“What about your children?” Cora pressed her shoes to the porch so the swing would stop, her heels literally digging in. “Earle, think. You’re a father.”
He looked at her calmly, as if he knew everything she might say, every argument that would rise up out of her, as if they’d already had this conversation a hundred times. “I’ve talked with my family, Beth as well as the children. They understand.”
“Do they understand that you could be killed? Be reasonable.” Even as she said this, she heard the tremble in her voice. She didn’t want a flag with a star. Still, she worked to calm herself. She would be reasonable, too. “It’s good that you want to help,” she said. “It is. But you can help in St. Louis. We need doctors in this country. And what about the injured soldiers coming back? Why can’t you help them? How noble is it to leave your wife and children?”
He shrugged. “Why should I get to stay when so many others have gone? Plenty of fathers, you can be sure.”
They stared at each other. She had no answer. He was her child, still her child. That was her only answer.
“This is something I have to do,” he said. “Mother, you’re not going to change my mind.”
Cora closed her eyes. He didn’t need to tell her that. She knew exactly how stubborn he could be. Compared to charming Howard, Earle could seem passive and uncertain, but she’d long ago learned that really, he was the one with the ferocious will. When he was a boy, she’d been unable—despite threats, cajoling, and promises—to ever get him to wear a hat or mittens in winter, and when he was ten, he once jumped from the roof of the porch into a pile of leaves, though she was standing right there in the yard and shrieking at him not to. He’d always been a good boy, generally compliant, but once he made up his mind about something, that was that. Cora once shared this observation with Alan, who’d looked at her with amused affection and said, “Hmm, I wonder where he got that.”
She didn’t want Earle to be like her now.
“You’ve already talked to your father?”
He nodded. “I guessed he would go easier on me.”
“What did he say?”
“That he respected me. That for this war, he’d do the same if he were younger. Mostly that he understood. It meant everything that he said that. I wish you would do the same.”
She slapped her knee, angry. Alan. He always had to be so understanding.
“Mother, come on now. Please. You’re as bad as Howard. Listen, I’m just going as a surgeon. It’s very likely I’ll never see any fighting.”
“Where will you be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know what country?” The flaming top of the oak blurred before her.
“Well, the Pacific. I know that. I told them about you being German. And about Uncle Joseph. I know he supports the war, but they still thought it might be better if I went to the Pacific.”
She couldn’t breathe. She could only see it all horribly unfolding. Earle would be killed, killed in the Pacific, and it would be her fault. Her self-serving lie. She would be responsible for her own child’s death. But then, would he be any safer in Europe? In North Africa? She didn’t know.
“Did you tell your father this? What you just told me? About why you’d go to the Pacific?”
He nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He thought the Pacific made sense. He thought both fronts looked equally dang—… equally safe, I mean.” He sighed. “Do you have some secret information about the war, Mother? What have you got against the Pacific? I hear the Nazis are fairly tough, too.”
She shook her head. If Earle would be any safer in Europe or Africa, Alan would have told him the truth. She knew that. But soldiers were dying everywhere. Going to the Pacific might doom Earle, but it might just as easily save him. And he might have been sent to the Pacific anyway, even without her lie.
They sat on the swing, Cora holding tight to his arm with both hands. They watched leaves shudder in the breeze, a few letting go and drifting off into the neighbor’s wide yard.
Earle leaned away and looked down at her. “On a different note, did you know Louise Brooks is back in town?”
She was at first annoyed, as he was clearly trying to distract her, trying to get her mind on a different subject so that he might eventually wrest his arm from her grip. But then she considered his actual words, and she turned to him, sitting up straight.
“Moved back? What are you talking about?”
“Just that.” He waved a fly away from her face. “She’s been back for a couple of years, apparently. I guess she opened a dance studio on Douglas, behind the Dockum Building, but it didn’t go.”
She watched his eyes. Earle—unlike Howard—had never been one to tease, but she simply couldn’t believe what he was saying. How would she not have heard about this? She understood that Wichita was a real city now and that there was a war on and people had more to talk about than a movie star, or former movie star, moving back to town. But she thought she would have heard something. It was true she’d been busy with Kindness House. And Viola Hammond, who’d once kept her apprised of the goings-on about town, had fallen sick with cancer at the start of the war. Cora went to visit her at least once a week, but Viola was often tired, and she’d lost her zest for gossip.
Earle, the circulation likely returned to his arm, stretched it out in front of him. “Nuts, isn’t it? Louise Brooks—Wichita dance teacher. I guess she and her partner also performed, doing the tango and the waltz, that kind of thing. One of my old buddies said he booked them for a Young Republicans party.”
Cora tried not to look startled. She didn’t want to convey judgment, even to her own son. There was nothing wrong with Louise teaching dance, making an honest living. But a Young Republicans meeting? In Wichita? It was hard to imagine Louise had come down to that.
“What’s she doing now?”
He raised his brows. “Making a fool of herself, if you listen to talk. One of my pals knows the fellow she opened the studio with. He’s just a kid, a college boy who could dance. I guess things went sour between them even before they went under.”
“How does that make Louise a fool?”
“How she’s been acting. Even in school, people said she was a speed, but…”
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
Cora crossed her arms. He was being careful, trying not to say anything that would shock her maternal ears. Despite her work for Kindness House, both of her sons seemed to frequently confuse her with Queen Victoria.
“Earle, tell me.”
“Fine. She… threw herself at him, to put it mildly. This college boy. And she couldn’t believe it when he turned her down. It could be just him talking, but my friend said her looks are gone. She drinks, and it shows in her face. He said she’s been arrested for drunkenness.” He grimaced. “And for lewd cohabitation.”
Cora looked at the front steps, where Joseph had left a pair of muddy shoes. Even now, one could still be arrested for living in sin, for living as they did in this house. Louise had just been more open about it, not bothering to hide or deceive.
“Is she still with him?”
“Who?”
“The man she was living with?”
Earle looked at her as if she were hopeless. “Oh, Mother, I don’t think that’s likely. It didn’t sound like a great romance. From what I understand of how she lives, marriage isn’t in the cards.”
“Where does she live now?”
“With her parents. She doesn’t have any money.” He looked at her quizzically. “Now you look horrified. I would have thought you would be more disturbed by her behavior.”
Cora frowned. It was hard to imagine Louise and Myra living easily under one roof, especially in their broken states. There was a chance, she supposed, that Myra would rise to the occasion and offer Louise sympathy and understanding. But from what Cora had seen, Myra had never loved Louise as a daughter, or even as a separate pers
on. If she’d ever loved Louise, it was as another limb of her own body, a mindless extension employed to make one last grasp at her own dreams. Now Louise had failed her, truly failed her, as badly as Myra herself had failed.
Earle gently nudged her side. “I don’t think you need to feel sorry for her. From what I hear, Louise is enjoying herself. She doesn’t work. My friend says all she does is run around at night with that Danny Aikman. I understand they’re quite a duo.”
“Is that her… is that the man she was living with?”
He smiled. “No, Mother. You don’t remember Danny Aikman from the club? He’s Wichita’s most famous…” Here, Earle paused and made a fluttering movement with his hand.
Cora shook her head, confused.
“He’s an Ethel.” His cheeks reddened a bit. “He’s one of those. A poof.” He looked up, exasperated. “Mother, he prefers men. To women.”
“Oh.” And he was looking at her as if she were thick. He really had no idea. His own father. Sometimes she wondered if one or both of the boys suspected or knew. But it was clear that Earle still knew nothing. It was likely that Howard knew nothing as well.
“Sorry, Mother. I don’t mean to be vulgar.”
Cora shook her head, impatient. “You know this about him? This is common knowledge?” She was always trying to gauge what people would think about Alan, about Raymond, if they knew. Even in Wichita, perhaps, times were changing, with young people looking at everything so differently. This Danny person suffered insults, but he was known and apparently tolerated. That in itself was surprising.
“Well, I don’t know that he prefers men. But I know he once got himself arrested for dressing like a woman on Douglas Avenue.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “He wore a dress?”
“No. His shirt had flowers on it.”
“They arrested him for that?”
“Well, yes. It’s clear what he’s about. They get him on what they can.”
She had to look away—Earle was snickering, and she could barely keep the dread from her eyes. Alan would never in his life wear a flowered shirt, but clearly, if he and Raymond were ever exposed, even now, they would pay a great price. She liked to think that Howard and Earle would stand by him, but what leaps their hearts would have to make. She could only hope Alan had never heard either of their sons joking about poofs and Ethels. If he had, he’d endured it in silence.
And now he’d told their son he could go off to war, that he respected his decision.
Earle turned to her, somber again, no longer trying to distract.
“I know you aren’t happy with my decision.” He took her hand again. “I know you’ll worry, and I can’t stop you from worrying. But this is something I have to do. And it’s because of the way you and Father brought me up that I feel a responsibility. It would mean so much if I could go knowing I had your support. Your understanding. Father already gave me his, and so have Beth and the children. But I’d like it from you, too.” Half of his mouth curled upward. “I don’t want to be dramatic, but I suppose I’d like your blessing.”
She nodded. At first, it was all she could do. She still didn’t think he should go. He was a father, a husband, and her son. But she knew what was even more true, what Alan had understood from the start. She squeezed his hand until she could speak. “You already have that.” Her eyes blurred again, but she tried to look at him, her son. “You’ve always had it, Earle. And you always will. It doesn’t matter what you do.”
The Brooks home was still the largest on its block, and from a distance, it seemed to be in good repair, a fresh pale yellow painted over the gray, and every window gleaming clean and clear in the sun. The lilac bushes near the gate were trimmed, and only a few golden leaves dotted the lawn. But as Cora approached, she remembered what Myra had said, all those years ago, about the weight of her husband’s books actually sinking the foundation. When Cora stood directly in front of the house, she saw the forecast of damage was correct: even with the fresh paint, the house resembled a listing ship, with one side of the limestone porch clearly sitting higher than the other.
Cora was going up the front steps when she heard a friendly voice greet her by name. She looked to the sunken side of the shaded porch to see Zana Henderson, plump and pretty in a skirt and buttoned-up cardigan, sitting on a peacock-blue upholstered sofa. Next to her sat Myra, who looked as small as a child in comparison, wearing a flowered housecoat in the middle of the afternoon, her dark hair thinned and hanging to her shoulders. Cora said hello to both of them. Only Zana smiled.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Zana asked. “Did you come to join our little party?” She gestured at the table in front of the sofa, on which sat some sort of pie, a bowl of whipped cream with a serving spoon, and two pie-stained forks and plates. “It’s such a perfect autumn day,” Zana continued, “and I thought there was no better way to spend it than having dessert on Myra’s front porch.” She gestured grandly around her. “We even dragged the sofa out so we’d be comfortable.”
“You dragged it,” Myra muttered. Her voice was raspy, weak. “I didn’t help at all.”
“Well, you inspired me. And you trusted me not to hurt it.”
Cora smiled politely. What a friend Zana was. She’d defended Myra when no one else would, and now that Myra was back and unwell, her abandoned children grown and gone, Zana was still here to cheer her. Cora was perplexed as to how someone like Myra had managed to make and keep such a friend.
“Would you like a piece?” Zana looked at Cora, pointing at the pie. “There’s plenty, and you’ll save me from finishing it myself.”
“Oh, thank you, but no,” Cora said. “I was actually hoping to see Louise.”
Now Zana seemed perplexed. She raised her eyebrows and turned to Myra, who gave her a knowing look.
“Hmm.” Zana’s disapproval was evident. “Well, good luck to you.”
Myra started to cough, each gasp for breath short and wheezing. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth, her small body curling in on itself, her feet lifting from the floor. It was terrible to just stand there and wait as she struggled, hiding her face.
“I’ll get you some water,” Zana said, standing.
“I can get it.” Cora was already moving toward the door.
“Don’t,” Myra gasped. “It doesn’t help.” She gave Cora an inexplicably hateful look as she gripped the edge of the table. “And I’m fine.” She coughed again. “Go on in. Third floor. I don’t know which room. You’ll have to knock.”
The third-floor hallway was dark, windowless, with only a small sconce to light the way, one of its two bulbs burned out. Cora, a little breathless from two flights of stairs, leaned against the wood-paneled wall. It made sense, she supposed, that Myra didn’t frequent this floor. The climb would likely kill her.
“Louise?” She stood in the center of the hall. There were three doors, all closed. “Louise?”
She heard movement, a clink of glass. Then nothing.
“It’s Cora Carlisle. Your old chaperone. I’ve just come to say hello.”
Silence. Cora leaned against the wall again. Perhaps it was stupid of her to come. They had no real connection to each other, no blood relation. It was just that one summer, and even then, Louise had never even feigned affection for her. Yet she had done so much for Cora, without even meaning to, without even knowing that she had.
“I imagine you hear me. And I’m sure I can’t make you feel too guilty about turning away a fifty-six-year-old woman who just climbed two flights of stairs to see you.”
She looked at her shoes, listening.
“You would loathe my shoes if you could see them. They’re very comfortable, but they’re wide in the toe, and they hardly have any heel. I recall you didn’t think much of my style twenty years ago. You should see me now. My shoes get funny looks from women my age. I promise you’ll feel instantly superior if you would just open your door.”
Nothing.
“I’m not leavin
g. I don’t have anywhere I have to be. I’ll stand out here as long as it takes and talk and talk and—”
The door at the end of the hall opened. Louise appeared, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks. Cora tried not to look too surprised. She’d seen slacks on Katharine Hepburn, but never on a woman in real life.
“You’re right.” Her voice was lower, and her words slower, than Cora remembered. “Those are horrific shoes.”
Cora didn’t know what Earle’s friend had meant about Louise losing her looks. Even dressed like Katharine Hepburn, she was still so striking with her dark eyes and pale skin. Her hair, black as her turtleneck, almost reached her shoulders, and she had her bangs again.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“What do you want?”
“I… I want to see how you are.” Cora opened her purse and took out a wrapped package. “I brought you chocolates. I remember you like chocolate.” She held out the package to Louise, who looked at it with skepticism. Cora started to regret her visit. Perhaps Louise was perfectly happy, living in her childhood home, going out at night and getting arrested. Who was to say she didn’t prefer this life? If she’d wanted to keep her life in Hollywood with her director husband and her pool and her furs, it seems she would have. Louise, as far as Cora remembered, usually did just as she liked.
She took the chocolates without a thank you, tucking them under one arm. “How’s your German, Cora?”
Cora swallowed. Even in the weak light, she could see Louise’s wry little smile. She was the first person they’d lied to all those years ago, when they were still panicked and unpracticed, and Cora was never certain if Louise had really believed that Joseph was her brother. At the time, Louise only reacted to the story with slight disappointment, quickly followed by disinterest. But the way she was looking at Cora now implied she’d known all along.
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