small plates from a shelf and put them on the counter. Mom picked up a piece of bread and fidgeted with it. Then she said tentatively, “Did you find him?”
“No.”
Mom sighed, and set the bread on a plate. “I don’t know why that’s a relief to me.”
Birdie didn’t know either. She’d still give anything to see him again. “Gilda thought he’d come back here.”
“I’d confronted him about—things—before, and he would never, ever admit a fault. If he came back here, he’d be forced to acknowledge that he’s done some less-than-perfect things. I think he might prefer running for the rest of his life.”
Mom scooped chicken salad onto the bread and pushed a plate in front of Birdie as the kettle began to whistle. Birdie dug in ravenously as Mom put tea bags and hot water in a pot and set it on the table with some cups. She pulled out a teaspoon for sugar.
Someone rapped at the door. “Oh!” Mom’s spoon clattered to the counter.
“Betty?” A man’s voice came from the front door.
Mom pinked and went into the front room. “You can put those right there, thank you so much! Are you hungry?” Then Birdie heard her murmur, and the voice exclaim.
Mom came back into the kitchen, followed by someone Birdie recognized vaguely. It took her a minute to place him. It was Dr. Bridges, Birdie’s childhood physician, grayer at the temples than the last time she’d seen him. He looked strange—perhaps because he wasn’t in his white doctor’s coat. He was dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks, sweating slightly. “Birdie!” He stuck out a hand, smiling with warm brown eyes. “Thank God you’re back safe. Your mother’s been a wreck.”
Birdie didn’t know how to respond. She looked at Mom.
“Thank you so much for helping me up with those boxes, Dr. Bridges.” Mom looked flustered as he awkwardly lowered his hand. “I so appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Betty.” He took her hand instead and squeezed it. “Anytime. It’s always so lovely to see you.” He nodded to Birdie. “Hope to see you again.”
He let himself out.
“What was that?” asked Birdie, incredulous.
“He came by with flowers this morning, to brighten the new place up.” She fidgeted with a teacup. “And yesterday, too. A friend had him check on me, when I was so upset about you. He’s been just incredibly helpful.”
Birdie squashed down more questions. Helping her with boxes, really. Wasn’t he single, a widow, his wife dead in childbirth years ago? She took another bite of chicken salad.
“Who told you to come here instead of the house to find me?” asked Mom.
Birdie’s stomach buzz nervously as she swallowed. “I went to see David.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “Oh, I thought you two had called it quits?” She gave Birdie a questioning look.
“Actually, he asked me to marry him,” said Birdie, with as much excitement as she could muster.
“Oh, honey.” Mom’s tone was reserved, brows lifting. “And what did you say?”
“Yes.”
Mom bit her lip, skepticism clear on her face. “I know you were so excited to go to Finch’s while he was at Columbia, to meet people, to go on adventures. I know you like David, but—this isn’t something you should rush into.”
“It’s what I want.” Birdie’s voice rose. “I’d just end up marrying someone else. Someone without a good family and education.”
“Sometimes I think you take right after your father. Then I realize, in some ways, you’re just like me.” Mom crossed her arms. “Just because the so-called perfect boy is interested in you, doesn’t mean everything is going to be magically okay.”
“Oh that’s great, coming from you—after fawning all over Dr. Bridges!”
“I’m fond of Dr. Bridges,” said Mom sharply. “But I know he’s not going to solve all my problems.”
“Dad could come back tomorrow, you don’t know!”
“I wouldn’t need him to solve all my problems, either, if that was the case.” Mom smiled slightly. “I should tell you, Annie’s buying this place.”
So that explained it. “What happened to moving to England?”
“I just couldn’t leave when you were missing, and when I told Annie that she got a flash of inspiration and started making inquiries into Glen Cove real estate. She couldn’t believe how cheap property is right now, so she decided it was high time she bought her own place over here, now that she can’t just stay at our old house when she visits. I’m going to live here and take care of the property. But it’ll all be in her name, of course.”
“Why didn’t she decide on something nicer, since everything’s so cheap?” She felt bad as she said it, disparaging the warm light coming in through the windows, the beautiful roses. But she knew what Izzy would think of it.
“I picked this house out. It’s big and nice enough to suit the two of us, plus Annie when she comes. I told her, I’m not expecting her to support my old lifestyle.” She gave Birdie a proud look. “I was a singer before I gave it up to marry your father. There’s a larger room up front that’ll just fit the baby grand, and I’m going to try teaching piano and voice out of the house.” Mom actually looked pleased at the idea. Birdie tried to wrap her mind around it. Mom, working. She thought she’d be drinking martinis and hosting dinner parties for the rest of her life.
“Goodness, I can’t believe I’ve been going on about myself!” Mom picked up the teapot. “Tell me everything that’s happened with you.”
“Oh, let’s see.” The sooner she could forget the whole thing, the better. “I ran off. I didn’t find Dad. I came back. There. That’s it.” Hopefully soon that’s all her memory of Chicago would be: a brief detour on the road to a future she’d always been headed toward.
Mom’s mouth tightened as she poured them both a cup of tea. “Before you left, you said something about how I wished you were gone.” She set the pot down and took Birdie’s hand, looking into her face with serious eyes. “I’d never for one second wish that, do you understand? No matter what happens.”
Birdie nodded, the knots inside her chest easing. She’d been away for two weeks, but this Mom had been gone for years. Birdie might be able to live here, even in this little house that was nothing special. At least long enough for David to graduate.
Izzy would welcome her back, too, and then everything would be close enough to right again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MOM HAD BROUGHT OVER SOME OF BIRDIE’S THINGS, AND A TWIN BED from one of the spare rooms at the house. It wasn’t made up, but Birdie pulled pillows and blankets out of a box and collapsed into dreamless sleep early that evening.
She woke up restless early the next morning. Mom let Birdie use the phone after breakfast, so long as she kept it short. Phone calls were a luxury now, apparently, at least until Mom started working.
“I’m back,” said Birdie breezily.
Izzy squealed. “Did you see David?” she asked.
“Yeessss …” Birdie let the word drag out.
“Well, did he ask you?”
Birdie squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”
Izzy squealed again. “Oh, I want to hear it all! But dammit I have to get to dress rehearsal. Oh—I should have told you. Mikhail took you out of the group pieces, when you didn’t show up at all last week.”
Birdie had forgotten. She counted days in her head—it was Thursday. Tomorrow was the big recital. “Well, that’s to be expected.”
“He cut your solo, too, of course.”
Birdie’s tutu was gorgeous, a real one that came straight out from her hips, and she still knew all the steps by heart. “I don’t care a bit.”
“So I can’t meet up with you, unless—oh, you should come and see me at the theater! I’ll be backstage within the next hour, until rehearsal begins. You wouldn’t feel too strange, would you?”
“I suppose not.” She did feel strange, though. Mikhail might throw a fit when he saw her. The other girls would whisper. She looked down and felt a twinge of panic. She’d found a nightdress in one of the valises full of her things, but she hadn’t come across any of her good outfits. Mom had probably only emptied out one of her dressers. “See you there!” she said, and hung up.
“Are most of my things still at the house?” Birdie called from the front parlor. The new bank that was taking over the assets from Dad’s bank, including their mortgage, was still in the process of foreclosing on the house. Mom had been going back and forth, taking what she wanted for her new life and leaving the rest.
“Yes,” Mom answered from her bedroom.
“Can I drive the Duesenberg over there?” Birdie asked hopefully. Mom was trying to sell it for cash before the bank could take it, but nobody had extra money lying around right now.
“I don’t think so, young lady, but nice try. I can take you later, but I’ve got plans for lunch.”
“Izzy wants me to go to the studio rehearsal, but I can’t go looking like this,” Birdie wheedled, walking to the bedroom door to demonstrate her deshabille.
Mom was rummaging in a box full of stockings and underthings, dressed in a slip, and didn’t look up. “You don’t know how to drive.”
“I do, though.” She’d driven Dad’s car twice. Once, David had shown her how to drive while her parents were away, and she’d driven it all the way to the beach. It really had been easy. The second time was to show off for Izzy, late at night after she’d snuck out to meet her. She’d driven it all the way to Izzy’s house and back in the dark, very slowly. “I’ve driven it a bunch.”
Mom looked up, eyes narrowed. “I should have assumed that.” She sighed, and waved a hand in surrender. “Fine. Key’s in the ignition.”
Birdie changed quickly into one of Mom’s Chanel-inspired jersey outfits, clattered down the stairs, and slid into the front seat of the Duesenberg. It still smelled like leather, the steering wheel smooth beneath her palms. The sky looked like it might storm, a gray wind whipping the trees, so she left the top up. She stalled out twice, but once she got it going it was easy to drive to the house, the massive engine purring much more smoothly than the circus Studebaker’s as she drove down Red Spring Lane. Dad had always said the Duesenberg would be hers when she went to Finch’s. She’d imagined tearing around the wide city streets with all her friends crammed in tightly. She would have been so popular.
She drove slowly down the tree-lined road. Dad hadn’t managed to claim waterfront property, but their house was close enough to the massive cottages that lined the eastern shore of Hempstead Harbor that he had considered them practically one of the lucky elite. Birdie’s family were members of the same country club; they made sure to attend their lavish parties, and sometimes the Gold Coasters deigned to come to theirs; her best friend had a view of the harbor from her bedroom window.
The sprawling two-story house looked the same as the day she’d left, the overgrown grass the only sign that something was amiss. She followed the circle drive around and pulled right up to the door, bouncing out of the car before it shuddered to stillness. The sky growled above. As she put her hand to the door she imagined finding a maid cleaning the stairs and delicious smells wafting from the kitchen where the cook prepared a meal. Mom and Dad inside, together again. Dad would give her a big hug and a kiss on the head, and Mom would greet her with a smile, and they’d all go in and have lunch.
Birdie turned the door handle and pushed the door open. The high-ceilinged foyer and hall were deserted and dim. All of the drapes were open, but it was dark from the low clouds outside. Some furniture and pictures were missing, but almost everything looked the same. She went straight up the stairs to her room and tried to flip on a lamp, but the electricity was off, so she pulled the curtains open. In the dim illumination she saw that her room was untouched. All of her dresses were still in her closet, her powders and jewel
ry still on the vanity. She could take these things with her when she and David married, and slip right back into some version of her old life.
She paused in front of the vanity and ran a hand over a perfume bottle shaped like a seahorse, a flowered paper powder box, a boar bristle hairbrush. What would happen, when she and David married? She’d always pictured it as happening in some vague, distant future. After school. But now—would they really wait until he graduated? She could probably convince him that it should happen sooner than later.
They would move into a nice house. David would drive to work in a new car. They might have a butler, a maid, a cook, a gardener, depending on how well David did. Birdie would go to things. Events. Teas. Luncheons. She would entertain. Children would happen. She would drink cocktails and listen to the gramophone, and not be one bit bitter about any of it. Birdie could picture their whole life perfectly.
It was just hard to picture herself as Mrs. Ebington.
She pulled out the tutu she was supposed to have worn in the recital that weekend. It was a beautiful shade of lilac, with a lovely stiff skirt that went straight out in layers of tulle. She shed Mom’s separates and pulled on the tight leotard. She grabbed her toe shoes and wound the ribbons around her ankles. She tested the toes, flexing her feet back and forth, and then stood up on them and got a rush of excitement. She bourré-ed across the carpet and marked through the steps of her solo, humming some of the bars. This would be very daring on the wing of a plane, wearing pointe shoes, doing real ballet. Would dancers on pointe on multiple planes read to an audience? A ballet in the air—she bet no one had ever done that before. She could bring her tutu to Colette, who could replicate it well enough. She’d have to find other dancers that were classically trained, or could at least fake it. Swan Lake, with planes! It would work almost too easily. They could paint a plane white, another black—Birdie did a swan-like arabesque, checking her lines in the mirror, and a smudge of darkness on her shoulder gave her a shock of adrenaline.
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