It Stings So Sweet

by Stephanie Draven

  “Sophie!” Clara kisses both my cheeks, but I realize that’s just a show for the onlookers when she hisses. “So what’s the idea giving Robert the icy mitt? He’s crazy about you and you’re breaking his heart. You’ve got him all balled up about—”

  I turn away to hide sudden tears and shake my head, miserably. The estrangement with Robert is more than I can bear; I don’t think I can take being bawled out by her, too.

  “Oh, don’t cry!” she says, pulling a handkerchief from somewhere inside the complicated folds of her dress. “I can’t take it when anybody else cries because then I start to cry, too.” She gives the handkerchief to me and I dab at the corners of my eyes, afraid I’m going to break down right here in the hotel with everyone watching.

  “Let’s duck into the ice cream shop and get away from the crowd,” she says, and just like that, she abandons everything and everyone to usher me into a leather booth where I try valiantly to compose myself.

  “Oh, Sophie, I was all set to blister your ears but good. But now I see that you’re just as balled up as he is. I don’t understand why! Is it my fault? Is it what we did? That was just a little harmless fun …”

  “No,” I say, sniffling into her gardenia-scented hanky. “It wasn’t that. That was … a wonderful evening. It isn’t you or Leo or Robert, or even the three of you together—”

  “Oh, hell, we’ve had our good times but I can keep my paws off him. Robert’s a swell fella, but he’s not my fella. In the end, I swear to you, Leo’s the only one for me …”

  “No, I mean it. It isn’t about the three of you. It’s just that Robert is—”

  “Rich and handsome? Witty and urbane? I can see how a girl might hesitate to settle for that …”

  She’s needling me. She doesn’t have to tell me his virtues and in truth, she’s only talking about the ones on the surface. The aspects of Robert I love most aren’t obvious to most people. Like his kindness, his compassion, and his genuine interest in providing for people. “There’s nothing wrong with Robert,” I stoutly insist. “It’s just that … he proposed marriage to me.”

  “The rat bastard!” she cries and every yellow flower on her hat shakes with merriment.

  “You don’t understand …”

  She’s still chuckling. “Oh, I probably understand better than most.”

  “I don’t want to be tied to a stodgy old legacy or imprisoned by his family’s precious reputation. I don’t want to become a shadow of myself …”

  “Do you think Leo keeps me in a castle tower?” Clara asks. “Trust me, every day with Ace is the berries. Marriage is what you make of it and anybody who tells you otherwise is selling snake oil.”

  “But I know what Robert wants to make of it. Deep down he’s a traditionalist.”

  “Sophie, all he really wants is to be loved and cherished for exactly who he is and who he can be. That’s all anybody wants.”

  I don’t think I’ll have the courage to explain, but Clara’s the only person who might understand. “It’s more than that—just the marriage proposal, I mean. Most men wouldn’t encourage thoughts like I have … wouldn’t goad me to do things in bed that I ought to be ashamed of. I love him for it, which means that there’s nothing to stop me. And something’s gotta stop me or I’m never gonna be anything but what I am right now. Just a shopgirl in a hotel boutique where men think it’s cute that I like to read a book or two.”

  Clara tilts her head, her hat at a precarious angle. She stares at me a few moments, then reaches into her handbag and pulls out a pack of Lucky Strikes. She lights one, then waves down a waiter and says, “We’ll have two scoops, please. Make mine chocolate. Sophie, what flavor’s your favorite?”

  “Strawberry,” I murmur, craving any sweetness that might chase away the bitter.

  When the waiter leaves, Clara asks, “Those reporters out there trying to get a glimpse of me through those windows are going to write about what flavor ice cream I ordered. What do you think it says about me that I like chocolate? Do you think it means I’m a pushover or a Dumb Dora?”

  I’m not sure what she’s getting at and I shake my head. “Neither …”

  “Then it must mean that I’m a terrible actress or maybe it means that I can’t make a good film.”

  “It just means that you like chocolate.”

  “Now you’re on the trolley.” She exhales, a spiral of smoke escaping from her ruby red lips. “My favorite flavor of ice cream doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything. And if I weren’t famous, nobody would even care. I’d walk into a shop, make my order, eat my ice cream, and close the door behind me when I was done. It seems to me, that’s what you oughtta do.”

  The waiter brings us two scoops, just like we asked for, and two spoons. “You really think it’s that simple? That people can just do whatever they want in bed?”

  “Sex is never simple. But everybody’s got a favorite flavor. Doesn’t matter if they’re a sinner or a saint. So you like strawberry. So what? It’s nobody’s affair but your own. So eat it. Enjoy it. Then go be whoever you want to be. You’re going places, with or without Robert Aster.”

  We don’t say anything else for a while. I’m too lost in thought and by the time I’m ready to take a spoonful of my ice cream, Clara’s already finished hers. “I better get a wiggle on or Leo will send out a scouting party for me …”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “We’re headed back to Hollywood in the morning. Come and visit us sometime,” she says, sliding out of the booth to give me a tight, affectionate embrace. “Oh, don’t get nervous. It’ll all be completely innocent. I just thought you’d like to see what it’s like to make a film about Sacco and Vanzetti.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” I say, my throat tight with emotion, because I’m grateful for so much more than the invitation.

  She smiles, dropping too much money onto the table. “Enjoy your ice cream.”

  And then, with a sashay of her hips, she’s gone.

  The next day, we strike.

  We picket on the street in front of the hotel with hand-painted signs and placards. Bellboys and maids, kitchen staff and table waiters, shopgirls and florists, janitors and shoe-shine boys, Negro workers and white workers. All of us dressed in our Sunday best and singing little slogans as the ambassador’s driver pulls his breezer up front and the old man snarls from the backseat.

  “You’re all fired!” Old Mr. Aster shouts as the traffic backs up behind him and shrill whistles and horns sound from the street. “What’s more, if you don’t leave the premises immediately, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  A ripple of fear passes down the line and I hear gasps and low murmurs even though I know every one of us prepared for this possibility. Flustered, I clutch the sign in my gloved hand as a gust of wind blows two pamphlets out of my pocket and into traffic. If I chase after the errant pages as they tumble down the street in front of the hotel, I won’t have to face the ambassador. But if I don’t, who will? “It’s a public street, Mr. Aster,” I say, putting steel into my voice. “Besides, you can’t fire all of us. If you do, you won’t have any way of running your hotel.”

  “Is that what you think, young lady? I could find a replacement for each and every one of you within a day.”

  “What about me?” The voice comes from down the street and everyone turns to look. I don’t need to look, but I do. There Robert stands, dapper as ever in my favorite blue linen suit, the one that makes his eyes look greener and fits snug around his broad shoulders. “Can you find a replacement for me, Father?”

  I’ll give the old bastard credit for one thing: He hides his surprise, assessing the situation so swiftly that he doesn’t miss a beat. “You’d be the easiest one to replace, Bobby!”

  Robert shows a flash of teeth, a charming smile that almost disguises the feral anger underneath. Then he laughs. “You’re probably right. You never needed me to run this place.”

  The confrontation between father and
son is so personal it’s painful to watch, but none of us can seem to turn away from it, least of all me. Of all the times to make a stand against his father, this seems like the worst moment Robert could choose. I’m proud of him, but also overcome with a desire to save him from this ugliness. “Robert, please …”

  My voice is drowned out by the ambassador’s fury. “This is all your fault, Robert,” he says, waving his cane in our direction to encompass the entire picket line. “I put you in charge here and look what you’ve let happen. You’re to blame.”

  Robert takes a few more steps towards his father, hands in his pockets, nodding his head. “You’re absolutely right. If I’d run the place the way I wanted to, maybe the hotel staff wouldn’t be so unhappy.”

  “Not another word, Robert,” the ambassador says, fuming. “This isn’t the time or place for this conversation. Get in the car.”

  “I’m not getting in the car and I’m not crossing this picket line.”

  “Your mother was always too soft with you,” the old man fumes. “You were her baby so I let her spoil you. You’ve had everything handed to you.”

  Robert presses his lips together in grudging admission. “You’re right yet again. Almost everything good I’ve got was a gift from you or somebody else. But there are a few things I’ve earned for myself, and one of them is standing right here.”

  At this, he makes a half turn to face me.

  The ambassador looks befuddled. “Are you talking about this girl?”

  “Yes, I am. Because you see, I think she loves me.”

  My hand goes to my mouth and the sign I’m holding in the other hand starts to flap. “Robert …”

  “In fact, I think she loves the very things about me that you can’t stand. And if I’ve won her love, it’s something I did all by myself. Maybe the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “I might have known you’d lose your head over some little chippy,” the ambassador snarls.

  Robert’s head snaps in the ambassador’s direction, his expression dark as a storm. “You’re my father, so you get a warning. But only one. If you ever call her that again, I’m going to smash your teeth in.”

  His earnest threat of certain violence shocks me into a wide-eyed gasp. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. It’s all madness.

  Robert turns to face me again. “I’m not asking anything from you, Sophie. You don’t even need see me again after today. I just need to know whether or not you still love me. Because I’ve been giving the matter some thought, and I’ve realized you’re the smartest, bravest, kindest, sexiest woman I know. You’re it. You’ve changed my whole life.”

  “Robert—”

  “I sleep now, you know. Right through the night. And I don’t need liquor to do it, either. I thought I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know who I was; the truth is, I just didn’t know what kind of man I wanted to be. Now I know, and that’s because of you. And even if I’ve lost you, it’ll all be worth it if I know you love me.”

  “Oh, Robert,” I say, shaking my head, unable to say more.

  “Do you still love me?” he asks again.

  My heart leaps to my throat. “Of course I do!”

  His smile is soft and soulful. “Then give me a sign to carry.”

  His father’s voice booms over the passing cars. “Robert William Aster, I vow by the Almighty, if you carry a sign for these ungrateful reprobates, I’ll disown you. I mean it. I’ll cut you off without a penny.”

  Robert doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. He’s just stares into my eyes. “It’ll be worth it.”

  “Robert, stop,” I say, unwilling to be the cause of this kind of strife.

  “Listen to her,” the old man says. “All your life you’ve been a somebody. But you’re nothing without the family fortune. You’ll be a nobody.”

  “I don’t want to be somebody. I just want to be good for something,” Robert says, pushing an errant wisp of hair out of my eyes. “And for someone.”

  “That’s it. You’re cut off! You’ll be a penniless beggar, that’s what you’ll be.”

  “I don’t think so,” Robert says.

  “You’re dreaming, my boy.”

  “Maybe.” Robert takes the sign from my hands. “But at least I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

  I’m dead on my feet when the sun finally sets.

  “You need a break,” Robert says, walking the picket line beside me in the sweltering heat. He glances at Hamilton, Irene, and Ethel arm in arm. “Your friends are willing to spell you.”

  My clothes cling to me like wet rags and my toes are blistered, so I’m in no position to argue. I go with Robert around the front of the hotel and he sits me at the edge of a fountain, pulling my shoes off, one by one. Bone weary, I dunk my toes into the water and let out a delirious sigh.

  “Isn’t that better, Miss O’Brien?” Robert asks with a tip of his hat.

  “You’re behaving suspiciously like a gentleman, Mr. Aster.”

  He laughs. “Touché, mademoiselle.”

  Looking at him in the glow of the streetlights, I ask, “Why did you join us today? Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m following your lead … I can do that, you know.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” I say, remembering the silk tie he broke in love play. “We tried that once.”

  “Just because I like you under me in a bed doesn’t mean that’s the way I want you out of it.”

  I swallow. “That’s not how it sounded when you proposed.”

  “Well, I made a mess of that, didn’t I?” He clears his throat, pulling his tie open so that both ends hang from his sweat-stained shirt collar. “So what was his name, the young coal miner who got you to agree to marry him?”

  My eyes close and I see a flash of meadow flowers, but I can’t remember his face anymore. “Quinn,” I say softly, ashamed of myself. “But I never agreed to marry him. I know how I made it sound, but I wasn’t being honest. Quinn proposed, but I never said yes. It’s just that when a boy dies, especially the way he did, you saint him in your heart. Then you can’t very well admit that you ever had doubts. Not even to yourself. He becomes a way to fend men off. Because they’ll believe you if you say you’re a widow in spirit, but they won’t believe you want to be your own woman.”

  “I’ll believe it,” Robert says. “If you’ll let me.”

  “Just what is it you want me to let you do?”

  He has to work himself up to an answer. He cups his hand, dips it in the fountain and splashes the water on his face, smoothing it into his hair with his fingers and letting it drip down the back of his neck. Then he turns to me and says, “I was furious with you, you know. Hundreds of women—literally, hundreds—have thrown themselves at me, trying to get me down on one knee. Yet, both times I’ve been ready to shackle myself to a woman, body and soul, I’ve been turned down. With Nora, I could chalk it up to follies of my youth. But you? I thought you ought to have been damned grateful for the offer. It stung my pride like the devil when you weren’t.”

  “Do you really think—”

  “Let me finish,” he pleads with me. “Or I don’t think I’ll be able to get it all out. The truth is, I’ve always been good at figuring out what other people need and abysmal at taking stock of what I need. I’ve finally realized that I don’t need your gratitude. I don’t need my pride—though I’d like to keep a little of it—and I don’t need marriage. I don’t need my father’s approval, or to impress society ladies in the tearoom, and I don’t need any of a thousand things I was brought up to believe were important. What I need is you, in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t want to get married?”

  “I’m saying we can live in sin and become the most notorious lovers in the city, if that’s what makes you happy,” he says, lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing my fingertips. “That’s what I want, Sophie. To make you happy. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted. B
ecause making you happy makes me stand taller. It makes me steady and strong. It makes me at peace with myself in a way I’ve never been. So it’s a selfish thing, really …”

  His words chip away at the dark caverns in which my fears live and light breaks through. It’s a blinding feeling, as if I’m seeing the world in vivid color for the first time. By god, I’ve been the greatest fool that ever lived. What he says is an echo of everything I feel for him. All those times, I wondered how I could be so filled with spiritual joy at the animal acts that gave us pleasure, I never considered the simple truth of it.

  I love to make him happy. Making him happy makes me stronger and truer to myself. And that’s how it ought to be between a man and a woman in love. In and out. Push and pull. Give and take.

  That’s something beautiful. Something I’d be a fool to deny. A single tear slips over my cheek and I put both hands over my heart, to keep it from bursting. “I love you, Robert Aster. I’ll be yours if you’ll be mine.”

  “I’m already yours,” he says, his words a solemn vow in the night.

  “Good thing, then,” I sniffle. “Because neither of us can afford a wedding.”

  “Don’t get too excited by the idea of our impoverishment, Comrade. I’m not penniless yet.”

  “You think your father will change his mind?”

  “He might. If I run for political office, he won’t want the Aster name diminished no matter which party backs me, but truthfully, I don’t care what the ambassador does. I don’t need his money the way he thinks I do.”

  “You’ve never been without money, Robert.”

  “I don’t plan to ever be,” he says, affronted. “You see, most soldiers need to live off their wages. I saved mine and invested it into a wildly successful little movie company with my business partners, the Vanderbergs. We’ve made a handsome profit so far. That’s the beauty of unfettered capitalism for you, by the way …”

  I laugh through my tears. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Mr. Aster?”