Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel

by Rebecca Rotert

  We drive to the Armory on South Michigan. It looks like an old castle or a fort. Jim parks in the lot and stares at it.

  What is this place? says Elizabeth.

  CHEVROLET is painted across the front of the building and down the belvederes.

  It looks kind of run-down, she says.

  You have to imagine it without all the signs, the way it was once, says Jim. She’s still a beauty.

  Hmm, says Elizabeth, looking at me with her eyebrows raised.

  Jim gets out of the car.

  Are we going in that place? she asks.

  That’s the idea, says Jim.

  It’s probably pretty neat inside, I tell her, but she doesn’t seem convinced.

  Elizabeth takes my hand. It makes me feel useful. I vow right then and there to protect her.

  I like those, I say, pointing at the belvederes.

  She agrees, They remind me of “Rapunzel.”

  I imagine being trapped in one and waiting for rescue but nobody comes. So I’m forced to jump and wind up with many broken bones. Everyone comes to visit me in the hospital with flowers and candy and Mother stays by my side day and night in her ugly brown sweater.

  Sophia? says Elizabeth. Hello? Anybody home?

  It’s only a matter of time, you know, says Jim, studying the armory.

  After we help him unload his gear from the trunk, we walk to the building and Jim looks for a way in. He gets a crowbar out of his trunk, looks around, and looks at us. Then he pries several boards off one of the doors and we climb carefully through its broken glass.

  You okay? he asks us. We nod.

  The room is big, rising two floors into a domed ceiling where light is pouring in. Its perimeter is rimmed with two levels of railed walkway, across which are strung several rows of cord and hanging lamps. There is junk everywhere on the floor and the gray sunlight reveals the filth covering everything.

  This place is huge, says Elizabeth, smiling.

  We pick through junk on the floor as Jim takes pictures. It feels very important, what he’s doing, and we whisper, trying to see what he’s seeing when he takes each one. My favorite part is when he stands and stares for a little while before choosing his shot. It’s the same look he gets on his face when he looks at Mother.

  Jim climbs a set of stairs and sets up his tripod on the second level. The sound of his shutter rings in the big room. We look up at him and wave.

  Take a picture of us! says Elizabeth.

  He takes several pictures. Then he tells us to stop looking at him so he can do his work.

  We peer into a recessed area that is dark.

  Let’s see what’s in there, I say.

  Elizabeth takes my hand and we bend over to peek. Jim’s shutter snaps. We discover a box of roller skates and send them flying across the floor, crashing them into beams and piles of trash. I pick up a little bottle opener, blow on it, and rub it on my coat. It says “Schlitz” on it. I put it in my pocket and Elizabeth looks at me.

  It’s not stealing if nobody knows it’s here, I tell her. Plus it’ll just get buried when they knock this down.

  She nods like she agrees but I don’t think she does.

  A shadow passes the front door, Jim scurries to collect his gear and get downstairs to grab us. We hide in one of the recessed areas and wait. We don’t hear anything. When Jim says okay we laugh uncontrollably.

  You two would make the worst spies ever, I should tell you, he says.

  We laugh even harder.

  Let’s get out of here, he says.

  As we drive away, Jim says, I think it would be best if we didn’t tell anyone about our work today, don’t you?

  Elizabeth makes the zip-lip gesture and I mimic her.

  Back home, Jim moves fast through the lobby. People stare at us and Elizabeth looks nervous, so I take her hand and she smiles. I begin to realize that even though she and I live in the same state, the same town, go to the same school, and are, right now, standing in almost the exact same spot, we live in different worlds.

  Quit staring at me, says Elizabeth.

  I’m sorry.

  This elevator is so slow, she says.

  You can say that again, says Jim.

  Mother and David are sitting close on the settee when we open the door, which prompts Mother to stand, straighten her skirt, and touch her hair.

  Welcome home, darlings. She kisses my cheek, then Elizabeth’s, then she pats Jim’s arm. Look who stopped by. You remember my friend David.

  I don’t look at David.

  He says, I better scoot. Leave you to your day. He has the kind of voice you can feel under your skin. Elizabeth stares at him as he says good-bye and heads for the door.

  He looks like a movie star, she whispers.

  See you tonight, says David.

  Mother follows him into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

  When we are alone in my room, I say to Elizabeth, I have to tell you something.

  What? she says, interested.

  Jim is not really my dad.

  Elizabeth says, No duh.

  I think that man might be. David.

  Why do you think that?

  It’s the way he looks at me, I tell her.

  Maybe that’s just how his face is? Mama says a lot of white people are born with mean faces and we should pity them and pray for them. Maybe that man just has a dad face.

  Maybe, I say but I don’t really believe it.

  Ladies! yells Mother. Elizabeth! Your father is here!

  We don’t respond right away.

  I wish I could stay longer, she says.

  Me, too.

  CHAPTER 20

  THAT NIGHT AT the club, Jim opens the door to Mother’s dressing room, knocking on it at the same time.

  Can I come in? He walks in and slides a chair into the middle of the room.

  Mother spins a bit of hair with her forefingers and pins it against her temple. You’re ahead of yourself, darling, she says.

  You’ll never believe what happened this afternoon.

  What? I ask.

  So I walk into the Sun-Times a couple days ago, he begins.

  Mother’s shoulders drop. Oh, Jimmy, she says.

  Wait, wait; hold on, now.

  Mother is working herself up. Darling, you know they don’t understand your . . . your love of architecture, and besides, the Sun-Times is getting more conservative by the minute. Everybody knows that. They’re not going to write any stories about your old buildings.

  Jim says, Well, you’re probably right but there’s a new reporter there. Green as they come. I tell him the whole story of Chicago wrecking all its best buildings. I’m talking about Adler and Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, Burnham and Root. They’re the ones put Chicago on the map, I say to the kid. Then I pull out my pictures of the Armory and he’s sold. He called me just this afternoon and said they’re going to run a story and want to use one of my pictures.

  Mother has turned in her seat to face him. Well, this is wonderful news, Jimmy. Delicious.

  But that’s not all. This kid has a friend at Look magazine. They might be interested in a story on Chicago and he’s going to introduce us. Look magazine! Can you believe the luck!

  I hug him. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.

  When does your photo run? asks Mother. She’s gone back to her eyelashes. Tomorrow, says Jim. If you can believe it.

  Of course I can.

  Jim shares his good news with the crew during the show. They shake his hand and say things like Go get ’em!

  Jim and Steve chat by the control board while they watch Mother.

  Steve says to Jim, On fire tonight. And I see Jim look for David in the crowd. He’s there at his table. It seems as though the whole show is between Mother and David.

  After I finish my homework in the greenroom, Jim takes me home early and puts me to bed.

  Nothing wakes me up until I hear Jim tapping lightly on the front door. There is a certain way he
knocks so that I can hear it, but not Mother.

  I open the door. What time is it?

  Six thirty, he says. He looks around. I look where he looks. A suit coat is draped over a chair. He lifts it, unfolds it, studies it, and puts it back the way it was.

  You want to get pancakes? See if the papers are out yet?

  I almost ask him why I would care if the papers are out but I remember in the nick of time.

  I’ll go get dressed, I tell him. He pokes around the living room, investigating.

  Think your ma would want to come?

  I look at him like he is completely crazy.

  He crosses his arms and taps his foot like he came in here with some kind of plan that he can’t make happen. Like when I think of the terrible things I’m going to say back to the mean boys at school but then I can’t.

  I stand in front of him. I’m ready.

  He leans around me and looks down the hall, like her door might open just then. Don’t you want to put on a hat?

  Nope, I say. We walk to the door and Jim stops at the little silver bowl in the entryway. He lifts a set of keys, holding them in his hand for a moment. I open the door. I’m leaving.

  It’s a bright, cool morning. Jim doesn’t hold my hand. We stop at the magazine stand and he buys the paper, folds it in half, and tucks it under his arm.

  Once we sit down in a booth, he starts to open the paper but refolds it again, putting it beside him on the seat.

  Jim! I say. Come on, let’s see.

  He brings it out again. I’m nervous.

  I get up on my knees in the booth so I can reach him across the table. I put my hand on his arm. It’s okay. I’m nervous all the time.

  He takes a deep breath and opens it, turns the page. Get a load of that! Page two!

  There is his photo under the headline THE HIGH PRICE OF PROGRESS. It’s Elizabeth and me, picking through some junk. We are very small. The Armory looks like a giant skeleton around us. Like it’s the whale, and we are little Jonahs.

  Hey, it’s us, I say.

  I know. It really gives you a feel for the size of the place, doesn’t it? Two little people.

  I smile at him. We read the article together and Jim nods.

  It’s pretty good, he says.

  I think so, too, I say, though I don’t know many of the words.

  Jim sits there smiling for a while.

  What? I ask.

  I don’t know, he says, you sometimes get a day where what you do matters. I just wish your ma was here right now. To see it.

  I am.

  And you’re number one, don’t get me wrong. Your ma, she’s just spare change. Hell, you’re the one in the papers! He opens it facing me.

  Let’s get you some pancakes, he says. As many as we can eat.

  When we get back to the hotel, Jim walks into the lobby with me but I stop him. I don’t think you should come up. Not right now.

  I know. I was just walking you to the elevator. I wasn’t planning to come up, he says, giving me a hug.

  He smells like cigarettes and Jim, which is the smell of cold air, soap, and the chemicals he uses in the darkroom—vinegary, metallic. Jim is my favorite smell.

  The apartment is quiet. Sometimes, if you stand in a place and you feel carefully enough, you can tell what’s going on there. All the rooms are still. All I hear are the sounds of traffic on Monroe, of the El on a curve in the distance.

  I walk straight down the hall and open Mother’s door. She sits on the edge of the bed, the sheet covering her lap but not the rest of her, with her face in her hands. She lifts her head and smiles.

  Hi, kitten.

  David is standing on the other side of the bed threading his belt through the loops in his trousers. He tucks in his shirt as he turns around. His shirtsleeves hang open.

  Mornin’, he says, like I’m always here, like he’s always here. He leans into Mother’s chaise while he puts on his socks. I don’t know how Mother can keep from watching him get dressed. I can’t stop staring at him.

  Do you want coffee? I ask.

  Yes, baby, she says. I look at him once again. He leans over in front of Mother’s vanity and slides little tabs into the underside of his collar.

  I walk back to the kitchen, wobbly. Mostly I think of us as living in a bubble, being tumbled around by it gently, lit by its shiny lavender light. But every now and then I just have to give the wall a kick, to change the shape, to test its elasticity, and make a little more room.

  I pick up the coffeepot, pull the lid off, turn on the water, and fill it. David walks in. I light the stove, set the pot on the flame, and dump some coffee in the basket. I can feel him watching and I try very hard to appear competent. As I slide the basket back on the rod and shove the lid on, I realize I need to add percolator to the list.

  Guess you know your way around a kitchen, he says. I turn to face him. He smiles and stares. You’ve got your mother’s hair, he says.

  No, I don’t.

  You do. Trust me.

  He sits. The little chair is too small for him. He watches me. I try to invent things to do—thread the dish towel through the icebox handle, slide the spilled grounds off the counter and into the sink.

  Why don’t you take a load off.

  I sit down and look at the table, brush some of the ashes into my hand, and dump them back in the ashtray, then wipe my hands on my jeans.

  You remember who I am? he says.

  I know. I met you two times now. I know I sound mad.

  You remember, he says, leaning on his elbows.

  And then his closeness, his eyes on me, change me, make me feel like I’m floating. He seems like an important person. And he’s talking to me like nobody else exists.

  Jim had a picture in the paper today, I say. I squish a crumb with my thumb. You’ll probably see it.

  Well, good for Jim.

  He’s basically my dad. He’s been around my whole entire life. I look up at David as I say this. His face becomes serious for a little while. One of his eyes squints at me. I don’t look away.

  He breathes in through his nose and smiles. Good fella, Jim.

  Yup.

  We listen to Mother move from the bedroom to the bathroom, close the door, and start the bath.

  I look at the square glass bubble on the top of the coffeepot.

  I love your mother, he says.

  I laugh.

  That funny?

  Kind of, I say.

  We stare at each other. He is so tall and so calm. Like he already knows how everything works.

  I know things, too, I tell him.

  He leans back and sets his big hands on his thighs. I’d wager you know all kinds of things.

  I know you don’t come when you say you’re going to, I tell him.

  The coffee starts pushing up into the bubble, pale at first and slowly growing darker.

  It’s more complicated than it looks, he says. I want to be with your mother. You can only see one side of this.

  I stare at him. He watches me. I get up, pour her coffee, and take it to the bathroom.

  Mother’s head is on the narrow back ledge of the tub and her eyes are closed. Her face is damp, flushed and clean, her hair is wet. I set the cup on the side of the tub.

  Thank you, baby, she says, touching the side of my head with a dripping hand. I wipe a line of water off my cheek. She takes a sip of coffee and sets it down carefully.

  Has he gone?

  He’s in the kitchen. I close the lid of the toilet and sit on it. Is he going to leave?

  Probably, she says. I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them, putting my chin on my knees.

  Is this confusing? says Mother.

  I pick at a piece of thread hanging from the hem of my pants.

  Mother leans forward so she can reach me.

  I don’t want anything to mess us up, she says as she runs a wet thumb along my eyebrow. We have a good gig, don’t you think?

  I stare at her for a minute. Sh
e wants me to believe that she’s protecting us but I don’t. There’s more. There always is. I rest my forehead on my knees. She always does this—makes me believe she’s telling me everything and leaves out all the secrets, all the important bits.

  My jeans smell like the diner—cigarette smoke, grease, and syrup. I start to cry. Mom rests her hand on my feet.

  The door opens. David hovers in the doorway for a minute, then sits on the tile floor across from me, propping his elbow on the edge of the tub.

  I peek at him through my arms, at his striped suit pants and dress shirt with the cuffs still open, at how he hardly fits on the floor he’s so long.

  This a . . . it’s a small bathroom, he says.

  Mother covers as much of her breasts as she can by crossing her arms. She looks at him with one eyebrow arched. If you’re uncomfortable, go sit someplace else.

  So he stands, unfolding himself like a jackknife, and steps into the tub, shoes and all.

  Don’t mind if I do, he says as he lowers his body into the water with Mother.

  David Augustine Miller! she yells, laughing and pulling her legs up out of the way. I don’t even know I’m laughing because of how her face looks. Because for a moment, I feel like I’m seeing her real face, her real self. I can even see myself in her. The freckles, the hair starting to tighten into little curls around her wet forehead. The water overflows, splashes or the floor.

  Well, now we’ve got a real mess on our hands, says Mother.

  I should say, says David. They look at each other. I could stick around. Help you clean it up. If you’d reconsider.

  Mother produces a washcloth from the bathwater and gently wipes the makeup from under her eyes. It’s what she does when she needs to think—tends to her beauty. She could solve nearly any dilemma in the time it takes to apply lipstick, blot, and apply again.

  I rest my chin on my arms and watch them.

  How long? she says. There’s the face again. Her genuine face. It’s like a girl almost.

  I have to be with you, says David.

  Hmm, she says.

  David watches her as she thinks hard, as various expressions pass swiftly across her face.

  Don’t do that, he says.

  She looks like she’s been reprimanded for the twentieth time for the same thing. Well, what we’ve been doing isn’t working, is it?