Ten Cents a Dance

by Christine Fletcher

  The Irish parish. So that explained the streetcar going east. I passed behind Betty and flicked her on the neck, making her jump. I didn't stop to wonder how Ma had met women from a whole different parish, or why she'd joined their altar society instead of Sacred Heart's. Rose of Lima wasn't far, in distance. But in Back of the Yards, it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  Whoever these Irish ladies were, Ma was out to impress. The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, she said, "Oh, good, you're up already. I want to go shopping today. Just you and me, to buy a new dress. Won't that be fun?"

  I blinked at her, not sure I'd heard right. A new dress? What for? I almost asked. Ma was standing at the sink, so I couldn't see her face; but I saw her back go stiff, as if she was waiting for me to say it. As if she didn't deserve something pretty, instead of the simply useful, like her wool coat, like gloves.

  So we went to Goldblatt's, and right off that was strange. Ma never went to department stores. She always bought clothes on Maxwell Street: shops and pushcarts selling almost anything you could imagine, for cheap.

  But Ma wasn't looking for just any dress. As soon as we stepped into Goldblatt's, Ma collared the nearest salesgirl, a little timid-looking redhead, and the hunt was on. I forgot about Angie, and Stan and his mother and the Starlight. Even Paulie I hardly thought about at all. The world shrank down to me, Ma, and a store full of possibilities.

  We about ran the feet off the little redhead. In the fitting room, I did and undid buttons and zippers and hooks until the tips of my fingers were sore. Ma was steaming past cranky, right into cantankerous ("Is there a single dress in this store that doesn't make me look either six or sixty?"), when, finally, we found it. A divine pale yellow, dotted with navy blue, a navy leather belt to match.

  After the salesgirl rang up the dress, Ma dropped her nine cents' change into her change purse. "Well, that's that," she said.

  "No, it's not," I said. I snatched the ugly, out-of-style cloche off her head ("Ruby! What are you doing? Ruby, stop that!"), and I ran with it to the hat department. By the time she caught up to me—limping, poor Ma, she was tired—I'd picked out a felt side-brim hat, navy blue with a black eyeline veil. "Oh, Ruby," she said, "I can't afford that."

  "I can," I said, and I bought it for her.

  Somehow in Goldblatt's fitting room, with rayons and cottons and linens heaped all around us, we'd found a truce. Fragile as a soap bubble, but it held.

  Maybe she'd just needed time to adjust. After all, I was the oldest, the first of Ma's girls to grow up. No wonder she had trouble realizing I wasn't a baby anymore. Betty ought to give me a medal. She'd have it easier, when her turn came.

  Before I left to meet Paulie, I helped Ma into the new dress. Then I sat her down at the kitchen table and took the rollers and pins out of her hair and brushed it into soft, shining waves, swept back from her face. She reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her.

  "Wait," I told her. "Close your eyes. Don't move." I darted into my bedroom and came back with a compact and rouge and lipstick. I kept a light hand. Ma had delicate coloring; too much would drown her.

  "There," I said. "Now you're beautiful."

  The Ma of the past year—faded and drab, strained thin—was gone. Here, in our ugly, cramped kitchen, was the Ma I remembered. The pale yellow of her dress made her skin seem rich as cream; her face, free of tight clinging curls and the cloche hat, wide-open as sky.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Touched the sleek upsweep over her ear, the soft bright waves at the back of her neck. Her carmine lips. "Oh, Ruby," she whispered.

  "You should be going out dancing," I said. "You should be going to a ball"

  A red flush spotted her cheeks. "Do you really think so?" In that moment, she seemed as young as Betty. As young as me. Not even her knotted hands could ruin how beautiful she was.

  "I know so," I said. I laid my head on her shoulder; Ma raised the mirror high, and we studied ourselves together. My dark blond hair against her shining gold. Our eyes both blue, hers pale, mine dark. Ma kissed my temple.

  "You're a good daughter, Ruby," she said. "I know it's been hard for you . . ."

  She didn't know. She had no idea . . . and if I watched my step, she never would. Then again, had I ever known how hard it had been for her? Pop gone, me and Betty to raise. Under the shoulder pad of her dress, I could feel the sharp bone. Ma, dance? Some days, she could hardly walk. In the mirror, I watched the tears rise and spill over my cheeks. A glass too full.

  "No time for that." Ma put down the mirror. "Go get ready. You're going to be late."

  . . .

  The green convertible flew down streets I didn't recognize. At every stoplight, Paulie leaned down and kissed me. "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "Uptown," he said.

  I sat upright. "The Aragon Ballroom!"

  "That richie-rich joint? I'd rather chew glass. Just keep your shirt on, you'll find out."

  The instant I saw the Ferris wheel, lit up bright as Christmas, I knew. "Riverview!" I cried.

  We had a long hike from the parking lot—for some reason, Paulie drove what seemed a hundred miles past the other cars, to the far end. "What are we all the way out here for?" I asked, getting out of the convertible. The air was warm and damp and smelled like steel. It had rained earlier.

  "Don't want anyone dinging the paint job." Paulie took my hand. "Come on, you can hoof it."

  I'd only been to Riverview Amusement Park a handful of times in my life. Never at night. The lights dazzled me, the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, the music pouring out of the banjo speakers. Just inside the enormous arched entrance, the Silver Flash roared by on its tracks. Screams floated like ghosts in the air behind it.

  "Where first?" Paulie said.

  I didn't hesitate. "The Bobs." The last time I'd been at Riverview, when I was ten, Ma refused to let me ride the Bobs. Too dangerous, she said. Someday, someone's going to get killed.

  "Atta girl," Paulie said.

  As the Bobs train clicked up the first hill, Paulie put his arm around me. I never could get enough of his scent. Car leather and earth and something faintly metallic, which reminded me of automobiles. His mouth tasted like the Lucky Strikes he smoked. Dark and strong.

  The clicking slowed.

  "I'd hang on, if I were you," Paulie said. And then the train fell away under me.

  I felt myself flying off the seat. I grabbed the thin metal bar in front of me with both hands, and I shrieked living daylights. I could hear Paulie laughing, and behind me someone screaming, "Jesus, Jesus! Mother of Godl" At the bottom, a hairpin turn; Paulie slid sideways and smashed me against the side of the car. I bounced off him, bounced off the seat, bounced in the air. My sharpest memory, afterward, was his arms, hands gripping the bar and never budging, the shadows of his muscles sharp as if drawn on his skin with ink.

  After the Bobs, we wandered up the Bowery between rows of booths and games. "Win me a doll," I told Paulie, but he shook his head. "All rigged," he said. "Waste of money."

  "Hey, you! In the sissy yellow shirt!" someone yelled. I turned to see. A few other people had stopped, too; one of the men wore yellow. "Yeah, you!" The voice came from what looked like a row of tall cages. "I saw you over there at the duck shoot. What's wrong with you, you blind?"

  Laughter scattered through the crowd. The man in the yellow shirt glanced right and left, as if unsure what to do. The woman with him pushed his arm. Urging him.

  "I ain't never seen nobody miss so many duckies in my life as that boy there!" The voice was deep, with a harsh rattle to it. Louder than the music, louder than the roar and clack of the roller coasters nearby.

  The man in the yellow shirt seemed to make up his mind. "You want to see aim?" he called. "I'll show you aim." He turned and headed toward the cages, the woman trotting to keep up. Paulie started walking away. I tugged at his sleeve.

  "Wait, I want to see."

  "Nothing to see except that guy was
te a dime," he said. But he came with me.

  A row of chain-link cages, set maybe six feet off the ground, stretched down a length of the Bowery. In each cage, a Negro man in a white shirt and white pants sat on a platform over a tub of water. They were the only Negroes I'd seen in the park all night. The sign overhead read AFRICAN DIP.

  The Negro who'd hollered at the man in the yellow shirt cupped his hands to his mouth. "Hey, sissy! That ain't the same girl you brought here last night!" That got more laughter, some rude hoots. The crowd was getting bigger. The man paid the attendant, got three baseballs in return. He rolled up his right sleeve.

  "Uh-oh, here he comes," the Negro shouted. "Looks like I better shut my mouth."

  "Don't worry. I'll shut your mouth for you," the man called. He drew his arm back.

  "Winding up for the pitch," the Negro said. "Watch out, now, there's a breeze from the east . . . gotta figure that in, too . . ."

  The man leaned forward. Just before he let fly, the Negro yelled, "Pansy!" at the top of his voice. The ball hit the back of the platform, barely two inches from the button that would have dropped the Negro into the water. Groans and laughter from the spectators. The man shook his head—one quick, angry jerk—and picked up a second ball.

  He took longer to aim this time. The Negro kept up a steady patter. "Anybody got spectacles he can borrow? Maybe your eyes ain't the problem, though . . . that arm of yours looks no bigger'n a chicken wing . . . looks like you're gonna hurt yourself—"

  The man hurled the baseball. It missed the target by a good foot.

  "Now that's a darn shame."

  Fewer groans, more laughter. By now at least fifty people had gathered around. Most had wide grins. A group of sailors started chanting: Dunk the nigger, dunk the nigger, dunk the— The man picked up the last ball. Someone whistled.

  I tried to imagine Ozzie up there. Ozzie with his long hands and wide, serious eyes, in a baggy white uniform and cap. Ozzie taunting white boys to earn money. I couldn't picture it. I didn't want to.

  "Maybe you ought to get someone to throw the ball for you," the Negro was saying. The Negro in the next cage yelled, "How about him?" and pointed to a little boy wearing enormous glasses. The crowd roared.

  "How about you shut the hell up?" the man shouted.

  "Why don't you ask your girl there to throw for you? I bet she can—"

  The baseball smashed into the cage with a ringing clang. I jumped, my hand to my mouth. More whistles and laughs. Some people clapped. If the cage hadn't been there, the ball would've hit the Negro square in the face.

  "Three strikes," the Negro hollered, "he's out! Better luck next time, pansy!" The man dug into his pocket for another coin, muttering.

  "The way that shine's got him worked up, he'll pitch balls until he either dunks the nigger or runs out of dimes," Paulie said. "Come on, let's do the Flying Turns."

  We walked up the Bowery. Waltz music floated from the banjo speakers. People strolled past, laughing and talking. With Paulie's muscled arms tight around me, I felt like nothing on earth could hurt me. Still I couldn't get the thought of Ozzie out of my head. Ozzie with his talent, the way his trumpet made all of Lily's swing and sweat. Put him in a cage over a tub of water, and men would hurl baseballs at his face. I hadn't understood the cage, at first. I did now. I thought of Ozzie's face, bleeding, and pushed the image away.

  Once we got to the picnic area, instead of heading to the roller coaster, Paulie led me into the picnic grove. "Nice and quiet in here," he said.

  And dark. The only lights were from the Flying Turns, glimmering on the picnic tables. Barely enough to see Paulie's eyes, black here in the dark, not a trace of color left. He closed them and kissed me, harder than before, rougher. His hands skimmed down the front of my dress, undoing the buttons . . . one, two . . . I shivered as the night air hit my skin. I'd never let a boy undo my dress before, not even the fish at the dance hall. Paulie's hands were warm and I shivered again. He moaned. I felt the vibration of it in his jaw, his tongue, felt it pass from his mouth to mine. He pushed me back against a tree, slipped one hand inside my dress, ran the other one under my skirt. No grabbing this time; his fingers caressed the garter along my thigh. My skin felt electric where he touched me. The whole world was Paulie, and my skin.

  "Be sweet to me," he whispered. "Are you gonna be sweet to me?"

  "I love you, Paulie. I love you more than anything . . ."

  "Show me. Show me you love me." He kneaded the girdle at my hip, then slid a finger underneath, pulling at it. He groaned, a long, deep rumble of frustration. "Come on," he said. He pushed himself away from me. "Button up, quick," he said. I did.

  "Where are we going?"

  "The car. Come on." He pulled me along, stumbling over the grass tufts, and then we were on the path again, lights and screams and laughter all around us, the smell of hot dogs, waltz music lilting over everything. The car, parked all the way at the end of the lot. More alone than we'd ever been anywhere.

  My steps slowed. My weight dragged against Paulie's arm like an anchor. "Paulie, wait. Can't we just . . ."

  "Just what?" He stopped and turned to face me. "Just what, Ruby? Make out at the movies? Feel you up through your damn clothes?" Startled glances from the people around us. I ducked my head so they couldn't see my face.

  No more kid stuff. This was what I wanted. Wasn't it?

  Paulie leaned close. His breath was soft in my ear. "Look, don't worry. You won't get caught," and at first I thought he meant Ma, but then he said, "I have protection. You'll be all right."

  Ma's face and mine, side by side in the mirror. You're a good daughter. But I wasn't, because every time I saw her, every time I talked to her, I lied. I wasn't who she thought I was.

  Paulie slid his arm around my shoulder. "Ruby. Come on. It'll be all right, I promise."

  I shook my head. His face tightened, the pale brows drawn down. I opened my mouth to explain, but no words came. I wanted him. And I wanted one thing that my mother believed about me still to be true. How was I supposed to explain that?

  "I've waited, Ruby. A long time. Haven't I?"

  "I know, Paulie, it's just . . ."

  His voice rose. "Why do you think I keep leaving, huh? You think this is fun for me, your little games?" He stepped back, hands jammed in his pockets. Guilt twisted inside me. He was making me choose. How was I supposed to choose?

  "I'm not playing games," I whispered.

  "Not anymore, you're not," he said. "I'm done waiting. You say you love me, you better prove it."

  You've played that hand out. . . . I'm through talking. Tom's voice, mocking. A sliver of anger cut through the guilt. I lifted my chin. "Do you love me?"

  He stared like I'd asked him to climb into the dip cages with the Negroes. "Look around! Am I here with another girl, or with you?" He held out his hand, palm up. "You want to be with me, then come on. You want to play with babies, go back to the sandbox."

  He waited. One heartbeat. Then he walked away.

  I should have run after him. But I thought he'd come back. An hour later, when I went to the parking lot to look for him, the kelly green convertible was gone.

  . . .

  I got home a little after eleven. I hadn't thought to bring money for a cab—why would I?—so I'd had to take the el and the streetcar. Almost an hour to get home, the whole time thinking, He left you. He left you.

  How could I have been so stupid? You should have gone with him. You love him, don't you? You should have proved it.

  This time, I knew, I wouldn't get another chance.

  As I walked up Honore Street to our flat, I saw the kitchen light was on. Ma must still be up. Of all nights . . . Please, God, let her not ask any questions. It'd been all I could do not to bust up sobbing on the el. If I had to start making up stories, I'd lose it for sure, and then God only knew what I'd say.

  At least I could walk in and look her in the face. An hour ago, that had seemed like everything. Now Paulie was gone
and I didn't know anything anymore.

  I expected Ma to be in the kitchen, in her housecoat. But as I stepped inside she was coming into the parlor and she was still dressed to the nines. A curl had come undone over her ear. Her bare lips were as pale as her cheeks; the lipstick I'd put on her earlier was gone. Betty was following behind her, yawning in her nightgown, as if she'd just woken up.

  "Ruby, it is you!" Ma said. She laughed a strange, gusting laugh. Like wind blowing through her throat, not reaching deep. "I thought I heard someone in the hall. Don't worry about your coat, sit down. Betty, come sit next to your sister."

  She was radiant. "You must have had a good time," I said.

  She laughed again. "I . . . well, I did. Shall I tell you?"

  From the sofa, Betty and I stared up at her like a couple of lambs. Ma pulled off her gloves. First the right, then the left. She held out her left hand, draped downward at the wrist, fingers pointing toward the floor.

  My first thought was, She's cured. There was a miracle at the church, and she's cured.

  Ma wiggled her fingers. That was when I saw the scrapes over her knuckle. And the ring. Not her wedding ring. A different one, with a flashing diamond.

  "Girls," Ma said, "I'm getting married."

  Three days later, she did.

  SIXTEEN

  It wasn't a church ceremony. Father Redisz told Ma she'd have to wait three months, to allow for the banns—but the Catholic Church wasn't in a hurry, and Ma was. So that Thursday, without telling me or Betty, she and a bus driver named Chester Nolan nipped over to City Hall.

  We'd met our new stepfather once by then, on Tuesday, when he took us out for dinner at a steakhouse in the Loop. Before he arrived at the flat, Ma made Betty wash off her Peach Blossom lipstick and me my new Victory Red, and she insisted I change my Cuban heels for saddle shoes. I didn't even own saddle shoes anymore. So I wore the brown oxfords with the chunky heels instead. Ma frowned, but she didn't say anything.

  "He looks like an icebox," Betty whispered to me as Ma ushered Chester Nolan into our parlor. I felt too numb to laugh, even though it was true. Square shoulders dropping straight down to short legs. A flat, square face. Not ugly, not handsome. He could've been a customer at the Starlight. For a panicked second, I wondered if he was. Then he doffed his hat, showing gingery hair, combed straight back, a white streak over his right eye. I let out my breath, relieved. I'd remember that hair.