Magnolia City

by Duncan W. Alderson

  “Why are they throwing that fellow out? Everybody’s drinking—including you, Mother.”

  “He doesn’t look like he belongs here, anyway.”

  “And we do? If they knew the truth about us, they’d probably throw us out, too.”

  “Shhh!” Nella’s eyes darted about, but her mouth wore a gracious smile as she murmured, “How would anyone find those things out?”

  “Don’t worry, Mamá, I may be wanton, but I’m not stupid. I won’t reveal your little secret.”

  Nella’s fingers caught Hetty’s arm in a vise. “Ah, here’s Lamar. I think he’s wanting to fox-trot with you.”

  Hetty was passed from one arm to another. Lamar led her onto the dance floor jingling, her kimono ashimmer in the pale light as it trailed behind her.

  After dinner, the waltzes raised the pitch of the party a few notches, leaving the floor littered with limp bows, red sequins, and trampled black masks. Hetty skirted the dessert table, where the dancers, out of breath and hungry, lined up for slices of triple chocolate cake. They were all waiting for their parents to leave so they could bring on a jazz band and dance the toddle and the black bottom. Char had her clutches into Lamar, determined to dance more numbers with him than her sister. Hetty reached for a plate and toyed with a piece of cake as she watched the two of them flirting over by the bandstand. I’m not going to fight with her. I don’t want to do anything to spoil our fun tonight. If Lamar wants to dance with me, he’ll have to ask. She let a forkful of semisweet icing melt across her tongue. Triple chocolate cake was her favorite Warwick dessert, a little short of divine. One of the best things about living in a hotel was being able to order room service until midnight. Hetty often did, even though they had their Mexican maid to cook her chilies and moles for them.

  Dear Lina, Hetty thought, she’s the only member of our family who’s not down here. Hetty pictured her sitting alone in the kitchen upstairs with no light on, drinking and muttering to herself in Spanish. She’d worked so hard today getting all the ruffles on Charlotte’s crinolines starched and pressed. Hetty slipped between two chattering dancers, exchanged her half-eaten piece of cake for a fresh one, and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. Several faces with coppery skin stared at her as she passed, but Hetty didn’t feel out of place: She liked haunting the hallways of the Warwick, finding shortcuts and back ways that no one else knew about. A hallway was more than just an empty space to Hetty: It was a place to be alone, an escape from her parents, and a bridge to the world. Now it was taking her to her beloved little Lina, alone in the dark. She took the service elevator up to the eighth floor, being careful not to get the hem of her kimono caught in the heavy doors as they slid shut.

  From the dim hall where trash was kept and deliveries made, she came into a passage that led from the kitchen of the Allen suite into a servant’s quarters the size of Nella’s closet. Only a bare bulb burned in the pantry. Hetty stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light. There was Lina exactly as she’d pictured: crumpled over the breakfast table with a Carta Blanca sweating in a circle of foam. She was so short she looked like a child curled up in the chair. Pots dripping with sugar and gelatin still stood on the stove top.

  “I brought you a piece of cake.” She slid the plate next to the beer.

  “¡M’ija!” Lina always addressed her with the familiar Spanish term for daughter. She lifted her head and smiled wanly at Hetty, her eyes swimming with intoxication and exhaustion. “You always think of your little Lina.” Her skin was the color of cinnamon.

  “You shouldn’t be sitting here in the dark. Come down with me and take a peek, kiddo. The ballroom looks so swanky.”

  “Lina would not be welcome. She knows her place.” Ever since being rescued years ago from the jute mills in El Arenal, the sand pits of East Houston, Lina was terrified of ending up back there. She was guarded around everyone but Hetty. “You go. You dance. Lina is happy when her Esther is happy.”

  “I’d love to dance with Lamar, but Char’s monopolizing him. We were supposed to take turns.”

  Lina scowled and hissed, “Miss Charlotte! Don’t tell her Lina says—but you should be queen, m’ija. Let me look at you.” Lina stood and motioned for Hetty to turn around. “I remember when your mother wore that dress.”

  “So do I.”

  She looked Hetty up and down and nodded. “Si, you are queen.”

  Hetty laughed.

  “¡Es verdad! Tu es la reina.” Lina threw her arms open. Her head only came breast high as Hetty bent down to hug her. She made little cooing sounds as she swayed gently back and forth. Hetty’s earliest memories were of being rocked in those wiry brown arms, and she still liked it today. Only Lina understood the ache she carried inside; only Lina could soothe it.

  Then she pulled back and assumed her scolding tone: “Don’t you let Miss Charlotte get the best of you. You go back down and you grab Mister Señor Rusk and you dance with him. ¡Andale!”

  “All right, I will.”

  As soon as Hetty entered the ballroom, Belinda sidled up to her and murmured, “He sent for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Mac. The fellow they kicked out.”

  “Oh, really?” Hetty said, trying to sound indifferent but wanting to know more. “That’s his name, Mac?”

  “Garret MacBride. He’s got a room. And he’s got the goods. I’m so glad somebody does.” She was referring to a practice that went on at a lot of their dances: One of the young men would hire a hotel room where couples could meet secretly and share bootleg they knew was safe. “I tried to nab him, but he only wants you. What did you do to him, girl—pet in a dark corner? Anyway, it’s room two twelve. That’s where I’m spending the rest of the evening,” Belinda chirped as she drifted away.

  Hetty wanted to follow, but the band started playing her favorite song, “Charmaine.” In a falsetto voice, the singer crooned the words that always made her want to glide across the dance floor in an easy rhythm: “I wonder why you keep me waiting, Charmaine, my Charmaine . . .” This would be a test for Lamar: He knew it was her favorite song, even calling her Charmaine when he was feeling amorous. If he didn’t dance this number with her, that was it. Hetty waited while one couple after another drifted out into the twilight of candles. Then she heard a jingle and felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned. He was there, smiling his crooked smile at her and holding out his hand.

  “You better not forget.”

  “Be nice to me. I’m the one who asked them to sing it.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. Just for you, kiddo.”

  Hetty felt a new lilt come into her legs as they danced. Slow, slow, quick, quick. Lamar pitched his voice high to sing along: “I’m waiting, my Charmaine, for you.”

  It’s the other way around, she thought as they opened up into a promenade. I’m waiting for you to decide between Char and me.

  After that, Lamar wouldn’t leave her alone. They danced until Hetty’s feet throbbed with delight, then he kissed her right there in front of everyone. This inspired a wolf whistle or two. She drew her lips away and murmured, “How come you always manage to get me into trouble, my little Lam?”

  “Into fun, you mean.” He had that glint in his eye that meant he was plotting something. “Come upstairs with me.”

  She glanced around to see if her parents were watching. “Stop it, Buster! You know that could spoil my whole night.”

  “Not if you’re with me.” He pulled her off the dance floor and into the shadows. Pretending to head to the restrooms, they dodged Charlotte and scrambled up two flights of stairs.

  As Lamar tugged her down the hall, she could hear raucous laughter from a room up ahead. A rat’s tail of smoke floated out of the open door. They lingered on the threshold, noticing the highballs tinkling in everybody’s hands. The crowd was laughing at Belinda, who was trying to lounge back on the bed in her wide pannier skirt. It kept springing up to reveal layers of lacy petticoats underneath. He
tty spotted him at the room’s desk mixing drinks. Mac. She wanted to meet him in the worst way but couldn’t let on to Lamar. She watched as he handed a drink to an underclassman, then moved his restive eyes over the room. They lingered at the open window, as if searching out the next bright spot along Main. The Twentieth-Century Jitters. He had them, too. Like he never slept, just kept moving through the night. Hetty itched to follow.

  Then he glanced over and spotted the two of them, his blue eyes reeling them in. Lamar leaped into the room, his bells jingling. Everyone applauded at his entrance. He turned and gestured for her to follow. Hetty lifted her silver kimono sleeves, relishing the peril and delight she always felt in Lamar’s wake. She was about to step across the threshold when someone grabbed one of the sleeves and pulled her away from the doorway.

  “Don’t you dare go in there,” Charlotte sniped at her.

  “Why not?” Hetty jerked her arm away. “Lamar brought me up here.”

  “He’s older than us. And a man! We’re not allowed, and you know it.”

  “How’s Mother going to know? Unless you tell her.”

  “This is just like you, Het, spoiling my special night!”

  Hetty fastened her eyes on her sister, who glowered back. “And this is just like you, being such a stickler for rules. Don’t make me fight with you, Char, please.” With a toss of her head, she stepped through the forbidden door and ambled toward the desk, trying not to look too eager. The inkwell had been shoved aside to make room for bottles of Canadian Club, Gilbey’s, Johnnie Walker, and Four Aces. Lamar had already been served and was entertaining the crowd with Shakespearean riddles.

  “My messenger found you,” Garret said.

  “Yes—it seems I’ve been summoned.”

  He picked up an empty glass. She hesitated, not wanting to acquire whiskey breath before the coronation ceremony. “You’re not one of those girls who drinks ice water, are you?”

  “That’s not it. I’m here with my date, Lamar. Lamar Rusk.”

  “Who’s paying absolutely no attention to you.”

  This remark left Hetty speechless. She tried to fight back the blush she could feel steaming into her cheeks. “It’s not that,” she quipped back. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you till we’re introduced.”

  “Says who?”

  “A few centuries of Southern society. I guess you don’t have rules like that up on the frontier.”

  “Southern? I thought we were in the Great Southwest.”

  “You’re wrong, mister. Would they call us the Magnolia City if we were Western? You want cowboys, go to Fort Worth.” She pointed to the bottle of Gilbey’s gin and asked him what part of Montana he was from.

  “I was born on the Continental Divide.”

  She laughed and turned on the fast line of gab she’d practiced for such occasions. “Congratulations on finding No-Tsu-Oh, kiddo. Not bad for an old bear hunter.”

  “What is No-Tsu-Oh?”

  “Oh, if you have to be told, you’re not in the know. It’s the cotton carnival—the high point of Houston’s season. It goes on for six days. Tonight’s only the climax.”

  “Well, at least I didn’t miss the climax.”

  “And that’s the most important part!” She exchanged a knowing glance with him. “My sister’s queen this year, you know.”

  Without warning, he reached over and traced the outline of her face with his forefinger. “You should be queen.”

  “That’s funny. Someone else just told me that.” She shrugged his finger away. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I am a member of the court—a princess.”

  “What table are you sitting at?”

  “Citizen’s Bank of South Texas.”

  He nodded, impressed. “One of the oil banks. How do you rate?”

  “My father’s president. He’s the one who threw you out.”

  “Oh, yeah. King Eddie! And you are . . . ?”

  “Nnamreh. Princess Nnamreh. Consort to Queen Nottoc XIX. But my name’s Hetty if that’s what you’re trying to find out.” She gave him a teasing glance. “And yours is Mac.”

  Flashbulbs went off in Garret’s eyes. “How’d you know that?”

  “You made yourself rather notorious downstairs.”

  He chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “I think the cotton carnival could use a little excitement before it conks out completely.”

  “You may be right. But No-Tsu-Oh will never die.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a place.”

  “And where is this place?”

  She looked around. “Well, at the moment, you’re in it. Need I say more?”

  Hetty’s fast line of gab worked. When she sat down with Lamar on the sofa, Garret turned the bartending over to Butch and joined them. She introduced the two men, and they talked oil across her for a few minutes. The cushions were so soft, she was wedged between their bodies and became aware of how different they smelled: Lamar with his usual scent of sandalwood cologne, Garret emanating the musk of leather and Stacomb hair cream. A couple of Lamar’s college friends came over and interrupted, so Garret engaged her in a tête-à-tête. She was grateful they were sitting down. She didn’t know whether it was the gin or the look in his eyes that made her knees feel like melting candles.

  “I love your car, by the way,” she told him. “What kind is it?”

  “An Auburn. Want to go for a ride sometime?”

  “Why not?” She laughed, hoping Lamar wouldn’t hear her.

  But her laugh wasn’t lost in the general hubbub. It ricocheted through a silence that had crept over the room. She looked up. Nella had planted herself in the doorway, surveying the scene icily. Drinks were set down, and cigarettes snubbed out. Hetty rolled her eyes at Garret and stood to leave.

  Nella grappled onto her arm and pushed her down the hallway. “You know what this means, young lady.”

  “I’m confined to my room again?”

  “For the rest of the weekend.”

  Oh, well, there’s still tonight, Hetty told herself.

  “And don’t think you’re staying for the rest of the party tonight. As soon as your sister’s coronation is over, it’s upstairs.”

  A bitter taste stained Hetty’s mouth. Ratted out again! Char did this on purpose so I’d miss the carnival’s jazz finale—my favorite! She was about to protest, when the court jester sprang to her rescue. “Who was the ninny who nabbed Princess Nnamreh?” Lamar said to Nella.

  She shot him a frown over her shoulder.

  “ ‘Not I,’ said the queen. ‘I was dancing with the king,’ ” Lamar continued. “So what ninny nabbed Nnamreh?”

  Nella turned to Lamar and chuckled in spite of herself.

  “ ‘I’m afraid it was I,’ said the court jester. ‘To amuse her with ninniness. Forgive me, your highness.’ ” He kissed Nella’s hand.

  Nella pretended to be annoyed, but Hetty could see the smile playing about her lips. “Back to court with you both.”

  Monday morning, Hetty and Charlotte walked a few paces behind their mother as she swept through the long lobby of the Warwick Hotel. Nella’s departures were nothing short of theater. She descended through the various levels of the lobby as if stepping off the dais of a throne. The staff all greeted her by name as she passed the massive columns of black walnut. Next, she would cross the Saxony carpets of the solarium, where white wicker divans flickered in the shade of potted palms. Never one to open a door by herself, she waited at the main entrance until an attendant rushed over so she could step out and stand at the curving balconies of the terrace to see who might be disembarking from a chauffeured brougham. Finally, the descent down the staircase to the palatial porte cochere, where her own Packard town car waited at the top of a circular drive.

  Hetty was back in favor after patiently serving a penance watched over by Lina. Lamar’s riddles hadn’t been sufficient to charm Nella out of her disapproval. Hetty had tried to remain cheerful during her confinement, but she simply wasn’t t
he type to sit around and do nothing. The very walls of the hotel had vibrated with dance music and, at one point, she’d looked out her window and seen revelers far below on the sidewalk, drifting into the park.

  Now, as she followed her mother and sister out into the porte cochere, Hetty looked up from under a hat that buried her face to the brow. Light streaked the white ceiling: The tropic sun of South Texas blazed off a cream-colored sports car dripping with chrome. Behind the flashing windshield, raked at a forty-five-degree angle, she spotted Garret, his face cool under a Panama hat, his eyes secretive behind sun shades.

  Joy irradiated Hetty at seeing him again, but she didn’t let it show on her face. She bowed like the lady she’d been raised to be: a faint smile on her lips, a gentle inclination of her head. Garret leaped out without opening the door and tipped his hat in their direction.

  The door of their black Packard town car swiveled open and her father’s young Negro driver, Henry Picktown Waller, waited for them to step in.

  Garret strode over. “Good morning, Mrs. Allen. I’d like to take this opportunity to present my card—Garret MacBride, ma’am.” He held out an ivory envelope. “My mother Arleen introduced me to the Welches, ma’am.”

  Nella’s gloved hands shrank into fists, then one of them fluttered open. “Well . . . if Lockett received you, I suppose . . .”

  Hetty walked down the driveway and circled Garret’s car, her fingertips sliding over the highly polished wax. She purred. The lines of the car flowed like warm cream in the mid-morning light. Garret came over.

  “Aren’t you afraid King Eddie will kick you out again?” she asked.

  “I’ll take my chances. I’ve been parked out here for two mornings now.”

  “Not looking for me? Aren’t you sweet.”

  “Just stubborn. Ready for the spin you were promised?”

  Hetty jumped in and perched atop the back of the seat, posing as the dedicated hedonist like her idol Joan Crawford in Our Modern Maidens. She squealed with delight and longed to feel the cool spring air flowing over her as they drove. “Let’s go,” she told Garret, sliding down into the passenger seat.