Dollface

by Renée Rosen

  “And this, of course, is Cecelia Drucci,” said Basha.

  Cecelia was a stunning flapper, tall and very blond. She and Dora could have passed for sisters. The two of them towered over Basha and Viola.

  Cecelia reached out and shook my hand with a grip as firm as any man’s. “Heard a lot about you two,” she said with a nod.

  Evelyn and I had heard a lot about her, too. According to Basha, one night in the middle of a crowded restaurant, Cecelia pulled a steak knife on a woman who was “making eyes at her Vinny.”

  “You were right, toots.” Cecelia winked at Dora. “They’re just precious.” Then she snapped her fingers to get the waiter’s attention.

  During lunch the rest of us had doctored our soda waters with gin, but not Viola. Like her husband, she never touched a drop of liquor.

  Instead, Viola talked about that Sunday’s sermon at Holy Name. She spoke in a low murmur, forcing me to lean forward just so I could hear. “It was so moving,” she said, shaking her head, still marveling over it.

  Cecelia changed the subject, told us that Vinny had gotten a new acting role. “He landed a part in a blue movie. It’s called Bob’s Hot Story. And guess who’s going to play Bob . . . ?” She seemed as happy about her husband being in a dirty movie as Viola had been about the church sermon. Cecelia went on talking. She had something on her lip but I didn’t feel comfortable enough with her to say anything. Apparently no one else did either.

  Evelyn and I had nothing in common with these women, but following our lunch with Viola and Cecelia it seemed that Basha and Dora had decided to take us on like you would a craft project or special assignment.

  The next day, they took Evelyn and me to a beauty parlor in the Loop. It was a frilly place with lace curtains and pink floral wallpaper set against a black-and-white checkered floor. A sign above the cash register listed the prices: Shampoo 15¢, Haircut 75¢, Permanent Wave $1.50, Manicure 50¢. The air smelled of hair tonic, talcum powder and borax.

  A woman was hooked up to a curling machine whose wires reached from her scalp to an apparatus suspended from the ceiling. Another woman was getting a marcel wave, sitting patiently while her hairdresser carefully wrapped a small section of hair about a hot metal rod the length of a ruler. After each section, she stopped to reheat the rod over a burner.

  Evelyn and I were seated side by side in chairs that swiveled this way and that. Our freshly shampooed hair dripped onto the capes that the beauty operators had draped over our shoulders.

  Dora contemplated the nail polish colors. “What do you think would be better? This red or one of the orange shades?”

  “Oh, red. Absolutely.” Basha admired her perfectly coiffed brown waves in the mirror as she called to the shop owner, “We’re gonna need the works today, Stella. We gotta give these two gals updated looks.” Basha went on to instruct our beauticians as if Evelyn and I were merely mannequin heads. Circling around Evelyn, she said, “This one’s gonna be the biggest challenge.”

  Evelyn looked at me and frowned.

  “And this one”—she turned her focus to me—“needs to get those eyebrows of hers plucked before you do anything else.”

  Up until that moment, I’d never given my eyebrows a second thought, especially since they were hidden by my bangs. Now I felt ashamed of them.

  When I first bobbed my hair, on my seventeenth birthday, I’d gone to the barbershop in Brighton Park. As I walked inside the men looked up from their newspapers, puzzled. They snickered, muttered and puffed on their cigars when I sat in the empty chair, telling the barber to cut my waist-length hair to my chin. When I got home that day, my mother said I looked like a boy and wouldn’t talk to me for the next two days. Since my visit to the barbershop, I’d been trimming my hair myself but apparently I wasn’t doing a sufficient job.

  “She needs those bangs evened up,” Basha said, pointing to my brow with her cigarette holder.

  “And even up her ends while you’re at it,” Dora suggested, shaking a bottle of bloodred polish.

  Basha took another puff off her cigarette and turned to Evelyn. “Now, for this one here,” she said, “let’s give her the shingle bob.”

  “A shingle? Really?” Evelyn bit down on her lip.

  A shingle was the most severe cut and the latest thing. Her parents were going to kill her. They’d read Fitzgerald’s “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” in the Saturday Evening Post and had forbidden Evelyn to cut her hair. If putting your elbows on the table was cause for discipline in the Schulman household, I couldn’t imagine the reprimand a shingle cut was going to cause.

  “Would you look at those cuticles,” said Dora while the manicurist scooted about on a low stool, filing and polishing my nails. “Honey, you gotta start taking better care of your hands.”

  I nodded as I heard the snip, snip, snip of the scissors working their way around the nape of my neck. I was told to close my eyes and felt the cold blade of the shears press against my forehead as tiny wisps of black hair rained onto my cheeks and nose. It tickled at first and then made me sneeze.

  I glanced over at Evelyn. Half her hair was gone. The checkered floor was covered with foot-long strands of her brown curly locks, lying there like fraying ropes.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s going to look great.”

  By the time we left the beauty shop, my bangs were a good half inch shorter, and Evelyn walked out with her hair cropped to her ears.

  “Excuse me,” I said, looking her over, “but have you seen my best friend?”

  We both burst out laughing, ruffling our fingers through each other’s new hairdos with our red-lacquered nails the same shade as Dora’s.

  Next stop was to see Irwin Ragguffy. Irwin was an attractive man in his late twenties and already a widower after only two years of marriage. About a year or so before, two members of Detroit’s Purple Gang had come looking for Irwin and had shot his wife by mistake. When they told me that, I went numb. If it happened once, could it happen again? Were we all just one gangster away from a bullet? And how was Shep going to protect me from that? I didn’t want to think about it and forced my mind to brush it aside.

  When he wasn’t working for Dion—doing God knows what—Irwin ran a garment factory down on West Van Buren, where he made brassieres and women’s undergarments.

  “I’ve never seen so many sewing machines under one roof before,” said Evelyn as we walked through the main floor.

  “And to think I thought the typewriter pool was noisy,” I added.

  The women sat side by side before their Singer machines, their lace-up boots working the treadle, their hands guiding the sheer fabric beneath the needles. When they’d finished their part of the job, dozens of other women reached in, then took the garments to the opposite side of the room, where they sewed hooks and eyes, hooks and eyes, hooks and eyes. It was quite an operation.

  Irwin led us into a showroom off to the side, filled with mannequins displaying brassieres, bloomers and the occasional corset.

  “Help yourselves, ladies. Pick out whatever you’d like.” He gestured toward bins filled with lacy garments.

  “What do you think, Irwin,” said Basha, draping her arm around Evelyn’s waist. “You make anything big enough for these bazoombas?”

  • • •

  The following Saturday, with my new brassiere and undergarments hidden beneath last season’s jersey frock, I headed down to Marshall Field’s. Basha and Dora had invited Evelyn and me along for some shopping and lunch, followed by the Basque fashion show. Evelyn, who’d been out all night with Izzy, was meeting us there.

  I boarded the el, shimmying side to side on the tracks, and rode it to the Loop. It was the second week in April and the sun was beating down, heating up the city. It was unseasonably warm. The radio that morning had predicted a record-breaking high for the day of seventy-seven. After winter’s punishing cold, everyone was taking advantage of the break in the weather. People on the sidewalks moved slowly; women hid beneath parasols; m
en fanned themselves with their newspapers. The fruit and vegetable vendors had temporarily come out from hibernation and had their pushcarts parked on the street corners underneath storefront awnings, borrowing their shade.

  I got off at the Washington Street stop and made my way over to Marshall Field’s, breaking up a flock of pigeons clustered and cooing on the sidewalk. Dora, Basha and Evelyn were waiting for me on the corner, beneath the giant green clock. Dora was wearing a gorgeous drop-waist blue dress that had pleats along the bottom. Her stockings matched the dress perfectly. Basha wore a light green sleeveless number that belted at her hip, accompanied by an extra-long strand of pearls knotted in the center. I still wasn’t used to Evelyn’s new hairstyle and almost didn’t recognize her at first. She looked terrific, right in style. A man outside the barbershop across the street was getting a shoeshine while giving Evelyn the up-and-down.

  “I think you got yourself an admirer,” Dora said, rolling her eyes in his direction.

  “Oh, yeah?” Evelyn turned to look as Basha told the man to keep his eyes to himself.

  “Ladies, let’s go.” Basha removed the cigarette from her holder, dropped the butt to the sidewalk, and ground it out beneath the ball of her Mary Jane.

  Marshall Field’s was a palace inside, with white marble columns and crystal chandeliers. The polished hardwood floors gleamed and the vaulted ceiling made of Tiffany Favrile glass was museum-worthy.

  We worked our way from floor to floor, starting in the dress salon. Shep had given me an extra twenty, told me to have fun. Without even looking at the price tags—a first for me—I went to a rack of dresses to investigate. A beautiful purple gown stopped me. I had a blouse in a similar color that Tony said he liked.

  Tony. Tony. Tony. I couldn’t keep my mind off him. One day, when I was missing him so, I went into a tobacco shop. I knew it wasn’t one of his stores, but as I gazed into the display case, admiring the pipes and cigars resting on red velvet risers, and breathed in the rich scent of aromatic tobacco, I was instantly calmed.

  I wished I were strong enough to end it with Tony, but I didn’t want to let him go. When I was away from him, I grew restless, my head filled with a haze of memories: nights in his hotel room, crumpled sheets sweaty with the heady scent of sex, the ashtray filled with smoldering cigarette butts. I pictured the bottle of whiskey uncapped on the nightstand, my silk stockings strung through the bedposts, my wrists still tender from where he’d bound me.

  Holding the dress to my chin, I let the silk crepe fabric flow the length of my body. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, gawd, no! That color’s awful. Just overpowers you.” Basha snatched the dress from my hands and flung it over the rack carelessly so that it fell to the floor.

  Before I could catch it, the shopgirl darted over and picked it up. Basha stepped around her and continued sorting through the rack, screeching the hangers to the left, to the right. The shopgirl was about my age and severely knock-kneed. I offered a sympathetic smile, which she returned as she hung the dress back up and tried to get out of Basha’s way. When she thought no one was looking, I saw that shopgirl’s smile go sour. She must have hated waiting on women like Basha.

  Our entourage moved on to purses and hats. We unbuckled, unsnapped, pinched open every pocketbook on display, reaching for every trinket that intrigued us. We each grabbed a hat, crowding in on the three-way mirror in the corner, pulling the cloches down past our eyebrows, raising our chins just enough so we could see how we looked.

  Before we were finished, hatbox lids were tossed about, tissue paper was crumpled up and overflowing from the boxes stacked on the counter. The two shopgirls waiting on us couldn’t keep up with Basha, who couldn’t decide between two cloches, one with a slight brim, the other with a feather shooting out the side.

  “Aw, nuts.” Basha made a clucking sound and swept the feathered hat off her head and flung it onto the counter. “I don’t like any of ’em.” She patted her dark waved hair in place, looked at us through the mirror, and then announced, “I’m starved. Time for lunch!”

  The shopgirls exchanged looks as they began collecting the merchandise to put back on the shelves. I felt sorry for them. After all that, no one even made a purchase.

  As we approached the escalator, something tugged at me. I paused. “You know what? I forgot something. Go on. I’ll be right there.” I dashed back to the counter and when the shopgirls saw me coming they glanced at each other and then at me.

  “Can we help you?”

  I grabbed the first thing I saw, a red coin purse. I didn’t like it or need it. Maybe I’d give it to my mother. “Can you ring this up for me, please?”

  When I caught up with the others in the Walnut Room I wasn’t hungry. It was warm inside even with the floor-to-ceiling windows thrown open. But the room was spectacular. It was my first time at the Walnut Room, and I was so taken by the crystal wall sconces, the velvet draperies, the thick carpets, and the intricately carved armrests on the chairs that I hadn’t been listening to the conversation at our table.

  “...I could push her off the bridge at Wacker Drive,” Basha was saying. “I’d do it right at Wacker and Michigan. Only I’ll have to wait till wintertime, so she’ll freeze to death.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” said Dora, glancing up from her menu, her blue eyes sparkling. “Or you could accidentally knock her off the el platform. She’d either be run over or electrocuted.”

  Basha doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly fell off her chair. Her pearl necklace was practically touching the floor. “Or,” she said, sitting up straight and raising her salad fork in a clenched fist, “I could just stab her with one of these!”

  Evelyn and I smiled dutifully while Dora and Basha laughed, going back and forth on the many ways Basha could eliminate Mrs. Squeak. This little game of theirs continued until the waiter came by for our order.

  I wiped the perspiration from the back of my neck. I was hot when I’d arrived but now I felt like the temperature inside the Walnut Room had just shot up ten degrees. I was clammy. Even my mouth was sweating. When the waiter turned to me, I ordered the Walnut Room special, even though the thought of food turned my stomach.

  “I’m not kidding,” said Basha without skipping a beat. “I wish I could do it. Just get rid of her.” She lifted her knife, holding it like you would a compact while she inspected her teeth in the reflection of the blade. “Let me tell you, she’s got it coming. She’s making Squeak miserable and me, too. She’s been in our way since I first set eyes on him. It’s true,” Basha went on. “I was a waitress working at a lunch counter when Squeak came in there with that bitch wife of his.”

  “So you met her?” asked Evelyn.

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a redhead. Looks just like Raggedy Ann.”

  “Oh, my! You’ve actually seen her!” Evelyn leaned forward.

  “Sure. And while she was looking at the daily specials, I was looking at her husband.” Basha laughed. “I put my name and telephone number on the check and handed it to Squeak.”

  Evelyn’s jaw dropped. “Did his wife see you do that?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have cared if she did. All I can tell you is that he telephoned me that night and I’ve been with him ever since.”

  The waiter came back with our lunches: pot pie, scoops of crab salad and tuna salad. As beautiful as it looked, the pungent smell of fish and mayonnaise was making me queasy.

  “Well, did you hear?” asked Dora. “Johnny Torrio’s in jail.”

  “Isn’t that something!” said Basha. “It was all over the morning newspapers.”

  Contemplating my tuna salad, I lifted my fork. “What happened?”

  “There was a big raid at his brewery. Last night they arrested him and thirty of his men.”

  Thirty men! I set my fork down in a panic. What if Tony Liolli had been there? What if he’d been arrested? What if he’s in jail right now? I patted my mouth with my napkin as a trickle of sweat worked its way down
my chest, sliding between my breasts. I fanned myself with my hand.

  “They say Torrio’s gonna do time, so I guess that means Capone’ll be in charge.” Dora’s smile vanished when she looked at me. “Hey, Vera—sweetie, you okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills there.”

  “You know,” I said, dabbing my mouth again, “actually, I’m not feeling too well.” By now I was flat-out nauseous. “I’m just going to go up to the ladies’ lounge for a while. You girls don’t mind, do you?”

  “How about I come with you?” Evelyn offered.

  “No, no, I’ll be fine.” But when I got up from my chair, the room started spinning. I stumbled as a wave of nausea rose up inside me.

  They got me out of the Walnut Room and into the ladies’ lounge just in time. I barely made it into the stall before I retched. Another wave shot through me, giving me the dry heaves. After I’d turned my stomach inside out again, the girls made me stretch out on the chaise and Dora placed a cool, damp cloth on my forehead.

  That was the end of our lunch.

  • • •

  I felt better the next day and chalked it up to something I’d eaten the night before. But by Monday morning, I was back at it again. I had to call in sick to work, having spent a good hour in the bathroom down the hall. My stomach muscles ached and I’d broken the blood vessels in my right eye from vomiting so hard. I rinsed the sour taste from my mouth, dabbed the sweat from my brow, and returned to our two-by-four of a room.

  Once I crawled back into bed, my eyes traced the spider cracks on the ceiling, from the doorway to the naked bulb overhead and back again. I listened to the ragman down in the alley crying out, “Any bottles, any rags today? Any bottles? Any rags today . . . ?” I picked at the stem of a goose feather poking out of my pillow, plucked it clean, and then searched front and back for another one. When there was nothing else I could find to distract myself, I threw off the covers, went over to my bureau, and reluctantly pulled out my date book.

  I frantically flipped through the pages, forward and back, counting and recounting the days. After the third count, I thought I might faint. I dropped to the side of the bed and threw the date book halfway across the room. I had skipped my monthlies. I was almost three weeks late and I was never late. Not ever. I squeezed my eyes shut and winced, holding my head in my hands. How could I be pregnant? I always remembered to douche as soon as I got home, and besides, Tony and Shep almost always pulled out in time. Goddammit! I didn’t even know which one was the father.