Lies in White Dresses

by Sofia Grant

  Virgie did. Maybe this kid wasn’t so bad after all—here was something she could work with. Within an hour they’d turned out a dozen pictures, all drawn by Virgie and colored enthusiastically by Patty in big scribbles—a turtle and a hairbrush and a portrait of Virgie herself, her face rendered in green with a wild halo of pink hair—and the artist had fallen asleep on the floor. Virgie carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She was just draping a blanket over the little girl when there was a knock at the door.

  She raced for the door, fearful the sound would wake the sleeping child. Willy waited, dressed in a red silk robe over matching pajamas and wearing slippers decorated with tufts of dyed rabbit fur.

  “Hello, Virgie,” Willy said. “How’s tricks?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Mind if I come in? I heard you were babysitting, but it looks like you got the little brat to sleep.”

  Virgie wasn’t at all sure if she should let her in, but Willy sashayed past her without waiting for permission and took a look around, whistling when she saw the velvet chairs, the marble hearth, the cashmere sweater.

  “Nice digs,” she said. “Bet they cost a pretty penny. Is she famous?”

  “I don’t think so,” Virgie said, eyeing the clock on the mantel, hoping the residents of the suite were still at dinner. “What can I help you with?”

  Willy laughed and dropped onto one of the chaises, her voluptuous body draped like a length of satin, effortless and elegant. She took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and lit one. “Got an ashtray, sweetheart?”

  Virgie dutifully retrieved one from the breakfront and set it on the little table between the chaises, then sat cross-legged on the other one.

  “So,” Willy said, after a few puffs. “I know you’re a clever girl, and I need some discreet advice. Do you know what discreet means?”

  “Ummm . . .”

  “It means you can’t tell anyone. Cross your heart and hope to die. Can I count on you?”

  “Yes, I won’t tell a soul.”

  Virgie had learned at an early age that an important service her mother provided was to keep her guests’ secrets. The day Mother had given Virgie the master key, she’d reminded her that no information was to be given out about any guest—not even to confirm whether she was staying at the hotel—and that if Virgie was asked, she was to direct all inquiries to her mother.

  Willy took another puff and let the smoke trail slowly from her lips. Then she nodded.

  “I believe you, Virgie Swanson. Okay, so it’s like this. I need to see a doctor who specializes in ladies’ concerns, one who’s just as good at keeping his mouth shut as you are. See what I mean?”

  Virgie thought she might. She’d overheard her mother referring guests to a certain Dr. Peabody who worked not in a clinic or hospital but at a location that required complicated directions that her mother wrote out on hotel stationery but handed over only after instructing the ladies not to share the address with anyone else. However, Virgie had no idea what the doctor actually did, only that it was something other doctors didn’t, which caused the ladies considerable agitation.

  “Maybe,” she hedged, thinking it through. “But I’d have to know what you need him for. And then I could find out for sure.”

  “I see,” Willy said. “Well, listen, Virgie, I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, because you’re obviously wise beyond your years, but do you know what a venereal disease is?”

  Virgie shook her head; there was no way to fake this one.

  “All right. Fetch me a pen and paper and I’m going to write something down, then you show it to this doctor, and he’ll let you know if he can help me or not. I’ll pay you either way. How does three dollars sound?”

  “Fine,” Virgie said, a little too quickly. For that kind of money she was sure she could figure it out. She got a pen and a piece of stationery from the drawer in the side table, and Willy wrote something down and folded the paper twice before handing it back.

  “When do you think you might have an answer for me?”

  Virgie was saved from having to respond by the sound of a key in the door. Willy stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, while Virgie thought, Oh no, oh no. She leapt up and went to the door, blocking the view of the room.

  “Hello!” she said brightly. “Patty was very good, and we played and made drawings, and then she got tired, and she fell asleep on the floor, but after a while I put her to bed and she didn’t even wake up and I’ve been checking her a lot and she’s just fine and then Miss”—oh no, what was her last name, had she ever told Virgie?—“Miss Willy from down the hall stopped by to borrow a needle and thread and she was just leaving.” She dug out the sewing kit she kept in the pocket of her smock and removed a needle she’d threaded with white cotton, which suited most fixes she was called upon to perform, and handed it to Willy.

  “I see,” Mrs. Carothers said, nodding as if it made perfect sense, even though Willy made no move to leave and didn’t even adjust her robe to conceal the lacy bodice of her pajamas.

  “I’m Wilhelmina Carroll,” she said. “Willy for short. How do you do?”

  June said hello and disappeared into the bedroom, but Mrs. Carothers and Mrs. Meeker introduced themselves and chatted with Willy about the pleasant weather, the need to find a good hairdresser, the quality of the food at the Sky Room, while Virgie’s heart slowed to a normal rate.

  June returned, looking much more relaxed. “Thank you for taking such good care of Patty, Virginia.”

  “We were wondering if you might stay just a little longer,” Mrs. Meeker said. “We thought we might get a nightcap at Gwin’s. We saw it when we drove in.”

  “Sure.” Virgie was surprised—usually it was the younger ladies who ventured out in the evenings to the roadhouse up the street.

  “Oh, there’s no need,” June said quickly. “I’ll just stay here with Patty.”

  “Have you been before?” Willy asked. “To Gwin’s, I mean.”

  “No, we’ve only just arrived today,” Mrs. Meeker said.

  “Then I’ll be happy to take you. I’m known there—in fact, I sing there sometimes.”

  “You’re a performer?” Mrs. Meeker asked politely, though there was something about the way she said it that made Virgie think she didn’t believe it.

  “Sure, I’ve had gigs at Dusty’s and the Live Oak Club in Sacramento—have you heard of them?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  Willy looked disappointed. “They’re very nice. Anyway, we’ll get top service at Gwin’s. I just need a minute to change.”

  Mrs. Meeker and Mrs. Carothers exchanged a look. “Why not?” Mrs. Carothers said. “You only live once!”

  Chapter 10

  Francie

  It took Willy more than a minute to return—more like fifteen—which gave Francie and Vi time to try to cajole June into joining them. “She’s sleeping like a log, dear,” Francie pointed out.

  “I really couldn’t,” June said. “I ate so much it made me sleepy. And Patty’s likely to be up with the birds.”

  Willy came back in a blouse tied at the waist over cigarette pants and ankle-strap sandals that seemed like a poor idea for a walk along the uneven river path, but soon she and Francie and Vi were outside strolling under the bright moon. As they approached the tavern, the sound of laugher and piano music spilled from the open windows.

  Willy led them through a gravel parking lot crowded with cars, up the steps to a long porch where half a dozen women and a couple of men lounged on wicker chairs, smoking. Inside, a pair of brass chandeliers provided barely enough light to see, but as her eyes adjusted, Francie took in the patrons lined up at the bar and crowded around the tables, the little wooden stage with an upright piano being played by a woman in a checked Western shirt, the rows of bottles behind the bar, and the bloodred wallpaper. A few people were dancing in front of the stage in the small roped-off area that passed for a dance floor.
r />   There were men in cowboy hats and men in shirts and ties, but they were outnumbered at least two to one, and only one had been brave enough to venture onto the dance floor, where he was leading his partner in a very badly executed East Coast Swing, out of time with the music. As the pianist played the last few bars of “Hoop-Dee-Doo,” the bartender rang a bell and a woman at the end of the bar let out a whoop and everyone in the bar cheered, including Willy.

  “They do that whenever someone gets her papers. It’s a tradition—you get to drink on the house all night. You can bet I’ll be here when it’s my turn!”

  “When will that be?” Francie inquired.

  “I’ve got another four and a half weeks,” Willy said, her ebullience fading.

  “How did you get the job here so quickly?” Vi asked.

  “Oh, it’s not really a job, nothing regular anyway—it’s mostly to pass the time. I know the pianist—she and I did a gig together in Nevada City a while back. She’s really good. Speaking of drinks—”

  “A grand idea,” Vi said. “What shall we have?”

  Francie was relieved to see her friend in better spirits. At dinner, after the incident with the vagrant, she’d become silent and withdrawn. It had been happening frequently in the last week or two—ever since she’d relented and agreed to go through with the divorce. Francie intended to do her best to banish Vi’s second thoughts, if that’s what they were.

  “What do you think, Willy?” Vi asked. “Something we can’t get in San Francisco.”

  “I’ve got just the thing,” Willy said. “Don’t worry, I’ll have them run a tab. Be right back.”

  As they watched her flounce her way to the bar, Francie said, “A tab in your name, I’ll bet.”

  Vi shrugged. “Who cares? It’s Harry’s money.”

  “Darling, you’re sure that Mr. Yeske understands the situation?”

  Francie had asked around, and the attorney Vi had engaged did have a sterling reputation, but Vi had refused to allow Francie to accompany her to see him, and Francie was concerned that Harry might be hiding money in accounts Vi didn’t know about.

  “It’s all taken care of,” Vi said. There was a strange energy to her mood, probably owing to the amount she’d had to drink. “You know what I’d like to do?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Dance. Just for fun—you and me.”

  Before Francie could protest, Vi had grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the little dance floor. Vi’s hand was warm and so familiar—the hand that had held hers the day the telegram arrived announcing that Francie’s mother had died; the hand that had seized hers with joy the day the doctor had confirmed that Vi and Harry were expecting their second child. Oh, how she’d come to rely on this hand, with its neat buffed nails and the garnet ring that had been Vi’s mother’s that looked so out of place on Vi’s slender hand—it had checked her children’s foreheads for fevers almost as often as her own, had rolled wartime bandages at her side, had divided bulbs to share so the same flowers bloomed every spring in their window boxes.

  But for all the parties and charity balls that the two couples had attended together, the only time Francie had ever seen Vi dance was at Margie’s and Jimmy’s weddings, when Harry led her onto the dance floor as though it were the first day of cotillion, stiff as a board and heavy on his feet.

  This Vi was nothing like the one who’d rested her hand on Harry’s shoulder and tried to avoid getting stepped on. She tried the Lindy Hop, laughing as she kept moving in the wrong direction, then giving up and putting her arm around Francie’s waist and steering her in circles, spinning until Francie was dizzy. The music changed, and Vi giggled and linked arms with Francie and pranced in a high-stepping Cakewalk, and soon others on the dance floor joined in. Francie’s breasts and belly jiggled, and she was out of breath in minutes, but she felt more alive than she had in ages.

  They danced until the pianist announced she was taking a break, and Francie, still laughing, turned to see Willy watching them. She was seated at the bar, wearing an intent expression that dissolved into a grin when their eyes met.

  “I can’t move another step,” Francie said. “I’ve got to catch my breath.”

  “All right, but wasn’t that wonderful? I’d given up on ever dancing again, since Frank and Charlie don’t seem inclined to marry.”

  “One of those girls Frank brings around is bound to settle him down,” Francie predicted. “And there’s a girl out there for Charlie who’s just as sweet and kind as he is, you’ll see.”

  “You two were cutting quite the rug!” Willy said, handing them each a glass filled with ice and long strips of lemon peel and amber liquid. “These are called Saddle Sores. Shirley says they were invented right here at Gwin’s.”

  Francie’s first sip made her eyes water. “What is that?”

  “Rum, chartreuse, and ginger ale. Go easy,” Willy cautioned belatedly. “They pour heavy here, especially for the new girls—they want you to keep coming back. There’s a table there in the corner—shall we?”

  They took their drinks to a round table that had just been vacated by a couple leaning on each other drunkenly as they made their way to the door, the man in a fine sport coat and the woman, whose skirt swirled around her thighs, in a patterned dress. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, and he was fifty if he was a day.

  “Now, those two? I’d bet a dollar they’ll be hitched just the minute her divorce goes through,” Willy said mischievously. “Wonder if her soon-to-be ex-husband knows his replacement is in town?”

  The light in Vi’s eyes dimmed and she stared into her drink, no doubt thinking about Harry’s new flame. Francie couldn’t bear to see Vi’s fun come to an abrupt end, so she changed the subject.

  “So tell us about you. What’s your story?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing special,” Willy said. “I married a boy when we were both too young to know better—we were seventeen. We grew up together in a little town outside Bakersfield. His daddy grew grapes and my daddy sold him pallets and crates. I wore my Sunday dress, and Peter borrowed a tie from his brother, and we moved into a cottage on his father’s land.”

  “That sounds romantic,” Vi said.

  “Maybe, but the reality was about as romantic as a run-over skunk. There wasn’t any plumbing, and Peter was up before dawn every day to go to work for a farmer up the road. By our first anniversary we could barely stand the sight of each other, but neither of us was the type to give up easy, and it took us a while to get used to the idea that we’d made a terrible mistake.” Her smile slipped a little. “Well, a few mistakes, to tell you the truth.”

  “Is that when you decided to come to Reno?”

  Willy laughed. “Oh no, not right away. We didn’t have the money for a single night in a motel, let alone six weeks. And it didn’t seem important at the time. Peter stayed and I moved to San Francisco and got a job and a place with some other girls. It was a gas, to tell you the truth, and it wasn’t until I fell in love with a fellow who could afford to pay for it that I decided to get my divorce so I’d be free to marry again.”

  A bad feeling took root in Francie’s gut. “How interesting. What does your fellow do that he can afford such a nice place for you to stay?”

  Never mind that the question was terribly gauche—Willy didn’t seem to notice as she took a long sip of her drink. “He’s in promotions,” she said proudly. “He works with all kinds of wonderful acts. He’s going to get me an audition with a band that plays all the best clubs in San Francisco.”

  Vi had gone pale. Francie reached for her hand under the table, already gathering her purse.

  “That’s nice,” she said, her face aching from smiling. “What’s his name?”

  “Harold,” Willy said, “but everyone calls him Harry.”

  “We have to go,” Francie said, pushing back her chair with such force that it slammed into the neighboring table, causing drinks to slosh out of the glasses. She pulled Vi up from h
er seat as Willy’s face registered confusion.

  “What do you—”

  “Allergies, I’m allergic,” Francie said, the first thing that popped into her head. “We’ll see you around.”

  “But—”

  Whatever Willy had to say was lost in the din. Francie put her arm around Vi’s waist and pulled her along, but the moment they were outside, Vi shook her off and stalked alone down the street.

  “Vi, wait!” Francie called, trying to catch up. “It might not be the same Harry—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Vi said. “I’ve known what he was up to—does it really matter which girl it is? One’s the same as another. Oh, I’m such a fool.”

  “You’re not a fool, you’re better than any girl in that place, better than all of them put together. And Harry is a—a stupid gollumpus.”

  Vi stopped in her tracks. She turned to look at Francie and burst into laughter. “Say it again.”

  “What?” Francie said. It hardly seemed like a laughing matter.

  “Gollumpus—oh, it’s just too funny. I wish Harry was here, so I could say that to his face.” She gazed out over the river; the moon’s reflection floated like a yellow rubber ball on the inky water. “He really is a ridiculous man, isn’t he? I wish—I just wish I’d chosen better, for the boys’ sakes. Think of it, Francie—what are they going to do when their father announces he’s going to marry that girl? She can’t even be as old as Alice! I can’t believe he’d date someone so . . .”

  “Gaudy?” Francie said, not knowing whether to be heartened or worried by this outpouring of uncharacteristic venom. “Tawdry?”

  Vi laughed again. “I was going to say naïve. But it isn’t really her fault, is it? Harry probably told her I’m a miserable shrew.”

  “Oh, Vi . . . you’re too good. I’d like to go back there and teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. No—I take it back. I’d like to teach Harry a lesson. Hire one of his skywriters to take him up and drop him on a spiked iron fence.”