Dollface

by Renée Rosen

  “Ma? What are you doing up there?”

  “Oh, good, you’re here! Hand me that wrench over there, would you? This pipe’s leaking.”

  “Why don’t you have one of the men fix it?”

  “They’re busy working. It’s dripping right into the meat.”

  “So hire a plumber.”

  “Ach, a plumber. Listen to you. Miss Big Shot! Working girl! So quick to throw your money away.”

  Thanks to my mother I couldn’t cook a brisket, knit a sweater or bake a cake, but I knew how to fix a flush toilet, feed a furnace, and drive a truck. At seven, I learned to braid my own hair, since my mother had no patience for things she deemed frivolous or tedious, such as housecleaning. In between housekeepers—of which we had many—dishes piled up in the sink, food soured in the icebox and clumps of dust blew across the hardwood floors like tumbleweed. After school I went to Evelyn’s until my mother came from work to get me, filling the Schulmans’ pristine foyer with her repugnant stink of manure, blood, and animal rot. Once she hadn’t had time to do the wash and had pulled something from the hamper for me to wear to school that reeked so from her dirty clothes, the other children refused to sit near me in class. I was forced to stand in the back—just like the children who’d wet their pants—tears of shame running down my cheeks. For years afterward, my schoolmates plugged their noses and stuck out their tongues each time I walked by. From that point on, I vowed that no matter what, I would give people reason to envy me rather than humiliate me.

  I handed my mother the wrench, and after she’d tightened the pipe, she climbed down from the table and took a moment to brush herself off. She was a petite woman who still wore a corset and drab gray schmattas that hung to the floor. She kept her long dark hair pinned up in a bun. Her smile was spoiled by a discolored front tooth that reminded me of an old yellowed piano key. Her hands always looked rough and chapped, her fingernails cracked and brittle. I noticed a smear of animal blood on the front of her dress and when she went to hug me hello, I cringed and tried to pull away.

  “Tell me now,” she asked, “did they get the radiator working at your place yet?”

  “Why? You want to come over and fix it?”

  “Don’t be smart. I’ve worked all my life to make a nice home for you, and it was so awful there that you’d rather go live in that dilapidated shack with your girlfriend?”

  She didn’t know that I’d taken on a second job, or that I preferred to be broke and in a dump than live with her. How could I tell her that even after she bathed, she still stank of the stockyards? She wouldn’t have understood why it bothered me that she never did her hair, wore nice clothes, or bothered to file her fingernails or at least clean the slaughterhouse filth out from underneath them.

  Terrified that I’d end up like her, I had swung hard the other way, losing myself in fashion magazines, primping before the mirror with the makeup I’d stolen from the five-and-dime and kept hidden in my room.

  Back in her office, my mother pulled her pocketbook from her bottom desk drawer, and as she buttoned her wool coat, she glanced at my wraparound jacket and made a face, as if she’d just noticed it for the first time. “What are you doing wearing a schmatta like that? You’ll freeze to death in this weather.”

  “I thought it was going to be warmer today.”

  “You should know better.” She shook her head. “And what? No one in the city wears a scarf and gloves anymore?”

  “Ma, I’m fine.” I stuffed my hands deep inside my pockets, the fingers on my right hand poking through the torn seam.

  We wandered over to Garfield’s, a lunch counter on Halsted and Forty-seventh Street. The smell of grease and fried onions hit us when we stepped inside, fortunately overpowering the stink of cow manure and decay outside. It was crowded, but we managed to find two seats together at the end of the counter. We sat side by side on red swivel stools and studied the menu scribbled on a blackboard hanging above the grill. I could still feel the scotches from the night before sloshing about in my belly, and the sausage links sizzling up made my mouth water. I ordered flapjacks, fried potatoes and a rasher of bacon.

  “It’s good to see you have an appetite,” she said, reaching for the pitcher of cream for her coffee. “You’re getting too thin. Don’t you girls eat?”

  “Of course we eat. I’m just hungry today, that’s all.”

  My mother lifted her coffee cup and blew through the steam, her pale gray eyes narrowed as they traveled over my face. “You look tired, Vera. Are you getting enough rest?”

  “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well.” I thought about Tony and me in his car the night before as a rush of heat flushed through my body.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping well?”

  “I’m sleeping okay. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

  She gave me a suspicious look, or maybe I just thought she did. As she sipped her coffee, I glanced about, studying the giant clock on the wall. It was half past nine. I had another six hours until I could go back downtown. The breakfast crowd was thinning out and the silence between my mother and me was growing more unbearable.

  “I see you decided to cut your hair again,” she said eventually. “It gets shorter and shorter every time I see you.”

  I reached up and touched my bangs. “It’s not any shorter than it was the last time.”

  “Ach, genug shayn. Enough already.” She waved her hand through the air.

  “I swear, Ma. I haven’t cut it since you saw me last.” It was true. I hadn’t.

  She shook her head and we lapsed into another silence. Her disappointment in me was palpable. A pang of guilt settled in my gut. This not speaking was maddening. I felt I owed her conversation, but couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to say.

  A woman stepped out of the water closet and we noticed that she had accidentally tucked the back of her dress up inside her bloomers. I glanced over at the woman, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the expression on my mother’s face. I turned and looked at her. She was trying not to laugh, but her shoulders were shaking. That’s when I surrendered and started laughing, too.

  “Stop that,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s not nice. We have to help her. Go tell her.” My mother was still laughing.

  “Me? You go tell her.” I was holding my sides, I was laughing so hard.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll tell her.” My mother composed herself, fighting to keep a straight face when she went over to the woman and whispered in her ear. The woman’s face turned red as my mother helped get her untucked. When she came back to the counter, my mother started laughing all over again and that got me laughing, too. Despite our differences, my mother and I had the same silly sense of humor.

  At the end of the day, when it was time to leave, she insisted on walking me to the streetcar stop even though it was bitter cold outside. As I was about to get on board she reached inside her handbag for two dollars.

  “Just in case.” She pressed the bills into my hand, worn and soft as scraps of fabric.

  “Ma.” I made a halfhearted show of rejecting her offer.

  “Take it. Go on.”

  I nodded, stuffed the bills inside my one good pocket. My mother wouldn’t splurge on a plumber, but she’d give me two dollars like it was spare change. I gave her a hug, and for a moment she stood there, her body stiff with surprise. My gesture had caught her off guard. I started to pull away but she drew me in closer, tightening her embrace. This was the nature of our relationship; we were always out of step. When I wanted nothing to do with her, she wanted me nearby, and when I grew desperate for her approval, for her attention, she was too busy for me.

  “Go—go,” she said, still holding me tight.

  After I boarded the streetcar, I stared out the window, watching her walk toward the slaughterhouse. Before the streetcar started up, she turned back and waved to me. I pressed my hand to the glass and felt a tear forming. I hated when I felt sorry for her. Seeing her make that walk
back by herself made me feel as if I’d abandoned her, and maybe I had. But I didn’t mean to hurt her; I was only trying to help myself. No matter what, I couldn’t let myself end up like her. I just couldn’t.

  When I got back to the rooming house that night, I rushed to the message board to see if Tony Liolli had called for me.

  I plucked the folded piece of paper with my name across the outside and looked at the message: Shep Green telephoned. 2:10 pm. Shep Green called. 4:27 pm.

  I crumpled up the note and threw it into the fireplace in the parlor.

  THE INTOXICATING LIFE

  “Vera—Vera! C’mon. Time to get up.”

  “Five more minutes.” I rolled over and hugged my pillow.

  “C’mon.” Evelyn pulled back the covers. “You can’t afford to be late again.”

  I crawled out of bed and reached for my black skirt. “It can’t be Monday morning already. It just can’t be.” I groaned, dying to tell her about Tony but I was too exhausted to speak. I knew she’d have a million questions and it was all I could do to get myself dressed and out the door.

  I couldn’t imagine finding the energy to go from the insurance office to my switchboard job. As it was, I’d nearly fallen asleep on the el ride into the Loop and had conked out completely during my lunch break. I probably would have gone on sleeping through the afternoon if Evelyn hadn’t nudged me awake.

  At half past two, one of the partners stormed out of his office and stood over my station. “I can’t send this out!” He shook the letter I’d handed him earlier in the day. “It’s full of mistakes and spelling errors. It’s an embarrassment. Have you ever heard of a dictionary, Miss Abramowitz?”

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. “I’ll fix it.”

  “You’re on thin ice, young lady. I expect this retyped, proofread and back on my desk by three o’clock.”

  I looked at what I’d handed in. It was a mess. I hadn’t realized it. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” My chin was trembling and my eyes were glassing up.

  As soon as he went back into his office and slammed the door, I stood up and rushed to the ladies’ room and into the last stall. I leaned against the latched door and cried—and not because I’d fouled up. I was crying because I was so tired. My eyes burned; my back ached. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  Because of my typing errors that day, I ended up working late and didn’t finish until ten after five. I was going to have to rush to make it to my next job on time.

  When I finally left the insurance office, the last person I expected to find waiting for me was Shep Green. He was standing outside the building, leaning against his shiny black Oldsmobile, looking smart as usual in a dark overcoat and fedora.

  “Did you get my flowers, Dollface?”

  “I did. Thanks.” I glanced over his shoulder and then down the street, looking anywhere but at him. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Thanks? That’s it?” He grabbed my hand. “C’mon now, you’ve got me chasing after you like some putz.” He reached up and touched my chin. “I’ve been calling you for the past two weeks. What gives?”

  The desperate look in his eyes made me feel cruel, as if I’d been punishing him. I stalled for a moment and when he asked again, I said, “You want to know the truth? I’m scared.” A wind gust kicked up and I folded my arms across my chest. “Your friend’s a little quick on the trigger. I don’t want to sneeze at the wrong time and end up with a bullet in my brain.”

  “Is that why you won’t see me now? Because of Hymie?”

  I stared at the ground, my eyes shifting from his spats to my shoes. The tops of mine were scuffed, looking more gray than black, and my laces were fraying.

  “Don’t worry about Hymie,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. I would never let anything happen to you. Just give me another chance. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  I looked at him and bit down on my lip. “I have to go. I’m late for work.”

  “Don’t go. Not tonight. Please?” He reached for my arm. “I don’t want to lose you because of some silly misunderstanding. I’m not Hymie. I’m nothing like Hymie. You have to let me prove that to you. At least let me take you to dinner.”

  “Shep . . .” I didn’t know what to say. Even if I left right then—without stopping to grab something to eat on my way, like I normally did—I still would have been late, and they would have docked my pay for every second.

  “Come with me, please? I know a great place. It’s quiet. They have a big fireplace and the best steaks in town. We’ll have a nice meal, some good wine, and you’ll be home safe and in bed by eight o’clock. I promise. You have nothing to be afraid of with me.” When I didn’t say anything, he reached for my hands. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Dollface.”

  He had me in tears when he said that. Maybe he was feeding me a line, maybe I was a fool, but I was tired and broke and hungry. And I’d missed him. Shep Green was the type of man a girl like me dreamed about. He may have scared me, but he also thrilled me. He could bring me into a world I’d only read about in magazines and seen in movies. If I were his girl, I’d never have to model jewelry again to get into a fancy party. Instead I’d be at the top of the guest list.

  “C’mon, Dollface, give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking for. Just one more chance.”

  I didn’t go to my second job that night.

  Or the night after that.

  • • •

  My popularity soared during the winter of 1924. One night I’d be having dinner with Shep Green at a white linen restaurant, meeting movie stars and famous musicians and all kinds of interesting people. The following evening, I’d be in the balcony of a dark movie house with Tony Liolli, the two of us necking and pawing at each other through the entire show.

  I’d never dated two men at the same time, but I knew plenty of girls who did. Those girls always said, “You’re free to do as you please until somebody puts a ring on your finger.” So far neither Tony nor Shep had staked their claim on me, but still, I knew I was playing with two men that nobody messed with. The whole thing made me feel sneaky and uncomfortable.

  Of the two, Shep was more likely to get serious with me than Tony. I knew that. Shep looked into my eyes and told me straight out how much he cared for me, whereas Tony cracked jokes and wiggled his way out of any serious conversations I tried to have about our future together. I adored Tony but I knew this thing with us wasn’t going anywhere. So finally I told him it was over.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him on the telephone, keeping my voice low so the girls sitting in the parlor wouldn’t hear. “But I can’t see you anymore.”

  “Are you kidding? Just like that, huh?”

  “Just like that.” I hung up the phone, wiped a tear from my cheek, and whispered, “Good-bye.”

  The following week, one night after my switchboard shift, I was coming up the sidewalk when a man stepped out from behind a tree. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach until I saw the smile.

  “What are you doing here, Tony?” I clutched my chest, waiting for my pulse to stop racing.

  He reached for my hand, kissing my fingertips. “I couldn’t stay away from you.” He ran his other hand across my cheek and it felt electric. “I dare you to tell me you don’t miss me.”

  I was breathing hard, staring into his eyes. “I don’t. I don’t miss you.”

  He stepped in closer and traced his fingers over my lips. “I don’t believe you.”

  I couldn’t speak. He leaned in closer still, his eyes never leaving mine. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me you don’t miss me.”

  “Tony,” I whispered, trying to turn away, but he cupped my face and made me look into his eyes.

  “Tell me. Just tell me you’re not feeling it, too.”

  I knew all the reasons I shouldn’t be with him, but just then none of them mattered. I grabbed him by the nape of his neck and pulled him into my kiss. It was all over
after that. We were right back where we started.

  A week or two later, when I realized that dark theater balconies and a lot of moaning and groaning in his automobile were all I could depend on Tony for, I cut it off again. That time it took him only two days before he came around with a bouquet in his hand and a promise to start taking me on proper dates. I knew he was just telling me what I wanted to hear but still, when he looked at me with those sexy dark eyes, I couldn’t resist him.

  Meanwhile, Shep was doing his best to convince me that I was perfectly safe with him. The more time we spent together, the more inclined I was to believe him. Other than Hymie Weiss and sometimes Vincent Drucci, Shep’s friends didn’t trouble me. Dion O’Banion was as kind as could be, always smiling, laughing, offering me flowers.

  When I went out with Shep, we went to the best places. One night he took me to see Fats Waller perform at Ebenezer’s, a popular downtown jazz club. The line outside the door stretched halfway around the block.

  “It’s okay,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “We’ll see him play another time.”

  “Come with me.” Shep slipped his arm around the small of my back and led me toward the front of the line. I felt people glaring as we walked by. Someone said, “Who do they think they are?” I turned around and there was a burly man with his hands on his hips, ready for a fight.

  I held my breath, watching Shep walk over to the man who was a good three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. I couldn’t believe it. Shep hadn’t said a word, and I saw the man drop his hands to his sides, already backing down. He must have realized who he’d started up with. That was the thing about Shep: He never raised his voice, never acted hostile. He just had a way of letting people know they didn’t want to mess with him.

  “I suppose you think this is very rude of me,” Shep said to the man as he reached into his pocket. I watched the color drain from the man’s face. He must have thought Shep was reaching for a gun, but instead Shep pulled out a roll of bills. Peeling a twenty off the top, he stuffed it into the man’s hand. “You’re right. It was rude of me. I apologize.”