The Elementals

by Saundra Mitchell

  It’s not that Kate wanted an ordinary life. She wanted a life of her own.

  Walking purposefully, she made straight for the door. A certain thrill quivered in her belly as she moved unrecognized among familiar faces. She had a far better method of escape at the ready, but traipsing out before their very eyes delighted her.

  Someone dropped the needle on a new record, and everyone shivered with the racing beat. In the corner, Amelia threw her head back in laugher; that sound carried over the noise of the party. Hurrying, Kate darted around a clutch of painters arguing about gouache.

  Music trailed after her, even after she slipped outside and down the drive.

  The night smelled of jasmine and motor oil as Kate hopped a streetcar at the corner. Paying her fare, she hung off the back rail like the other boys did, careful to hold on to her hat and satchel. Tipping her face to the wind, she savored the rattle of the car beneath her feet and the vastness of the city at night.

  If only her camera could capture the stars. Or moonlight on the waves. Images blossomed in her mind: a lone boat on the horizon, swallowed by the night as constellations drifted in endless loops overhead. At least that idea came in black and white. If she could figure out how to shoot the dark, her father couldn’t argue that she wasn’t capturing the truth.

  When the car slowed near San Diego’s Balboa Park, Kate leapt from the platform. The Palais de Danse stood in the distance. Lights gleamed on its whitewashed entrance; its plaster spires curled toward the sky. It looked vaguely Moroccan as long as you’d never been to Marrakesh.

  Music poured from the crowded front door. The bright tease of a cornet cut the air, a clarinet squealing along with a piano. Drums and trombone competed in the luscious low notes. The syncopated beat slipped across Kate’s skin, tightening her flesh with anticipation.

  “One thin dime, fella,” the doorman said. “Ladies for free; you got a girl with ya?”

  “Not tonight,” Kate said, fishing change from her pocket. With a wink, she gave up the dime and elbowed the doorman as she passed. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  He laughed. “That’s the spirit!”

  Inside, bare bulbs hung from the rafters, a field of man-made stars lighting the dancehall. Humid air pressed all around, ripe with the scent of sweat and perfume. Boys in uniform swirled by, mixed with the ones not yet old enough to head over there. Girls with giddy smiles and thin skirts that clung to their thighs danced together, waiting to catch someone’s eye.

  Kate crammed herself into a corner table, then pulled her camera from the bag. She needed the table to stay steady, since it was impossible to sneak anywhere with a tripod. Tilting the lens toward the ceiling, she counted along with the “Dixie Jass Band One Step” and started to crank.

  Jazz and ragtime were perfect for making movies. She had to turn the film at a steady rate or everyone on the reel would look like mad hornets. Speeding up suddenly, dripping down slow like molasses—there was an art to capturing moving pictures, no matter what Daddy said.

  Taking in the lights first, Kate slowly lowered the camera to capture the people around her. A knot of boys in the corner looked like skinned rabbits in their brand-new military cuts. They passed a wrinkled stub of a cigarette around as they watched the girls moving on the floor.

  One of them leaned against his buddy. He gestured subtly, smoke ringing the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t looking at the fresh, pretty faces blooming around him. His eyes canted significantly lower; the curve of his smile was dark and a little wild.

  Careful to keep her count, Kate filmed every bit of it, even the way he smoothed a sweet mask over his face when a girl would look his way. Kate was capturing magic: the moment between bad intent and good behavior. Moving a bit closer, she reveled; this was perfect for her one-reel.

  Threading through the bank of tables, she shifted to catch the other half of that equation. Two girls with their backs to the room threw furtive glances as they shared a pot of lip rouge. Animated as they spoke, one girl was all sharp angles and emphasis. The other nodded, brows rounded earnestly as she listened.

  Then the music shifted to a rag, and the girls transformed. Sharp put on a doe-eyed expression, and Rounded turned into something smoky-eyed and assured. Daringly, they arranged themselves right at the edge of the dance floor, and they didn’t pretend to be dainty. They caught the soldiers’ eyes and danced away in their arms.

  “Perfect,” Kate murmured to herself, then yelped when someone touched her sleeve.

  “Ooh, sorry,” a pretty girl in beaded silk said, leaning back. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  Kate folded the crank down; no point wasting expensive film on nothing. “It’s all right. It’s a bit loud in here, don’t you think?”

  “It is! And quite acoustic! You can stand anywhere at all and hear the music.”

  “Are you here with friends?” Kate asked. She skimmed the nearby faces, but everyone savored their own moment, too busy to pay attention to anyone else’s.

  “Just one. She’s already dancing.” Seemingly caught on a breath, the girl edged closer. Pulling her gaze back to Kate’s face, she smiled again. “With one of the conscripts. Have you filled out your card yet?”

  Without hesitation, Kate shook her head. She’d been sneaking out for months now in her father’s clothes; most people thought she was barely out of short pants, but so far, no one had realized she wasn’t a boy. She’d answered questions about the draft so often, she already had an excuse for her lack of service. “I’m not fit. Curvature of the spine.”

  “That’s too bad; you poor thing.”

  “I do my best from home,” Kate said. With a nod toward the coat check, she said, “How about you wait right here a minute, and then we’ll go for a drag?”

  The girl finally let out her breath. “Aren’t you a sweetheart? I’d love to.”

  Kate held up one finger, then bounded to the coat check. It cost another dime to leave her camera, but she could be sure that it would be there at the end of the night. Once she gave over to dancing, there was no telling how long the night would be.

  Coming back to reclaim her, Kate tugged the girl onto the floor. “So, what’s your name?”

  “Mollie Foster,” she said. “What about you?”

  Kate took her hand and twirled her, pulling her back in with a grin. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Mystery man, all right then.” Mollie caught her lip between her teeth, following Kate through a quickstep with ease. “Then . . . maybe you can tell me what you were doing with that box when I interrupted you?”

  Shifting with a few skipping steps, Kate smiled. “Making a motion picture.”

  “You weren’t!”

  “I was.” Kate almost lost her hat when she dipped Mollie. “I’m heading to Hollywood soon. I’m going to show my reel to Biograph. Before you know it, you’ll be paying quarters to see my movies.”

  Mollie considered this a moment, then pressed closer. “People say I look like Mary Pickford.”

  Rosebud mouth, big blue eyes, coppery curls that caught the light when they bounced —she did look a bit like Pickford, Kate had to admit.

  Suddenly, Mollie threw her head back and put on a wide-eyed, innocent expression. Fluttering with a sweet smile, she looked aside, bashful. Then she clasped her hands and peered around anxiously. The music played on behind her, bright in contrast to her pretended fear.

  Slowly, Kate smiled. She had plenty of scenery on her reel. Loads of dancehalls, people swarming on streetcars, and of course, her parents’ parties. Those were worth a documentary all their own—the secret lives of expatriates and artists. But what she didn’t have, until that very minute, was a star.

  Leaning in, Kate whispered, “Can you keep a secret?”

  ***

  The Walk of a Thousand Lights was Los Angeles’ finest achievement to date, aside from building a city in the desert. The boardwalk at Long Beach was the Coney Island of the West, a marvel of diversi
ons and technology.

  Rifling through a bag of saltwater taffy, a man who called himself Virgil Walker wandered through its crowds. If he noticed the marvels, it was only to squint at them.

  Virgil didn’t fit in, threading through teen-agers with bright eyes and a little spending money at hand. Worn with the years, Virgil’s boots were old, but his jacket new, and the haircut was the first he’d had in quite some time.

  He moved deliberately, assaulted by the scents, the sounds. The boardwalk was lit like day, roaring with laughter and conversation. Screams rang out, measured by the clatter of a wooden roller coaster.

  From all sides, the ocean beckoned—casting cold mist into the air. Concession carts offered roasted nuts and candy floss; a pretty girl in red flirted passing sailors into buying bottles of Coca-Cola. A barker leaned into Virgil’s path, trying to lure him closer.

  “Guess your weight, sir, step right up, win a prize!”

  Virgil waved him off and popped another piece of taffy into his mouth. The sweetness spread on his tongue, thick like honey. It covered his sour breath, and it felt like eating something substantial. He had nothing in his pockets but a tattered map and a ticket for the red streetcars.

  Looping around the carousel, Virgil stopped to orient himself. The manager’s office was supposed to be right there. He turned, trying not to get swept up in the current of the crowd. It was too many people, too much noise. Squaring his shoulders, he waded toward the shadowy storefronts behind the carts.

  “Nothing to see back there,” a vendor said, catching Virgil’s arm.

  With a jerk, Virgil rubbed his sleeve hard. “Where’s the midway office?”

  The vendor nodded his head. “Other side, pal.”

  Back into the throng of bodies, Virgil ignored the way his skin crawled. He’d spent too many years on the sea; walking on the ground felt like stomping rocks. He couldn’t get used to seeing faces and buildings and wires instead of miles off to the horizon.

  But he needed a job. Hopefully something out of the crowds. Handing out towels at the bathhouse, or cleaning up after everybody went home. He was so focused on the office door that he didn’t see the belled and beaded fortune teller step into his path.

  “My mystic eye—” she began.

  Hissing curses, Virgil shoved her to the ground. Snatching the turban from the fortune teller’s head, he loomed over her. Red and orange silk unfurled, a bright flag in his hands. Snapping the fabric tight, Virgil bent down, his face contorted to a vicious mask.

  A sailor grabbed him by the neck. Two others hurried to help the fortune teller to her feet. Silver bells jingled violently. Ducking under the sailor’s hand, Virgil leveled him with two sharp blows to the kidneys.

  For a moment, all had been silence. Now the crowd swarmed. They buzzed with blood and fury; he couldn’t win. Flinging the turban down, Virgil took off. He crashed into hard shoulders and soft bodies. A cry went up the boardwalk as he tore through the crowds.

  Soon, he was far enough away to stop, to slip between buildings to catch his breath.

  Bile rose in his throat, and he sucked blood from his lip. Still trembling with adrenaline, he slid down the wall. His black eyes cut toward the sky, toward familiar stars that never led him home. The man who called himself Virgil Walker sat in the alley and remembered.

  Once, his name had been Caleb Grey. He’d lived in Baltimore by the sea and loved a girl who bore a bow like Artemis. She’d tasted of caramel and salt and pleasure; she was going to be his wife. Then Amelia van den Broek had lied to him, laughed at him, and stolen his true love away.

  Once, his name had been Caleb Grey, but not now and never again. He couldn’t go home. His Sarah was dead.

  And that fortune-telling bitch had never paid.

  Four

  Sneaking back into the house was a little trickier with a friend in tow. Kate and Mollie stood on the corner, the last stop of the night for the streetcar. A chill hung in the air, laced with fog. It swirled at their feet as they walked through it, arm in arm.

  “Which house is yours?” Mollie asked.

  Vaguely embarrassed, Kate raised one hand and pointed. It was the house with all the lights on, of course, with music still playing. Most of the beachcombers had gone back inside, which meant even more people to avoid.

  Mollie whistled low. “Wow. They really are party fiends.”

  “I told you.” Kate sighed. “All right, come on. We’ll go to the back door, and we’ll have thirty seconds. Take the hallway left, then the first right, then the first door on the left.”

  Giggles rolled from Mollie’s lips. “They don’t seem like fuddy-duddies. Why all the sneaking?”

  “This is my father’s suit,” Kate explained. “He doesn’t exactly approve.”

  “Ohhh.”

  Kate took Mollie’s hand and led her along the side of the house. The stucco plucked at their clothes, pulling Mollie’s hair and clinging to Kate’s hat. They dipped beneath the kitchen window, which was thrown open to let in the air and let out the scent of smoke and sweat.

  Creeping along, Kate felt for the door. On the other side, a black, caged bird flapped its wings and croaked at them. Pressing a finger to her lips, Kate shushed it.

  Then she caught Mollie’s hand and pressed herself against the wall. Sneaking past the party had been easy; she’d need her gift to get back in with Mollie in tow. Exhaling, Kate drained herself until a familiar spark glowed at the edge of her sight. Seconds ticked by, her sight growing dimmer. Her ears rang, a high-pitched chime only she could hear. When the shadows threatened to swallow her, a thread of orange light streaked by.

  It felt like the world turning under her feet, and when she blinked, she saw a glimpse of that boy, always that boy, handsome with his brown eyes and golden hair. For the long- est time, he’d seemed much older . . . but suddenly, Kate felt a whisper on her skin, a touch of realization—they were the same age now. A fluttered urgency filled her, but when she reached for him, the vision popped like a bubble.

  Struck by the high drama of sneaking in, Mollie clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. But then her smile faltered, because suddenly it was silent. It was like someone had dropped a bowl on top of the party. The music stopped; glasses stilled. Mollie couldn’t help but notice that no one moved.

  The guests stood frozen with drinks halfway to their mouths. Cigarette smoke hung from some lips, apparitions fixed in hazy place. Mollie stared at a dancing woman, head thrown back and caught in a spin. Casually defying gravity, the beads on her dress stood out like spines.

  “Hurry,” Kate said, tugging her hand. “It won’t last.”

  Scrambling after her, Mollie tried to find words, but there were none. She’d seen an impossible thing; her thoughts were as frozen as the revelers. Except, the moment Kate closed her bedroom door, it all roared to motion again. The rush of sound after silence was almost deafening, and Mollie put her hands over her ears.

  “What . . . what was that?”

  Kate opened her armoire, stripping the suit off as quickly as she could. “It’s just a thing I can do. It doesn’t matter.”

  Speechless once more, Mollie opened the door a crack to peer out. There were no statues or stilled smoke now. Everything, everyone, moved once more. It really had been an impossible thing. Before she could convince herself she’d imagined it all, a woman strode down the hall.

  Suddenly Mollie whispered, “Somebody’s coming.”

  With a hiss, Kate peeled herself down to her silk combination, then kicked the suit under the bed. Grabbing her robe, Kate threw it on quickly. Mollie plucked the hat from Kate’s head and tossed it into the corner.

  A gentle knock sounded on the door. “Kate?”

  Yanking the pin out of her hair, Kate tossed it to the floor. Feigning a yawn, Kate said, “Mimi?”

  Unimpressed with Kate’s performance, Amelia crossed her arms. Her dark eyes trailed over Kate’s face, studying her and all her minute details. Finally reachin
g out, she touched the robe’s collar and asked, “Inside out, mm?”

  “I was sleeping. I put it on in the dark,” Kate said smartly.

  Pursing her lips, Amelia pushed the door open a little more. “I doubt that. Your father and I felt you come in.”

  “If you already know, why ask?”

  “You smell like gin.”

  “Gin doesn’t smell like anything,” Kate replied. “And I wasn’t drinking. I was dancing.”

  Even if Kate had wanted to look contrite, she simply couldn’t manage the expression. Her parents were proud and independent—they lived without an address, refused to marry, and acknowledged no higher power but art. They should have expected their only child to be just like them.

  “You know, you have a remarkable amount of freedom. If you’d asked . . .”

  “I didn’t want to ask!”

  Amelia sighed and leaned against the frame of the door. Delicate lines traced the corners of her eyes. A certain sharpness had replaced the youthful curve of her cheeks. Her face was a mirror of the future; Kate could see herself in it easily.

  “Is someone in there with you?”

  Revealing the answer with a glance, Kate nodded. “I’ve found my star. The world is going to fall in love with her.”

  Voice soft, Amelia spoke into the room. “Hello, star.”

  Hesitant, Mollie pressed her back against the wall. But when Kate held out a hand, she slowly melted into view. Her cheeks were stained pink, and she struggled to meet Amelia’s gaze. “I’m not trying to cause a fuss. I just want to be in pictures, ma’am.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “I haven’t got any,” Mollie said. “I live at the Women and Children’s Home. Well, I did. I’m old enough to make my own way now.”

  “See?” Kate asked. “She hasn’t anywhere to go.”

  “I’ve been sleeping on the beach,” Mollie admitted.

  Kate watched her mother’s expression go distant. It always did when she talked to her father in their intimate, soundless way. Then, at once, her gaze sharpened, present once more in the moment. “What’s your name?”