by Robin Talley
The store was bustling with shoppers and salesgirls, and no one paid Janet any particular attention. She brushed her fingers over a display of slacks hanging near the entrance, but didn’t linger. It was a Saturday evening. The Sheldon Lounge might not allow her inside if she showed up in slacks.
The next rack held skirts. Janet lifted one hanger, then another, until she found one like the skirt in the window. It was straight and fitted, with a hemline several inches shorter than her church clothes. It looked far more grown-up than anything else she owned.
The dressing room was at the back. Janet took a deep breath, lifted the hanger and started walking.
A quarter hour later, she left the store feeling like a new person. She studied her reflection in the store windows as she walked south, her heels clicking on the cracked New York cement. Her new straight blue skirt was an inch or so too short to pass Holy Divinity’s rule-book, and it made her stand taller, her eyes shine brighter. She hadn’t been able to find a blouse that properly matched it so she’d bought a simple, short-sleeved brown jacket that had looked very sophisticated in the dressing room. The store hadn’t sold shoes, leaving Janet with nothing but the plain brown heels she wore to church most Sundays, but she imagined it would be so dark in the Sheldon Lounge that no one would be able to see her feet anyway.
She wished Marie could see her looking this way. Janet felt nearly as grown-up as she always seemed.
Before she’d had time to grow fully accustomed to the feel of her new clothes, Janet was turning onto Charles Street. The buildings had grown shabbier as she’d walked, and the passersby had changed, too. There were fewer well-groomed ladies and businessmen. Instead, she saw a greater number of young men with beards and serious expressions, as well as older men and women who sat on benches, staring silently off into the city as they smoked narrow gray cigarettes or thick brown cigars.
The sun was lower in the sky than it had been when she climbed off the bus, but in the late summer heat it would be up for a good time yet. Janet had relished her walk, allowing the city to slowly hypnotize her, and so she wasn’t fully prepared when she spotted the small white sign in a dark, drab window. The words Sheldon Lounge had been scrawled with a thick pen over a flickering OPEN sign.
Janet stopped in the middle of the block.
She’d come all this way. It was time to go inside.
But what if she’d made a mistake? What if the Sheldon Lounge wasn’t the sort of place she’d thought?
Or what if it was the sort of place she’d thought, and Janet didn’t fit in at all? What if everyone inside took one look at her and knew she didn’t belong?
Perhaps she ought to walk around the block once or twice first. Just to steady herself.
“Whoa, there!” a woman called behind her. Janet stepped to the side, realizing she was blocking the path. She prepared an apology and a downward glance.
But the woman who’d spoken wasn’t looking at her. She was walking with another girl. Their eyes were locked on each other’s faces, their lips curved up in laughter.
Both of them were wearing slacks.
Janet watched, transfixed, as the woman who’d called out—she was taller than her friend, with shorter hair and a masculine look about her that made Janet think of Sam in A Love So Strange—walked right up to the blinking sign of the Sheldon Lounge and pushed open the door. The other girl, the one with longer hair and dark red lipstick, followed without a moment’s self-consciousness, still laughing at whatever private joke they’d shared. Janet stared as the door closed behind them.
Those girls were like her.
They were like Marie and Carol and Mitch. And Dolores Wood, and Sam and Betty, and Paula and Elaine, and who knew how many others.
Janet was really here.
She didn’t want to walk around the block anymore. She had to resist the urge to run.
Then she pushed the door open and forgot everything but the sight before her.
The narrow room was even darker and smokier than Janet had imagined. None of the day’s lingering sunlight seemed to reach the interior, but a jukebox on the back wall played a jazzy tune. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Janet could barely make out a bar running along the left side of the room, with ten or so stools alongside it.
Most of the stools were occupied. The girls Janet had seen enter had perched on two of them, leaving just three vacant seats beside the girl who’d reminded her of Sam.
A few small tables stood clustered on the opposite wall. Girls sat talking with cigarettes in their hands and dusty glasses in front of them. A small, empty space in the back looked as though it might occasionally serve as a dance floor, though there couldn’t have been enough room for more than two or three couples to dance at a time unless they climbed onto the tabletops.
The scent of smoke grew stronger as she stood in the doorway. Janet waved a hand in front of her face, not wanting to cough. Thus far, no one seemed to have noticed her presence, which suited her. She’d prefer to attract as little attention as possible in this strange new land.
She peered more closely at the seated couples, trying to see if any of them might be Miss Wood, but none of the girls quite fit the mental image Janet had developed of her: tall, and fashionable, with sleekly styled hair and a tailored suit paired with matching high heels. She’d probably wear a matching hat and gloves, too.
“Hey. I don’t know you.” The man’s voice rasped suddenly in her ear. Janet stumbled backward, and the girls at the nearest table turned to look.
She whipped her head around to see a doughy-faced, dark-haired man in a double-breasted suit, standing an inch shorter than Janet in her heels. He held a fat, stinking cigar and wore gold rings with wide, clear stones on both hands.
“Who are you?” the man asked, his eyes locked on Janet.
She froze. Surely he didn’t mean for her to tell him her name? She may not have been as cautious as she should’ve back in Washington, but even so Janet knew better than to share her real name with some strange man in the Sheldon Lounge. “I—Pardon me. What do you mean?”
The man tipped his cigar into an ashtray perched on a ledge by the front door. “What do you mean, what do I mean? Who do you know here?”
“Oh.” The man must be some kind of guard. “I’m here to see Dolores Wood.”
“Aw, you mean Claire?” The man softened slightly and puffed on his cigar. “She ain’t here yet, but I’ll tell her to look for you when she gets in. Sorry about all the questions, but when a new girl shows up out of nowhere, I’ve gotta make sure she ain’t a copper in disguise.”
Janet couldn’t tell if he was joking. She decided to play it safe. “I’m not with the police, I promise.”
The man nodded slowly. To Janet’s relief, the girls at the table nearby had turned back to their own conversation.
“All right, well, since you’re a first-timer, here’s the ground rules.” The man took another long puff on his cigar. “We’re a respectable establishment. We don’t allow any men or any funny business in the ladies’ room. Whores and johns meet outside the premises only. Got all that? Good. Have a lovely evening. Hey, Frankie?” An older woman behind the bar paused in wiping down a glass to glance up at him, then looked right back down again. “Get this girl a drink, will you? Put it on my tab.”
The bartender, Frankie, kept her eyes on her dishrag. “You got it, Louie.”
“Go on, then.” Louie gave Janet a not-entirely-gentle push toward the empty bar stools.
Janet moved slowly, stunned from the encounter and keeping out an anxious eye for any of those “whores and johns” Louie had mentioned. Her fear had returned in full force, but there was no way she could leave after all that. She climbed onto an empty stool and focused all her attention on not falling off it.
“Whatcha after?” Frankie was still looking down at the glass in her hands. Her hair was croppe
d around her ears, and her men’s shirt was unbuttoned far enough to hint at a swell of deeply tanned, wrinkled breasts beneath. It took Janet a moment to realize Frankie was talking to her.
“I, ah.” Janet felt entirely foolish. Frankie, and every other woman in this place, might as well have climbed straight out of the pages of a Bannon Press novel.
Janet didn’t fit in here at all. She wished Marie were with her. She’d have known exactly how to act and what to say.
“I’m sorry.” Janet almost sputtered. “I don’t—I, ah—”
Then Frankie looked up. A smile played behind her eyes, not quite reaching her lips. “It’s all right, kid. You can relax. Louie scared you, huh?”
Janet bent her head, ashamed, but Frankie was still smiling. Janet decided to trust her. “Is he always that way?”
“Every night.” Frankie rested both her elbows on the bar, leaning in as though for a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, he’s a nobody. His family, they own this place, but they only send him to do this job because they don’t want him anywhere he could cause real trouble. He thinks he’s the boss, but the rest of us know better. Isn’t that the truth, Nancy?”
“That’s right, Frankie,” said the short-haired girl in the next seat. She cast Janet a shrewd smile. Janet forced herself not to giggle.
“So what are you drinking, kid?” Frankie tapped her fingers on the bar.
“Oh, uh.” In that moment, there was only one drink Janet could remember. “A martini, please.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows. For a moment Janet feared she’d ask her for ID, but then Frankie reached for another glass. “Sure thing, sweetheart. So, you just get here from someplace?”
“You can tell, huh?” Janet leaned forward, trying to smile the same way Nancy had.
Frankie nodded toward the overnight bag on the floor. Janet blushed. Of course. “Right off the bus, are ya?”
“Yep.”
“Got a job lined up?” Frankie set down a glass of clear liquid in front of her. A drab gray olive perched on its rim.
“No, I need to look for one. I was thinking I could work in an office, or as a waitress. I’ve got experience at that, at least.”
“Good for you. Well, I’d offer you a job here, except we don’t bring in enough to pay anybody but me. Old Louie at the door keeps telling every girl who comes in to get a drink on his tab, except he hasn’t paid his tab in, what, two years?”
“You on about that again, Frankie?” A new voice boomed in Janet’s left ear. She hadn’t noticed another girl climbing onto the vacant stool beside her. “You’re gonna talk this poor kid’s ear off.”
Frankie’s expression soured. “What’s it to you, Claire?”
“Nothing at all, baby, nothing at all.” Claire rolled her eyes and whispered something to the girl on her other side.
The girl beside Claire was a Negro, young and pretty, with long eyelashes and short dark hair. Janet hadn’t realized there were so many Negro lesbians. In the books she’d read, she hadn’t seen mention of any at all. This girl didn’t look much older than Janet herself, but Claire was older—in her thirties or forties, perhaps. She was shorter than Janet, even sitting there on the bar stools, and she had cropped red hair and a smile that made Janet like her immediately.
Then, to Janet’s astonishment, Claire turned to her and held out her hand. “So, old Louie said you were looking for me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Only then did Janet remember what Louie had said. Oh, you mean Claire?
“Are you Miss Wood?” Janet was so overwhelmed she only remembered at the last moment to shake the offered hand.
“I am she.” Dolores Wood grinned. “You can call me Claire. I only publish as Dolores sometimes. And this is Flo.”
“Hi.” The younger girl gave Janet a quick wave.
“I’m Janet,” she said, waiting for Miss Wood—Claire—to remember her.
Claire smiled again, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes.
“I wrote to you.” Janet stumbled over the words. “I read your book, and I wrote you a letter and you wrote back, and, the bus ticket, and—”
“Oh!” Claire clapped a hand over her mouth. She’d spoken so loudly Nancy and her friend had turned to watch them with amused smiles. “I remember you. You’re the writer!”
Janet blushed. “Yes, I—”
“Flo, this is the girl I told you about. Remember? I got that letter and I said, I’m going to send this poor kid a bus ticket. I said, that’s a kid who needs to get herself to New York. Frankie!” Claire pounded on the bar, jostling Janet’s martini glass. “Get this girl another drink, on me.”
“She could make it all night without ever paying a cent,” Frankie muttered, but she picked up the gin bottle.
“Here.” Claire stood up as their drinks arrived. After a moment, so did Flo. “Come on, Janet, let’s take our drinks and get us a table. I want to hear all about you.”
Janet’s smile was so wide she forgot to be embarrassed as she wound through the tight maze of tables, her fresh glass clutched in her hand. She already felt a bit woozy, and she didn’t know what the second drink would do, but she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
“Thank you, so much, for the book you wrote.” Janet’s words spilled out clumsily as they took seats near the jukebox. Claire and Flo sat with their backs to the wall, and Janet took the seat across from Claire. “It’s the only book that ever really meant something to me. Well, I mean, it isn’t as though I’d never enjoyed a book before—I loved Jane Eyre—but your book, well...it felt as though you’d written it just for me.”
Claire smiled at her. “That’s so kind of you to say. Thank you, Janet. So tell me, how’s your writing going? Did you bring your book for me to read?”
“Ah—no.” Janet sipped her fresh martini. She didn’t want to admit she’d burned the pages. Or that she’d given up writing forever. “I don’t have it with me.”
Flo pulled a cigarette from her purse and held it to her lips, and Claire leaned over and lit it for her. Then she pulled out two more cigarettes, passing one to Claire and holding the other out to Janet.
Well, maybe it would help her fit in. “Thank you.”
Claire leaned across the table with her lighter, and Janet held the cigarette between her lips the way she’d seen Marie do.
It made her wish, again, that Marie were here. Janet would love to hear what she thought of Claire and Flo. Not to mention Frankie and Louie.
It was hard not to flinch when Claire struck the flame, and much harder not to cough when Janet drew her first breath. In the end, she couldn’t contain it. She turned away, trying to keep her coughs small and ladylike until her eyes stopped watering.
When she glanced back, Flo and Claire were both studiously looking away, color rising in their cheeks. Flo reached out and took Claire’s hand, puffing on her cigarette as though to prove she could.
Janet gazed down at their clasped hands. Here, in the Sheldon Lounge, this was a thing girls could do. Hold hands on top of a table, out in public, with no one saying a word.
“Is it your first time in the city?” Flo asked, following Janet’s gaze.
“No.” Janet flushed and set her cigarette on the ashtray. “But it’s my first time, ah—”
“In a place like the Sheldon.” Flo nodded. Janet was glad she’d been the one to say it.
“So how far have you gotten in the book?” Claire interrupted. “How many pages?”
Janet didn’t want to lie. She’d have to admit what had happened. Part of it, at least.
“A hundred and fifty or so. I wrote maybe three-quarters of a manuscript, but then I—I stopped.” Janet folded her hands carefully on the table in front of her, remembering the sulphur smell of the matches burning at the attic window. “I guess I was afraid. I’m not sure writing is for me after
all.”
“Well, I certainly can understand being afraid.” Claire smiled and squeezed Flo’s hand. Flo sipped her cocktail. “It’s petrifying, isn’t it?”
Janet bobbed her head. “I was frightened all the time. My—my friend back home, she’s terrified.”
“It’s so hard.” Claire sighed. “Putting words down on paper, and having to show them to someone else. Knowing people out there in the world, people you’ve never even met, are going to read them, and have an opinion on whether they’re any good. Plus, what if your mother reads it someday?” Claire leaned in and whispered, “What if your mom finds out you wrote a book with sex in it?”
“Yes!” That wasn’t precisely what Janet had meant about being frightened, but it was true all the same. “Yes, exactly.”
“It’s utterly horrifying.” Claire drained her glass and waved to Frankie for another round. “Well, guess what, kid. I’ve got news for you. Living is horrifying. The good news is, writers need pain. So it all works out in the end, because being one of us is scary as hell.”
Janet flushed at the curse word, but did her best to hide it. She didn’t want them to think she was a child.
Frankie set three fresh glasses on the table and collected the empty ones. Janet was surprised to see that her second martini was already gone. She couldn’t imagine touching another, but there it was, sitting in front of her with yet another pale gray olive floating on top.
“Claire, darling!” a voice boomed behind them. “Why, if it isn’t!”
“Hazel!” Claire jumped up and greeted a short, blond girl in a tight black dress with a kiss on both cheeks. “It’s been ages.”
“Hasn’t it? It’s all Ed’s fault. She’s domesticating me. I’ve gotten to making steak dinners every night.”
“If I remember correctly, you offered to cook last night,” said the girl standing beside her. She was tall, very tall, with dark eyes and a pompadour.
Janet stared up at Ed, wondering if perhaps she ought to learn to make steak dinners herself.
She banished the thought quickly. It was far too close to a betrayal of Marie.