Cheap Diamonds

by Norris Church Mailer

  Dear Cassie,

  I’m so sorry I haven’t written to you, but I’ve been really, really busy. Baby wrote me about you having the baby and all, and I want you to know that I am so sorry, I can’t tell you how sorry, that it turned out like this. But they can probably fix little Lalea’s mouth, can’t they? I’m sure she will be beautiful after a few operations.

  I wadded up the letter and threw it away. From the way Baby talked, little Lalea looked like a leaf-nosed bat, and I doubt that it would be comforting to have me tell her it was going to be all right when I hadn’t even laid eyes on her. It wasn’t going to be all right. And if you tell somebody you are too busy to write to them, it just means to them that they are on the bottom of your list of things to do. I got out another sheet of stationery and tried again.

  Dear Cassie,

  Please forgive me for not writing and not being there for you. I’ve just been caught up in my new life—no excuses. I wish I could help you, I really do. I’m glad you have your mom and Bernadette, though, and Baby. There is no better friend than Baby. The only thing I can say is that I am going to really try to find Lale. He is lower than a snake’s belly, but he needs to know what is going on, and I promise you, I’ll make it up to you and do something, if I can at all. I don’t have a phone in my room, but I’ll try to call you as soon as I find out anything. Hang in. You’re a good, strong girl and you’ll get through this. A lot of people love you, including me, as bad a friend as I have been.

  Love,

  Cherry

  I stared at the letter, and couldn’t think of anything else to say. I thought that after that night when Cassie had tried to let the train run over her she had pulled it together. Baby and I hung out with her a lot last spring, and the two of them came up to St. Juniper’s and we all made pots on the wheel with Father Leo every weekend. Baby and I even spent the night at Cassie’s house a few times and we rode her horses bareback across the pastures and ate homemade rolls and sweet grape jelly Annie had made from their own grapes at breakfast. My practice teaching was over in May, and I went back to Sweet Valley, but over the summer we wrote once in a while, and in her letters she seemed to be fine. Lale’s parents kind of ignored her, she said, but his sister, Brenda, was friendly to her. I guess the baby being born harelipped like that just sent everybody over the edge.

  But Cassie was not in my world anymore, and while I really felt bad for her, the ugly side of me wished she hadn’t made me promise to find Lale. Now, with this letter, I really had to try, or I’d be as low as him. I decided I would call up a few of the agencies tomorrow and ask them if they had anybody named Zack. It wasn’t the most common name. Then I’d…I’d…well, I’d figure it out, a step at a time.

  For right now, I had to get ready to go out to eat with Ron Bonetti. I figured the chances of him running into Aurelius were slim, but frankly I didn’t care if Aurelius saw me going out with somebody else. In spite of all that electricity bouncing between us, he hadn’t tried even once to talk to me since the day at Joe Jr.’s when Hendrix died, and except for the Janis Joplin record and note under the door, there had been nothing. He still played the sax late at night, though, and that was comforting, and there was the rose that was left by my door the day after we talked, but it might not have even been him that left it, although I couldn’t imagine who else it would be. There were several more kids living in Mrs. Digby’s house, and while we spoke to one another as we passed on the stairs or something, I didn’t make friends with any of them. We were all too busy trying to get somewhere in some career. There were a couple of actors and a dancer and one quiet girl who was writing a novel and worked in a jewelry shop on Greenwich Street, but none of them would leave me flowers.

  I splurged on a new outfit—a pair of mustard suede hot pants trimmed in burnt orange, and I wore them with a matching turtleneck sweater, dark-orange wool tights, brown granny boots that laced up to the knee, and a long coat of mustard-and-burnt-orange chenille with brown fake-fur trim. I had a scarf tied around my head and big Monet chandelier earrings like the ones Maud Adams had on in that month’s Vogue, and the whole effect was pretty high-fashion. The hot pants were a little on the short side, but the coat covered everything, which didn’t make it feel so bare. It was getting colder and soon I’d have to look for a heavy coat. New York winters were bound to be a lot colder than the ones I was used to. I could probably find a good one in an antique store down in the Village. Maybe real sheepskin. That would be warm.

  I made a lot of noise locking my door, but didn’t hear a sound from Aurelius’s apartment. He never was there, except late at night or in the mornings, when he was asleep. There was no way he would be downstairs when Ron came by, but you never knew.

  Mrs. Digby was sitting in her parlor with the door open when I walked by.

  “My, my, don’t you look spiffy! Hot date?”

  “Not really, Mrs. Digby. Just a friend. He’s taking me out to some Italian place in Little Italy.”

  “I’m glad you’re getting out. I was beginning to worry, a pretty girl like you staying home every night. Come in and have a little cup of tea. I just made it. How is the modeling going?”

  “Not too bad,” I said, dropping into the chair nearest the door so I’d be sure to hear the bell. “I’m going to do a big ad for Vanity Fair nightgowns, and I’ve started a class learning how to walk down a runway and be in fashion shows. They usually use special girls who just do shows, but they’re starting to use more of the photographic models now. I don’t know how I’ll do. I’m pretty spastic when it comes to walking.”

  It was unhappily true. The man they had running the class, Gerald le Forge, was about ready to give up on me. You had to walk like you were on a straight line, one foot in front of the other, with your shoulders sort of slumped and your hips thrust forward. You walked slowly and had a bored look on your face, and weren’t supposed to react to whoever was in the audience, like you wouldn’t notice even if Jim Morrison was sitting there in the front row in his black leather pants with his weenie out. And we had to learn how to pivot, up on our toes, looking graceful, in the highest heels you can imagine, in order to turn around at the end of the runway. I had already twisted my ankle, which was horrible, since I had to do so much walking making the rounds of go-sees. Fortunately, it wasn’t sprained, but it made looking bored harder. Still, Gerald promised he’d try to book me at one of the smaller shows to practice. We got the same hourly rate as for photography, so that was good.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re going to be swell at it,” Mrs. Digby said. She was a hip chick, ol’ Mrs. D. “I thought I couldn’t dance a step when I first started with Flo Zeigfeld, but before I knew it I was kicking up just as high as the rest of them.”

  “I wish I could have seen you in the shows.”

  “Nothing like them around anymore. People think of burlesque as a strip show on Forty-second Street, but it used to be real classy entertainment. High-toned men and women came, dressed to the nines. Everyone dolled up to go out in those days, even if it was just shopping, hats and gloves and walking sticks and spats for the men. And after the shows, the sharpshooters were always waiting around the stage door, flowers in hand, to see which one of us they could take out for a late supper. I was one of the most popular, if I do say so myself, and had scads of boyfriends. I met my first husband that way. He was a real gentleman, that Reggie. I knew he was husband material when he didn’t make a pass on our first date. Didn’t even try to hold my hand or kiss me! And he wore expensive shoes. You can always judge a man by his shoes, remember that. Reggie wooed me properly, I can tell you. Flowers, candy, little gifts of jewelry sent to the dressing room every night—not too expensive, but tasteful. Of course I knew not to sleep with him until he proposed and I had a rock on my finger! He thought I was an angel and my feet didn’t touch the earth when I walked. After we were engaged for a few months and had the date picked out and the invitations sent, I finally did go to bed with him, but I wouldn’t give him head unt
il after the actual wedding ceremony. I suppose you know what that means?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” I was good and shocked, but tried to keep my face expressionless, like I had to do for the runway.

  “I knew no nice girl would do that until the wedding ring was on the finger. I suppose times have changed, though.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think they have.”

  “Anyhow, at the same time I was seeing my first husband—Reggie Digby, his name was. I may have said that already; isn’t that a nice name? I never changed my name again although I did change husbands a few times—my real name was Bernice Schwartz, and that was no name for a Ziegfeld girl. Beatrice Digby was so much classier. So, as I was saying, all the while I was letting Reggie woo me, on the side I was also seeing another boyfriend who was in the mob. You know about the mob, I imagine?”

  “Kind of.” I had to work harder at keeping my face expressionless.

  “Well, he was the most attractive man you ever wanted to meet. Dark. Dangerous. All women love dangerous men, don’t they? I know I used to. This one was named Al Paris, although I don’t think Paris was his real last name. Probably something long and Italian. Is the young man you are going out with tonight Italian, by any chance?”

  “Uh, well, as a matter of fact, he is.”

  “I knew it. I’m quite psychic, you know. Every woman should have an Italian in her life. Anyhow, Al Paris loved, loved, loved to have me give him head. It was his favorite thing in all the world, and to tell you the truth, in my day I was quite proficient at it—in fact a lot of the gentlemen said I was the best there was, and…”

  “Mrs. Digby, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but this is kind of a lot of information. Maybe I shouldn’t know all this.”

  “Oh, piddle. You young people these days are so straitlaced. Fine. I won’t tell you the end of the story.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip, her mouth in a little moue. I hated to make her unhappy.

  “Well, okay,” I said. “So you would…do you-know-what to Al Paris, but not to Mr. Digby. But why didn’t you marry Al Paris if you liked him more?”

  She set her cup down a little harder than she meant to, sloshing out some of the tea, and looked at me in amazement. “Are you serious? An Italian? One who said he was in the mob? What kind of husband would that make? I would never get a moment’s peace when he was out of the house, and the very minute an Italian man marries a woman she becomes the wife and they start having mistresses! No, it’s better to be the mistress with men like that, and marry men like Mr. Digby, who was the owner of a furniture manufacturing firm, and who, as I said, I saved the big surprise for until the wedding night.”

  “So what happened? Was it a huge success? So to speak.”

  “No, actually he didn’t really like it. Only man I ever knew who didn’t. I worked and worked and worked on him, but it never got past half-mast, and he never let me try again. I think he was embarrassed. What a disappointment, to find out too late, after the wedding, that you weren’t allowed to do one of the things you do best in life! Forget any chance of him reciprocating, if you know what I mean. That would have been much too embarrassing for him to try. We stayed together for a year, but it never really worked. Although I do have fond memories of Mr. Digby, even today. He bought me this house, bless him, and of course all the furniture, which came from his factory. A gentleman all the way. If I have one lesson to pass on to you, Cherry, it’s to get real estate out of them, and have it put in your own name.”

  “I’ll remember that. What happened to Al Paris?”

  “I don’t know. He disappeared a few months after my wedding. He used to say his secret mob name was the Ghost, because he was always there but nobody could see him. I think he was some kind of collector or hit man or something and had to do a lot of waiting around.”

  “I guess somebody saw him.”

  “Most likely. Anyway, dear, have fun with your Italian man tonight. Is he married?”

  “He never said.”

  “He’s married.”

  As if on cue the doorbell rang and Ron was standing there with his yellow aviator glasses and neatly cropped beard, holding a biker’s helmet.

  “Hi, Ron. What’s with the helmet?”

  “We’re going on the bike tonight. I thought I’d surprise you. By the way, you look fabulous. I always wanted to walk into a restaurant with an Amazon in suede hot pants.”

  “Is it too much?”

  “Too much is never enough. You’re perfect.”

  Mrs. Digby followed me into the foyer, her ever-present smile lighting up at Ron.

  “Mrs. Digby, this is my friend, Ron Bonetti. Ron, this is my landlady, Beatrice Digby.”

  “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Digby.” He actually took her hand and kissed it. She simpered like a young girl. If you only knew, Ron, I thought, that you are kissing the hand that has launched a thousand guys.

  “Cherry didn’t say you were such a charming young man, Mr. Bonetti. You’re not in the mob by any chance, are you?” She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  “No, ma’am. I’m a photographer.”

  “That’s lovely. Well, have a nice time, children. If Aurelius comes in, Cherry, should I tell him you’re out?”

  “I don’t think Aurelius will ask, Mrs. Digby. Good night.”

  “Who’s Aurelius?”

  “Nobody,” I said, and walked out the door.

  My head was whirling from the conversation with Mrs. Digby, and I almost ran into the motorcycle parked on the curb.

  “Wow. This thing is huge! Is it a Harley?”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. I mean, you’re right out there, aren’t you? With no roof or sides or anything to protect you.” I guess I sounded a little scared. I was.

  “Don’t worry. Here’s a helmet. You’ll be as safe as you would be in a Cadillac convertible.”

  Right. I hated the helmet squashing my hair down, and the strap got tangled up in my earrings so I had to take them off. I worried that the tail of my coat was going to get caught in the spokes and drag me off onto the pavement under the wheels of a car, or break my neck like Isadora Duncan, but I didn’t want Ron to think I was a baby, so I climbed on behind him.

  “Put your arms around my waist. Hold on and don’t wiggle around too much.”

  I jumped when he stomped down on the starter, and I grabbed on to him, winding my fingers into the leather of his jacket, and off we went. It was pretty wild, zooming east across town and then down Broadway, zigzagging between the cars. Everyone stared at us, but after a few blocks I sort of got my seat and didn’t feel like I was going to fall off. The tail of my coat flapped behind the bike, and the cold wind whipped my legs. It was impossible to talk. I just hung on for dear life and watched the buildings whiz by like lights on a carousel.

  Puglia’s on Hester Street had been open for business since 1919. The smell of good garlic permeated the walls and floors, and the red-and-white-checked tablecloths were soft from scores of washings. The maître d’ greeted Ron like an old friend, and gave me his arm as he guided us to the table right in the window, where everyone on the street could look in and see us.

  “Maybe we could sit in the back?” I asked. I wasn’t too keen on a couple of guys who were staring in at the window, pretending to read the menu.

  “No, no, no, signorina! This is best table in house! Only the best for the beautiful signorina!” So we sat down and I ignored the guys peering in until they finally sauntered off.

  The waiter came right over with menus and water, and Ron ordered a bottle of Chianti. His eyes were a little bright, and it seemed like he might have already gotten a head start on the drinks, but for a guy who had vodka for breakfast, it was normal. Ron drank more than anybody I ever knew, but you could hardly tell at all.

  “Do you ever get drunk?” I asked.

  “No. There’s a trick to getting drunk that I haven’t mastered. In fact I
wish I could get drunk.”

  “Why do you want to get drunk?”

  “To get someplace else besides my head, I guess.”

  “Is your head such a bad place to be?”

  “Tonight, Cherry chérie, I wouldn’t trade heads with anybody.”

  I didn’t quite know how to answer that, and he smiled like he was joking, so I just didn’t respond. I never knew with him if he was kidding or not. He always wore yellow glasses, which made it hard to see his eyes.

  “Why do you always wear those glasses, Ron?”

  “It makes the world always look sunny.”

  “Even at night?”

  “Especially at night. Besides, I’m nearsighted and need them to see.”

  “Can you take them off, just for a little bit?”

  He took them off, and he wasn’t really that bad-looking. His eyes might have been a little small, but they were a nice brown. He grinned, then put the glasses back on.

  “Sorry. I would rather be able to see you, but I’ll try to wear regular glasses if it bothers you.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t bother me.” But it did.

  The waiter brought the wine, which was a little on the sour side, but I sipped it without making a face, and was proud of how sophisticated I was.