You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  I should have stopped the minute I started rationalizing. I should have prayed for strength to resist. I should have been appalled that my friend thought doing such a sneaky thing was no big deal.

  I didn’t do any of that.

  Instead, in the moments just before sleep, I hatched my plan. I’d buy the dress, fair and square, and then return it in flawless condition. I’d say it didn’t quite suit me, which was sort of true. It didn’t suit my budget, that’s for sure, and it didn’t suit my life. But it might suit John Gilbert.

  I would be extremely careful.

  I would not eat.

  I would not drink.

  I would not sweat.

  No one would ever know.

  On Friday morning I emptied Robinson Crusoe of its contents which, combined with my paycheck, would cover the secret purchase until I could return it and get my money back. At lunchtime I took my break early, making some excuse to Dot. I didn’t want her involved, lest I chicken out. I sneaked up to the sixth floor and tried on The Dress, half hoping it would need alterations. As there was no time for alterations, I would be off the hook.

  It fit perfectly. Darn it.

  Hands trembling, I bought it, along with a new girdle and stockings, and stashed the package under my raincoat in the employee locker room. I hated keeping the secret from Dot, but she’d find out soon enough. She’d get a big kick out of it when I showed her, when we were safely away from the store. We’d share a good laugh over it, like the sophisticated women-about-town we were.

  And John Gilbert, the celebrated actor, would be dazzled beyond belief.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Louie and his buddy Frank arrived at the apartment at a quarter past eight. By the time they rang the buzzer, my palms were sweating. Although I’d heard a great deal about Louie from Dot, I’d never met him in person. I could immediately see why Dot was attracted to him. He epitomized the classic description “tall, dark, and handsome,” with a commanding air about him. Frank, pressed into service as my escort for the evening, was shorter and not as good-looking, but seemed friendly enough. I just hoped he could dance without tromping on my feet, which were already aching in a pair of dainty silver slippers borrowed from Dot that were at least a size too small. She’d been thrilled to see me in the blue gown and had insisted I not ruin the effect with clunky shoes. I pushed aside the guilt of knowing I didn’t plan to keep The Dress, convincing myself it was worth the deception.

  Frank handed me a gardenia wrist corsage. I thanked him, relieved that I wouldn’t risk putting pinholes in The Dress. Already I despaired of returning it to Field’s in flawless condition but it was too late to worry about that now.

  “Ready to go?” Frank placed a sparkly silver evening wrap, also borrowed from Dot, around my shoulders. The four of us headed downstairs and out to Louie’s shiny roadster.

  The Aragon Ballroom, modeled after a Moorish palace, was a wonderland of crystal chandeliers, mosaic tiles, romantic archways, and a midnight-blue terra-cotta ceiling sprinkled with twinkling stars and drifting clouds. From the stage at one end of the vast ballroom, a saxophonist led the orchestra in “Sahara Rose” as couples dipped and twirled around the parquet floor.

  I scanned the room for any sign of John Gilbert. Apparently he hadn’t shown up yet. Meanwhile, masses of well-dressed people were hailing Louie as if he were a celebrity.

  “Hey, Louie, nice to see you.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Braccio.”

  Louie waved and smiled and shook hands. The name Braccio tweaked my ears. It was a streetwise name, tough and swaggering, like bravado and macho rolled into one.

  “Do people always treat him like this?” I whispered to Dot.

  “Yes, isn’t it a scream? This happens all the time when we’re out together. Louie has important business connections all over the city.”

  “I see.” My heart went out to my poor brother Charlie in his quest for Dot’s affection. Next to Braccio’s glittering empire, Corrigan’s Dry Goods didn’t offer much allure.

  The band swung into “My Baby Just Cares for Me” and Frank swept me into a fox trot. He turned out to be an excellent dancer. I hoped the lessons I’d taken at Mercy Gilligan’s School of Dance and Deportment were paying off. Twirling around the ballroom was so mesmerizing, I barely noticed my feet aching in the too-small shoes.

  “You like this joint?” Frank shouted over the music.

  I nodded vigorously, too breathless to respond. The lively dance threatened my no-sweating rule, but I was having too much fun to care. Next I danced with Louie, and then with a man Dot introduced to me as a “gaffer” at the movie studio.

  I was about to ask him what a gaffer did when a commotion took place near the entrance. Flashbulbs popped, the crowd murmured, and in walked my idol, flanked by a cluster of women and a few tuxedo-clad men. I’d have recognized his face anywhere.

  Frank found me and propelled me toward the cluster. I saw Louie shake John Gilbert’s hand and introduce a radiant Dot. When we reached the star, Louie introduced Frank and me. John Gilbert smiled graciously, took my hand, and bowed a little. When I gazed into those unforgettable dark eyes I’d so admired on the silver screen, I thought I’d swoon, but by some miracle stayed upright. I made some inane comment about The Big Parade, and he smiled. Then, in a flash, it was over. Mr. Gilbert’s entourage moved on and Frank led me back to the dance floor.

  I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to poor Frank as he steered me around beneath the twinkling lights. I spent the rest of the evening craning my neck to see what John Gilbert and his party were up to. Not once did the screen idol make the slightest glance in my direction, surrounded as he was by stunning women in gowns far more attention-grabbing than mine. The magical gown on which I’d pinned all my confidence was turning out to be nothing more than a few artfully stitched panels of blue satin and some embroidery floss.

  All too soon, the event drew to a close. Louie called for his motorcar. He helped Dot into the front seat while Frank and I slid into the back. My big John Gilbert moment had turned out to be nothing more than a fleeting smile, and my feet were throbbing. Yet I didn’t feel a bit tired, so I agreed when Frank suggested we stop somewhere for a bite to eat.

  “How about Chinatown?” he said. “I know a chop suey joint that’s open late.”

  My mouth watered at the thought of chop suey, which I’d grown to like at a neighborhood place called the Orange Garden. But Louie scoffed.

  “Why Chinatown? We’ll go to my place.”

  His place. The speakeasy.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Frank said.

  In spite of my growling stomach, I murmured, “I don’t know . . . it’s getting rather late.”

  “Oh, Marjorie, staying out late just this once won’t kill you,” Dot cajoled. She twisted around in the front seat and gave me a pleading look.

  “You got something against spaghetti and meatballs?” Louie’s glance caught mine in the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes crinkled in amusement. Dot must have told him about my aversion to speakeasies. I imagined them sharing a hearty chuckle over it and felt both embarrassed and annoyed. “Besides, you girls will be interested to know that a very special guest will be joining us for a late supper.”

  “Who?” Dot turned toward Louie.

  “None other than John Gilbert himself.” Louie flashed a grin as Dot gave a whoop and nearly levitated out of her seat. “He assured me that he and his companions will join us as soon as they can get away.” He reached over and patted her knee. “He specifically said he would like to hear you sing, babyface.”

  “He said that?” She swiveled around again to face me. “Oh, Marjie, you can’t say no. You just can’t.”

  Indeed I couldn’t. Just this once, I told myself, for Dot’s sake. Don’t be a wet blanket. John Gilbert will be there.

  With the car’s collapsible top down, we cruised through the sultry night. The breeze blew my hair around and cooled my flushed face, even as my c
onscience nagged that I was once again doing something I knew to be wrong. First The Dress, and now a speakeasy. But I couldn’t spoil Dot’s chance to sing for John Gilbert. Maybe this would be her big moment of discovery. So once again I shoved the nagging thoughts to the back of my brain and shored up my courage by reciting silently, John Gilbert. John Gilbert. John Gilbert. Who knew—maybe he’d notice me and my fabulous blue dress when there weren’t so many other people around.

  We snaked through the city streets, ending up in Little Italy, just a block or two from the settlement house. I imagined the children there, accustomed to seeing me in my scruffy workaday clothes, gaping at me all dolled up in my fine gown. For some reason the vision did not bring me the pleasure I thought it would.

  Louie parked the roadster in front of a small neighborhood restaurant. It looked harmless enough. The air smelled rich with oregano and garlic. Ravenous, I also knew the narrow cut of my dress wouldn’t accommodate much spaghetti. I vowed to nibble like a lady and not gorge myself, and above all, avoid stray spatters of tomato sauce. Maybe spaghetti wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

  The headwaiter greeted Louie and they exchanged a few words in Italian.

  “What are they saying?” I whispered to Dot.

  “I don’t know, but doesn’t it sound romantic?”

  Our dates escorted us through the crowded, smoky dining room toward the back of the building. The place was packed. I didn’t see a single empty table. Louie opened a door, and for a moment I wondered if we were going to eat in the kitchen. But the door led to a narrow stairwell.

  “Is there another dining room downstairs?” I said, staring dubiously down the dark staircase.

  “Something like that,” Frank said.

  Louie led the way. At the bottom of the stairs, he knocked on another door stenciled “cleaning supplies.” I heard the click of locks. When the door eased open a crack, he leaned forward and said something to a faceless figure on the other side. The door opened wider, revealing another large, smoky room filled with tables, and a sea of tuxedos and sequins.

  Soon we found ourselves jammed around a table with several of Frank and Louie’s friends: a boisterous, red-faced man they called Duke, a quiet man with sad dark eyes called Bobby, and two flashy women named Charlotte and Veronica. Veronica had an angelic face that called to mind a Renaissance Madonna, were it not for the cigarette dangling from her mouth. Of course I’d seen Dot light up here and there, but still found it disconcerting to see so many women, sparkling in fringe and beads, smoking right alongside the men.

  Everyone was talking at once, loud and animated, greeting us heartily as Louie made introductions. Frank went to fetch drinks.

  “What’ll you have?” he said.

  “A Coke, please,” I shouted over the din. “I’m parched.”

  Louie escorted Dot toward the small stage where a jazz band blared, leaving me alone with the tableful of strangers. A crush of dancers careened and collided on the dance floor. The air was thick with the nauseating stench of cigarettes and whiskey and perfume. My desire to be anywhere else but a gin mill battled my determination not to appear like an unsophisticated rube from the sticks. I desperately wished we were back at the Aragon, swaying gently under the fake scudding clouds.

  Frank returned and set a glass of fruit punch in front of me.

  “This okay? They’re out of Coke.”

  The liquid sparkled fetchingly in the glass. I thanked him and took a sip. I could detect pineapple juice and orange juice, along with some other flavors I didn’t quite recognize. It tasted exotic and tropical, and its iciness felt cool and refreshing on my parched tongue.

  “This is delicious. What’s in it?”

  Frank shrugged. “Beats me. The bartender calls it Planter’s Punch.”

  I took a bigger sip. It tasted delicious, fruity and sweet.

  Frank slid his arm around my shoulder and leaned close, shouting over the racket.

  “Hey, baby. This joint’s crazy loud. What say you and I make like trees and leave?”

  “No, thank you.” I stiffened my posture and forced a smile. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to leave. But with Frank growing increasingly amorous as the evening wore on, I didn’t want to be alone with him. Besides, Dot was getting ready to sing, which was the whole point of being here—so Dot could sing for John Gilbert. Who as far as I could see, hadn’t yet made his appearance.

  I was not going to be a country mouse and demand to be taken home like a silly schoolgirl. This was the big city, after all, and I was a city girl now. Right? And who was I to judge? Didn’t the Bible say not to judge people? So I might as well sit back and enjoy the refreshing fruit punch. When I drained the glass, another appeared to take its place.

  I mimicked the way Charlotte held her glass, wanting to appear as urbane and sophisticated as she did. I noticed how she blew smoke rings, pulling her painted Cupid’s-bow mouth to the side in a comical way. I gave a little snort.

  “What’s so funny?” Charlotte said, exhaling smoke in my face.

  “Nothing,” I coughed. I took another fruity sip of punch. And another. Soon the glass was empty again, but it didn’t stay that way for long.

  I started to relax, feeling calm and excited at the same time. I tapped my foot to the beat and watched the dancers shimmy across the floor, beads flying. Duke cracked a joke and I exploded into laughter along with everyone else. Why, these people were the bee’s knees! So friendly and witty. Whatever had I been afraid of?

  A waiter set a plate of spaghetti on the table before me. I took a bite, but my appetite had withered to nothing. Frank said something, sounding like he was underwater. He refilled my glass again and again as the evening wore on. What time is it, anyway? Where is that John Gilbert? Oh, who cares.

  On the small stage, Dot was crooning “You’re the Cream in My Coffee,” sounding every bit as good as Ruth Etting. Why, she was marvelous! Why hadn’t I ever come to hear her before?

  “Lissen!” I hissed to Veronica, pointing sloppily toward the stage. My tongue felt too big to fit in my mouth. “Thass my friend. Thass my friend.”

  All at once a buzz snapped through the crowd. The band faltered. Dot’s voice drifted to silence. Someone shouted, “Cheese it! It’s the cops.”

  The table rocked as everyone stood up at once. The plate of spaghetti overturned, spilling its contents onto my lap in a scarlet river. I leaped up in horror, knocking Frank’s whiskey glass from his hand. Amber liquid splashed across my bodice.

  The door burst open and blue-uniformed police officers scattered throughout the room, batons raised. What happened next was sheer pandemonium: a melee of screams, shouts, breaking glass, overturned tables, and panicked customers scattering like cockroaches, every man for himself. Frank took off without a backward glance. Out of nowhere Dot materialized and yanked my arm. “Come with me,” she said through clenched teeth. “Ladies’ room.”

  A wildly inappropriate time for a comfort stop. But I soon understood her plan. She dragged me through a claustrophobic storeroom stacked high with crates and up some rickety and cobweb-strewn steps. The top step opened onto a dim upstairs hallway and a door marked Ladies. Locking the restroom door, she climbed onto the radiator, boosted herself up on the window ledge, and tried to open the casement window. It wouldn’t budge. She banged into it with her shoulder and then hammered against the frame with one satin dancing pump. Finally it creaked open. Like a serpent she slithered through, then turned back and reached out her hand to me.

  I gasped. “I can’t possibly fit through that little window.”

  “Marjorie, don’t be an idiot. Come on.” Someone pounded on the locked door. I sucked in a deep breath, gathered my skirt, willed myself to be as small as possible, and crawled through the opening. I got through as far as my waist when I felt a tug on my skirt. It was stuck on something—a nail, maybe. Dot grabbed me under the arms and yanked. Hearing a loud riiiiiip as my skirt released from whatever it was caught on, I hurtled head
long the rest of the way through the opening, knocking Dot flat. We found ourselves on a narrow roof on the back side of the building. On hands and knees we crawled to the edge, where a tree’s thick foliage partially hid us from the view of the police and patrons swarming on the ground below. We huddled there for a few minutes, motionless and panting, listening while the police took names and addresses and loaded people into police wagons destined for the city jail. Not one of them, of course, was John Gilbert.

  “You two! Stay right where you are.”

  A policeman’s head poked out of the ladies’ room window.

  “Follow me,” Dot shouted. She clambered through the tree branches and shimmied down the trunk.

  I groaned. Shock, fear, and fruit punch collided in my gut. Behind me, the policeman was squeezing his bulk through the window. Swaying woozily, I kicked off the silver slippers and followed her, the sharp branches doing further violence to The Dress. I hadn’t climbed a tree since third grade, but this rusty skill didn’t fail me as I made my way to the ground.

  Dot spotted Louie’s auto idling in the alley and shouted “Run for it!” As we made a mad dash around the corner, I collided with a man wearing a business suit. At least it wasn’t a cop.

  “’Scuse me,’” I slurred, stumbling around him.

  “Marjorie? Is that you?” I lifted my head to see a familiar face. A shocked and horrified face, staring straight at me.

  “Peter?”

  In that moment I became excruciatingly aware of how I must appear, wobbling barefoot in my ripped dress, with a blood-red stain splashed across the front and reeking to high heaven of whiskey and cigarettes.

  There was no time to say anything more. Dot yelled my name. Within seconds Frank grabbed me and shoved me into the backseat of Louie’s roadster and we roared off into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  On Saturday morning, my first thought was that I was dying of some exotic disease. My head throbbed. My stomach churned. My mouth tasted as if I’d been chewing the contents of a carpet sweeper.