“Istanbul.” Moxie lacked both the will and the desire to stop making him uncomfortable. Who else might he find threatening in a foreign sort of way? It came to her in a flash. “Just like Theda Bara.” She watched excitedly as his face registered the dismay she had hoped for at the mere mention of the famous film star known as “The Vamp.” Just a few years prior, Hollywood moguls had labored to ensure that Bara represented everything they thought was wrong with Eastern countries, and clearly Noel had been paying attention.
“Wow,” Noel said. “Do you know her?”
Irene looked disgusted. “I thought Theda Bara was from Cincinnati.” She looked to Tom, who, as usual, said absolutely nothing.
Moxie ignored Irene’s contribution to the conversation. “Of course I know her. Our parents were friends. Theda showed me how to fry cats.”
Noel’s face seemed to drain completely of its already pale color. Moxie could barely keep a straight face.
“And she was why I got a bone in my nose,” she added, taking a sip of water. “All the neighborhood girls wanted to be like her.”
“They do that in Istanbul?”
“Noel,” Irene finally interjected, “jump on the trolley and stop being so gullible.”
He looked at Moxie suspiciously. “Oh, I get it. You never had a bone in your nose at all, did you?”
She put her hands up in surrender. “You got me. We didn’t pierce our noses, but every summer solstice, we did sacrifice a goat to Kreplik, the god of thunder.”
“Excuse us, fellas.” Irene stood suddenly. “Miss Turkish Delight and I need to powder our noses. We’ll be right back.”
The intense focus in Irene’s glare impressed Moxie, who rose to follow her toward the ladies’ room. Just before they went inside, Irene spun to face her and unloaded. “What are you doing? You’re toying with Noel like a cat with a mouse. This is not what we agreed to.”
Moxie had reached her breaking point. “Yeah yeah yeah, ‘sampling the tea.’ Well, let me tell you something, sister. This guy’s teabag tastes like ashes and ass crack, and I’m sending it right back to the kitchen.”
“You’re not giving him a chance.”
“Are you kidding me? If I wasn’t giving him a chance, I wouldn’t have listened to his sixty tedious stories, not one of them with a beginning or end. I would have gone home after he implied that all women in show business are whores. And I most certainly would not have pretended not to be livid when he told me that I had no right to mourn my father’s passing because Jesus knows best and the Lord is my daddy now. I’ve given this man more of a chance than he will ever deserve over the course of his lifetime. I can’t believe I’m wasting my night off with this…this douchebag.” Vi was right. That really was the perfect word.
Irene seemed stunned, her anger defused. “Okay, so this particular tea is a little bitter. But just because you have one bad mouthful, don’t throw out the teacup.”
“But I shouldn’t have to keep slinging it back either.” Feeling empowered, Moxie stood up straight. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait, you can’t just leave us all here at the restaurant. What will Tom and I say to Noel?”
“Tell him I don’t feel well and need to go home. It’s all true.”
“But we didn’t even get to dessert.”
“You know, there are a million things I’d rather be doing than sitting here trying to force something that doesn’t feel right. I appreciate you trying to help me get my head straight, Irene, but this isn’t making anything better.” She smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”
Moxie walked out without even a backward glance.
“Shit,” Irene muttered. Moxie was right about Noel. He certainly was irritating and dull. But she had hoped Moxie simply needed to get back on the horse, so to speak—back out into the dating world—and that might end this troubling obsession with a strange woman living on the other side of the world.
She shook her head and tried to imagine what it would be like to meet someone and, in the course of a single evening, be so powerfully drawn to them that she completely lost her marbles. That had certainly never happened to her, but she wasn’t convinced that it couldn’t. And as much as she was worried about Moxie and concerned about her choices, she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of wonder at the sheer romanticism of her situation.
Of course Moxie and Violet would probably never see each other again. Things never happened like that, at least not to anyone she knew. She just needed to be there for Moxie. Maybe Noel was a complete washout, but New York was a big place and must have a fella or two who could make Moxie feel the way Violet did.
Irene might have been a lot of things, but one of her good adjectives was devoted. She’d try to make sure Moxie worked through all this. And she’d do her best to ensure that Moxie received all the consideration, respect, and class she was due.
She clapped her hands and turned to go tell Tom and Noel that Moxie’s period had come unexpectedly; she’d just bled through the ass of her dress and had therefore gone home.
*
Home from the studio earlier than she expected, Violet walked eagerly to the front desk, wondering what Lyle might be doing—perhaps conspicuously sporting a dildo that protruded from his forehead as though he were a plump sex unicorn. She was thoroughly disappointed to see him doing nothing of the sort and wearing a well-pressed suit jacket and tie.
“Good afternoon, Miss London.”
“Hello, Captain. I was wondering if I got any mail today.”
“Actually, you did.” He turned and poked through a small stack of papers, retrieving a letter in a familiar-looking envelope. “Here you are.”
She verified the return address and was thrilled to see it was indeed from Moxie. Not wanting to waste any time, she walked to the divan in the front office and got comfortable, then tore open the envelope impatiently.
Vi,
I received your latest letter today, and I have to say it was a wonderfully welcome distraction from talking to my agent, Cotton. He has finally managed to get the manager of the Kasbah to agree to see one of my sets next Saturday night, but I somehow have to come up with a dress that makes me look like I don’t need a gig at the Kasbah—a predicament that strikes me as nothing short of ironic.
At any rate, wish me luck that not only can I find something absolutely breathtaking to wear for about a nickel, but that I also don’t fall on my face when the music starts. I almost wish I didn’t know he was coming. And the fact that I have over a week to stew on it is making me a nervous wreck.
Your description of the place where you’re staying was absolutely hilarious. It made me wish I was there to see the nature, the morbid employee with the menstruation fetish, as well as, of course, you.
My roommate Irene is, at this very moment, lecturing me that I’m letting myself get too drawn into your “dark, Sapphic charms” and that I should be more interested in finding a nice fella who’ll want to treat me to dinner. She insists she has the perfect man for me, but it’s hard to take Irene’s counsel after having met her beau, Tom. I’ve seen him many times and he has yet to do or say anything that would imply that he has even a spark of a personality. I think she likes Tom for letting her always be the center of attention, almost as much as she likes having someone to take her out places and pay. But I can’t imagine that they have much to talk about, just as I am unable to understand what would possibly make her willing to have him touch her. I mean, if Tom’s kisses are as exciting as he is, she must worry about nodding off while they’re necking, though politeness forbids me from asking her that question. However, if she continues haranguing me, that may change.
I’m sorry to hear of your difficulty finding someone in Hollywood who isn’t more interested in salacious titillation than telling a story that could be considered inspirational. I was inclined to send someone out your way who could show the corrupt studios what it was to have principles and conviction, someone who could bring some
sincerity and ethics to that town, but then I remembered that I’m in New York City, and there’s no one like that here either.
That being said, at the risk of contradicting myself, I so want to see the movie about the woman who has a generous heart of gold by day, but by night has copious indiscriminate sex with a parade of random hobos. You’ve definitely piqued my interest, and I think you may have been holding out with that particular gem. Who wouldn’t be instantly drawn into the humanity of a story like that? This gal sure is.
I did notice that your last missive had some small pockets of sentiment that were both sweet and plaintive, and those seem to be the parts that I keep rereading for some reason. If those are your dark, Sapphic charms that I’ve heard so much about recently, then perhaps they are dangerous. If nothing else, the words certainly steal my breath, and I find myself wanting to believe them, yet wanting not to at the same time.
Of course, there are the other parts of your letter that go beyond sweet, past flirtatious, and dive right into bawdy. And yes, I reread those passages too. I may not know entirely what I want, but I’m no fool, for God’s sake. I’ve never had anyone say those kinds of things to me before, and if you’re worried they’re driving me away, then this prompt reply to you should confirm that’s not the case.
It wholly puzzles me that I can feel like I miss you when I’ve really spent only a matter of hours in your company. But many times over these past few weeks I’ve wished that I could meet you for drinks, though perhaps coffee would be safer. And I imagine that if you hadn’t already shared that you are, in many ways, feeling the same, I would likely have questioned my sanity.
After all, I don’t have a lot of ties with people. I have no living family members, no lengthy friendships or suitors. It’s completely beyond my nature to trust easily and even more so to put credence in something like chemistry or kismet. I therefore remain bewildered and doubtful, though less so, I find, with each successive note from you.
So I’ll take this opportunity to cynically ask that you please not view me as some type of grand sociological experiment or, still worse, as a challenge to be conquered. If you are ever not utterly certain of your words, please don’t write them. Though I have never known you to show me anything but the utmost regard, I simply need you to understand that whatever this is that we’re sharing, it’s more to me than a trifle.
Well, I’ve gone and gotten serious, which was the last thing I intended when I sat down to pen this letter. I do hope that things are going well for you and that your film finishes both soon and to your liking.
I’m looking at the night sky and thinking of you,
Moxie
Violet stopped reading and stared at the floor. Moxie had chosen to be remarkably candid, even though she had probably a thousand reasons not to be. As a result, Violet’s pulse beat loudly through her body like a tympani.
“Hey, Captain,” she finally said to Lyle. “I need to make a long-distance phone call.”
She smiled wryly when he came around the desk and she saw that he wasn’t wearing pants.
Chapter Seven
It was still what Moxie considered to be early in the day when Mrs. Bennington pounded on her apartment door. Within a moment, both Moxie and Irene had thrown on their robes and anxiously darted to answer it and see what was wrong.
“Mrs. B.” Irene yawned. “Is anything wrong? What time is it?”
“It’s ten a.m.,” she answered gruffly. “And there’s a colored lady downstairs who says she’s your tailor, Moxie. Says she has some dresses to bring you. But I wanted to check first, ’cause something about her don’t seem right.”
Moxie tried to blink away the sleep so she could process this odd situation. Perhaps Cotton had come through for her after all. “This must be for Saturday night,” she said. “Please have her come up, Mrs. Bennington.”
The landlady was clearly still not completely at ease with this course of action, but she snorted in acceptance and shuffled back to the staircase.
“You have a tailor?” Irene asked, shutting the door.
“I knew Cotton was being purposely obtuse.” She hastily changed out of her nightgown and threw on undergarments and a light frock that she’d be able to easily slip in and out of, if she should need to try things on for size.
When another knock came, Moxie nearly ripped the door off its hinges in her excitement. In the doorway stood Lady Dulce La Boeuf, in glorious drag, holding at least half a dozen evening gowns on wooden hangers.
“Sweet meat!” she said, immediately hugging Lady Dulce tight.
“Hiya, doll face.” He seemed just as happy to see her as she was to see him and rubbed her back with his free hand.
Irene reappeared newly dressed and seemed completely flabbergasted by the sight in her entryway. She appeared ill at ease with their visitor, and her gaze darted skittishly back and forth between Lady Dulce’s face, large hands, and still larger feet. “Wow.”
“What are you doing here?” Moxie asked cheerfully, ushering her guest inside.
Lady Dulce looked coy. “I got a call last night from someone who said you had something special going on Saturday night that you need to look absolutely divine for. And as we all know, divine is right up my alley.”
Moxie tried to suppress her smile but assumed she was failing. Why had she even considered this was Cotton’s doing? This was a wonderful, thoughtful surprise—not his style at all. No, this little endowment absolutely screamed of Violet.
“Um, hello,” Irene mumbled meekly, still looking baffled.
“Where are my manners?” Moxie asked. “Irene Cavendish, my roommate, confidante, and general nag, this is Lady Dulce La Boeuf, chanteuse extraordinaire and master of part-time femininity.”
“Enchanted,” Lady Dulce said with a coquettish tilt of the head.
“Ditto,” was all Irene managed in response.
“So you’re up early.” Moxie took the gowns and hung them on the door trim. “How about I make us all some coffee?”
“Doll, I’m not up early, I’m up late. So a cup of joe would be great, thanks. This is a cute little place you have.”
“Thank you. Have a seat while I start the percolator.”
Both Lady Dulce and Irene sat in the front room as Moxie busied herself in the small kitchenette.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Irene finally asked.
“Two-finger Flossie’s.”
Moxie chuckled as she eavesdropped on them, realizing that Lady Dulce’s answer only begged more questions. An even longer silence ensued.
“She only has two fingers?” Irene finally asked, just as Moxie rejoined them.
“That’s what I thought when I first heard of her,” she said. “You’d probably be happier not knowing the real answer.”
Irene looked out blankly, seeming to consider this option. Suddenly her face registered complete shock. “Ohh,” she murmured.
“I appreciate you stopping by,” Moxie said. “Especially since you haven’t even been home yet.”
“I thought about going home, but being here in this outfit made more sense. If a skinny colored man showed up here with dresses for you, they probably wouldn’t let me up.”
“And for future reference,” Moxie asked, “what name does he go by?”
“Milton,” he said flatly. “Frankly, he’s a little boring, which is why it’s so much more interesting to be Lady Dulce.”
“I’m sure I’d like Milton just as much,” she said, putting her hand on his and looking at him with affection.
For an instant, he appeared touched, then somehow uncomfortable. “Yes, well, while that coffee’s brewing, let me show you what I brought you.” He stood and went back to where the gowns hung. “I had a bit of a challenge finding something your size. As you can see, I’m a bit more…statuesque.”
Moxie laughed and gestured toward her breasts. “True, but I’ve got these to help keep a dress up.”
Lady Dulce paused dramatically. “You’
re a little bitchy when you first get up, aren’t you?”
Irene huffed. “Trust me, it’s not just when she first gets up.”
*
When Saturday finally arrived, Moxie was still nervous, but she had to admit that with the shimmering ice blue dress on loan from the lovely Lady Dulce, she felt like a million bucks.
She did her best to perform as though it was any other day and no one in particular was in the audience. It pleased her when Lady Dulce’s male persona (aka Milton) slipped in and took a seat at Julian’s table during her final set. She had begged him to come, since he was so instrumental in helping her get prepared. He had been noncommittal, but she gave the doorman a heads-up to expect him, just in case.
As far as her performance, it had gone very well. The audience picked up on the energy in the air and was more attentive than normal, speaking less during her vocals and supplying plentiful applause.
When she finished, she was overwhelmed with relief that she had nothing to be nervous about any longer. She scanned the crowd, generally pleased at both the enthusiastic response and the fact that some of her friends had come to cheer her on, something she was not accustomed to.
The only thing amiss was Violet’s absence, and though Moxie tried to push that thought aside, not wanting to sour the sweet taste of the moment, she felt it was wrong that she wasn’t there. Violet was the one person whom she really wanted to share this moment with and wanted to make proud.
“Moxie,” Cotton said, breaking into her thoughts. “I’d like you to meet Theodore Brown, manager of the Kasbah.” He extended his hand to lead her from the stage and to their table. “Theodore was very impressed with your singing.”
Theodore Brown was younger than Moxie expected, and while he was a bit swarthier than she had pictured him to be, he was attractive. Unfortunately his expression didn’t convey the kind of admiration for her that Cotton had just verbalized. In fact, he looked as though he smelled bad cabbage. “Nice to meet you,” she said unsurely.
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