A Girl Like You

by Michelle Cox

  “Stan? Stan!” Henrietta repeated. Sometimes he did that, just seemed to stare off into space, to Henrietta’s great annoyance. He still reminded her of a big puppy, always panting around her, it seemed, always wanting her attention. For the most part, she accepted it good-naturedly, but occasionally it annoyed her, like now, when she was trying to work and he was just getting in the way. Or when he went around and had coffee with her mother, which just gave Mrs. Von Harmon one more thing to complain to Henrietta about.

  “Stanley was here again last evening,” she would say when Henrietta woke the next morning. “Such a nice young man. Thinks the world of you, he does. Might want to think about that, Hen. Don’t get many chances like that in life,” she would say bitterly.

  “Ma! He’s just a kid! You do realize that, don’t you?” Henrietta would invariably answer. “He’s probably around Elsie’s age. He should go for her.”

  Elsie was the second eldest of the Von Harmon family, at the tender age of sixteen, and was still employed as a seamstress in Mr. Dubala’s shop around the corner from them. While it didn’t bring in much money, at least the job was steady and reliable, much like Elsie herself.

  “Well, he’s got a man’s job and that’s all that matters, Hen. Age doesn’t come into it,” her mother would reply.

  “Stan!” Henrietta raised her voice to knock him out of his stupor. “The dance is over! If you don’t have another ticket, I’ve got to move on to the next customer. Mama Leone is watching!” she hissed, releasing herself from him and eyeing the somewhat bemused-looking gentleman standing nearby, clearly waiting for her. “You’ll get me in trouble one of these days, Stan.”

  “Gee whiz, Hen. You really know how to cut a guy up,” Stanley said disappointedly.

  “Business is business, Stan. I’ve got to make a living. If you want another dance, go buy a ticket. Otherwise, you’d best be off. Don’t you have somewhere to be? I’m sure your mother is wondering why you’re late getting home.”

  “Next!” roared Mama Leone. Stan jumped and backed away slightly.

  “Sorry!” he said, nervously looking in Mama Leone’s direction as the man waiting now took Henrietta in his arms and began dancing with her. Stan watched wretchedly for a few painful moments and then finally slunk off.

  Henrietta’s new customer was someone she had never seen around the Promenade before. He was definitely not one of the regulars; she would have noticed him. He was about a foot taller than her—just the right height for dancing—and had a nice build to hold onto. He had wavy, chestnut hair that would probably curl up if it weren’t for the heavy amounts of hair cream applied to it, and warm hazel eyes that reminded her of a fall afternoon. He was clearly much older than her, a hint of gray showing just above his ears, but Henrietta thought him very handsome just the same. He had an air of authority to him; he reminded her of someone, but she just couldn’t place him.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “I’m new to this, so you’ll have to inform me if I’m going about it all wrong.”

  Henrietta smiled up at him. “Oh, you’re doing just fine,” she said, giving the hand that held hers a little squeeze. It never hurt to give the new ones extra encouragement. She breathed in his smell as he held her close, and found it oddly enticing . . . crisp linen muddled pleasantly with pipe tobacco.

  “May I ask your name? Is that allowed?” he asked, attempting innocence.

  “It is allowed,” she said as he twirled her gently. The band was playing Louis Armstrong’s “You Are My Lucky Star,” one of her favorites. Tonight was going to be a good night; she could just tell. It always hinged on the first dance of the day, and this one was turning out swell. Stan’s didn’t count, of course.

  “So are you going to keep me in suspense for the whole of the dance, then?” he asked, a smile lurking behind his eyes.

  “It’s Henrietta,” she said, flashing her dimples. “Henrietta Von Harmon, but most people close to me call me Hen.”

  “Why on earth would anyone want to compare you to a chicken?” he said with a smile as he neatly spun her again. “You seem much nicer than that.”

  “Bet you say that to all the girls,” Henrietta said smoothly, laughing a bit. Out of the corner of her eye she glanced at his left hand and saw that he wore no wedding ring. She smiled to herself.

  “I shall call you Miss Von Harmon, if you don’t mind,” he said, not unkindly.

  Henrietta raised her eyebrows. “That’s rather formal! We are dancing, you know!”

  “All the more reason, I should think. Besides, I’m a formal kind of guy, at least in the beginning, anyway,” he said added, smiling down at her with such a warm, easy smile, as if they were already old friends.

  “Well, what’s your name, then?” she asked.

  “Clive. Clive Howard. At your service.”

  “I suppose I should call you Mr. Howard, then,” she said teasingly.

  “Perhaps you should,” he said as he twirled her again.

  “You’re no fun at all!”

  “I apologize,” he said, with a deferential tilt of his head that made him seem very wise, yet teasing at the same time. Henrietta found it oddly attractive.

  “I’ll let you off,” she answered, giving him a little wink.

  “Thank you,” he said, coughing uncomfortably through a smile. He was toying with her, she was certain, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “Nice place,” he said abruptly, looking around, though instead of observing the other couples, he seemed peculiarly interested in peering into the shadows.

  “I suppose so,” she said, watching him.

  “Been here long?”

  “About two months.”

  “Good pay?”

  “Better than what I made at Fields’ or as a twenty-six girl. That’s good money, but this is more steady. Don’t have to worry about cops interrupting business.”

  “I see,” he grinned at her. “So . . . a taxi dancer, a twenty-six girl, and whatever it was you did at Fields’. You don’t seem old enough to have had that many jobs, not unless you were only at each for a day or so. How old are you, anyway?”

  Henrietta laughed. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age? And if you must know, I’ve had plenty more jobs than that!”

  “Such as?” he asked keenly.

  “Well, I’ve been a waitress half a dozen times. And two summers ago I worked the World’s Fair. That was a hoot. I had to get dressed up as a Dutch Girl every day and hand out fliers. Nothing to it, really. Oh, yeah, and a couple of times I was a coat check girl for Mr. Sneebly. He’s a bookie,” she said leaning closer to him conspiratorially. “That is, until Mr. Hennessey found out. He was awfully furious. Said I could get in a mess of trouble that way.”

  “Doubtless this Mr. Hennessey was correct. But where would you have met a bookie?” Clive asked curiously.

  “Oh, he used to come in from time to time to Poor Pete’s. That’s where I worked as the twenty-six girl. Mr. Hennessey banned him after that, but wouldn’t you know, right after that the cops started messing with us. Mr. Hennessey was convinced there was a connection.”

  “There seems to be no end to this Mr. Hennessey’s wisdom,” he said, an amused look in his eye. “Any side jobs here a girl could pick up?”

  “No,” she answered slowly, as a disturbing suspicion occurred to her. “Hey! You aren’t some kind of cop, are you?”

  Clive laughed. “A cop? Nah. Not me. Just a regular joe. Came in for a dance with a pretty girl is all,” he said, giving her his warm smile. There was something about him that made her heart beat a little faster. Something that drew her to him in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” she said, trying to play it lightly. “You say this is your first time?”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Thought I’d try my luck, as they say.”

  “Luck doesn’t come into it that much, I don’t think.”
>
  “No, I suppose you’re right,” he said thoughtfully.

  The dance ended then, and out of habit Henrietta began looking beyond him for who her next customer might be. Before her eyes could settle on anyone, however, Clive had produced another ticket and was holding it out to her. Eddie Duchin’s “Lovely to Look At” had started up.

  “One more?”

  “Why not?” she said, not being able to hold in her smile. “Let’s go.” She held out her arms to him, and Clive held her more tightly this time.

  “Say, you’re pretty good, once you get going!” Henrietta exclaimed over the noise of the band. Clive didn’t answer. They were very near the stage again now, and though Henrietta was oddly enjoying Clive’s company, she couldn’t resist looking up at Artie, who gave her the slightest of winks. Henrietta smiled and looked guiltily back at Clive, who seemed regrettably to have observed the whole exchange.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked calmly.

  “In a way,” she said, nervously smiling up at him.

  “You ever looking for new girls?” he asked.

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Just that my sister’s looking for a job.”

  “Oh, I see now; that’s why you came in. Looking for a job is all. Funny, I didn’t think you were the type to come to a dance hall.”

  She was vaguely irritated for some reason, but a part of her felt sorry for Clive and his sister. Times were hard, and people were desperate for work. It must be hard for him to ask; she herself had been in the same position many times before. “As a matter of fact,” she answered kindly, swallowing her own selfish disappointment, “Mama Leone’s always looking for girls.”

  “She’s the boss? This Mama Leone?”

  “Yeah, she’s over there in the corner, see?” Henrietta indicated with a nod. “At the back table reading the newspaper?”

  “Her?”

  Henrietta laughed. “‘Fraid so. We call her the bulldog. Tell your sister to watch out around her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, she likes to bark if she thinks you’re dallying around.”

  “And she keeps a close watch on the girls, does she?”

  “Well, that’s just the thing. She says no fooling around, if you know what I mean . . . no bodies touching . . . but she turns a blind eye as long as she gets a piece of the action.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked interestedly.

  “Some guys are regulars, you see. They like a little smooch here and there back behind the stage, or more, if you know what I mean . . .”

  “Go on,” he said, steadily, his eyes narrowing.

  “You sure you’re not some kind of cop?”

  Clive merely stared at her with an arched eyebrow, his head tilted to the side again, and she felt her heart speed up a second time. “You were saying?” he asked, and she couldn’t help but go on.

  “Well, some girls don’t mind a little action because they get little gifts or extra money on the side. You know, it’s a way to earn a bit more. They have to give Mama Leone her share, though. In return, she lets them get away with murder. That and she gives them extra work.”

  Clive looked over at Mama Leone again before looking back at Henrietta. “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, really. I think waitress jobs, ‘cause I heard her talking about costumes once. I made the mistake of asking if she’d consider me for the extra work, but she said I wasn’t the type. ‘Yer not what they’re looking for,’ she told me.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Beats me.”

  The dance was ending now, and Henrietta found herself hoping Clive would produce yet another ticket, but he didn’t. He merely looked at her for a few moments before saying, “Thank you, Miss Von Harmon. You were lovely,” and gave her hand a final squeeze.

  “Don’t you want another dance?” she said, giving him her best smile that she knew accentuated her dimples.

  “I only wish I could. I must get back, though,” he said sliding off.

  “Another time, then?” she said to him eagerly, even as the next man handed her a ticket so that she had to poke her head around him to see Clive as he backed away, casually holding up one hand in a gesture of farewell.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Tell your sister to try the electrics on Western. Or better yet, tell her to come round here, and I’ll put in a good word for her,” she called after him.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Next!” shouted Mama Leone, causing Henrietta to jump as she held out her arms to the next man.

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time Henrietta got home, she had nearly forgotten about her encounter with the intriguing Clive Howard. She had a lot on her mind, and on top of it she was pretty sure Stanley was following her. She never felt afraid on her walks home, with or without Stan trailing behind, even though she sometimes didn’t leave the Promenade until midnight or one in the morning. She let herself into the apartment as quietly as she could, draping her coat on the back of a chair and slipping off Eugene’s boots. Despite the short respite from the heels she always left stored in the back room of the Promenade with her dresses, her feet still ached by the time she got home. She took out her coin purse and tried to quietly dump its contents on the table so she could count them. Before she did so, she stood up, turned on the gas, and lit a match to heat up the old kettle for some tea. Ma always made sure it was full of water before she went to bed and had a mug set out, ready, not out of any kind of thoughtfulness, but so that Henrietta wouldn’t have to bang around any more than was necessary and wake anyone.

  No matter what she did, Henrietta could never seem to please Ma. Even with the fictional job at the electrics and the increased money coming in, Ma still seemed to find fault with her. As she grew older and her knowledge of the world grew, too, Henrietta found herself wondering from time to time if Ma had been this way with her father, and whether it could have had anything to do with him taking his own life. Had he been so worn down by never being able to please her that he simply couldn’t face her when he lost his job? No, it was too horrible to think like that! Henrietta scolded herself. And yet, she couldn’t quite shake the nagging suspicions that crept into her mind, unbidden, from time to time. Perhaps there was something in her that reminded Ma too much of him, so much so that she tended to take out all of the anger and the grief, the utter exhaustion that now constituted her life, on Henrietta alone. Henrietta knew she had been her father’s favorite, which perhaps made it worse, while Elsie was her mother’s.

  Poor Elsie, Henrietta mused, as she poured the now-boiling water into the cracked brown mug. Pa had always teased that Hen had been born with all the looks and Elsie with all the brains. Both girls had resented that, but secretly Hen much preferred her lot, if her father’s words were to be taken seriously. Who needed brains? And anyway, she had often reflected, she wasn’t in such short supply of those, either, no matter what her father had teased. Elsie, on the other hand, while not ugly necessarily, had nothing about her that set her off. She was extremely plain, with pale skin, straight dishwater hair and grayish eyes. Everything about her, in fact, seemed gray and washed-out. Henrietta had tried on several occasions to smarten Elsie up, but she simply wasn’t that interested. When she wasn’t sewing, the younger of the Von Harmon girls preferred to spend her time reading.

  “You’re never going to get a man that way!” Henrietta would warn her, but to no avail. Elsie seemed completely uninterested in men, except, that is, when Stanley happened to come around, and then her otherwise-dull eyes would strangely light up.

  Henrietta sighed as she plopped a teaspoon’s worth of sugar into her mug. The bowl was almost empty, which meant that Ma would soon send her down to the armory. As she absently stirred her tea, thinking oddly of her father, she heard a noise and stiffened, listening, before she realized it was only Jimmy, shuffling down the hall toward her. There were only two bedrooms for all of them now. Ma, Hen, and Elsie slept in one bed,
with the twins on a pallet near the bed, while Jimmy, Herbert, Eddie, and Eugene slept in the bed in the other room. Jimmy, just five, was Hen’s favorite, she had to admit. He rubbed his eyes as he stumbled toward her.

  “Is it morning ‘ready, Hen?” he asked sleepily.

  She held out her arms to him, and he crawled into her lap. She supposed he was a bit too old to be sitting in laps, but he was small for his age and still liked to cuddle. Even though Henrietta had been held by various men all night, it felt good to hold Jimmy and bury her face in his hair, breathing him in and squeezing him tight as he put his little arms around her neck and held his ragged scrap of a blanket up to his nose for comfort, wheezing slightly as he did so. Jimmy had always had a bit of a wheeze to him.

  “It’s still nighttime, Jim,” she whispered. “Plenty of time yet to dream a little dream.”

  “But all I can think of is scary ‘tuff,” he whined.

  “Tell you what, when you lie down, you go on and think of one happy thought and just keep thinking that, then there’s no room for a bad one to crowd in.”

  “But I don’t know what to think ‘bout.”

  “Hmmm. Let’s have a think. How about the carnival at St. Sylvester’s? I’ll take you this year . . . you and all the kids . . . and I promise to buy you a cotton candy. Each of you!”

  Jimmy sat up excitedly. “Honest, Hen? Promise?”

  Henrietta smiled at his bright face. “Shhh! Don’t want to wake up Ma. Yes, I promise, but you’d better get back to bed now,” she whispered. “The sun’s almost up and that don’t give you much time to lie there all delicious-like and think about the carnival.” Eagerly he slid off her lap, then, and tiptoed back to the boys’ room, which was anything but delicious, as they all huddled together in one small bed with just a thin blanket on top of them. In the winter, they often resorted to putting their coats on top of them in lieu of proper blankets. It was particularly bad for Eugene, who was almost fourteen, and was growing so quickly that his feet hung off the end of the bed.