Seeking the Shore

by Donna Gentry Morton

  A shiver darted down her spine, but she couldn’t tell if it was ignited by excitement or fear. She only knew that 1936 was a week away, and something told her that it would prove to be an unusual year.

  A most unusual year.

  To Julianna, her mother looked like a ship cutting waves, charging full speed ahead around Sweet Creek’s large banquet room, appearing quite flustered by the final preparations for the ball.

  Watching from the kitchen door, Julianna gasped with amazement and concern as she saw her mother embrace a floral arrangement that was both tall and wide, hoist it from a table, teeter beneath its weight, and place it in another spot.

  Next, she spun and darted to the other side of the room and onto the bandstand, where she tested the mikes for Scotty Reidman and his orchestra.

  “Check . . . check. Oh good, they don’t squeal!” She shouted to Julianna, “Goodness knows, I’ve got enough to worry about without eardrums bursting.”

  She was zipping toward the ice sculptures when Julianna called out, “Mother, you look like a little cyclone about to spin out of control.”

  Her mother’s hands waved madly about her head. “I’ve got a zillion things to do!”

  Julianna motioned her over then gently pulled her into the kitchen. “Every event you put together turns out perfectly,” she reminded her. “Relax. Come see the food.”

  But even as she said it, Julianna couldn’t ignore that her mother was more on edge than ever.

  Whenever she asked her mother about it, she always referred to Father’s continued change in personality, like the unexpected Christmas gifts for Julianna and Mari. Not that her mother said generosity was a negative change. She just told Julianna the timing was baffling in conjunction with the man’s preoccupied disposition as of late.

  They admired the food, watching Sweet Creek’s head chef season hearty chunks of tender London Broil that would be slid onto skewers with onions, orange peppers, and mushrooms. His cooks were busy with other parts of the seven-course dinner, one tossing a salad, while another put the finishing touches on the huge birthday cake. It was a rich chocolate with white frosting, trimmed in ribbons of blue icing and crowned with fifty-four red candles in honor of FDR’s birthday.

  When they finished in the kitchen, her mother returned to the ice sculptures and Julianna made a phone call to Cassie. She had graciously given up a day off to babysit Mari, allowing Julianna to attend the ball without any worries about the baby’s well-being. She was in loving hands and, according to a chuckling Cassie, they were having a fine time experimenting with the ham radio.

  Julianna then grabbed her mother from the banquet room, telling her it was time to ready themselves for this night of nights. They had brought their gowns and cosmetics with them to Sweet Creek, planning to change in the club’s ladies lounge. It was a large room of gleaming brass and pink marble, with a sitting area that had a full-length, three-way mirror. When Julianna was dressed, she stood before it in her ice-blue gown and then turned slowly to survey herself from all angles.

  “Oh, darling, you look like a fantasy,” her mother complimented.

  “Thank you,” Julianna said softly, truly glad to have her mother’s approval. She wanted to look good tonight, exceptionally good, though she couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t because she knew photographers from the newspaper’s society section would be circulating about the ball. No, she’d had her picture in the paper before. She wondered if, somewhere beneath her conscience, it had something to do with knowing that Scotty would be there, that he would be watching her. But it was no to that as well. She and Scotty were friends, only friends. He accepted it and claimed to be satisfied with their relationship. And was she? Yes, it was all she had to give.

  There was something else about this night. A feeling that had been with her since morning. Magic or mayhem, she couldn’t say; she only knew that it was going to be big.

  “Are we ready to go, Mother?”

  “We are.”

  They linked arms and went out to greet their guests.

  Polli Raffton had never seen so many rich people before. But there they were—big spenders in their fancy black tuxedoes and women all sequined and shimmery in every color under the sun. She was, too, in her own ritzy gown the color of red grapes. Berry, Mrs. Sheffield had called it when she surprised Polli with it, all zippered-up in a white gown bag. She said it was a gift and that she thought it suited Polli’s skin tone and hair color.

  Well, wasn’t she something, Miss Polli Raffton, alive and well at a big wing-ding hosted by the Sheffields? Maybe she was just handing out name tags and table assignments to the high rents, but what were her girlfriends doing right now? Mitzi, Shirley, and Hazel? Dolling themselves up, no doubt, getting ready for a night of dancing at the Purple Top Hat Lounge. Polli liked the Purple Top Hat, but it was nothing like this swanky Sweet Creek. And the men . . . now, the men here were a whole different lot than what Polli was used to seeing.

  Polli was sitting at a round, lace-draped table just outside the banquet room. When each guest presented themselves, Polli found their name tag and table assignment from the box in front of her. Everything was all nice and alphabetized, thanks to her. Aunt Bertha, the world’s greatest secretary, had suggested that she do that, saying she’d make it a lot easier on herself. And Mrs. Sheffield had gone on and on about it, praising Polli for doing it without being told.

  “Thanks, um, thank you,” Polli had said, not giving any credit to Aunt Bertha. She felt no guilt in omitting her name, not even a pang. Shoot, people raved about Aunt Bertha all the time for her efficient little ways.

  Most of the guests were nice, but a few seemed teed that Polli didn’t know them right off the bat, as if everyone should recognize their snooty faces.

  It’s not like you’re the Queen of England, honey, Polli thought as one older lady snatched her name tag then paraded into the banquet room, her white hair piled up like a turban.

  Your Majesty, Polli nearly spit after her. Truth be told, Polli didn’t give a flying turkey feather about any of these rich people except for one. Just one, and he was standing right inside the banquet door, next to Princess Julianna, greeting this froo-froo, jeweled-up flock of money-raisers.

  Leyton. His name made her thoughts as gooey as caramel on an ice cream scoop. You’d better ask me to dance tonight.

  Julianna couldn’t stop looking at the ball’s guest of honor.

  Charlotte Damon. She was sixteen with wheat-blond curls and the beautiful face of an angel. Her cheeks were pink dollops, and her eyes large and wide set, as blue as a tropical sky. Her ball gown was rosy satin and age-appropriate with a modest neckline, capped sleeves, and a bell skirt with a lace apron overlay.

  Beneath the skirt were leg braces. Heavy, ugly, and cumbersome, but still a cause to celebrate. A year ago, Charlotte had been a polio victim in a wheelchair, and an iron lung before that.

  Julianna looked around the banquet room, the large turnout warming her heart. They had raised a lot of money tonight. Charlotte glowed as she sat on the steps of the bandstand, Scotty and his orchestra serenading her with Bing Crosby’s “Sweet and Lovely.”

  She should be everyone’s hero, Julianna thought, glad that the night was going well for the girl. And for everyone else, it seemed. Laughter and happy chatter came from all directions, mixing with the slow to lively tempos of the orchestra and the divine aromas wafting from the kitchen. Taking it all in, Julianna was more than satisfied.

  So far, the night was going beautifully.

  Leyton was certainly having a grand time. With an ever-present smile, he made the rounds, posing for pictures with the President of That, the V.P. of This, the Chairman of Such-and-Such. He had to hand it to Julianna. What she had pulled off tonight was excellent for all involved, and especially for his image.

  The alcohol was good—very, very good—and he indulged between every trip to the dance floor. And there were frequent trips as he met his host obligations to dance with particu
lar wives and certain social pillars, with young daughters and old grandmothers, the beautiful and the . . . well, the ones who weren’t his type.

  The only dilemma was that he kept catching glances from Polli Raffton. Little Miss Polli in her brand-new party dress. And every time he saw her, he had the same thought. A confirmation, really, of something he already believed.

  You can remove the girl from the lower class, but you can’t remove the lower class from the girl.

  Her desperate eyes had been on him, begging for a dance. He had tried to throw her a few discreet winks, just to keep her encouraged, but did he dare hold her in his arms for a dance? In front of all these people? She was a mutt out of her pack, somehow finding herself among a show of purebreds. Yet she was Richard’s assistant, a known fact by now, and it was doubtful any eyebrows would lift should he honor her with a dance. Some might even construe his gesture as an act of genteel kindness.

  Ah, well. The more he drank, the less he cared. Besides, he couldn’t afford to have a miffed Polli on his hands, so he swaggered over to the wall she was holding up and bowed at the waist. “At last, may I please have this dance?”

  She nearly catapulted into his arms, knocking him back a step. He regained his balance and laughed, pretending to enjoy her unbecoming way of saying yes. Wearing her heart prominently on her sleeve, there was no playing hard-to-get on this girl’s part, no mystery or allurement.

  “Forgive my delay in asking you to dance,” he said, finishing with a drawn-out sigh and roll of the eyes. “Unfortunately, when one’s family puts on an event of this magnitude, there are many obligatory dances to fulfill, many hands to shake. You know what I mean.”

  She nodded, but in fact she looked as if she didn’t know at all.

  “I’ve yet to even dance with my wife tonight.”

  “Really?” Polli’s eyes lit up. She smirked, looking toward Julianna, whose back was to her as she talked to that tall auburn-haired girl in the dark turquoise gown.

  “Who’s that your wife is talking to?”

  Leyton followed Polli’s glare. “Her? Oh, that’s the infamous Virginia Flemming, voice of that ridiculous Blair Burkett on the radio. Don’t bother with her, Polli. I think her only function in life is to be a spoiled nuisance.”

  She giggled. “She sure is pretty, though.”

  Leyton shrugged. “I prefer blondes.”

  For a second, Leyton wondered if he had encouraged her too much with that last statement. Her eyes darted from Virginia to him, looking bright and eager like someone who had just seen the door to Heaven open. He feared she might step forward and snuggle against his chest, right here in the midst of his world. Considering that she had also accepted his dance invitation by nearly tackling him, he knew he had better start directing that dizzy mind of hers, so he pulled her to the dance floor where he firmly held her at an appropriate distance. Yes, he needed her to keep wanting him, but there must be ground rules. Now was the time to begin setting them.

  “Sweet Polli with an I,” he said, feigning affection. “You strike me as a girl who doesn’t like to hold back her feelings.”

  “Um, yes, I mean, no,” she answered. “I mean, sometimes I just want everyone to know when I’m happy.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful trait,” he told her, “but there are some things we have to keep to ourselves, don’t you agree?” He gave her a quick wink. “Secrets can be a lot of fun, though.”

  She nodded her agreement, just as he knew she would. This girl would agree with him if he said the moon really was made of cheese. “Good, you know then that sometimes it’s more important than ever that people play their cards right. Sadly, Polli, I’ve actually seen one bad move cause someone to lose the whole game.”

  He said nothing more until their dance ended and he led Polli back to her wall. There he lightly kissed the top of her hand, just as he had done with all his other partners.

  “Perhaps another dance later,” he said, leaning in just enough to make it seem private to Polli, but not so far as to spark gossip from anyone watching. “We have to be careful, Paulette, or else tongues will wag.”

  With stars in her eyes, she gulped and asked, “What did you call me?”

  “Paulette. That’s your name, isn’t it? Or are you a Paulina?”

  “Neither. I’m just plain Polli.”

  “Oh, you’re hardly plain, Polli.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No, and I shall call you Paulette because it sounds elegant. Do you like it?”

  “Un huh.” She was bouncing her head like a broken spring.

  “Good.” He smiled. “It will be my private name for you, Paulette.”

  He left then, disappearing into a sea of black coats. Though he could no longer see Polli, he was confident that she was where he needed her to be, which was squarely and discreetly in his corner. He wasn’t certain what he might need her for in the future, or how she might be an unknowing assistant to his plans, but he wanted to insure that she’d contribute and cover.

  He made his way to the other side of the sea, where one of several bars was set up. A celebratory drink was in order.

  Charlotte Damon stood behind the podium on the bandstand, amazed as she looked out on the crowd.

  So many people, she thought as an excited tingle shimmied up her arms. Young, old . . . they’re all here. She glanced at Julianna, who was standing beside her, waiting for the busboys to clear away the last of the plates used for serving cake.

  Julianna. Charlotte loved her. If she could pick anyone to be her older sister, it would be Julianna. She was so sweet and beautiful, and she didn’t treat Charlotte like a kid. Instead, she treated her just like one of her own girlfriends.

  This had been the best night of Charlotte’s life. Dinner, the president’s radio address, everyone singing “Happy Birthday” around the big cake, and now it was time for her to speak.

  Julianna tapped on the microphone. “Everyone, may I have your attention, please?”

  Voices fell quiet, and everyone turned their eyes to the bandstand. “I—I wish I was as cool and calm as the young lady standing next to me, but I’m actually nervous speaking before crowds,” Julianna admitted. “But I want to thank all of you for coming to the FDR Birthday Ball and let you know that you’ve helped us raise over ten thousand dollars to fight Infantile Paralysis.”

  Applause exploded from the crowd, peppered with celebratory whistles and cheers. As it began to fade, Julianna, flushed with apparent nerves and excitement, continued, “Most of you probably know that my daughter, Mari, became a polio victim this past summer. I can’t . . .” She paused to take a breath and shuddered. “I can’t begin to describe what it felt like to hear that diagnosis. It’s my prayer that nobody in this room ever feels the way I felt at that moment.”

  A low murmur hummed throughout the room as Julianna again fell silent. She looked overcome with emotion. A member of the orchestra passed a glass of water to Scotty, who passed it to Charlotte, who put it into Julianna’s hands. She smiled gratefully and took a few sips before continuing.

  “For Mari, though, recovery was only a matter of time. After a couple of months in the hospital, she came home without any permanent damage from the disease.”

  There was more applause and Julianna waited for it to die down. “Thank you, but a lot of polio survivors are left with many hurdles to overcome.” She took one of Charlotte’s hands and squeezed it in her own. “Here to tell you about that is one of the most courageous girls I’ve ever met and tonight’s guest of honor, Miss Charlotte Damon.”

  As the guests clapped, Julianna stepped aside and gave the microphone to Charlotte, who took it as easily as if someone had handed her a soda. She smiled at the faces before her, her eyes bright and direct, her head tipped slightly to one side. Until learning of the leg braces beneath her skirt, anyone could have mistaken her for homecoming queen.

  “A couple of years ago,” Charlotte began, “I could have danced on the ceiling, but that
all changed on August 1, 1933.”

  She told her story of contracting polio after swimming in a lake where the monster disease lurked. She talked of treatments and pain, of an iron lung that felt like a casket for the living. There were tears and wheelchairs, but also hope, because she had stood from her wheelchair and walked again.

  When she was ready to conclude, she stepped from behind the podium and said, “People wonder what polio looks like.” Then shocking everyone, she lifted her skirt to her knees, revealing the cumbersome braces that caged her lower legs. “Well, this is one picture, but you won’t see it next year. Thanks to people like you, people like me can hope to dance again.”

  All around, people went wild with applause, clapping so loudly that Julianna and Charlotte could barely hear each other, even though they were standing side-by-side. To Julianna, it seemed surreal, like she was watching it happen to other people or seeing it in a dream. Her face hot from excitement, cheeks aching from a wide smile, she felt giddy and light headed, tipsy from the response and overall good feeling about the night.

  But then her smile dropped away, like something falling abruptly from a cliff. Leyton was coming their way, having left the back of the room, making his way around the edges of the crowd, crossing below the bandstand, heading up the steps.

  He’s drunk, she realized with a touch of panic. Knowing his penchant for showing off, she jumped in front of the microphone and placed her hand over it.

  But Leyton didn’t need a microphone when he could shout. “What a splendid night!” He boomed, spreading his arms and lifting them higher and higher, like a drum major signaling his band to play louder. The crowd followed his direction, their applause rivaling thunder. When it became deafening, he began to lower his arms and lead the crowd into a calmer state, one where only a soft buzz of voices could be heard.

  With all eyes on him, Leyton could not have been more in the spotlight. He sidled up next to Charlotte and put an arm around her shoulders, then tried to be funny by saying, “I don’t know about the rest of the men here, but I’d like to see Charlotte dance on the ceiling now.”