Bachelor Girl

by Kim van Alkemade

“So you can imagine,” King was saying, “when I had a chance to stay on in Berlin attached to the diplomatic corps, I took it.”

  I had a moment of jealousy, picturing some handsome young German on King’s arm as they strolled together through the Tiergarten. “Why did you leave, then, if life was so good?”

  “My opa died.” King finished his drink and signaled to Edith for another round. He’d missed the funeral, of course, being so far away, but he’d returned to Milwaukee to help his oma bring in one last harvest before selling off the farm. “She wanted me to take it over, but there was no way I could settle for being a Wisconsin dairy farmer, not after Berlin.”

  Edith replaced our empty glasses with a fresh round of setups. King sipped the seltzer and grimaced. “I keep forgetting about Prohibition.”

  I waved over a waiter and gave him five dollars. Two minutes later he returned from a quick trip out to the alley with a full flask of whiskey. I topped off our drinks. “Prost.”

  “Prost. Everyone in Europe thinks America is crazy for outlawing alcohol.”

  “Most Americans do, too. Are you making a career of the army, then?”

  He looked down at his uniform. “You mean this? No, I was discharged months ago. I only wore it today for luck. You see, I never got the notion out of my mind of trying out for the team.”

  It took me a second to put together his wearing of a uniform and the idea of a team. I remembered then those pictures that ran in the paper of soldiers on the field at the Polo Grounds, how pleased the Colonel had been at the publicity. “You want to play for the Yankees?”

  He shrugged. “I want to try, at least.” We both knew how unlikely it was that he’d win a spot on the roster. Even so, he said he’d gone to the team office that day and presented the Colonel’s card. I imagined the receptionist was as dazzled by King’s blue eyes as she was by his story. She’d placed a call to Miller Huggins down in New Orleans, who happened to remember that day in 1918 when a talented soldier hit one out of the park. “He said to put me on the train with Waite Hoyt and the others going down for spring training. I may not last long, but at least I’ll have a shot. I’m leaving on Sunday.”

  “But that’s the day after tomorrow.”

  He reached across the table and stroked my cheek. “That’s right, two whole days from now. So, Albert, tell me, what’s happened to you since I shipped out?”

  What was it about King that turned me into an open spigot? I heard myself telling him about Felix—how we’d lived together, how it all ended. I told him about Helen, too, and the way she’d embraced me when I told her I was a pansy. I didn’t know how I would have gotten through those dark months after Felix’s parents took him away if it hadn’t been for Helen. I’d written him, of course, careful not to say too much in case his correspondence was being monitored. It was a year after he’d been whisked off to Europe before I finally got a curt note thanking me for my concern and wishing me well on my future endeavors. It was as if that doctor in Vienna had replaced Felix’s heart with a mechanism incapable of feeling. But then again, I supposed that had been the point.

  “I’ve heard about that treatment,” King said, refilling our drinks. “I can understand a man wanting children, but what’s the use of trying to change who you are? It’s the laws that should change, not us. The way I see it, Albert, we can’t choose our desires any more than we can choose the color of our skin.”

  Was that what I’d been trying to do with Helen? I’d gotten so comfortable, moving through life with a woman by my side. Helen and I could dine together as a couple, go dancing at a public hall, kiss hello and good-bye out on the street—all the things I could never do with a man. When I’d first come to New York, it was playing it straight for work that had seemed like an act I put on. But the more my life revolved around Helen, the more being a pansy seemed like a role in which I’d once been cast. Strolling through Central Park with Helen on my arm shielded me from the hungry glances of men until I’d lost the knack for glancing back. In the two years since Felix was taken from me, I’d had only one encounter with a man. He’d stopped me on the street to ask for a light, so confident and persistent I followed him home like a lost dog. I expected no reciprocation and he offered none, and though the hand he held to the back of my head was warm, he didn’t use it to help me up from my knees.

  I compared that to the countless times I’d kissed Helen’s cheek, taken her hand, wrapped my arms around her waist or rested my head in her lap. We loved each other, truly. Yet here was King Arthur, our knees pressed together in that little booth, the whiskey and soda going to my head. I didn’t love Helen any less than I had at lunchtime, but it was past midnight now and the part of me that had nothing to do with her had woken from an enchanted slumber.

  Jack’s act was coming to a close. A more raucous performer would soon take his place. I could hardly hear myself think. “Listen, do you want to get out of here?”

  King’s smile sped up my heart. “Sure, let’s go.” He stood up. So did I. I wobbled. King took my elbow to steady me. There was a crash as the kitchen door and the front door both banged open at the same time. The music ceased. A squeal rose from the gathered pansies as uniformed officers barged into the place. I glimpsed Jack duck through the door offstage that led up to Edith and Toni’s apartment.

  It was a raid. I thought of the cards in my wallet and got weak in the knees. It would be the end of my career if the Colonel were to see my name in the paper. Not for drinking alcohol—New York’s courtrooms were a revolving door when it came to those charges. But Antonio’s hadn’t been targeted for the flasks of bootleg liquor now knocked to the floor. The Committee of Fourteen was more intent on policing perverts than upholding Prohibition. I’d be arrested for indecency, and those charges were likely to stick. I trained my panicked eyes on King. He seemed to read my expression. “Vergib mir,” he said. Forgive him for what, I wondered? Then he curled his hand into a fist and smashed it into the side of my face.

  My vision went black, the darkness broken by an explosion of stars in colors I’d never before seen. A police whistle pierced my ear. I felt a shove in the gut as my feet left the ground. Everything turned upside down as King tossed me over his shoulder like a wounded comrade. He carried me right up to the sergeant in charge and spun some story about having been sent to bring a missing soldier back to the base. “Believe me,” I heard him say, “this pansy’ll get worse from our commander than he’ll ever get from a judge.” That, and a ten-dollar note in the sergeant’s hand, got us ushered out of Antonio’s while the rest of the patrons were herded into a police truck.

  The next thing I knew I was in the back of a taxi, King holding a bloody handkerchief to my face. Cold air from the open window cleared my head. “You saved me.”

  “Hush now, Albert. Just give the driver your address.”

  I used my injury as an excuse to rest my head on King’s shoulder as we drove uptown. We stumbled out at the brownstone, his arm around me the only reason I didn’t sink to the sidewalk. Miraculously my keys were still in my pocket—how they hadn’t fallen to the ground along the way I couldn’t fathom. He led me up to my apartment, our footsteps muffled by the runner on the stairs.

  I switched on the light in my living room. He gave my blasted eye a critical look. “We better put some ice on that. Stay here, I’ll get it.” He found the kitchenette and I heard the ice pick at work. I went over to the mantel, opened the lid on my box of curiosities, and picked out the button. He returned and held the ice against the side of my face. I winced at the pressure.

  “It’s just a black eye, liebling. Don’t be a baby.”

  “Look.” I held the button out in my open palm. “I kept it all this time.”

  “I got a demerit for losing that button.” He gave a rueful smile. “I was so young that night. You were so kind to me.”

  “You were the one who was kind.” Carefully, I brought my mouth to his. It was a patient kiss, our closed lips lingering over their renewed acqua
intance before his tongue tested for more. I put my arms around his broad back. Opening my jaw jolted me with pain, but it didn’t matter. Inside my chest, a key fit into a lock and turned.

  Chapter 30

  What a relief it was to hear the sound of Albert’s voice coming from the living room! All that worry, and for what? He was alive and well. He’d explain what happened, I would forgive him, and we’d go on as before. Well, not exactly as before. I had in my mind, now, a new vision of our future. A home of our own, someday. A child, perhaps, saved from some orphanage. A ring on my finger and a shared bed.

  Albert’s bed. Remembering where I was, I pulled the blanket over my head. To fall asleep on his couch was one thing, to crawl into his bed was another. Embarrassed, I slid out from under the blanket, wanting to at least be on my feet when he found me.

  Wait—it was Albert’s voice I heard, but he wasn’t alone. Had he been out with his friends while I worried myself sick? From the darkness of the bedroom I saw the silhouette of a man cross the living room. I couldn’t see his face, but from his size and the way he moved I knew it wasn’t Paul. I crouched behind the door, peering through the gap between the frame and the hinges.

  My brain didn’t understand, at first, what my eyes were seeing. I’d never beheld two men kissing, not on the street or on a motion picture screen or in the pages of a magazine. I searched my memory for a template against which to measure what I witnessed. Into my mind popped an illustration from our encyclopedia of male gourami fish fighting with their open mouths. But that didn’t explain the curve in Albert’s spine as he leaned into the man’s embrace, or the exposed stretch of neck as he invited the man’s kiss. I heard a sigh, smelled the scent of sweat as their jackets fell to the floor.

  I backed away, stumbled into the bathroom, slammed shut the door. I bent over the sink, the tap fully turned to mask the sounds emerging from my throat. When Albert told me he was a pansy, I’d thought it meant he was incapable of sexual passion. I’d believed the affection he showed me was all he had to give. I saw now how wrong I’d been.

  His voice came through the bathroom door. “Helen, is that you?”

  My hands shook as I splashed cold water on my face. “Albert, you’re back. I fell asleep waiting. Give me a minute?”

  When I came out, I saw what my narrow angle from behind the bedroom door had hidden: the bruised side of his face, the swollen lid stretched tight, a red cloud of blood in the white of his eye. “My God, Albert, what happened?”

  “I got caught up in a police raid at a speakeasy.”

  “You were out drinking? I thought you’d been run over by a streetcar.”

  “I’m so sorry, Helen. I should have called. I was on my way to the theater, honestly, it’s just—”

  “Never mind. You’re okay, that’s all that matters. I need to get home.” I pushed past him into the living room and stopped short, as if taken completely by surprise to find someone else there. Harrison would have critiqued me for overacting. “Oh, hello.”

  The man stepped forward. “I don’t suppose you remember me.”

  I stared at those blue eyes, that blond hair. Five years ago, at the Polo Grounds. Soldiers on the field after the game. One of them came up to the owner’s box. I gave him my address. So did Albert, but neither of us received a postcard. Later, we looked for that soldier’s name on the lists in the newspaper. King Arthur, Albert Kramer—even their initials were interchangeable.

  “King, of course I remember.” I indicated his uniform. “But the war’s over.”

  “I stayed on in Germany.” He looked at Albert. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “No. Please, stay.”

  The urgency in Albert’s voice withered me. “Yes, stay. I’m going home.”

  “I’ll call you a taxi.” Albert roused the dispatcher from sleep while King and I stood in awkward silence. “He’ll have a cab here in just a minute. Come on, Helen, I’ll walk you out.” He took my coat down from the rack. I wondered how they hadn’t noticed it before, or my shoes kicked under the couch, which I bent to retrieve. It was as if I were invisible to them.

  In the vestibule, Albert caught my hand. “I’m so sorry to have worried you, Helen. Paul called to say our friend Jack was sick so I rushed out, but it was only a trick they played to surprise me that King was there.”

  I couldn’t put it together. Albert’s friends hadn’t been at the Polo Grounds that day. “How did Paul know who King was?”

  “I told them about him. I saw him later on, after the ballgame.” The blush in Albert’s cheek competed with the bruise of his blackened eye. “He stayed with me that night. He had my address, remember?”

  For five years, I had treasured the memory of the day Albert and I met, a gilt-framed picture in the album of my life. The thought had even crossed my mind that if we married it should be on that same date so we’d have only one anniversary. But that’s not the memory Albert carried from that day at all. He remembered it for meeting this soldier.

  “I was going to call you, but then there was the police raid—”

  I couldn’t help touching a tender finger to his blasted eye. “The police did that to you?”

  “No, King did. Don’t blame him, though. He did it to get me away from the police. It would have been a disaster if I’d been arrested. You know how the Colonel hates publicity.”

  I did know. How often had Jake complained about Babe Ruth’s bad behavior? Drinking, speeding, womanizing. Not even a Pinkerton detective with a camera could shame the man into moderating his behavior. “I have to go, Albert. I’m sorry you missed the rehearsal, but I’ll see you at the opening tomorrow—” I looked at my watch, saw it was almost morning. “Tonight, I mean.”

  “No, wait.” He took my hands and brought them to his mouth. He touched his lips to my knuckles, a once-cherished gesture. I pulled back my hands, knowing now what paltry crumbs he tossed me with those kisses. “King’s leaving Sunday for New Orleans. He’s going down to try out for the Yankees.” I looked at him blankly. “He’s only here one more night.”

  “You want to bring him to the opening of my play?”

  “No, Helen. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  He left it to me to say the words. “You’re not going to come.”

  “I knew you’d understand. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. You’ll get to know King, if he makes the team.” He misunderstood the look on my face. “I know it’s unlikely, but I don’t want to crush his dreams. The best he can hope for, really, is a spot on a minor league roster, but who knows? The Newark Bears are just across the river.” He smiled with the half of his mouth that wasn’t wounded. “You’ll like him, Helen, I promise. I’ve told him all about us.”

  We heard the sound of the taxi’s engine coming up the quiet street. Albert adjusted the dragonfly brooch pinned to my lapel. “Break a leg tonight, darling.”

  • • •

  The play started out all right, the audience impressed as the curtain rose to the haunting blast of a train whistle. Harrison had insisted we rent an organ to produce the sound, and though I’d argued against the expense, he’d been right. Coupled with the cutaway set, the sound design gave an uncanny verisimilitude to the stage. The clapping after the first act lifted my spirits a bit. Then in the second act, I watched from the back row as everything I’d worked toward unraveled like a ball of yarn dropped down a flight of stairs.

  I was confused when the actor playing the girl’s father retreated upstage until I remembered Harrison had changed the blocking so the audience could better see how the doctor treated her. As Charles Gilpin stretched out his hands for the examination, I saw what was about to happen, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. The lighting, calibrated to illuminate Gilpin’s dark complexion, had washed out the girl’s satin gown so that it looked as if he were touching her naked skin. The audience reacted with a mass intake of breath, followed by hisses and jeers. I heard someone call out, “Don’t you touch her!” Gilpin, consummate pro
fessional though he was, found the reaction jarring. When the father jumped forward to deliver his line—“Get your black hands away from my girl!”—the audience broke into unexpected applause. Gilpin struggled to regain his composure. “You are condemning your daughter to death, sir,” he said, exiting the stateroom with a regal bearing meant to convey his rejection of irrational prejudice. After having been insulted in this way, he refuses to treat the girl, who is seen thrashing in exaggerated death throes while the doctor, in the parlor car, resolutely ignores the entreaties of his fellow passengers—and the increasingly disruptive heckling from the audience.

  During the intermission, Richard Martin was overwhelmed at the ticket window by theatergoers demanding their money back. Afraid they’d start a riot, I told him to go ahead and refund the tickets. The mood of the audience that remained after intermission was combative. When the father finally apologizes to the doctor in order to save his daughter, someone in the audience actually stood up, proclaimed he was a doctor, and offered to treat the girl himself. The cheers stopped the show for nearly a minute. In the closing scene where the girl’s mother thanks the doctor for saving her daughter’s life, the older actress sank to the floor as she had in every rehearsal, the movement meant to show her extreme relief. But the actress lost her balance and Gilpin held out his hand to steady her, so that it seemed as if she were lowering herself to her knees at his command. The chorus of boos sounded like cows herded into a barn for milking.

  There was a pathetic smattering of applause as the curtain came down. The disaffected audience got to its feet and hastily exited the theater. When Harrison came onstage, expecting accolades for directing such a daring play, he was met with an empty house. The only people left lingering in the lobby were reviewers. Richard Martin found me to say he was already getting telephone calls from people canceling their tickets for future performances. As the bad news piled on, I reached, instinctively, for Albert’s hand. My fist closing on empty air reminded me it was King he’d chosen to be with tonight, not me.