by Julie Kibler
I snorted. “Nell Prewitt, I’ll never be the prettiest girl at any party, but you’re a dear for trying.” My face had been called intelligent, and my features striking, but never pretty, even as a toddler in short dresses and patent-leather shoes. As I neared my seventeenth birthday, I’d accepted that the boys at the parties my mother forced me to attend would always look beyond me to the softer girls, the ones framed in pastels and ruffles. But I’d have loathed having the word pastel associated with me ever, whether applied to my appearance or my personality. I was even halfway pleased with being called serious—what I heard from the other girls more than any other adjective. “Oh, Isabelle, why so serious?” they asked, biting their lips and pinching their cheeks as they studied their reflections, checking the dabs of powder and rouge their mothers allowed them, or peered over their shoulders to ensure the seams of their stockings traveled straight and narrow down their calves.
“Anyway,” I said to Nell, “I should start doing my own hair. Women nowadays are independent. They do things for themselves.”
Nell flinched as though I’d slapped her. Too late, I realized my statement had been careless and hurtful. She’d helped me dress and primp for parties and special occasions for years—not just as a household employee but also as my friend. We’d never attend a party together, of course, so the preparations became our private rite of passage. But as close as we were—more like dearest confidantes than a privileged girl and her mother’s housemaid—she wouldn’t feel free to voice her hurt that I would so easily cast her aside.
“Oh, Nell, I’m sorry. It’s not you.” I sighed and clutched her sleeve, but still, Nell didn’t speak. She shifted away ever so slightly and returned to her task. It felt as though a tiny fault line had opened, creating a space between us never there before.
And as close as we were, and in spite of the fact that I’d shared nearly every detail of my life with Nell, I couldn’t tell her my plans for the evening. Of course, I’d make my appearance at Earline’s party. But then I’d tell my hostess Mother needed me at home. And then I’d escape.
I’d had as much as I could tolerate of the tame game nights the parents threw to keep the kids in our sheltered little clique out of trouble, away from the temptation of the glamorous nightclubs only minutes away in Newport—even creeping up on the outskirts of our little town. When I was younger, I’d watched my aunt prepare to go out in the evenings, her body draped in daring knee-length dresses that flowed loosely around her hips and shoulders like the gowns of a Greek goddess, trimmed with brilliant jet beads or sequined embroidery that glimmered like peacock feathers. Her escorts called for her in dark, close-fitting suits that showed off their broad shoulders. My mother stood by, lips thinned and brows knitted together. She complained her sister’s wildness would bring us all down. After all, we had a reputation to uphold as the family of Shalerville’s only physician. But Aunt Bertie had her own income, and she reminded my mother she wasn’t dependent on the family. Mother had no choice but to let her come and go as she pleased.
Sometimes, when she returned late at night, I stole into her room and begged her for stories about the places she’d been, and Aunt Bertie, her clothing perfumed with cigarette smoke and her breath with something sweet and sharp and vaguely dangerous, would tell me—the abbreviated version, I suspected now. She whispered about the other women’s dresses, their escorts, the music, the dancing, the games, the rich food and drink. These glimpses were enough to illuminate the differences between her adventures and the stuffy events my parents attended. They returned home in their somber attire less enthusiastic about life than when they left—which seemed to defeat the purpose of going out. Eventually, Aunt Bertie left, my mother no longer willing to put up with her disregard for our house rules. Only weeks later, her inebriated escort turned the wrong way and drove his car off the bluff, plunging both of them to instant death. I stood by in shock as Mother claimed it was Auntie’s comeuppance for living that way—even as grief sent her to bed for days. We kids were kept away from the funeral. I wept alone in my room while she and Father attended the service, and we never spoke of her sister again.
I still missed Aunt Bertie desperately. And tonight, I hoped to glimpse some of the things she’d whispered about. Early in the week, I’d been assigned to sit with a new girl at school. Trudie had moved into Shalerville from Newport to live with her grandmother. The other girls insulted or ignored her—anyone new to our town was suspect anyway, but someone from Newport was doubly so. She didn’t seem to mind. She tossed her head at their slights, at their concerted efforts to cut her out of the lunch line or shift themselves so she had no room to sit at their tables—not that she’d have wanted to. Trudie told me her mother had moved her to get her away from the bad influences of Newport—“Newpert,” she called it, running her vowels and consonants together even more than the rest of us did, no clear syllables—and she wasn’t thrilled with the change of environment. I asked her what living in town was like, and she seemed amused at my interest, though also surprised, considering how the other girls shunned her. The next day, she drew me aside after class and said she’d be going home for the weekend. She asked if I’d meet her downtown Saturday night. She’d show me around. Perhaps we would even slip into the new nightclub her friends from home had been yammering about—a clean little place with good music and dancing.
My face tingled with some unidentifiable emotion as I considered her offer. I knew, as much as I hated the confines of my own life, I didn’t belong in Newport at night, but I was tempted. My parents would never agree, of course, which meant I’d have to sneak away. But I wouldn’t be alone once I got there, and I’d have the chance to observe something I’d only heard about before. Nobody else I knew would have had the nerve to go.
Later, I overheard my older brothers gossiping with a friend about the Rendezvous, the newest club down on Monmouth Street—classy, they said, an okay place to take their girls, but they grumbled that they wouldn’t make it there Saturday because they’d promised them a movie. Their bad luck—my opportunity. It eased my nerves that they thought the Rendezvous was nice enough to take a date there. Some. The next day at school, I told Trudie I’d go, even while the lining of my stomach clenched in a warning. We planned to meet outside Dixie Chili Saturday at seven-thirty.
Nell gave my hair one last tug as an automobile horn tooted outside the window. “Best I can do. Run on now. Enjoy your party.”
Impulsively, I hugged her. “Oh, I will, Nell. You wait and see. I’ll have all kinds of stories to tell you tomorrow.” She flattened herself against the door. I couldn’t tell what flabbergasted her more—my sudden affection or my excitement about a Sunday-school class party, which she knew I’d hated since round two, when I realized they’d all be the same. Same boys and girls. Same dull games. Same bunch of nothing.
“Miss Isabelle?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
“You be careful.”
“Oh, Nell. What kind of trouble can I find?”
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms and leaned against the door again. She looked so much like her mother—worry shaping her whole demeanor—it startled me. But I fluttered my hand behind me and clattered down the stairs, slowing at the landing. I knew my own mother waited near the front door to approve my dress and hair and general attitude.
“I heard you,” Mother said. “Ladies do not run. And never down stairs.” She tapped my shoulder with her eyeglasses.
“Yes, ma’am.” I ducked away and hurried past her.
“Why are you wearing that dress? It’s not at all right for a party.” She frowned.
“No reason,” I said.
Daddy rounded the corner, his glasses low on his nose as he studied the newspaper he carried. He pushed them up and looked at me. “Hey, ladybug. You look stunning. Have fun at the party.”
Mother sniffed. “The Joneses are driving both ways this evening? Home no later than eleven-thirty.”
“Of course,
Mother. I might turn into a beggar girl if I’m not home before midnight.”
“Isabelle, mind your manners.” She watched me all the way down the walk. I suspected she would watch until long after the car was out of sight before she closed the door.
I’d deflected her question about my dress, but I couldn’t avoid it altogether. Sissy Jones poked her head out of the window from the rear seat of her father’s car. “Isabelle. Darling. Whatever are you wearing? You look as though you’re dressed for a funeral in that old rag.”
She was correct. I’d worn this same plain, dark dress to my grandfather’s funeral a few months earlier—but it was the one thing in my wardrobe that didn’t scream schoolgirl. I’d sifted through the costume jewelry Aunt Bertie had given me to play pretend with all those years ago until I found a beaded brooch not too battered from my games and hid it in my bag, as well. I’d fancy up my plain old dress by pinning the brooch to its collar, and that would have to do. Surely not every woman who frequented the Newport clubs would be as glamorous as my aunt had been. Ideally, my simple dress wouldn’t stand out anyway. My only goal in meeting Trudie, after all, was to see how things were beyond the invisible fence the mothers of Shalerville had erected to keep us kids in line.
“Silly old Cora,” I said to Sissy. “She took all my pretty dresses to freshen and press days ago and hasn’t returned them. What else could I do?” I crossed my fingers behind my back as I produced the fib. Nell’s mother’s face would have betrayed her bewilderment at my statement even more than Nell’s had when I’d hurt her feelings earlier. Cora often seemed more a mother to me than my own, nearly always the one to clean me up when I fell and scraped my knee, or hug me to her soft, laundry soap and starch–smelling bosom when I ached from my mother’s unpredictable rebuffs. But I needed some excuse for my unusual attire, and what Cora didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
“Thank you for picking me up, Mr. Jones.” I settled myself next to Sissy. “I won’t need a ride home. I’m leaving early.”
Sissy tilted her chin. The line of her eyebrows judged me. “And how do you propose to return home?” she asked. Everyone knew Mother didn’t allow me to walk home alone in the evening.
“Oh. Well. Nell and her brother will come for me.”
“So you’ll leave before dark? Why bother with the party if you must leave so soon?”
Negroes weren’t allowed on the streets of our town after sundown, but I hadn’t counted on Sissy’s homing in on that so quickly. She was sharp, however, too clever for her own good and never my favorite friend, though our mothers had thrown us together since we were tots. She was one of the girls who’d been so rude to Trudie, and I smiled, imagining her reaction if she knew my real plans.
“I can only stay an hour or so, but you don’t think I’d miss Earline’s party, do you?” My eyes challenged her. She knew exactly how much I hated these parties, but she also knew I’d never sacrifice an escape from my house on a Saturday evening. “I’ll be gone well before dark.”
In fact, this was good luck. Now I had the perfect excuse to make my stay at Earline’s party short. After all, I wouldn’t want to get Nell and Robert in hot water—or worse—by keeping them in town after sunset. They’d need to be on their way home well before the sun threw its last rays upon our monotone little burg.
Mr. Jones dropped us at Earline’s, and I tolerated the usual flurry of hugs, squeals, and pecks on the cheek from the other girls. Several gave my dress the same suspicious once-over Mother and Sissy had, but I brushed their comments away. Next time, I’d bring out the jade cigarette holder Aunt Bertie had left behind—the one hidden in my purse tonight along with my contraband makeup. I’d sneak a cigarette from my brothers when they weren’t looking, then ask one of the pimple-faced boys at the party to light up my Camel and see how the girls liked that.
I counted the minutes by seconds until I’d fulfilled my obligation. After an hour precisely, I thanked Earline and went to the kitchen to find her mother. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Curry. The party was swell, and Mother says hello.”
“Already leaving, hon?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Mother needs help setting up for a special family dinner tomorrow.” I told a half-truth. Mother had invited my brothers’ sweethearts to eat Sunday dinner with us. She planned to stay home from church to finish her preparations, but Mrs. Curry and Mother rarely spoke except at church. By the time they saw each other again, Earline’s mother would have completely forgotten my early departure.
“I didn’t hear a car,” she said.
“Our housemaid and her brother are walking me home. I’m going to wait out front.” Mrs. Curry squeezed my shoulder absently and returned to slicing the tiny bland sandwiches that seemed compulsory at these things. I think some of my friends actually enjoyed them.
“Careful, dear. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, Mrs. Curry.”
I tiptoed back through the main hallway, pausing to glance into the front room, where my peers spun Freddy around and around so he could pin the tail on the donkey. We were far too old for the game, but the girls still became giddy and hopeful when boys they had crushes on tried to pin the donkey tail to their dresses, so they kept it up. Poor Freddy, who was so blind without his specs I never knew why he bothered with the blindfold, stumbled all over. With everyone distracted and laughing at him, I slipped out and pulled the front door nearly closed behind me—not enough to make the click that could alert someone to glance out the window and discover my solo departure. An unescorted young lady on the streets of Shalerville, Kentucky, population fifteen hundred—plus or minus three—was hardly uncommon, but the whole town knew how my mother was. In less than half a mile, though, I’d catch a streetcar and take the short ride to Monmouth Street.
But now my nerves played up. Even by daylight, Newport was worlds away from the cleaner, loftier streets of Shalerville. Fast men and women crowded the sidewalks day and night, and our preacher thundered about the gambling rooms and dens of prostitution.
But I replayed my brothers’ words. They might venture into shady businesses when it was just the fellows, but surely not with their girls—nice girls who had no idea what imbeciles Jack and Patrick could be.
I’d stick close to Trudie, and if, in the end, my courage deserted me, I’d turn tail and run.
* * *
TRUDIE ARRIVED AT the chili parlor late, fifteen minutes after our agreed-upon time. I gawked, speechless, as she clattered up the sidewalk toward me. She scarcely resembled the plain girl I sat beside at school. She wore a low-cut dress sewn from a print of emerald green diamonds on white. The clingy dress, her lipstick—brighter times four than what I’d applied on the streetcar—and her shiny spectator pumps gave her the appearance of a woman far older than our true ages, even though she’d admitted to me at school that she was a year older than most in our class, having fallen behind at Newport High.
“You came,” she squealed, and swung me around in a hug as I fought to keep my balance. “My ma would never have let me come out if I hadn’t told her I was meeting a nice girl from Shalerville. Just what she hoped for when she shipped me off …
“C’mon,” she said, and pulled me after her until we arrived at the Rendezvous. I was surprised she was in such a hurry to get there, having assumed we’d stroll Monmouth Street for at least a few moments, making good on her promise to show me the nighttime sights. But I let her drag me along. Inside, I hurried to keep up with her long stride—she was taller by half a foot—as she wove through the crowd, heading toward the bar. No sooner had we found a spot nearby than a young man bought her a drink, which she tossed back quickly, and he swept her onto the dance floor. She gave me a halfhearted apology—“Isabelle, you don’t mind if I dance, do you, honey?”—then whirled away in the man’s arms.
I shrank against the wall at first, out of breath, my jaw slack. Trudie was worldlier than I’d imagined—even knowing her mother had moved her to get her away from tro
uble. But I hadn’t expected to be deserted like this. What was I to do? I almost left then.
Instead, I stood alone against a wall almost thirty minutes while Trudie circled the dance floor. I stole glances at the crowd while I tapped my foot, pretending to be engrossed in the swing music a trio played on a tiny stage elevated half a foot above the rest of the place. Men and women mingled around the room or danced on an oval parquet floor enclosed within a brass rail. Others dined at tiny tables against the rail or at the edges of the room. Everyone smoked and drank cocktails, and the laughter and music and clink of stemware combined in a song I’d heard only in movie theaters.
I’d never felt more out of place in my life. At my classmates’ parties, I belonged, more or less, even if I didn’t quite fit in from my perspective. And I’d been dead wrong about the black dress. Now I wished I’d worn a print, no matter how juvenile my flowered dresses had seemed. I made a sad little pigeon in this flock of pretty birds. I reached into my handbag for Aunt Bertie’s cigarette holder. Maybe if I gave the appearance I smoked, I’d look less like a little girl and more like a woman. Just as I produced the holder, a handsome young man in a navy blue suit headed across the smoky room toward me.
“You need a light, doll?”
I glanced at Trudie on the dance floor. She seemed to be having such a grand time. In a split second, I made a decision. “I need more than a light,” I said. “Got a cigarette on you?” I hoped the way I dropped my voice low and clipped my vowels to speak with a confidence I didn’t truly possess gave the appearance I knew what I was doing.
He fished a pack from his pocket and inserted a cigarette into Aunt Bertie’s holder. I leaned toward him, the jade tip between my lips, and imitated what I’d seen. I inhaled while the man held a match to the end of the cigarette. The heat rushed toward my throat, more powerful than I’d expected. I held my breath until the urge to cough passed.
“What’re you drinking?” the fellow asked.