by Ellen Klages
“What?” Emily pulled away, her face taut with worry.
“Shh. Those sailors,” she whispered.
“They can’t see us.”
“No. But, the lanky dark one on the end?”
“The singing one? He’s drunk. What about him?”
Haskel sighed, deep and ragged and weary. “That’s Len. That’s my husband.”
The Forbidden City
They had gotten back from the fair very late, were still sleeping when a loud pounding on the door woke them.
“’Retta! Lemme in!”
Beside her, Emily felt Haskel’s body tense.
“Stay here,” she whispered into Emily’s ear. “Don’t make a sound.” She got up, put on her tartan robe, and stepped to the hallway door. She did not open it.
“Not a good time, Len. I’m working.”
“What kinda how-dee-do’s that? You got another man in there, darlin’?” He sounded as if he were drunk again. “Tha’ why you won’ lemme in?”
“No, Len.” Haskel took a deep breath. “But I do have a model—posing for a painting—and I’m paying for her time. Come back in an hour.”
“Wanna see you now.” More pounding.
“An hour, Len.”
“Wha’m I s’posed to do till then? You got any cash?”
Emily heard the sound of bare feet, the rustle of papers as Haskel rummaged on the table, steps back to the door. “Here’s a dollar. Get yourself some coffee and a doughnut.” A soft sound as she slid the bill under the door.
He swore. “Some kinda welcome home.” Then there was silence, and finally the sound of heavy footsteps on the marble stairs of the old building.
Haskel returned to the bedroom. “Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Get dressed and give me a couple hours? Go to Fong Fong’s and have breakfast?”
“Are you throwing me out?” Emily heard the indignation in her own voice.
“No, I—”
“You’d just like me away from your bed so you can be alone with your husband?”
“Yes,” Haskel said gently. “I need to settle things—once and for all—and I don’t want you caught in the middle.”
“I already am.”
“Please?” Haskel took the pack of Viceroys from the bedside table and lit one with a swift strike of a match against her thumbnail. “If you’re here, it will only muddy some already very murky waters.”
“How?”
“Divorce papers. If he signs, I’m a free woman. If he sees you, he’ll use it as an excuse not to.”
Emily thought about that. She blew out a long stream of air, then nodded. “I’ll make myself scarce, but—look. I haven’t asked—Lord knows I’ve wanted to—how is it that I’m here, naked as a jaybird—the taste of you still on my lips—and you’re someone’s wife?” She crossed her arms. “What’s the story?”
“Fair enough. I left home when I was seventeen and came out here. All the black sheep, right?” Haskel began to pace. “I found where the artists hung out—a bar called the Black Cat. I was tall enough that nobody asked any questions. Len was part of that crowd.”
She walked to the window, lit another smoke off the end of the first. “Believe it or not, he was a poet. A good one, too. He’d been published—in The Atlantic. That impressed me.” She sighed. “I was young, he was handsome. That part’s an old, old story.”
Haskel was silent, staring out at the courtyard. “He was thirty when we got married; I was barely eighteen. We settled into a fleabag on Union Street with four other people, pooled everyone’s money, made a pot of spaghetti last for three days, and drank bootleg wine. After a year, I got a scholarship to art school.”
She tapped her ash into a saucer. “By then the Depression had hit. Jobs weren’t easy to find and he couldn’t keep one. He was better than those average Joes, and had to let everyone know it. He’d get fired and go into a blue funk. When I sold my first painting, the chip on his shoulder just got bigger.”
“Was he still writing poems?”
“Yes, but no one was interested. One mimeographed rag that paid in copies, not cash. Each rejection, he’d go get plastered, start a fight. Couldn’t punch for beans. Spent a night or two in the drunk tank and came home, blaming me.”
“Why?”
“I was lowbrow, just a hack, working for the pulps. He was the real artist.” She tossed the butt into the sink. “But I was supporting us—Len couldn’t stand that. He never came after me, like Ma. Still, once or twice—” She shook her head. “One morning there was a note: Sorry, angel, off to Portland—or Los Angeles or Chicago—need new experiences, new material. He sold vacuums, hoboed, lumberjacked, got a job on the railroad or as a carny. A few weeks, six months, I’d never hear a word. Nights, I drew lingerie ads for the Emporium and modeled for art classes. I made other friends—Diego and Frida, girls from school. I met Franny. My world got bigger. Then he’d come back, full of stories, dead broke. And it would start all over again.” She reached for the bag of coffee. “Truth is, I worked hard, and I was good at what I did. After a while, he stopped even trying.”
“Why didn’t you divorce him then?”
“People like me don’t have lawyers.” She poured grounds into the percolator and turned on the hot plate. “And it didn’t seem important. I’d moved into this place, was making enough to get by. He wasn’t around much. I had a few—friends—now and then, mostly kept to myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all right.”
“What changed?” Emily slipped into her dungarees and a crumpled checked shirt—time to take a bundle down to the Chinese laundry. She perched on the edge of the table.
“One day I realized I was tense as a cat—waiting for the knock on the door that would upset my nice orderly life. On guard, like I used to be with Ma. Except I wasn’t that girl anymore. I didn’t need to hide in the cellar, holding my breath. It was my goddamn life.” She slapped the table for emphasis. “I met Helen this spring, at one of Franny’s dinners. When she started modeling for me, I asked her to file the papers.”
“How long since you’ve seen—him?”
“Three years. Almost four. Not even a postcard.”
Emily was quiet, then asked the question that made her stomach dance with fear. “Do you still love him?”
“No.” Haskel turned and drew her into a hug. “He’s just a stranger I used to know. After today, he’ll have no claim on me.”
“What if he won’t sign?”
“I’ll throw him out on his ear and wait until November, when the court will declare it finito. As far as I’m concerned, it’s been over for years. Okay?”
“I think so.” Emily let herself soften against Haskel’s body, feeling her own heart thumping, Haskel’s pendant cool and smooth against her cheek.
“Good. Because right now the best gift you can give me is to disappear until noonish. Let me clean up my old mess without worrying about you.”
“I can do that,” Emily said, even though she wanted to stay and—what? Defend Haskel’s honor? Her presence would only complicate things. Len had the law on his side—she and Haskel didn’t. Not at all.
Emily left. She wasn’t in the mood for the hordes of teenagers that clustered around Fong Fong’s fountain clamoring for “chop suey sundaes,” so she bought a paper and went to a café on Columbus. She ordered coffee and toast and did the crossword puzzle with her fountain pen, focusing on forming each letter perfectly, so the ink wouldn’t smear, so her mind wouldn’t wander back to the studio.
Quarter after eleven, she walked over to Mona’s to get the book she’d left in the dressing room. She slipped down the alley and knocked at the stage door, the performers’ rap—three short, two long. After a minute, a rough voice said, “Yeah?”
“It’s Em—it’s Spike.”
The door opened. It was Rusty, a tough older woman who did odd jobs and repairs, and sometimes bartended. “C’mon in.”
Emily took two steps, blinking in the
sudden dimness, and fanned her hand in front of her face. “Jeez-sooey! What died in here?”
“Sewer pipe broke. Believe it or not, it’s worse downstairs.” Rusty picked up a stack of the silver souvenir folders tourists got when they had their photos taken “with the stars,” and stacked them on a shelf in the open supply cupboard. “Mona says we’ll be dark tonight and tomorrow.”
“Both?”
“City says they’ll send a crew out this afternoon, but it’s gonna take at least another day to air the place out.” She held up her hands, a what-ya-gonna-do gesture. “If we served food, they’d have closed us down for a week.”
“Lucky it’s just booze.” Emily headed down the narrow hallway to the back room.
“Just a sec,” Rusty said. “Package came for you yesterday.” She opened a closet and handed her a large, flat box. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks.” Emily had moved so much it made sense to use the club as a mailing address, but in a year, she’d only gotten a couple of letters and the occasional bill. She looked at the postmark, and the coffee in her stomach rolled like a breaking tide. New Haven, Connecticut. She hadn’t heard from her family since Jilly.
She took the box back to the dressing room and laid it on the table, clearing away tins of brilliantine, tubes of pancake makeup, a stack of girlie magazines, and an empty bottle of Four Roses. The return label said E. Netterfield, with her parents’ address, as if she had shipped something to herself from the past.
“Neddy,” she said to herself. She smiled. Edward McCauley Netterfield, her younger brother. Ned, since he’d been old enough to talk. Father was Edward. Ned was the only one who hadn’t cut ties with her, but he still lived at home. They’d used a mutual friend as a “mail drop,” which sounded very Dashiell Hammett, but had allowed her to write to him a few times without their parents’ knowledge.
She unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. Inside, on top of an acre of folded tissue paper, was a note in Ned’s back-slanted hand:
Sis—
I finally hit that growth spurt Doc Wolfe promised—five inches! None of my glad rags fit, so a gift for that mad act of yours. (I told Mother I gave it to the Salvation Army.) Long letter next month when I become a Princeton man and my mailbox is my own.
Always yours,
Ned
Underneath the tissue was a swallow-tailed coat with satin lapels, white tie, starched shirt front, vest, trousers, gloves, and even a pair of spats. The label in the coat bore the name of New Haven’s finest tailor.
Emily whistled through her teeth and checked the clock on the wall. A hair past 11:30. She wanted to try it on, but there wasn’t time to get into it and out again before noon; walking back to the studio dressed to the nines would draw more attention than she cared for. Better to model it for Haskel later. Hmm. She snapped her fingers.
The drawer marked SPIKE was crammed with junk—makeup, tissues, a roll of Life Savers, a pen, some loose change—and she had to dig to come up with the small white box she sought. She tucked it and her book under the folds of tissue paper and closed the box. With the joy of a plan beginning to hatch, a surprise to tickle Haskel’s—fancy—she almost skipped toward the stage door.
“You’re in a good mood,” Rusty said. She stared at the back sink, monkey wrench in hand. “What was in the box?”
“A secret identity,” Emily said. “Good luck with the plumbing.”
“Gonna need it. At least you get the night off.”
Emily took the long way round to the studio—up Broadway to Kearny, past the narrow copper-domed flatiron building at Columbus, down that wide diagonal street of cafés, bakeries, and shoe-repair shops until she reached the northwest corner of the Monkey Block, the bulky package tight under her arm.
Church bells were sounding noon mass as she took the stairs to the third floor and walked down the long corridor to the back. She knocked, pro forma, just in case Haskel’s now-ex-husband had lingered. When there was no answer, she used her key and let herself in.
“Do I have a surprise for you,” she said as she stepped through the doorway. “My brother Ned sent me his old—” she stopped, stock-still.
Haskel sat on the floor in the center of a flurry of torn paper, facing the window, her back against a leg of the drafting table, her arms around her drawn-up knees.
Emily set the box down with a thump. “What happened?”
No answer.
“Haskel?”
A small shake of her head. The tumble of blond hair, loosed from its clip, rippled like wheat. Emily tiptoed over, not wanting to startle, knelt down, and put a hand on one trembling shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Another shake of the head, a shrug. Emily saw her grip tighten around her knees. She eased herself to the floor and sat down, stroking Haskel’s hair. A flinch, then Haskel turned to face her.
“Jesus,” Emily hissed.
One eye was swollen almost shut, the skin below it an angry red. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
“What—?” Emily started, but the answer was obvious. She reached up to the table, found the pack of cigarettes, and held one to the uninjured side of Haskel’s mouth, a match hovering. A hand slowly reached up, held it, and inhaled deeply.
“Thanks.” It wasn’t even a whisper, barely a croak.
Emily scooted as close as she could, a one-armed hug, saying nothing, willing her body to give silent comfort.
When the cigarette had burned almost to Haskel’s fingers, Emily took it. “Another?” A nod. Emily shook a fresh one out of the pack and lit it from the smoldering butt of the first, the way she’d seen Haskel do a dozen times. The tip glowed. Emily coughed until her eyes watered.
“Please don’t die on me today,” Haskel said. There was almost a ghost of a smile in her voice.
“I’ll do my best.” Emily handed her the cigarette, got up, and drank a glass of water. Once she could breathe again, she found the bourbon under the table’s skirt and poured a jelly glass half full. “Here,” she said, settling to the floor again. “We’re out of St. Bernard dogs and brandy.” She wrapped Haskel’s fingers around the glass.
Haskel took a long, deep swallow. After a minute, she spoke.
“Son of a mother-fucking bitch.”
“That’s a start.”
Len had come, still drunk from the night before, a twenty-four-hour bender. Yes, he’d tried to kiss her. She’d let him have a peck on the cheek. She’d offered coffee, tried to keep it civil. He sat on the couch, jittery, leg bouncing and tapping nonstop. Why had he come, after so long? A few rounds of “You’re my wife, aren’t you?” before he got to the money. She was rolling in dough, had to be. He’d seen the magazines on every sailor’s bunk. Didn’t say it was his wife drew that crap, but goddamn it, half of that was his. Only fair. She could see that, right?
Haskel drained the glass, gestured for more.
Things got ugly when she told him it was over. He was the one who always left, shouldn’t be a surprise. She brought out the court papers. Who do you think you are, Miss High and Mighty? Someone else getting what’s mine by law? She uncapped the pen, and then he was standing, yelling, calling her cunt and whore. It was the news that she didn’t need him to sign, didn’t need him for a goddamn thing anymore—she was yelling then too—that was when he’d slapped her across the face, open-hand, but hard enough to knock her off balance.
Haskel lit another cigarette. “Tell you right now, the villain on my next cover’s going to be a dark, lanky bastard.”
He’d snatched the papers, ripping them—in half, and half again, then into confetti—throwing them at her in handfuls—There’s your goddamn divorce! Not a chance!
“I raked his cheek and spit in his eye. I wanted to kill him. Might have, if a neighbor hadn’t knocked. Should he call the police? I shouted yes, and that’s when Len ran,” Haskel finished. “Hightailed it down the stairs. I told Mr. Armanino not to bother, thanked him for his concern. Then I sat down, and waited for yo
u to come home.”
For fifteen minutes, Emily had listened. She’d held Haskel’s hand, stroked her hair. Hoped it was helping. Her own family didn’t touch, or share, or sympathize often. They weren’t cold or cruel, just proper and formal, even in private. This role was new to her. No chapter in Emily Post had dealt with the right way to comfort your bruised and trembling lover after her husband had tried to shake her down.
Haskel was the strong one—older, more experienced, tougher—at least from appearances. It hurt to see her like this, her hair straggly, her eyes red, face swollen, no trace of the cool, calm, collected woman she had fallen in love with.
When the second glass was empty and Haskel’s story had wound down to muttering, when there was nothing more to say for the moment, Emily led her to bed. She undid her clothes as gently as if she were a scared child, bathed her face with a cool cloth, dabbing at the dribble of blood. Iodine would sting, so that could wait. She got Haskel under the covers, pillow plumped behind her head, and undressed herself. She crawled in, spooning around Haskel’s back. Hands on her flat belly, head nestled on a broad shoulder, and when they were settled, Emily began to sing, sweet and low. Sound-kisses, lullabies and spirituals, soft and soothing.
Haskel’s breathing finally steadied into sleep. Emily lay quietly beside her all afternoon, drowsing but alert to any change, any sound from outside. By the time Haskel stirred, the room was filled with that rose-gold light. She stood and stretched, wincing as her arm brushed her face. She looked once in the mirror, grimaced, then put on her robe, made her way to the couch. She sat heavily.
“I had a cousin come back from the war,” she said. “I was seven or eight. No one said anything, but he was always jumpy, like something might explode at any moment, catch him unaware.”
“Shell shock.”
“I suppose. That’s how I feel right now.” She touched her cheek gingerly. “It was just a slap. But it opened up—”
“—a box full of all the old creepy-crawlies?”
“In spades.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I’m all talked out.”