Without acknowledging them, he moved to the stage and grunted with effort, getting the piano back in place. Prince jumped up beside him to help. When they were done, Uncle Leo stood in the middle of the stage. Hero came to his side and wrapped her arms around his torso.
“What do we do, kiddo?” Uncle Leo whispered.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Hero said. She extracted herself from her father’s side and hunted beneath the stage, past the partition, and came up a few moments later with an old gramophone and a box of records. She flipped through until she found the one she wanted and blew off any dust.
Beatrice turned to Maggie. “What are those?”
“Recordings from the speakeasy,” Maggie murmured.
Hero shooed her father and Prince off the stage. Once the gramophone was in place, she dropped the needle with a wistful sigh and stepped back. Static echoed in the empty space, and then a little, fuzzy voice called, “Hello, suckers! Ain’t it a grand, grand night? Welcome to Hey Nonny Nonny’s first ever Masquerade Ball!”
Anna’s voice. Beatrice knew it by more than a faraway memory; she sounded like Hero. Hero stood on the stage and mimed each word perfectly as a spotlight glowed over her. Barefoot in a plain summer dress, she nevertheless appeared to Beatrice to be drenched in pearls as she winked and mimed along with Anna, saying, “You may be all the world to your mama, but you’re just a cover charge to me,” and the audience laughed because they didn’t believe it. She led the way right into a song, “And it goes like this!”
The band played, tinny and true, through the gramophone. Hero sang along theatrically, without making a sound herself, clapping silently on beat. The illusion was flawless. Beatrice imagined a young girl practicing hundreds of times in her bedroom. Then it bled into a blues song. Hero danced. It was the Charleston, but she moved so slowly, in time with the slow tune, it looked like ballet. She swung out her arms like petals unfurling, kicked out her leg like an arch of sunlight over a mountaintop.
The song finished, and Anna said, “Give the little girl a great big hand!” Hero held up her arms, and applause surrounded her. “Okay, folks,” Anna continued. This time Hero didn’t mime with her. “That’s all from me for now. Enjoy the party!”
Hero bowed deeply, and the recording clicked off into static.
Uncle Leo hadn’t moved, but tears tracked down his cheeks. He reached over to Prince and fisted a hand in his shirt to tug him closer. “My sweet girl.”
Hero’s arms hung to her sides. “I’m tired, Papa,” she said, voice cracking. “And Mama isn’t here anymore.” Uncle Leo walked to the stage and held out his arms to his daughter. She put her hands on his shoulders and fell into the embrace, her own arms latched tight around his neck, her feet dangling.
“I think I’m going to have to move to Harlem,” Maggie whispered. “The show is five nights a week, and it’s such a long trip.”
Everything would change. Yet it wasn’t all bad.
Beatrice unfolded Benedick’s letter again. University, away from them, from Hey Nonny Nonny. She opened the second letter. In it, Benedick had written to Payne Chutney—about her and her desire to become one of the city’s finest doctors. He talked about her schooling, her setbacks. . . .
With a whump, she realized the source of that restless feeling. One minute she was strolling about and the next landing in a hole, all her breath gone. Today was the day of her exams. She’d missed them. With everything that had happened, she’d let herself forget. She’d done it to herself.
And she decided, heart pounding, that she would not go after Benedick after all.
CHAPTER 33
I DO SUFFER LOVE INDEED
The Cotton Club was lit up on Broadway with a neon sign and flashing advertisements. Duke Ellington! Dinner $1.50! 50 Copper-Colored Gals! It was July, a late Manhattan Fourth of July party, all done up, the sweat melting off glasses into your palm. Frankly the first cocktail sent such a zing to Benedick’s head his constitution had soared up like a helium balloon into the evening sky and was not quite down yet.
He resisted the urge to turn his chair toward the cheap seats. He sat with his father at a front table that was decidedly uncheap, but Maggie would have invited the rest of Hey Nonny Nonny, found a way to get them tickets. Suppose, he thought, suppose I’d just invited Beatrice as my date, just to see. If he needed her, he felt certain he could write or telephone; but that was based on her definition of the word need, and he doubted there was room for loneliness in her standard of necessary. The emergency, he’d say when she arrived, is that I’m desperate for you to sit with me and talk with me. That’s all.
Claude Blaine was here, too. “What kids we were,” he’d said, as though it hadn’t been merely a few weeks ago. Helped by the lectures of relatives and his hosts, he’d come to the opinion that his adventure—and by consequence, Benedick’s as well—was but the rebellion of a recently graduated boy. Everyone did something that first summer after school. And why not? They were going out in the world to begin the lives that they would live until they died, to change from boys to men. “I mean,” Claude said, “you were never going to really give up your inheritance to live in some Village closet and write books. Not realistically.”
Hero told Benedick that Claude had called. Somebody had let him know that she’d never been unfaithful. That it was all to do with a sordid plot of the Mafia. Claude was rich and self-centered; it wasn’t hard for him to believe he’d be a target for virtually no other reason than who he was. He’d sent Hero a generous care package with swaths of silk and chiffon and gingham and a seamstress workbox, the nicest set his converted pounds could buy. He included a note in his elegant, educated script: “J’espère te voir bientôt à Paris. Je serais ton guide et nous irons boire du bon vin.” I hope to see you soon in Paris. I’ll be your guide, and we’ll drink fine wine.
Flirtatious, while not a direct invitation. A show of faith toward her aspirations without further commitment. An apology of the grandest nature.
The music, loose and unpredictable, played by a full stage band, surrounded them. There was no way to hum along. The mere act of listening, holding on by your fingertips, was a dance in and of itself. A line of chorus girls danced on the middle bar, their bodies shimmying in their sequined dresses like restless trout. Maggie sang with two other girls near the piano, their microphones lined up side by side.
When the number finished, Ambrose Scott leaned over to Benedick. “I got an interesting letter from Payne Chutney last week.”
Benedick looked up from his glass, which, in spite of his best intentions, he was having trouble getting down. His father’s face was poker blank, meaning he was going somewhere with this, and it probably wasn’t good. “Payne Chutney . . . who died a few weeks ago?”
“Yes, written from the grave. Apparently a good chunk of his fortune went to setting up a medical scholarship fund at Cornell. After his will was read, his solicitor sent along a short note addressed to me, with the request that I pass it along to my son.”
Benedick forced a hard sip. “And?”
“Well, I’ll find it for you later. You ought to have it. But the short of it was that you told the old man, and this is a quote, the most moving story he’d ever heard, about a young orphan girl who’d overcome all sorts of hardships in her dream of becoming a doctor, with only her wit and will to aid her.”
Benedick said, “I talked with him at Lucky Lindy’s launch about it. Only later I wrote him about her because I thought he’d be interested or maybe he’d give her a recommendation. I told the truth; I didn’t know about the scholarship fund.”
Mr. Scott held up a hand. “Never sound like you’re apologizing for something you did, whether it was right or wrong. Secondly, how is Miss Clark doing?”
“How do you know the girl was Miss Clark?”
“He set up the scholarship in her name. Well?”
Benedick shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. We were never that close to begin with.”
�
��That’s a shame. She’s a real asset to lose.”
“Whose asset?”
“Yours! Do you think you would have done what you did with those agents a year ago? Not a chance. And it’s also a shame because she rang up the apartment yesterday.”
Benedick’s head snapped up. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mr. Scott’s eyes widened. “Why, because you were never that close to begin with.”
Benedick rolled his eyes and turned back to the stage. “Why don’t you go ask city hall if they’ll let you be a lawyer in your free time? Then you’ll have an outlet for all your urges to be right and spare those of us who have to live with you.”
“Since you mention it,” Mr. Scott said, undeterred, “I think you’d be a fine lawyer. Cornell has a strong comparative literature program. Perhaps even English. Get a foundation in humanities, then on to law school.”
Benedick narrowed his eyes. His father didn’t look at him; he was taking an unconcerned drink of champagne. Who could tell, but it sounded suspiciously like a concession. Benedick had only promised his father an undergraduate degree. Perhaps by then his father assumed he’d grow out of novel writing and make the choice on his own, but either way it was a gesture of trust.
“Comparative literature definitely,” said Benedick. “Not English. Broader discipline, farther range of culture and practical implementation.”
His father glanced up, the hint of an approving smirk coming along. “Well, it’s a shame you weren’t closer with Miss Clark. There she is now.” Mr. Scott pointed his cigar across the room, where Leo, Hero, Prince, and Beatrice were weaving their way to a table.
Hero arched up when she saw him and waved. Baffled, he lifted a hand in reply. She tugged on Prince’s jacket sleeve and pointed. They sat, but Beatrice moved past them—straight for Benedick’s table.
“Why is she coming over here?” he asked.
“Because I invited her. Close your mouth, son; it makes you look stupid.” Mr. Scott stood as Beatrice approached, and Benedick mimicked him. Beatrice wore a dark dress and an uncommon pair of heels that made her nearly the same height as Benedick. She took Mr. Scott’s offered hand without hesitation. “Thank you for inviting me. This is a swell spot.”
The band, loud and raucous, started up again.
“Perhaps join us in one of the back rooms a moment?” Mr. Scott asked.
The back rooms were for card games and gambling and smoking men. For making deals. Beatrice agreed, glancing briefly at Benedick, but he said nothing to her, even as they walked away from their table to the back of the club. He tried not to stare at her pert profile, admirably collected, not a single stray nerve out of place, if she had any; she kept her eyes ahead.
The room was vast and impressive, full of leather and smelling of cigars. Beyond the couch set was a dealer’s desk with a lamp and telephone.
Beatrice spoke first. “Yesterday I mentioned a letter Ben wrote about me—”
“Yes, yes. Please sit first, Miss Clark. Do you like scotch?”
“I . . . Sure.”
Mr. Scott smiled. “I wanted to thank you in person, Miss Clark. You were dead right about that allergy. I felt like a new man after I switched cleaners. Sit down, Ben.”
“I’m glad I could help,” said Beatrice, taking a seat kitty-corner from Benedick’s father.
“May I see the letter?” Mr. Scott asked.
“Dad,” Benedick warned.
“If you like.” Beatrice passed the folded paper to Mr. Scott’s waiting hand. She gave Benedick an apologetic look.
Mr. Scott read quickly, then slower. His face became something it almost never was: soft. “Is all of this true, Miss Clark?”
She wrung her hands. “In a way. But not really. It’s not a lie. He just, well, it’s the way Benedick talks. You know what I mean, don’t you, Mr. Scott? I sound very noble and all in the letter, but I don’t feel like I was, in truth.”
Mr. Scott folded the letter again and rested it on his knee. “What college were you hoping to attend?”
Her face developed a certain run-over look that pained Benedick to see. “The Woman’s Medical College of the New York Infirmary, sir.”
“Could you be persuaded to change institutions?”
“I can be persuaded to nothing this year. I never finished high school, and I missed the entrance exams this summer. I have to wait until winter to take them again, and I’ll miss enrollment.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Scott said briskly. “We’ll arrange for you to take them privately. Henry Brown is on the Board of Regents, and he owes me a favor. And three hundred dollars, lest I forget. After that we’ll get you a meeting with the dean at Cornell. You’re a bit late, and the medical scholarship isn’t properly set in place yet, but given that you’re the gal who inspired it, I’ll bet we can get them to make an exception so you won’t get behind. You’ll have to get nothing but A’s to keep them off your back, but I think you’re up to the task.”
Beatrice’s eyes grew big as plates. She glanced at Benedick in frightened question. “I’m not—I don’t understand.”
“Do you want to go to school?”
“More than anything. But I don’t want any favors I can’t pay back, and I don’t want to sneak my way in, I want to earn it.”
“But you have earned it!” Mr. Scott declared. “The scholarship I’m talking about came about in great part because of your story, and you said yourself it isn’t a lie. And I don’t help anyone if it won’t help me, too. I expect you to be my personal physician till the day I die, Miss Clark, and the sooner I get you trained, the better.”
Her smiled wavered. “You’re healthy as a horse, Mr. Scott. That will be a long time yet.”
“What do you say? I’ll set up the appointments myself.”
“I can’t think of a thing to say. This is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“That sounds like a yes to me.” He patted her knee. He was, to Benedick’s growing astonishment, quite parental. A bossy cad still, of course, but . . . Beatrice was infecting them all. Mr. Scott stood. “I’ll set up a more proper appointment for us next week, Miss Clark. My secretary will ring you.”
“Won’t you call me Beatrice?”
“Beatrice, then.” Mr. Scott smiled. “You kids can catch up while I’m gone.”
Left alone, Beatrice stared at Benedick. She didn’t smile; she looked half-terrified, her cheeks bright pink. She was very pretty.
“What’s the matter?” Benedick asked. “I thought you’d be ecstatic.”
“I am ecstatic,” she said, with a big old frown. She twisted her hands. “Oh! He took my letter with him.”
“You can get it when he comes back. Are you sure—”
“Did you know he was going to do that?”
“Are you kidding? I didn’t even know you were coming until after you were inside. If I could predict his shenanigans, I’d be using the ability to get rich selling to his enemies.”
“Hush. He’s practically saving my life.”
“Maybe you need a glass of water.”
“No,” she snapped when he started to stand. “You stay where you are, Benedick Scott.”
He sank back down, eyes wide. She stood and knelt in front of him. He flushed. “Hey, don’t—” He tried again to get up, but she yanked him back to his seat, one-handed. He looked at her warily.
“I’m happy about going to college,” she said, and leaned up so her ribs pressed against his knees. “I’m so happy I’m this close to crying, and you’ll think I’m saying this because of that, but it’s not true. I would say it anyway. I came here in the first place to say it.”
“What are you rambling about, you nonsensical contradiction?”
“I know what you did. You went to court instead of Uncle Leo. You let your father bail you out, and that means you gave up what was most important to you. Don’t try to deny it.”
“Well, then I won’t,” said Benedick. “But it’s like you said. M
y father bailed me out. Who would have bailed out Leo?”
“But your writing—”
“No one cares about what I write.”
“I do,” she said. “I do because I love you, and that’s my job. I want it to be my job, rather. I promise to be the person who cares to read everything you write, even the rotten stuff, even your grocery lists. You have a forever audience.”
“I’m going to Cornell, too,” he said, almost bewildered. His father had pushed for that school, and only now did Benedick understand why: That’s where his asset was going. “It’s okay. To be honest, I’d decided to go anyway. Mostly because of you. I figured maybe I’d try again later, if no premed student had swept you off your feet, and I’d have a better chance if I was educated.”
“That’s not why you’re going.”
“Not only why, at any rate.”
“So, sometime, I suppose, you’ll take me to get an ice-cream cone? Or something of that nature?” she asked carefully.
“I suppose. If that’s what a girl like you is going for these days.”
“Ben?” She was like a magnet, pulling him along some invisible primordial wire. He leaned in and kissed her as if it were the first and thousandth time. At first fervent and awkward—he was too tall, on his chair—and their mouths came apart, until he dumped himself off, right into her, and she caught him. Then it worked better because now they were so close, with nowhere to go but into each other, and she kissed him beautifully, slow and warm and the tiniest bit shy.
CHAPTER 34
FOR WHICH OF MY BAD PARTS DIDST THOU FIRST FALL IN LOVE WITH ME?
“Good luck getting this to her dormitory by yourself,” Prince grunted, heaving Beatrice’s trunk the last of the way onto the train platform, where three hapless porters stared down at it with dismay.
“Did you know Cornell was one of the first universities to allow women students?” Beatrice asked. She lowered her campus brochure. “In 1870. I found an old newspaper article in the library that said in the very beginning the boys were almost unanimously opposed to coeducation, and vigorously protested the arrival of a group of sixteen women, who promptly formed a women’s club with a broom for their standard, and ‘In hoc signo vinces’ as their motto. Do you know what that means, Ben?”
Speak Easy, Speak Love Page 29