Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  Deuce shot him a look. “You weren’t even at the lecture.”

  “I heard about it from clients. Especially as Jeannette got sicker. Marian’s speech was mentioned whenever the girl’s name came up. It’s the talk of the town. Some say it’s her fault.”

  Deuce rose to his feet. “You take that back.”

  Marian said hoarsely, “No. He’s right.”

  “Yeah, listen to her. She’s been leading you around by the nose all week so why switch horses now, as they say? I think an argument could be made that Jeannette would still be among us if she,” he stepped closer to Deuce, “if your lady friend here, hadn’t ever shown her face in this town . . .”

  Deuce was no longer listening to the words from Clay’s mouth but was focusing on his lips. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off Clay’s face, to shut him up. Deuce felt the pressure of all those jeering taunts that had battered against his own ears as a boy.

  Clay continued, “I for one wouldn’t regret it one bit if I never laid eyes on—”

  Deuce’s fist skidded across Clay’s cheek, smashing his lips into his teeth. Clay stumbled back, wiping his chin and looking with surprise at the bright blood smeared across the back of his hand.

  Deuce abruptly turned back to Marian. “Let’s go.”

  She stared up at him with a confused expression.

  “Come on,” Deuce said, extending his hand and noticing that it was wet with Clay’s blood. He wiped it off with one of the crumpled napkins from the table.

  Marian had trouble getting to her feet, even with Deuce’s help. Her face wore a numb expression.

  “Get the hell out of my house,” Clay hissed through bloody teeth. He cupped a hand under his chin to catch the flow.

  Deuce encircled Marian with his arm as they made their way to the door.

  “I said get the hell out!” Clay shouted from behind them. “You’re nothing but a nigger. You’ve been protected all these years by the Knapps, but you can’t deny your blood. I may be at the lower end of the ladder, not one of Emporia’s ruling elite, but at least I’m no nigger.”

  Deuce winced. Outside, Marian paused to steady herself against the porch railing.

  “He’s just talking out of his hat,” Deuce said quickly.

  Without seeing, Marian stared across the shadowy lawn. He tucked her hand in his elbow and guided her up the drive to his house.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EXODUS

  “HOPE YOU DON’T MIND A LITTLE DUST.”

  Dabbing at her swollen eyes, Marian barely glanced at the room. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice thick.

  Deuce guided her to the spare bedroom’s overstuffed chair. “I’ll see if Helen left behind some night clothes. Be right back.”

  Floorboards creaked as he passed down the hall. She stared dully at the Singer sewing machine shoved into one corner, a stack of yellowed Collier’s magazines, the bed draped with a faded green coverlet, a set of Indian clubs. A jumble of castoffs.

  Footsteps returned. “Found this,” Deuce said, holding up a night dress, clearly too small for Marian.

  “Thanks.” She managed a tight smile.

  “And clean towels in the bathroom.”

  She didn’t answer. She felt his hand uncertainly hovering above her head, then tentatively stroking her hair. His touch was light. “Try to get some sleep. Things seem worse at night. My room is on the right if you need anything.” He started to leave, then turned back. “About what Clay said . . .” Dust seemed to fill his mouth. For the first time since Dr. Jack’s telephone call, Marian appeared to be listening. “It’s true.” Deuce squeezed his eyes shut. “Some Garland, way back . . .”

  Marian leaned toward him. “It doesn’t matter to me.” Her tone was soft.

  Warmth spread beneath his ribs. “Thanks.” He pecked her on the cheek, then stepped into the hall, quietly closing the door behind him.

  After a few minutes, she heard the snap of a light chain. There was the sound of a faucet running, then the brisk tap of a toothbrush against porcelain. The chain snapped off and shortly after came the exhalation of bedsprings.

  Marian rose from the chair, stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. The air hung thick around her. Above, the plaster ceiling formed an unbroken gray scrim. Feverish images unrolled across it: Tula’s hand lifting the telephone receiver, her rictus of despair, the poor girl’s bony, heaving chest. Marian sobbed heavily until the pillowcase was soaked through.

  After a time she became aware of the silence beyond the open window. She got up and found her way in the dark, down the stairs and out onto the porch. The iron handrailing was cool to the touch. On the sidewalk, under the inky canopy of trees, Marian turned right. Most of the houses were dark. Half a block ahead, a light fell from open windows but, as she approached, it was switched off. Three blocks along she became aware of a heavy throbbing in her ankle. She had not done this much walking since the accident. Ten minutes later she limped to the grove at the edge of the Chautauqua grounds. The trees gave off the dusty scent of herbs. She leaned against a trunk, her ankle pounding with the beating of her heart. Close by, the tent lay dark and motionless. And beyond it, across an expanse of grass, the Bellmans’ small house burned like a lantern, every window lit. After a time, she closed her eyes, but the image of the windows was imprinted on her eyelids. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Over and over the words ran though her head until her mind emptied and her lips moved automatically. She remained standing in this way until the rising dew seeped through her stockings and the sky began to lighten.

  The walk back to Deuce’s took a long time. She had to make a number of stops to rest her ankle that had stiffened during her vigil. The throbbing sensation had moved up into her calf. By the time she mounted the porch steps, a few people were out and about. A milkman made a delivery at the house across the street, the wire basket of bottles tinkling as he walked up the driveway.

  Inside, the house was hushed. Deuce must still be asleep. She got herself up the stairs, pulling heavily on the banister. In the bathroom, she stripped down to her sweat-soaked undervest and slip. As she turned on the cold tap, she glimpsed the drained and haggard face in the mirror. Her hair stuck out in irregular tufts and the skin under her eyes was dark with strain. She wet down a washcloth and pressed it against her face, the nape of her neck. She started down the hall, pausing outside of Deuce’s room. The door was ajar and the sound of steady breathing washed into her ears. Exhaustion swept over her. She had never felt so alone. Without thinking, she stepped inside. The pearly predawn light illuminated the outlines of a bed; the publisher’s sturdy shape stretched out on the far side. The floorboards were cool. A current of air stirred the curtains, tugged at her slip. She crossed the room and slowly eased herself between the sheets, careful not to disturb him. But he must have been half awake.

  “Come here,” he whispered, maneuvering one arm beneath her ribs, the other around her waist. He pulled her to his chest.

  “I don’t—”

  “I know. Just lay quiet.” He gently kissed the top of her head. Through the thin weave of his undershirt he smelled of soap and sweat. After some minutes she exhaled heavily, releasing the taut coils in her arms and legs. Somewhere down the block a dog barked, then stopped. Silence radiated. Her thoughts swam languidly. She floated in a cool bath, her hair rippling, tugging at the nape of her neck. Tidal exhalations slipped in and out of her ears. Something roused her. She lifted her head from Deuce’s chest, inundated with gratitude. In the dim light, her lips searched for his cheek. Instead, her mouth brushed the corner of his. He shifted slightly, their lips met. His tasted of whiskey and tooth powder. Suddenly he was kissing her throat, her forehead, running his tongue gently along the rim of her ear. She exhaled and slid her leg over his thigh. Felt the firmness through his combinations. A hot pulse of desire ran through her. She shuddered.

  Deuce knelt, tugged off her drawers. Then moved to her undervest. She clutched the hem to pull it off. “No.
Let me.” He kissed her collar bone, brushed his tongue across her nipples. She reached down, feeling a springy erection pushing against her hand. His mouth nestled in the side of her neck while his fingers explored her breasts, rimmed her naval, sprung her legs, and slid two fingers deep inside. Marian wriggled. She pulled at his drawers. He quickly rose and slipped them off, then climbed back into bed, pressing the full weight of his body against hers. When he entered it was as if all her empty spaces were filled.

  Afterward they lay without speaking. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Deuce said at last. “But I’m not sorry.”

  “Me neither.”

  He lifted her hand, kissed her palm.

  After a time she said, “I have to leave today.”

  “I know. I don’t like it, but I know. Now, get some sleep.”

  * * *

  Deuce woke first. He eased an arm out from under Marian’s head and slipped from the bed. Downstairs, he filled the coffee pot with cold water and took a jar of raspberry preserves and loaf of bread out of the pantry, in case she wanted toast. He was standing on the back porch sipping his second cup of coffee when she came downstairs.

  “Morning. Find the towels?” he asked as she joined him.

  She nodded. When he asked if she wanted coffee she burst into tears. “I just keep thinking about that poor girl.” She covered her mouth and hurried back inside.

  After a while she returned, dabbing her reddened eyes with a handkerchief. They sat side-by-side on the porch steps, gazing at the hedgerow concealing the alley.

  “You know, Helen will be eternally grateful for your time here. She needed to get out, and you helped me see that. It’s just that a father worries.”

  Marian blew her nose. “She’ll be fine. By the way, how did her grandfather take it?”

  Deuce sighed. “Not too well. As a matter of fact, he was livid. I’ve never seen him that angry. Even angrier than about the editorial.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe. So anyway, he’s taking over the Clarion.”

  “What! He can’t do that.”

  “Unfortunately, he can. He’s a silent partner and owns more than half.” Deuce rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t have the money to buy it on my own twenty-odd years ago. Then, when I did have the money, he wouldn’t sell me his shares.”

  “You knew he might do this, didn’t you? When you put her on the train yesterday.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “But you let her go anyway.” Marian’s tone softened. “What are you going to do?”

  “Kiss you.” He leaned over, pressing his lips against hers.

  She drew away with a slight smile. “You know what I mean.”

  “Already did it. I quit.”

  “What?”

  “I resigned. What else could I do?”

  “But how will you earn a living?”

  “I’ve been thinking of opening a small-job shop. You know, printing business cards and invitations. Things like that.”

  Marian took his hand, running her finger along the calluses at the base of each finger.

  Deuce continued, “I’ll be all right. You know, Helen’s not the only one who’s glad you came to town.” She began to pull away. “Don’t worry,” he added, “I’m not going to try to persuade you to stay. I just want you to know I’m going to miss you.”

  She tucked her lips under her teeth. Why is this so painful? she thought. Once she got on the road, she knew, she’d feel better. That’s how I am. Choose a course, then don’t look back.

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  He rose quickly. “Let me dress and I’ll go over to Tula’s and collect your things.”

  She smiled wanly. “Should I warn Clay?”

  Deuce snorted. “No. I’m sure he’s in hiding. Probably retreated to the studio. That’s where he holes up when things don’t go his way.”

  * * *

  The remainder of the morning unraveled in the speedy fashion of all leave-takings. Deuce stood on his porch as Marian motored round the block, testing her ankle. Swiftly now, Emmett appeared, struggling to strap Marian’s trunk to the rear bumper. When Tula materialized on the back porch, dark smudges under her eyes from sitting up all night with Hazel Bellman, Marian walked over, as if approaching the bench for sentencing. Tula, maybe out of pity, gave her a small hug before turning back to the house. Deuce took Marian in his arms, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, and committing it to memory. She pulled away and climbed into the auto. Her duster billowed out behind her. Then there was just the dust.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BANGING AWAY ON LULU

  So, I guess the big news from here is that the Garland Weekly and Print Shop is up and running as of last month. I got a good deal on a storefront and the landlord threw in the apartment above for the same rent. I sold the house. It was too big for just an old widower anyway. The word from Helen is that she’s collecting fares on a trolley line. From her letters home, she seems happy enough. As for me, I think of you every morning when I sit on the back steps drinking my coffee. I’ve had to brush some fallen leaves off a couple of times, and in not too long it’ll be snow, but I’ll be sitting there just the same.

  THINKING OF DEUCE’S LETTER, Marian scrutinized the Picardy sky, cloudless and cold as steel. His note had arrived in the fall, four months earlier, while she was still in New York. Now snow masked the frozen mud of eastern France. Was Emporia, too, encased in white? A stiff wind blew through the truck’s open cab. She shoved her hands under her armpits.

  Nezzie, her partner on this day, trotted over and hoisted herself into the passenger seat. She gave off the odor, like all the women in the Fielding College Relief Unit, of hastily sponged flesh combined with the lanoline stink of wet wool. Give me another two weeks here and I’ll smell the same, Marian thought.

  “We’ve got to go round back to the stable for the load of blankets. I grabbed chocolate bars and a canteen of tea for us,” Nezzie said.

  “How long do you think we’ll be out?”

  “Four villages to supply and these roads? Likely all day and into the evening.”

  Under her coat, Marian’s shoulders, already rounded from fatigue, slumped further. Since arriving two weeks ago, she had spent most of her days getting the vehicle, a former delivery truck, up and running. It had broken down in the fall, she’d been told, and towed into the courtyard where it proceeded to collect fallen leaves, then a heavy layer of snow. She’d spent long, solitary hours cleaning the truck’s carburetor, testing the plugs, and pouring jugs of scalding water into the radiator.

  At the stable Nezzie hopped out energetically. “Get in the back. I’ll hand the stuff up.”

  With difficulty, Marian maneuvered between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. The skirt of the relief unit’s impractical military-style uniform constricted her hips. She tugged the jacket, riding up her waist, back into place.

  When the truck was packed, Nezzie leaped inside and Marian released the brake with a yank. The truck shuddered past the broken-down château that housed the unit’s mess hall. Nezzie waved gaily at the rest of the unit, fifteen or so women, who were shoveling snow from the main house’s partially collapsed cellar. Several stuck out their tongues in response.

  She turned to Marian. “Aren’t we the lucky ducks? If we hadn’t drawn delivery duty, we’d be digging out too.”

  “I guess,” Marian said with hesitation. “But isn’t there a chance we’ll get shelled or have a bomb dropped on us? You know, if we don’t make it back in daylight?”

  “Oh, we won’t get hit! The chances are one in a million. Once you’ve been here for a while, you’ll think nothing of it.” Nezzie’s mittened hand indicated the scarred landscape, the black smudge on the far horizon that Marian knew was the front.

  They bumped along the snowy ruts in silence, Nezzie clumsily fumbling in her coat pocket before nipping off a mitten with her teeth. Fishing bare-fingered, she produced a cigarette with a gr
in.

  “Did I hear you say you’re from Boston?” Marian asked.

  “Near Brookline. Know it?”

  “No.”

  Nezzie puffed on the cigarette and idly surveyed the flat Picardy countryside with its open vistas of dormant beet fields. “Hard to believe we’re only seventy miles from Paris.”

  After a couple of minutes Marian pressed on. “When did you graduate from Fielding?”

  Nezzie exhaled a plume of smoke. “Class of ’16. You know, you should give this truck a name.”

  Marian was calculating the difference in their ages. Ten years. “What? The truck?”

  “Yes. Like Old Iron Sides or something. Let’s come up with a good one—it’ll be fun.” Nezzie held out the cigarette, pinched between thumb and forefinger. “Want a drag?”

  Marian shook her head.

  “I know it’s nasty. Pops would hit the roof if he knew. Turn here.”

  From overhead came the thrum of an engine—the steady drone of an airplane. A film of sweat spread across Marian’s brow.

  “Not close enough to worry,” Nezzie said, leaning out with her face turned skyward.

  They left the main road, jolting onto a country lane lined with bare trees.

  Not far ahead, smoky threads rose from Canizy’s broken buildings. At the end of an alley of trees, the road curved gently north, wending across another expanse of dun-colored plain. Suddenly Marian was in Deuce’s car, driving back to town after that visit to the farm. The searing heat, sunlight beating down. Flat pastures rolled by. Beneath the floorboards, the motor putt-putt-putted, pushing up the temperature even more. A bevy of starlings rose in unison.

  She started when Nezzie slapped the dashboard. “I’ve got it! Lulu. After that song the soldiers sing—‘Banging Away on Lulu.’”

  Marian smiled absently, still back in Emporia. “Yes. Lovely.”

  They jostled over a particularly deep rut and made the final turn into Canizy’s single street. Marian steered around a jagged heap of bricks—all that was left of a dynamited church—and past blackened ruins that had once been trim cottages. Most were simply rubble, but here and there a single wall stood steadfast, the yellow or blue of its plaster keeping up a brave face. The destruction was still as much of a shock to Marian as it had been two weeks before when she had made her inaugural visit with a load of sewing machines.