Or it would be, if anyone actually wanted to hear her thoughts.
Behold, she thought, looking at the back of Benedick’s blond head in front of her, Exhibit A. What the normal person felt after a few days in her company was that no further time was required, thank you. She was not surprised that she was once again trying to figure out how to be herself when herself was more than anyone wanted, but she was disappointed.
It was early Friday morning, the sky torn between raining again and allowing a bit of sun. Beatrice made her way—along with Claude, Hero, Prince, Maggie, and Benedick—toward Roosevelt Field. Claude and Hero led their little pack, latched together. Beatrice was impressed Hero didn’t sink into the moist grass with her heels. Of course she had Claude’s steady arm to bolster her. Benedick was a bit behind them. He glanced back, and Beatrice sent him an insult in her mind, which he received and whipped around again.
Obviously friendly was too high a word for what they’d been, but she’d enjoyed, well, not him exactly but the challenge of him. The pleasing clang of their minds butting together. Sure, he made his little remarks, but he’d also gotten a rather concentrated taste of her personality in a short period of time and taken it all without much fuss. He’d even thanked her for being honest about not liking his book.
“I didn’t care for it,” was the exact phrase she’d used, but what she’d meant was: I couldn’t find you in it. She’d expected his novel to have the same essence as him: sharp, optimistic, infuriatingly full of itself and irritatingly admirable because of it. Instead, it was boring: a thirty-four-page mask. Attempting to explain this, while also making sure he didn’t think she found the real him appealing in any way, had gotten messy. Frankly, he’d looked a little beaten up at the end of it, but he’d thanked her, so she’d thought . . .
Well. The next time they’d spoken, instead of taking his dogged silence as the social cue it was, she’d filled it. Her tongue, still giddy with the idea of tell me what you think, had run away from her. Thinking it might help to hear about her own struggles, she’d told him how she’d worked long hours and long summers on her stepfather’s farm, how every dollar she made went to books and science supplies, how she’d studied with Miss Mayple instead of going to social dances with the other girls.
Until finally he’d snapped at her. “Fine, yes! Thank you. Your life has been much harder than mine and you are clearly a more stalwart, enterprising person than I can ever hope to be.”
“What an extraordinary imagination you have,” she’d replied, “to make yourself the center of my life before I’d even met you. If only you could use it to write a novel that doesn’t make me want to poke a fork in my eye so I can stop reading!”
And that had been the last words they’d spoken to each other for the past four days.
At the end of the narrow roadway a row of white hangars sparkled with the not-quite-risen sun, much larger than they appeared from a distance, bearing the logos of different aviation companies. “Roosevelt Field was named after President Theodore Roosevelt’s son Quentin, who died in flight combat over France in the war,” Claude told them. The flat, windy field was ideal for flying even if the dirt runway was muddy.
They passed a line of biplanes, propeller noses tilted to the sky, toward the last hangar, which was open and frenetic with excitement, the smell of cigar smoke and machine oil in the air. Farther ahead, rows of chairs were lined up beneath a large pavilion. Claude pointed to where a group of people stood, including the mayor and an official photographer. “See that chap in the bowler hat? That’s Raymond Orteig. Born in France, but he owns hotels in Manhattan. He’s offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize to the first aviator to fly nonstop from New York to Paris.” Claude smiled. “Since the money’s in New York, all the best pilots come to Long Island. I’d say it’s the cradle of modern aviation, and here you live not ten minutes away!”
Claude was beginning to grow on Beatrice, not unlike the way a fungus might. What sun had shone on his birth for him to gain that inimitable glow? He was sure of his place at the top of the world, and it made him not arrogant but generous and enthusiastic. He introduced Hero to the people under their tent as “the incomparable Hero Stahr” and, like any born gentleman, took off his hat when he kissed her cheek.
Once again Hero had put her clever needle to Beatrice’s frock, and to tell the truth, Beatrice felt rather sharp—but something about these people made her think they could see the dirt and grease and scars under the lace gloves Hero had loaned her. Why else did they keep staring, heads slightly tilted as if they couldn’t pinpoint the reason she didn’t belong? Only by telling herself, First transatlantic solo flight, history in the making, did she resist the urge to claim illness and retreat to the car.
Beside her, Maggie tugged her hat down over her ears. Perhaps because it was the first time Beatrice had ever seen the jazz singer look as if she’d like a bed to hide under, Beatrice finally realized it wasn’t her they were staring at. One look through the crowd and it was clear: there was not a single other black person here.
Beatrice felt she should say something, but she didn’t know what to say. She turned to Maggie, who read Beatrice’s expression in an instant. Shrugging off the discomfort as if it were a stuffy coat, Maggie tipped her chin up. “I like eyes on me,” she said. “Why do you think me and the stage get along so well?”
Prince leaned in between them. “Want to check out the old hangars?”
“Yes,” they said at the same time, in relief, and all three turned away from the pavilion and the pretty faces and clothes. Almost in unison their strides lengthened to a more relaxed pace, glad to get some distance from a crowd to which none of them quite belonged. They kept an easy silence as they approached the unused hangars. Small packs of people, mostly boys, hung around, smoking and laughing. There were all shades of skin here. At the open doors of the hangar, a group of mechanics had ventured out to watch the flight. The remains of a gutted plane sat behind them. The floor was beaten earth; the windows were streaked with rain-washed grime. One of the men nodded at Prince.
“Do you mind if we look at it?” Beatrice asked, pointing.
The man glanced at his crew. “This ain’t a museum,” he said.
“Say!” A second man, five feet tall, if that, pointed right at Maggie. “Say, that’s the gal who sings at that joint in Flower Hill. Voice like an angel, swear to God. If you don’t mind me saying so, miss.”
The first man scoffed. “You ain’t never been to Hey Nonny Nonny. They wouldn’t let the likes of you through the door.”
The second man’s ruddy brown cheeks flushed. “Have so. I took my girl there on May Day.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind.” Maggie touched her hat and stepped forward. Unlike Beatrice, Maggie looked grown-up in her lavender dress suit and gloves. “If you let us take a peek at these airplanes, I can get you into our Decoration Day party this weekend.” She winked. “I got sway with the owners.”
The first man rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Don’t break anything,” he added in a grumble.
Maggie gave him a winning smile. “I’ll be back later, so don’t go anywhere, boys.” Then she sauntered into the hangar, Beatrice and Prince trailing behind her.
“I had no idea,” Beatrice whispered loudly to him, “we were with somebody so famous.”
“Sway with the Hey Nonny Nonny owners,” Prince said. “Can you imagine?”
“Let’s ask for her autograph.”
Maggie glared at them over her shoulder. “That’s enough out of you two smart mouths. Thank you would be just fine, considering I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these.” She approached the first plane and poked its rounded metal side with a finger; her nose wrinkled with disinterest.
Beatrice ventured closer; she peeled off one of her gloves with her teeth and pressed a hand to the cold underbelly of the plane. “Hard to believe such a big heavy thing can stay up in the air.”
“Hard to believe something can go
across the whole ocean in a day,” said Prince. For the second time since Beatrice had known him, he wore a jacket, but he was the kind of person who looked classier with his sleeves rolled up, so it didn’t seem to fit any better than it had before.
“Prince, is your mother still alive?” Maggie came to the other side and ducked around the wheel frame to look at him.
Prince startled, knocking his head on the edge of one of the silver propellers. He rubbed the wounded spot, messing up his hair. “What? She— Yes. I don’t see her much.”
“Why not?” Maggie asked.
Prince gave her an assessing look, and Beatrice got the feeling there was a root to these questions she wasn’t aware of. Finally Prince shrugged. “When I was ten, she moved back in with her family, but she didn’t want me to come. She paid rent on the boardinghouse room we were in, like we were still living there together, but she was gone a lot. At first she came by every day, then every other day, then every week, and finally one day the landlord said we had to get out because we were so behind on rent. She wasn’t around, and I wasn’t sure where to go, so I just . . . left for good.”
“That’s terrible,” said Beatrice. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Mama’s family was all her old husband’s family, and I was the result of her fooling around with someone else, so it’s not like I would’ve been welcome. Anyway, then I found Hey Nonny Nonny.” He smiled sideways at Beatrice. “Same as you.”
Maggie, who’d looked increasingly thoughtful at Prince’s story, blinked. “Same as us all. My family’s still in Pennsylvania. My father sent me here to find steady work with my aunt, but I only agreed so I’d be closer to the city and the jazz clubs.”
“My father died in the war, when I was eight,” Beatrice said. “My mother was sick a lot, but what actually killed her was tuberculosis.” Beatrice chewed absently at the edge of her glove. “Not quite a year after the vaccine came out. I was eleven. My stepfather is my guardian, I guess. Or at least until September, when I turn eighteen.”
Maggie released a soft breath. “What are we going to do if—”
Outside, a cheer rose as the Spirit of St. Louis roared to life at the end of the airstrip.
“We’re going to miss it!” Beatrice hissed.
“Not if we run,” Maggie said, and flew toward the runway, one hand on her head to keep her hat in place. Prince grinned at Beatrice and took off.
Beatrice followed, but Prince was fast, and Maggie was faster. She wished, as she often did, that she had been in her dungarees and boots. “These damn shoes,” she muttered as the short heel slipped again in the slick grass. Prince came back and took her hand. She gripped tight, half laughing as they sprinted to the edge of the gathered crowd, making it just as the plane began to rumble down the strip. Lucky Lindy gained speed slowly—too slowly, Beatrice thought, for the amount of space he had—but he bounced along, faster and faster; then up he went, clearing a tractor by only fifteen feet. He veered to the right to avoid the high reach of trees on the opposite hill and was on his way, flying into the sun.
In those final seconds when the Spirit of St. Louis was no longer tethered to earth, Beatrice’s cold little heart burst free from its ribs and climbed out of her mouth in a shout. She giggled like the young girl she was supposed to be. Something was coming, something marvelous, and it was somehow not a surprise to turn and find Benedick watching her from several yards away, across a whole line of politely clapping people. His thick golden hair was windswept, his brown eyes nearly hazel with the rising sun in them. For no reason whatsoever, an unsettling sensation blossomed in her chest: an accelerated heartbeat. The heart was an organ of instinct over reason. What was it doing? She pressed a hand to her chest. Excuse me, sixty-five beats per minute is quite sufficient.
Hero found them a few moments later, pushing through the crowd. “Where did you three run off to?” she asked.
“Nowhere,” said Prince.
Hero frowned. “Mmm, well, if you wouldn’t mind making yourselves useful.” She handed Beatrice a few black-flowered pins. “Don’t forget the other reason we’re here.”
She approached Prince, who waved her off. “That’s your job,” he said. “Nobody in this crowd will look twice at what I give them.”
“Those mechanics seemed thirsty,” Maggie reminded him.
“For a straight shot in a bar, maybe, and no dancing.”
Hero said, “That’s nothing a kiss wouldn’t change; they don’t know what they’re missing. Do as Beatrice says.”
“There’s a command I hope to never hear,” Benedick drawled. He arrived with his hands in his pockets, Claude beside him.
Beatrice’s mind hoisted on the balls of its feet. Her first reaction was not to be offended but hopeful he might be pulling out of his depressive mood to spar with her again.
Unfortunately she was robbed of the chance to retaliate when a tall woman interrupted their group: short blond hair and the eyes of a cocky hen. She looked to be in her late forties, her neck uncommonly long and bedecked with tasteful jewels. Between her gloved fingers was a pearl-inlaid cigarette holder. Two young men flanked her, one in his early twenties, the second younger and, upon closer inspection, the very boy who’d accosted Beatrice and Benedick on the East River. He recognized her, too, if his widening eyes were any clue.
“Miss Stahr, it’s been awhile since we’ve seen you out and about,” the woman said. “And you, Mr. Scott. Why isn’t your bachelor of a father here?” She had a fat voice, overinflated and conscious of itself. She spotted Prince and Maggie. “Oh, and you brought the help. How charitable.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Claude stepped in seamlessly, smile and extended hand already up. “Claude Blaine.”
“Mary Louise Minsky.” She put her fingers limply in his before drawing back. “Who are you?” She glanced at Beatrice, not simpering, the way she’d been when addressing Benedick and Claude, but not as condescending as she’d been to Maggie and Prince.
“Beatrice Clark. Hero’s cousin.”
“How nice. This dreadful wind got to your hair, too, didn’t it?” Mary Louise’s swept chignon didn’t seem tousled in the least. “These two strapping gentlemen are my sons, Brett and Conrade. It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it, Hero darling? Congratulations. Will there be a party?”
“Thank you,” Hero said, in the same tone of voice other people might say, Burn in a fire. “We’ll be celebrating at Hey Nonny Nonny, of course. Claude’s offered to host.”
Mary Louise arched a fine eyebrow. “You are determined to drag this insufferable death rattle out as long as it will go, aren’t you?”
Hero flushed, mouth pursing.
“Don’t look so distressed, dear. I’m only here with your best interests in mind. I’m suggesting diplomatically that you step down.”
“Diplomatically?” Hero glanced around, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Your gentleman of a son tossed one of my associates into the river for a few gallons of moonshine.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mary Louise said bluntly. “Though the business does have its unseemly moments. All the more reason to spare yourself the unpleasantness.”
Hero stuck her chin out. “I don’t think it’s stealing when we’re only in a position to do so in the first place because you infringed on all our old trade routes.”
“Your father and I have a clear understanding of which routes belong to whom. Perhaps I don’t sound serious enough, Miss Stahr. You’re still a child, as your quaint little party reminds us. You’ve limped along this far, but you’ll be in over your head if you continue to draw attention to yourself in this climate.”
Hero didn’t answer, but her lip quivered. Mary Louise folded her hands in front of her. “Lovely chatting with you,” she said. She glanced at Claude. “You’re always welcome at the Ragland if present company doesn’t suit you, Mr. Blaine. Boys, come along.” Her sons trailed behind her. Conrade, frowning, spared a final glance over
his shoulder at Beatrice.
“What a horror that woman is,” Claude said. “I bet a vengeful fairy at her christening is to blame. What do you think?” He arched both brows at Hero until he got a halfhearted smile. He kissed her flushed cheek. “I can’t stand seeing you look so sad, prima donna. Let’s make sure every rich sucker here knows your birthday party is going to be the only shindig worth mentioning this summer.”
She answered by looping her arms around his neck and kissing him with such enthusiasm they drew several offended coughs from lookers-on. When they pulled apart, Hero readjusted her scarf and helped wipe the lipstick off Claude’s mouth. “I think that’s a swell idea.”
“Come on, Maggie,” Prince said. “One of us has got to sweet-talk those flyboys, and only one of us has a voice like a swear-to-God angel.”
“Just a moment, Prince,” Hero said, like a grappling hook. Prince didn’t move. Her eyes flitted over to him from where they’d been on Claude. “I’d like a quick word before you go.” Then she aimed her gap-toothed smile right into Claude’s eyes. She pressed her chest to his arm. “I’m dizzy as a mayfly. Would you mind terribly getting me something to drink, please?”
“Sure, I don’t mind.” Had she asked him to jump in front of the el train, Claude would have gone with a smile.
As soon as he was far enough gone, Hero leveled Prince with a cool look. Both his brows lifted, but she didn’t wait for him. She walked in the other direction without a backward glance, hips swishing.
“Fight it, Prince,” said Benedick dryly.
Prince closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed and gave Maggie a handful of Hey Nonny Nonny pins, then tugged his cap hard over his head, and went after Hero.
“That girl,” Maggie muttered. “She’s only tugging ’cause she can. Somebody needs to rescue the poor boy; then we’ll go back to the hangar.” She said the last part to Beatrice and hurried off without waiting for an answer.
That left Beatrice alone with Benedick. She turned to him, and he averted his gaze and shook his head before she uttered one syllable.
Speak Easy, Speak Love Page 15