by Various
“All I can figure is she’s getting something out of her system. After all, once we’re married—”
Sally Jean interrupted, “Sorry, honey. But I’m not getting something out of my system at all. In fact I do believe I just got something into my system.”
Brett took in a breath. Since when did Sally Jean talk like that? Since when was she so bold, so hard?
“Sally Jean, darling, you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I know, isn’t it grand?”
Brett stood up and pulled Sally Jean by her elbow. “Not so much, Sally Jean. Not so grand as you think.” And then with the uncomfortable smile of a parent whose child has just thrown a tantrum in a public park: “Good night everyone. It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry about all of this. She’s just not used to drinking, that’s all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ardita stood up. “She’s an absolute gem, Brett.”
“I’ve got to say just one more thing,” said Sally Jean. “This”—she gestured to the room at large—“all of this. This is what I want. I want to be on stage.”
And then Brett tugged Sally Jean by her elbow one last time and pulled her out the door, up the reeking staircase, and into his car outside. The ride home was dreadful. Brett sulked and Sally Jean was forced to wait. As many drinks as she had had, her mind was still calculating. A scene was inevitable, sooner was probably better than later, and she knew enough about alcohol to realize its potential as a social lubricant for all occasions. Breaking off one’s engagement wasn’t an ordinary social situation, but she knew that it would ease the wretched words out of her mouth and then blur the whole episode, like a watercolor left in the rain, so that neither of them would remember it too clearly in the morning.
* * *
Morning brought a horrible knocking at her door and a puffy-eyed ex-soldier who called her some unprintable names and then tearily professed his eternal devotion. These two strategies were employed by Brett in alternation, growing to a rapid-fire rhythm, like a marching-band drummer beating two sides of his thundering drum as he marched down a hopeless street right into a brick wall. Sally Jean comforted Brett as best she could and returned the engagement ring in a moment when she thought he was too tired to heave it out the window. He pocketed it, kissed Sally Jean on her soft blond head, and, in a final torrent of swears and endearments, disappeared out her door.
Sally Jean spent the morning in bed and soon fell back asleep. When she awoke, instead of feeling blue, she felt clean and well rested. She looked out the window of her hotel room, truly seeing the city for the first time. The light was sharp, and everything seemed terribly alive. She dressed and went for a walk around Manhattan and felt the energy of the other pedestrians enter her blood like a strong cocktail. People were everywhere, moving, going places, doing things. And those were just the people she saw; she knew now that there were people below the earth, terrific parties full of glittering people and magical music.
She kept walking through the streets, enjoying the fresh summer air. She made her turns at random, attracted by a tree whose leaves were just starting to turn or a barbershop with a spiraling pole, but she adopted the pace of the crowd around her, hustling as if she had somewhere to go. She walked until her lungs ached and the soles of her feet were flat and hot. When she finally stopped to rest, she looked up and saw a row of familiar brown-stones. It couldn’t be. And yet, crossing the street and reading the brass 333, she knew that it was. She thought for a moment, and any passerby would have taken her for a lost young woman trying to get her bearings—which she was, in a way. What else can I do? she thought, and opened the door and went down the stairs.
* * *
Soon autumn came in earnest, and though Sally Jean knew the leaves were dying, were dead as they fell to the sidewalk, they seemed to her, in their vibrant reds and yellows, more alive than ever. She had been at Mr. Whiskers’s for five weeks now and had been performing in the revue for nearly a week. Mr. Whiskers had been impressed with how quickly she picked up the routines. For the month before she had been allowed to perform, Sally Jean had watched from a stool backstage, her soft, white arms moving in sync with Ardita’s rangy limbs, memorizing her every move. During rehearsals, Sally Jean had worked herself exceedingly hard, pushing against fatigue and biting back tears when she missed a step. And when the girls were sent home, Sally Jean begged Ardita to teach her more, to tell her what she was doing wrong. She wanted to be Ardita’s pupil, her slave, and when Ardita praised Sally Jean, she felt like a millionaire.
When Sally Jean graduated to the stage, she experienced the thrill of applause for the first time in her life. Although she was sure that Ardita had earned most of it, she was nevertheless grateful to bask in its warmth. Life was good. She got along well with the other dancers and had even allowed Bernard the martini juggler to take her out for a dinner at a fine restaurant where the meal cost more than a week’s salary. She rarely thought of Brett. When she did think of him, he was a storybook character in her mind, a soldier who had been in the war and then mysteriously faded away. At some point she realized that she had always assumed he would die in the war and that she was vaguely disappointed that he didn’t, as if by surviving he had shown his intrinsic weakness.
Sally Jean’s parents were very sorry to hear that the engagement had been broken off. Somehow they had gotten the impression from Sally Jean’s letters that it was Brett who had thrown her over and so were more than willing to send money until a reconciliation could be made. This money kept Sally Jean in a small apartment on Bank Street and her legs in silk. The letters to her parents also served a second purpose of reminding Sally Jean of who she used to be. Sally Jean realized that this aspect of her character, this old sweet nonthreatening Sally Jean, was terribly useful. So even while she nourished the new Sally Jean—the silken legged, cosmopolitan flapper—she kept her old character in play. It was this character who chatted sweetly with Ardita whenever she got the chance. It was this character who asked for Ardita’s advice on new dresses and begged Ardita to teach her how to smoke cigarettes. It was this character who amused Ardita with her exuberant innocence, holding tight to her hat as Ardita sped them along Broadway in her lime green Opel Reinette. It was this character who gasped with admiration when, after asking Ardita why she didn’t have a driver, Ardita replied that no one could drive fast enough to suit her taste.
And it was this character, this aspect of Sally Jean, who rapped softly on Ardita’s dressing room after the show one Friday night. Ardita called for her to come in, and though when Sally Jean opened the door she found her only vaguely dressed, wearing a tangerine-colored kimono that appeared to have lost its belt and ashing a cigarette into an empty glass of champagne, Ardita was not the least embarrassed.
“Sally Jean! At last!”
Sally Jean nodded enthusiastically and clutched her pocket-book to her stomach modestly.
“Well come on in. Be a sport and help me with this champagne won’t you? It’s the real McCoy.”
Sally Jean nodded again and, consciously tipping her head down so that her big brown eyes were at their most sincere, asked if Ardita wanted to join her for a little supper later. Ardita laughed and Sally Jean laughed too, as if the invitation was a bon mot.
“Can’t, but do hang on and have a drink? I’ll be back in a sec.”
With this she threw her lanky body off the settee and swished out of the room. Sally Jean was left alone. Slowly she took in the small dressing room, her soft eyes flashing like a camera. On Ardita’s dressing table, she found a small basket filled with jewelry. She rooted among the baubles until she found the necklace with the black and white pearls. She held it up to her neck and admired herself in the mirror. She arched an eyebrow and laughed softly.
“These?” she replied to the mirror. “Oh they’re nothing, doll. Just something I throw around my neck when I haven’t got anything better to do.”
She dropped the necklace back into the jewelry basket and examined t
he items tucked into the dressing table mirror. There was a snapshot of Ardita with Mr. Whiskers that must have been taken some time ago. In the picture Mr. Whiskers looked the same, but Ardita was young—she couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. The young Ardita wore that same strange expression that Sally Jean couldn’t place. There was an ink drawing of Ardita and the girls in their sapphire costumes; a map that appeared to be an old drawing of New York with odd markings made in red pen, surely some inherited document; and tucked into the mirror frame, a brittle old rose gone black with time. The rose had a small card attached with ribbon and Sally Jean opened it with one finger. “You say when and I’m yours. Tom.” She read it over twice and crossed the room.
She opened a teak armoire and found Ardita’s shoes. Dozens of them, lying in wait for Ardita, black and silver and red, with buckles and heels and silky bows. She pulled out a worn silver slipper and touched it gently, fingering the satin. She put her hand inside, feeling down to where Ardita’s toes had strained against the fabric, stretching out the satin so that the shape of her ghostly foot remained. After a moment she carefully replaced the shoe next to its mate, and closed the door. She opened another, smaller closet and had to catch her breath. She leaned in. This closet was filled with weapons—knives mostly; they looked like they might be artifacts from Africa or China or somewhere far off. Some were made of metal, most of wood. She reached out slowly and touched the tip of a wooden knife, pressing her finger hard against its point. She took a deep swig of champagne. How terribly exotic! Leave it to Ardita to have a thrilling hobby like collecting knives. She wished she had thought of it herself. She closed the door and drained her champagne.
She drifted back across the room to the dressing table. She opened a jar of cream and spread some on her cheek. She picked up Ardita’s bottle of perfume, noted its label, and absently spritzed it on her neck and on her wrists. It smelled exhilarating, musky, just like Ardita. And then, as if intoxicated by the perfume, she quickly reached up to the rose, deftly untied the ribbon, and slipped the card from Tom Valentine into her purse. At that moment the door opened and Ardita returned.
Sally Jean looked into the mirror and fluffed at her hair innocently.
Then to Ardita’s reflection, “Do you think I should bob my hair?” she asked quickly.
“Why?” Ardita smiled and stretched languidly on the settee.
Ardita had returned wearing what appeared to be men’s black pajamas and diamond earrings. Sally Jean tugged at her cocktail dress.
“I don’t know. I feel like a change I guess.”
“You shouldn’t, you know. You should stay innocent Sally Jean Baker for as long as you possibly can.”
“Why?” asked Sally Jean, sounding to her annoyance like a whining child. “You’re not innocent.”
Ardita laughed. Sally Jean was feeling more and more frustrated. She pulled at her hair in the mirror, approximating what it would look like short. Then the door nearly pounded down, and before Ardita could respond, a troupe of glamorous madmen poured in, bearing more liquor, a bottle of champagne, and a basket of oranges. These were some of Ardita’s friends; Sally Jean had met some of them in passing and they all seemed to be displaced nobility, counts and archdukes, or polo players or heiresses from Chicago.
“Oranges all around!” bellowed a tall bespectacled gentleman with hair the color of the fruit he bore and a curious galaxy of freckles sprawled across his face.
He began to toss oranges to all the various guests; some caught them and some let theirs fall to the floor. A voluptuous woman with unnaturally blond hair picked up three oranges and began to juggle them. She was better than Bernard, thought Sally Jean. Sable coats and silk wraps were tossed to the floor, thrown over the dressing table, and piled on the settee as the guests prepared themselves for a party. Sally Jean recognized Tom Valentine among the crowd and giggled happily as he knelt before her, kissing her hand. And then another man, whom Sally Jean thought might be one of the counts, knelt beside her as well and took her other hand in his.
“Who, pray tell,” he said looking up into her eyes, “is this vision of loveliness?”
Tom introduced them, and the count clutched his spare hand to his chest.
“Maude, be a good girl and kill me now, will you? I can’t stand to exist in the presence of such beauty.”
Maude, the voluptuous blond juggler, snorted with laughter and flicked her fingers against the count’s skull. Before Sally Jean could think of a witty response, the count was on his feet, ripping the foil off a bottle of champagne. She stared at the people around her with amazement. This was it; this was the center of things! Then Sally Jean felt Ardita’s warm, strong arm around her shoulders.
“Sally Jean, doll, you’d better go.”
Her heart sank to her feet and hardened into stone.
“Why? I . . . I don’t want to.”
“This crowd. They’re a little odd, that’s all. I just wonder if you’ll have a good time.”
Someone put on a record and the room filled with jazz.
“I’ll be fine,” insisted Sally Jean coldly, and danced away from Ardita toward the count.
The champagne cork popped, exploding like a bomb, and Sally Jean squealed. The count laughed and pulled her into his arms.
“How gorgeous you look when you scream,” he murmured into her ear. “You should be in the pictures.”
Flattered to no end, she blushed sweetly, but then Tom took arm and danced her away. The party grew like a well-kindled fire, roaring and roaring and then fading until someone poked it with a funny remark or a new bottle of booze and the sparks relit and it roared again. Glasses filled and bottles emptied. Ice cubes made music that echoed in the tinkling laughter of the women and the soft flirting of the men.
At one point Sally Jean found herself seated on the floor next to a brunette who looked like Theda Bara. She asked her about Tom. He was so well off and yet he never seemed to work. He had mentioned that he was often in the South and in Canada, too. Was he, could he be a rum runner?
The brunette howled.
“A rum runner? No, I’m afraid the old boy hasn’t the sea legs for that. Mr. Tom Valentine is just your plain old run-of-the-mill millionaire bootlegger.”
And the next thing Sally Jean knew, she was dancing with Tom again. The whole crowd danced and they drank and the night came heavily upon them. The conversations looped and turned; Sally Jean understood phrases and then lost the strand as the words bent and twisted together like a woven sea grass basket. She stopped trying to follow the lengths and just admired the pattern as it twisted on and on into the night. At one point, just before the sun came up, Sally Jean awoke to find herself curled on the settee, a bottle still clutched in her hand. When she looked around, she couldn’t find Ardita. The count was gone too.
“She’s gone out,” explained Tom. And Sally Jean took his hand in hers.
* * *
The trees blossomed with their dead orange leaves and slowly released them, letting them fall like pennies from an old man’s hand, until the branches were bare and Central Park was full of skeletons. Sally Jean enjoyed the coming of winter, appreciated the pink the cold pinched into her cheeks, and anticipated eagerly the fireplaces near which she would sit with her new friends, Ardita’s friends, and drink hot drinks and sing cheerful songs.
Her confidence as a dancer had grown and she no longer asked Ardita for her help or watched her out of the corner of her eye as she had when she first performed on stage. Offstage, she still watched Ardita though, more than ever. Each night after the performance, Ardita would go directly back to her dressing room. Then she would stay there and entertain her friends; go sit with Mr. Whiskers; or go out on the town, often by herself. No matter the night, Ardita always mysteriously disappeared sometime after one or two o’clock. Sally Jean’s theory that Ardita was in love with the count didn’t seem to be panning out; after that party, he had never returned to the theater. So Sally Jean decided that Ardita mus
t have a dozen secret lovers and felt irked; how could her idol treat Tom Valentine like that?
And coincidentally, or perhaps not quite so coincidentally, Sally Jean fell in love with Tom Valentine too. He was the perfect man, she had realized. Strong, capable, rich as Creoeses, Tom knew all the best places in the city. And he had such a way about him—it was like he was a soldier all the time. She told him that once, and he had laughed and kissed her on the ear and told her that if anyone was a soldier it was Ardita. Sally Jean had screwed up her pretty face.
“Well, she can’t be a soldier can she? She’s a girl.”
“You silly Southern Belle,” he had said, and she might have been offended except for the way he said it was so admiring.
Sally Jean had never set about courting a man. Where she came from that was a ludicrous idea. But up in New York it was different, and so she went right to work. She hosted an indoor picnic at her apartment on Bank Street and made sure to tell Tom that she’d be much obliged if he stuck around a little afterward. When she finally went to get her hair bobbed, she had Tom come, and held tight to his hand as if she were afraid the barber’s scissors were going to slit her throat. And when she performed, she kept her eyes locked on his and kicked her legs as high as they would go.
One night after the show, Sally Jean was gratified to find three separate bouquets waiting for her. Ardita, she counted, had only two that night. Sally Jean took a circuitous path back to her dressing room, carrying around the flowers as if they were a cumbersome baby whose mewling was getting at her nerves. She sat backstage with Bernard a moment, and when he inquired, rolled her eyes at the flowers, as if to suggest her growing popularity was a burden. Back in the dressing room she shared with another of the chorus girls, Sally Jean slowly opened the cards. The first was from an only vaguely familiar admirer, a man called Ivan D’Mengers whom she thought might be one of the counts or at least an archduke. The note asked if she would accompany him to dinner sometime. Sally Jean would have shown off the card to Ardita except she could predict the response. Ardita had lectured her as if she were a schoolgirl about the dangers of counts and men like them. Apparently it was all well and good for Ardita herself to disappear with them into the night, but not poor, sweet, soft Sally Jean.