by Lyn Cote
“Frankly, Miss Chloe”—Minnie considered Chloe with her arms folded—“I don’t think you need one at all. You is thin as a rail anyway.”
Chloe gaped at Minnie. Go without a corset? That seemed too shocking, too free. Then she recalled the women at the café who had obviously already shed theirs. Musing over this, she donned her nightgown and hung up her dress. She noted a few spots of dirt on the hem; she’d have to ask Minnie how to get them out—but tomorrow, not now. She glanced toward the double bed.
“This is my side,” Minnie said, claiming the one facing the door.
Chloe folded back the covers on the window side and slid under the soft, worn muslin sheets. Another night, another strange bed. Her head felt like it was spinning. So much had happened in the span of three days. Images, sensations of Theran and the two nights they’d spent together flashed through her mind. For a moment, she felt the whisper of his lips on her nape and his arms pulling her close to him. She shivered with remembered passion. Don’t think of that now.
For a moment she tried to bring up the image of Granny in her rocker. Chloe longed to climb back into that comforting lap. But Granny seemed too removed from her new life here in New York City. Besides, I’m not a little girl.
“Everythin’ be all right tomorrow, Miss Chloe,” Minnie comforted her. With a final smile she turned off the lamp and settled herself.
Chloe stared at the ceiling in the darkened room, city lights flickering above her. She was Mrs. Theran Black now, not Miss Chloe. “Minnie, if we’re sleeping in the same bed, I think you can drop the Miss. That’s all past.”
“You soundin’ pretty radical, Mi—Chloe,” her friend teased in the semidarkness. “You watch it or you become a Bolshevik or somethin’.” She giggled.
The sound stabbed Chloe. “Oh, Minnie, I miss him so.”
Minnie rolled over and pulled Chloe close. Chloe struggled for a moment and then gave in. She rested her head on Minnie’s shoulder and let the tears come. “I’m sorry.”
“It be okay.” Minnie stroked Chloe’s hair, humming. “You can’t help missin’ your man.”
“He . . . He . . .” Chloe couldn’t finish her sentence. She let herself relax more, let Minnie’s soft crooning soothe her, let herself breathe in her friend’s faint lavender cologne and the scent of her hair dressing. It took Chloe back to when Minnie’s grandmother had rocked her to sleep many nights with the same soothing touch, the same murmured songs, the same comforting scents. “Thanks, Minnie,” she whispered and pulled away slightly. “Thanks.”
“You be all right. We be all right.”
“Yes.” Chloe closed her eyes and, overcome with love for her friend, thanked the Lord. Help Minnie. She deserves to have her dream come true. And please, God, keep my husband safe and my daddy far away from both of us.
The next morning, Minnie was easy to persuade to come along with Chloe to the Fifth Avenue couturier. It was just the kind of place Minnie declared she’d always wanted to see. Fashionable Fifth Avenue and Harlem proved to be as different as day from night. Now, Chloe looked at the gilt-edged card and checked the address of the shop before her. It was the right one. The empty display windows were concealed by white paper and the door sported a hand-lettered sign that read: “MADAME BLANCHE, COUTURIER, OPENING SOON.” Her heart jumping and jerking, Chloe walked up to the door and knocked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
No one answered her knock. Chloe felt a momentary relief. She could leave now and no one would even know they’d been here. But no. Fleeing Theran’s rooming house meant that—for the first time in her life—Chloe needed to earn her own way. This and Minnie’s presence made her push open the strange door and step into the unknown. Muffled sunlight lit the large dusty room she entered with Minnie right behind her. “Hello?” Chloe scanned the disordered room, which held a jumble of boxes, chairs, mirrors, bolts of fabric, and dressmaker dummies.
“Who is zere?” From the rear came a woman’s voice in heavily accented English.
“I’m Chloe Kim—Chloe Black.” She took a step forward. “I’m the . . . blonde model.” She felt like a fool.
Through a door at the rear, a tall, thin woman burst into the large, dusky room. “Ze model? My blonde model?”
Shocked into silence by the stranger’s appearance, Chloe couldn’t reply. The woman was like none she’d ever seen before. Very tall and pencil thin, the woman wore a purple silk turban over bobbed brown hair and a matching gown with gold frogs down the front. Her face had a full, scarlet-rouged mouth, piercing black eyes, and a long, aquiline nose.
“Turn around,” the woman ordered without preamble. “Pirouette.” She twirled her hand in the air.
“She wants you to turn for her,” Minnie murmured.
Chloe shook off her surprise and pivoted in a full circle. When she turned her back to the woman, she felt the woman’s intense gaze on her.
“C’est bon. Now walk. Promenade. Up! Down!” the woman ordered.
Chloe walked to the rear and back to the front door, suddenly recalling watching horses being paraded around a paddock at an auction a year ago.
“Again!”
Chloe obeyed, her eyes appealing to Minnie as she passed her. Would she please or fail?
In return, Minnie winked one eye.
“C’est bon. C’est beau.” The woman clapped her hands and then flung them wide. “Marshfield knows les femmes. You are perfection.”
Standing before the French woman, Chloe smiled tentatively. What did she know about being a model? “I’ve never—” she began.
“I am Madame Blanche,” the woman interrupted and swept forward and clasped both of Chloe’s hands in hers. “Such eyes, such white skin. Peau blanc—like a doll of porcelain!” Madame Blanche kissed the tips of her fingers. “Perfection.”
“Thank you,” Chloe stammered, blushing.
“Oh, an innocent!” Madame chuckled. “Have men not told you that you are divine?”
Before Chloe could reply to this embarrassing question, Madame swung to confront Minnie. “Who are you?”
“This is my friend,” Chloe hurried to explain, fearing the woman might insult Minnie. “She just came along with me.”
Minnie backed away. “I goin’ now, Mis—Chloe. I see you later.”
“Non!” Madame Blanche exploded. “No! Walk . . . walk for me!”
Minnie froze. “Why you want me to walk?”
“S’il vous plaît—like your friend.” Madame Blanche stepped back expectantly, her eyes still skimming Minnie up and down.
Giving Chloe a quizzical glance, Minnie shrugged and then straightened her shoulders and walked toward the back, turned, and walked forward.
As she did so, Chloe studied her friend more closely than she ever had. Minnie had always just been Minnie. But now Chloe realized why Frank Dawson had come to their table the day before. Minnie’s smooth skin was the color of extra-creamy coffee, almost a rich toffee. Her cheekbones were high and her nose was wide but well formed. Her long, straightened hair was pulled back into a tight bun at her nape. Minnie was a few inches shorter than Chloe, and her figure was rounder, but not too full. And the way Minnie walked—oh my. She let her hips sway in a way Chloe’s mother would have called unladylike.
“Like ripe fruit,” Madame Blanche murmured to herself. Then she snapped her fingers. “Please stand next to Chloe.”
Minnie obeyed.
“Such a contrast,” Madame murmured. “Such a contrast—green fruit and ripe fruit. Blanc and noir.” She beamed at them. “It will shock, it will cause talk, yes! But they will come to see le jour et la nuit, day and night. A coup for Madame Blanche!” She clapped her hands again.
Chloe and Minnie stared at the woman and then looked to each other. “Ma’am,” Chloe began.
Portly and well-dressed, Marshfield Crowe opened the front door and strode inside. “I see the blonde model has come. What do you think, Blanche?” He beamed.
“They are wonderful. I feel the juices flowi
ng already. Such gowns I shall robe them in.” Madame sprang up onto her toes and hugged herself. “Marshfield, women will die to look like them. Men will pen poems to ma blanc and ma noir. We will make americaine dollars, thousands of dollars!”
“Blanche, what do you mean?” The man stared at her. “I’m going back to the agencies today until I find the right brunette.”
“Non!” Blanche glared at him. “This la femme noir will be my brunette model.”
Frowning, Marshfield took a step forward. “You don’t understand. This isn’t Paris. Americans won’t come here if we have a . . . a Negro model. It isn’t done.”
“Madame Blanche will do it,” the Frenchwoman snapped and gave the man a look of disdain.
“Now, Blanche,” Marshfield coaxed, “what did these girls talk you into?”
“These girls tell Madame Blanche what to do?” The French woman stood ramrod straight. “You are the one who does not understand. The blonde—” The woman stretched her hand toward Chloe. “—is beautiful, but look! The two of them together.” She waved Chloe and Minnie to stand close to each other. “Together—see mettre en contraste—the contrast! Voilà! They take the breath!”
Screwing up his face, Marshfield studied them.
Chloe and Minnie stood side by side. Chloe could hardly breathe because of the tense silence. Would they really hire Minnie to be a model? Was that possible? Never in her wildest dreams . . .
That night in their darkened bedroom in Mrs. Rascombe’s house, Chloe lay on her side facing the window. Tonight, Minnie was lying close to her, staring up at the flickering city lights on the ceiling. The window was open, letting in a cool breeze and the night sounds—voices, laughter, car motors and horns, doors opening and closing. Harlem didn’t sleep.
Scenes from the day played in Chloe’s mind. Just now she was thinking of how, at the end of the work day, she and Minnie had shared a cup of coffee in the village with Kitty and Frank Dawson. Frank had also invited them to come to the NAACP meeting, but Minnie had put him off. Chloe wondered why. Was she as confused, as fearful, of such a meeting as Chloe was? But why should she be? As a black woman she should be glad to go, right?
Chloe felt at war with herself. She wanted Minnie, her friend, to achieve her dreams. At the same time, the idea of Negroes gaining equality warred with everything she’d ever been taught about black and white. What would Mother or her friends say if they saw her working alongside Minnie as equals, sleeping beside her? All her life, between the two races, matters had been just one way. Violating this unwritten code always brought consequences. Usually horrible consequences. She recalled snippets of conversations she’d overheard about “uppity Negroes,” “white trash,” and lynchings. Would something bad happen to Minnie for not keeping her place? But then, Chloe herself had run away, left her place, too. Would she end up paying a price?
She pushed the harrowing conflict out of her mind and thought instead of Theran. Where was her husband tonight? How near was he to France, to the trenches? Chloe chewed the inside of her cheek. Theran, I wish you’d stayed. Life would be simpler. But he couldn’t hear her thoughts. She wanted to write a letter to him, but she hesitated to mail anything to the army address he’d given her. What if her father was able to get access to Theran’s mail and read her new return address? She sighed. Why did life have to be so . . . tangled?
Chloe folded her hands together in the dark and tried to pray. But God seemed farther away here in New York City. And she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. In the dark, she touched her cheek. She’d never thought much about being beautiful. But she’d known all her life that others—
especially her father—considered her as such. She’d never felt comfortable with it. She didn’t feel comfortable now at the thought of modeling. I don’t want to have people staring at me. That’s what I always hated about Daddy shoving me forward.
She wondered what Minnie thought of being a model. Did she feel beautiful? “Minnie, are you asleep?”
“No, I can’t sleep. Too much gone on in my head.”
Chloe rolled to her back. “Same here. Does it seem to you like every day in New York City brings us a new surprise, a new way?”
“You got that right.”
“Does it feel funny to you,” Chloe ventured, “to be a model instead of a maid?”
“Yes, it do.”
“Yes, it does,” Chloe corrected gently. Minnie had asked her to help her learn to speak in a more educated way. Evidently, Frank’s smooth, expert use of English had impressed Minnie, too.
“Yes, it does,” Minnie repeated.
“I never knew I could do anything but be a wife. And now I am one, but I’m going to be a model, too. And I never wanted to do something like that.”
“When Madame Blanche say she”—Minnie corrected herself—“said she wanted me to walk, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Me either.”
“Do she—Does she think white women will put up with me being a model?”
Chloe mulled that over. “Well, this is New York City and she is French.”
“I wish I could write home and tell Mamma.” Minnie sounded wistful.
“Why can’t you? Your mother can’t drag you back.”
“Mi—Chloe, you know why. Any letter I send could put your daddy on your trail and make trouble for my people. We don’t know yet if your parents think we ran away together.”
Chloe went up on her elbow. “You’re protecting me, too, just like Kitty.” And Roarke. He’d written her a few notes and his parents had sent her a wedding gift—a silver candy dish engraved with Theran and Chloe’s names. Now she touched Minnie’s shoulder. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re helping me, but thank you.”
“I told you.” Minnie’s voice was suddenly stronger. “You help me and I’ll help you, remember? Besides, everyone at Ivy Manor be glad—”
“Would be glad,” Chloe murmured.
“Would be glad, is glad you got away. People like you. You have a gentle heart, a fair heart.”
Emotions Chloe couldn’t identify rushed through her. One thing she knew for sure: Minnie was her friend and Chloe would never betray her, come what may. She lay back, holding in tears. “Thank you.”
“You be all right, Chloe.” Minnie patted her arm. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Chloe replied. She closed her eyes wondering what the morrow would bring.
A little over a month later, in early July, Chloe stood in the rear of Madame Blanche’s shop. She was wearing another new design, a pale-blue morning frock. Two seamstresses hovered around her, making adjustments to the fabric. She’d become accustomed to this routine. Madame always wanted to see the designs on her live models at different stages of production.
Chloe worried her lower lip, thinking about their plans for tonight. They’d been invited again to attend an NAACP meeting. Should they go or not? Nearby, Minnie was decked in a red-satin evening gown with a narrow train that pooled on the polished wood floor. She also had a seamstress fluttering around her, making little fussy noises. Minnie looked at Chloe and saw the same worry, the same question, about the meeting in her eyes.
Madame Blanche swept into the room. “Tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow we open. Now le chapeau, the hats!” The mousy girl who’d been hired as the milliner hurried behind Madame, her arms heaped with hats. “Come, come,” the Frenchwoman summoned Chloe and Minnie over to two mirrored gilt vanities with chairs. “We try them, yes?”
Chloe and Minnie sat down gingerly because of the straight pins in their dresses. One by one, they tried on hats. Such hats! So close to the head, so sleek. Nothing like Chloe had ever seen or worn. But while Minnie slipped on her hats with ease, Chloe struggled, pushing and tugged hers into place on her head. With each hat Madame frowned more. Finally, she burst forth in rapid, irritated French and from the vanity snatched up a dressmaker’s sheers.
“Le cheveu! The hair. It ruins the hats.” She grabbed the knot of hair at Chloe’s
nape and aimed the sheers at it.
“No!” Chloe shrieked and leaped up, pulling away. “No, I’ve never cut my hair.”
In tableau, Madame Blanche and Chloe stared into one another’s eyes. “Mon amie,” Madame coaxed, lowering the sheers. “The hair is too big. You are le modele de Madame Blanche. You must have the look of Madame Blanche. The hair is too big for le chapeau. We must cut.”
Minnie touched Chloe’s arm. “Let her. I’ll go first if you want.”
“No, your hair is not so big,” Madame explained. “But Chloe’s hair must go.”
Her hair? Chloe gazed at Madame Blanche’s close-cut hair. What would it feel like to run her fingers through her hair and find it short? Her mother’s voice intruded into her thoughts: A woman’s hair is her glory. A decent woman never cuts it. Chloe swallowed. What would Theran say? He’d loved her long, blonde hair, had brushed it until it danced with electricity and then buried his face in it. The sensation of Theran’s touch flickered through her. But she could always grow her hair back when Theran returned. Now she was le modele blonde de Madame Blanche. In a fit of determination, she closed her eyes. “Go ahead.”
Madame cooed her pleasure and pushed Chloe back into her chair. The hat was whipped off and with one hissing slice Chloe’s long hair dropped to the floor.
“I can shape it,” one of the seamstresses offered. She took the sheers and began trimming and feathering the remaining hair. Chloe peeked at the vanity mirror and saw only the girl bending in front of her, felt her clipping above her eyebrows, making bangs. Finally, the girl stepped back and Chloe looked at her reflection—a startling one. “It’s not so bad, I guess.” Still, Chloe stared at her head, which suddenly looked smaller, trimmer.
“You look modern,” Minnie breathed in an awestruck tone. “Madame, please, can’t I have my hair cut, too?”
Madame chuckled. “Non, your hair is small, bon.”