Pulp

by Robin Talley

  She needed to push Linh’s words out of her head, so she pulled up the ending of Women of the Twilight Realm as the cab sped over a wide bridge.

  “If you love me and I love you, then I don’t care whether anybody else understands it. You’re the only one who matters.”

  Abby read Paula’s words again and again until they swam in front of her eyes.

  That was how it was supposed to work. You fell in love with someone, and they loved you back, and that made everything okay. As long as you had love, it didn’t matter what else the world threw at you. You had something that mattered more.

  Once you had love, it wasn’t supposed to go away. Not ever.

  But if it did...what the hell did that leave you with?

  Abby was still reading when the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the retirement home. She had no idea what to think anymore, but maybe someone who’d lived as long as Claire Singer would.

  Abby swiped the credit card she’d taken from Dad’s wallet to pay for the cab and climbed out onto the sidewalk, a huge brick building looming up before her. It suddenly occurred to Abby that she was in an unfamiliar city, alone, going to see a complete stranger.

  But that stranger had known Marian Love. Which meant she wasn’t a stranger, not really.

  Abby squared her shoulders and pushed open the glass front door.

  The receptionist sent her up to the tenth floor, where another receptionist told her to sit in a small waiting area. Abby sat, trying not to think about Linh and hoping she didn’t look visibly flustered.

  A few minutes later, a woman who definitely wasn’t old enough to be Claire Singer walked toward her. She looked younger than Mom, even—in her twenties or thirties.

  “Are you Abby Zimet?” The woman held out her hand, but she didn’t smile. “I’m Julie. Claire’s my great-aunt.”

  “Hi.” Abby shook her hand. Ms. Singer’s email hadn’t mentioned Julie. “Is this still a good time for me to interview her?”

  “Well, she already told you she’d do it, so I guess so.” Julie glanced at Abby’s notebook, her embroidered vintage skirt, the backpack over her shoulder. “You’re in high school down in DC?”

  “Yeah, I’m a senior at Fawcett. It’s a magnet school. You have to apply to get in.”

  Abby had no idea why she was reciting her credentials, but it seemed to be what Julie wanted to hear, because she nodded. “You’re working on a project for class?”

  “Yep. I’m writing my very own lesbian pulp novel.”

  “All right.” Julie nodded again. Abby got the impression Julie had come out here to make sure she wasn’t some sort of fangirl stalker. Maybe that had been a problem in the past. “Claire won’t be able to talk long. She’s very frail, and she falls asleep a lot. Lung cancer. It’s a miracle she’s lived as long as she has, what with smoking two packs a day for thirty years. Not to mention all the drinking, but...” Julie shrugged a what-can-you-do shrug. “Come on back.”

  Abby had only been in retirement homes a few times before, visiting great-aunts of her own, but the hallways here seemed narrower. Still, the quiet rooms, shadowy doorways and antiseptic smells were exactly the same. Julie led her down winding corridors, then knocked on one of the closed doors. She didn’t wait for a reply before turning the knob.

  “Aunt Claire?” Julie spoke softly. “The girl is here. The one doing the school project.”

  Abby followed her, expecting to see a tiny, shriveled old lady lying on a bed. Instead she found a white-haired woman sitting up in an armchair with a shrewd smile and a pair of cat-eye glasses not unlike Abby’s.

  “Abby Zimet?” The woman spoke clearly, and her smile was sincere. She held out her hand. “Forgive me for not getting up. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Abby shook the older woman’s hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Singer—wait, I’m sorry, should I call you Ms. Wood?”

  The woman laughed, a warm, full sound. Abby felt instantly at ease. “Please, call me Claire. It’s been years since anyone’s called me Ms. Wood.”

  Julie pointed Abby to an upholstered bench, and she sat down gingerly. Julie sat in the wooden chair across from her.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to see me.” Abby couldn’t quite believe she was in a room with someone who’d known Marian Love. She was already blinking back the threat of tears, and they’d barely spoken yet.

  “You came all the way up from DC, isn’t that right?” On Abby’s nod, Claire grinned. Her face was deeply wrinkled, but her eyes shone behind her glasses. “I always enjoyed that city.”

  “I read your book on the train,” Abby told her. “A Love So Strange. I really enjoyed it.”

  Claire laughed. “Except for the ending, right?”

  “Well...” Abby smiled. “I know there were rules about that kind of thing.”

  “Rules, yes. Especially in those early years. I hated having to write it that way, though. That girl throwing herself in front of a taxi—it pained me, typing those words, but we all did what we had to do. Back then those stories were all we had, and you know what they say about beggars and choosers. There weren’t a lot of happy endings for us anyway, in fiction or otherwise.” Claire shook her head. “Someday I’m going to write a brand-new ending to that book and put it on that internet you all have.”

  “I already said I’d help, Aunt Claire,” Julie piped in. “Just tell me what you want it to say and I’ll type it up for you.”

  “One of these days.” Claire smiled again. “Now, did you say you’re doing a project about Marian Love?”

  “Yes.” Abby sat forward eagerly. “I was hoping you could tell me anything more about her. What she was like, and if she left behind any other writing besides Women of the Twilight Realm. Any letters, maybe, or any other stories? Or did she ever tell you anything about what happened to Paula and Elaine after the end of the book? And what about—”

  “Whoa, there.” Claire raised a hand. “I have to tell you, honey, that I never met Marian.”

  “What do you mean, you never met her?” Abby frowned. “Professor Herbert said you were the one who set her up with your publisher.”

  “Morgan Herbert, she’s the one you talked to?” Claire frowned, too. “Well, she should’ve told you, then. I gave her the whole story when she came up a few years ago. Marian Love was on her way to New York, or so we assumed, when the accident happened. I’d sent her a bus ticket, but she and her friend drove up instead. I suppose they wanted to travel together.”

  “Was her friend a—” Abby struggled to think of how to say it. “Were they—together?”

  “I thought so, but there’s no way to be sure.” Claire reached for a cup of water on the table in front of her and took an agonizingly slow sip. “Her friend was injured, too, but I guess she was all right in the end. I never met her, either, but she wrote to me, telling me about what happened and enclosing the manuscript. She said her friend had always dreamed of being a published writer and she wanted to make that dream come true, even if she hadn’t lived to see it. So I sent everything on to Nathan.”

  “Do you know the friend’s name? Or what happened to her after that?” Maybe Abby could track down the “friend” next. Maybe that would get her closer to the truth.

  “I’m afraid I don’t. In her letters she called herself Mrs. Smith, but I suspect that wasn’t her real name. No more so than ‘Janet Jones’—that was the pseudonym Marian Love used when she first wrote to me.”

  “Oh.” So even “Janet Jones” wasn’t her real name.

  Maybe Abby was destined never to learn anything about the real Marian Love.

  “Do you still have that letter Marian sent you?” Abby knew she sounded desperate, but there was nothing she could do about that. “Or anything else she wrote? Or—or do you know how I could get in touch with Mrs. Smith, if she’s
still alive?”

  Claire waved at Julie. “Give her a tissue,” she whispered.

  Abby’s tears were on the verge of breaking through. As though she hadn’t already embarrassed herself in front of enough people this year.

  Julie passed her a tissue from the box on Claire’s dresser. Abby pulled off her glasses and turned away to blow her nose.

  “I suspect you enjoyed her book more than you did mine,” Claire said. When Abby glanced up through watery eyes, Claire was still smiling, though she looked tired. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Her book would’ve meant a lot to me, too, even if I hadn’t known her at all.”

  Abby blew her nose again. She’d managed to refrain from shedding any actual tears yet, but when she opened her mouth, her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak. “Marian Love’s writing is kind of everything to me right now. The way she seems to—to just get it—”

  “I understand.” Claire tilted her head, but her eyes had begun to droop. “Mind you, I’ll have to ask you not to put any of this in your paper for school. I’m positive you’re trustworthy, but in honor of Marian’s memory we need to keep her story secret.”

  “I understand.” Abby did her best to sound professional, but all she wanted was to be alone so she could fall apart. “Thank you so much for talking to me.”

  “It’s time for you to rest, Aunt Claire.” Julie stood up. “I’ll walk Abby to the elevator.”

  “Get her number before she goes,” Claire mumbled. “It was very nice to meet you, Abby. Good luck with your project.”

  “Thank you so much,” Abby tried to tell her, but Claire was already asleep.

  Julie touched her shoulder and led her out into the hall.

  “I could tell she had a good time talking to you,” Julie whispered when the door was shut behind them. “Thanks for coming up.”

  Abby nodded. She couldn’t say anything more. If she spoke, she was positive she’d lose it entirely. She wrote her number down for Julie and hurried into the elevator, praying the doors would close quickly.

  Even Claire Singer hadn’t really known her. It was as if Marian Love had never existed. As if she’d written one book, one perfect book, and vanished into nothing.

  Abby wanted to cry. She was desperate to cry. But now that she was finally alone, the tears wouldn’t come.

  God, she couldn’t even fall apart correctly anymore.

  What the hell was she even doing here? Was Linh right? Was Abby obsessing over the past because she didn’t want to deal with the real world?

  If so, it wasn’t working. Her present reality was painful, but history hurt, too.

  And apparently she didn’t have the option of losing herself anymore.

  16

  Friday, August 5, 1955

  “See you tomorrow, Janet,” Joe called from his spot behind the fryer. Janet forced a smile and waved as she trotted toward the sidewalk, too exhausted to speak.

  It was late. The dinner shift had finally ended, and all Janet wanted to do was go home, wash the smell of boiled hot dogs out of her hair and call Marie.

  But there was no use. She’d hang up as soon as she heard Janet’s voice on the line.

  It was her own doing, too. Janet had made so many terrible mistakes. Now she’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  And things could get worse yet. Janet couldn’t be sure how much Grandma had overheard the night before—when Janet reached the porch, her grandmother had stood without a word and turned to go join Mom and Dad in the living room, and Janet hadn’t seen her since—but if Grandma had heard what she and Marie were saying...

  Janet couldn’t begin to imagine what might happen. All day, she’d felt ready to faint from nerves.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a voice called from Janet’s right.

  It was a woman’s voice, but it was too far away from the parking area for it to be coming from a customer. Still, Janet put on her carhop smile. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

  “Over here.”

  She glanced back at the counter, where Joe was dabbing cleaner on the grill, before following the voice around the corner. She passed the main building and saw a Negro woman standing alone in the shadows toward the back of the lot, waving to her.

  “Deliveries go to the kitchen door,” Janet called.

  “I said excuse me, miss,” the woman said again, a tad pointedly.

  It took Janet another moment to realize the woman was Carol.

  “Oh!” Shame flushed Janet’s cheeks. She’d assumed Carol was a delivery worker because she was a Negro.

  Janet cast one more glance at the counter to make sure Joe wasn’t watching and trotted into a dark area under the kitchen roof’s overhang.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Janet rushed to say. “I mistook you for—”

  “We only have a minute.” Carol interrupted her smoothly. “I thought this would be the safest place to talk.”

  Janet nodded, though she didn’t understand.

  “Forgive me for being so direct.” Carol spoke quietly, her voice thin but firm. “I need you to tell your friend they brought me in.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am—I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do.” Carol didn’t smile.

  She was right. Janet understood. She wished she didn’t.

  “Surely they wouldn’t...” Janet didn’t know what to say. “You’ve been so careful...”

  “Someone gave them my name.” Carol’s lips were fixed in a straight line. “Probably that fool Gerald. I heard he’s trying to get a new job at Interior, and he must think if he hands over names they’ll take him back. Like I said, he’s a fool.” Carol shook her head. “In any case, it doesn’t seem they have much on me. They spent an hour trying to get me to confess, but I held my own. I may be able to stay on, God willing, but you need to tell your friend I didn’t give her over. They pressed me for names, and they pressed me hard, but I didn’t give up a single one. Now if your friend gets brought in she’ll need to protect me, as I protected her.”

  “Of course.” Janet nodded again. Her head was spinning.

  Carol was nothing like the men who lurked in parks at night. She was polite and well mannered. She was feminine. She was—

  She was exactly like Marie.

  If Carol wasn’t safe, Marie wasn’t, either.

  “All right.” Janet tried to stay calm, but blood was pounding in her ears. She could hear Joe shouting to the carhops just behind them. “Thank you. I’ll tell M—”

  “No!” Carol jumped in quickly. “No names. But you tell her she’s been smiling at me when she comes through the line, and that’s got to stop. We can’t risk being associated, neither one of us. You tell her from now on when she’s in the cafeteria, she keeps her eyes on her sauerkraut.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Carol glanced over her shoulder. Janet did the same. She didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they were alone. “I’ve got to go. I’ve already been here too long.”

  “Wait.” This might be the only chance Janet got. “Could I come to see you, and—your friend, again? I just... I feel so alone. There’s no one else I can talk to about this, and you were so kind to us—”

  “No.” Carol answered immediately. “Whatever you do, don’t come to our home. It was a mistake to have you over that first time. Promise me you’ll forget our address. In fact, you really ought to forget you ever met either one of us.”

  Carol gave her a half smile, a gentle one, but her gaze was heavy. Janet felt her throat closing up. Still, she nodded.

  Carol acknowledged her with a tiny incline of her head. Then she stepped back, melting into the shadows.

  Frustration and terror bubbled inside Janet. She wanted to walk as far as her legs would carry her, until she’d sorted out all the thoughts churning through her m
ind, but her parents would be angry if she didn’t come straight home from work.

  As she walked briskly up Wisconsin, Janet tried to think. She had to reach Marie, somehow, to pass on Carol’s message. She’d have to call her—to dial that number and pray she could convince Marie to listen to what she said.

  Then she’d have to tell her all their fears were coming true. That Marie needed to prepare for the worst. She’d have to be even more careful than she already had been. A simple smile in the lunch line could cause all their lies to unravel.

  It was too late to call tonight, though. Besides, there was something else Janet had to do first. For Marie, and for herself, too.

  The house was quiet and empty when Janet unlocked the door. The Soda Shoppe closed late on Fridays, and this time of night everyone in the house would already be asleep out on the screened porches.

  Good.

  Janet crept up the stairs toward the attic, stopping by her bedroom only long enough to reach into her desk drawer and pull out the matchbook she’d taken from Meaker’s. The house was silent as she ascended the rickety stairs.

  As the sweltering, musty attic air swirled around her, Janet gazed out into the dark room, overwhelmed with the memory of nights spent in her imagined Greenwich Village. Paula and Elaine’s world, where girls did exactly as they chose, without regard for consequences.

  Janet turned on the fan and flung open the windows, then knelt on the floor to rummage through the trunk where she’d hidden her things. Beneath the tattered copy of A Deviant Woman, Janet found what she was looking for. She pulled out the rumpled carbon copy pages and the freshly typed sheets she’d tucked beneath them.

  Alone No Longer, the title page read. By Janet Jones.

  Stupid. She’d been so stupid, putting her real name down. Dolores Wood may have mistaken “Janet Jones” for a pseudonym, but that wouldn’t fool the FBI.

  She wanted to cry, but there was no time to get caught up in useless sentiment. Instead, Janet crouched by the window and struck a match.