Less than ten minutes later, I was shoving myself and two Sears bags into the front seat of the convertible. "Got it," I said. "Let's go."
But he didn't start the car. Instead, he sat back against his door and stretched out his legs.
"Show me," he said.
First, the pair of sandals on my feet. Then the beach towels. Finally, I held up the green and purple striped bathing suit. "What do you think?"
He looked so doubtful I burst out laughing. "I know, it's hideous." I pushed it back into the bag. "But if you don't like it, it's your own fault. You're the one who told me to hurry."
"Guess that's why you forgot the most important thing." He reached past me and popped open the glove compartment. "Lucky for you, I remembered."
I peeked inside the glove compartment and gasped. Paulie slammed it shut, so fast I wondered if I'd imagined the gun, inky black and smooth, lying like a rock in a clutter of papers and gadgets. Then I saw the velvet box in his hand and snatched it from him, and in the tiny dart of disappointment—too big for a ring—I forgot about the glove compartment. I snapped the box open. Later, Paulie said I launched myself like a torpedo straight for him. All I remembered was smacking my knuckles on the window glass when I threw my arms around his neck.
"Put it on me, put it on!" I said.
The necklace was even prettier in his hands than in the box: a chain of white gold daisies, each with a dark blue rhinestone center. Paulie frowned, trying to undo the clasp. "Turn around," he said. I held up my hair, and the gold slipped heavy and cool against my skin. I propped myself up on the seat so I could look in the rearview mirror.
"I saw those blue bits," Paulie said, "and I said to myself, That's exactly the color of Ruby's eyes." His fingers slid up the back of my neck, under my hair.
"It's beautiful," I whispered. He'd stolen it, I knew. The cold-shivery thrill tingled through me to my fingertips, to the tips of my toes. He pulled me to him, and we kissed, and the thrill warmed and tingled, like my insides waking up after a long sleep.
A cracking rap on the window. We jumped apart. A beat cop bent down, peering inside, a nightstick in his hand. "Take it somewhere else!" he bawled at us.
"Yeah, yeah," Paulie muttered. "Goddamned flatfoot."
I smiled at the cop. If you only knew what I knew. He stared back at me, stone eyed. Behind him, four girls stood in a little knot, laughing behind their hands at us. High school girls in saddle shoes, their hair pulled back with ribbons.
A year ago, that would have been me. I smiled and laid my head on Paulie's shoulder. He turned the ignition and gunned the motor.
It seemed like all of south Chicago was at the lakeshore. We picked our way over blazing sand through what seemed like thousands of shrieking children and their clammy-looking mothers; picnic baskets and girls already tanned the color of roasted peanuts; white lifeguard towers and the lifeguards themselves in their brilliant red swim trunks, like spots of blood spattered down the beach. I let Paulie get a little ways ahead of me. I'd been with him in the convertible's backseat, but I still didn't know what he looked like with his shirt off, and I didn't want him to see me staring.
Muscles shimmied across his back as he dodged around a toddler. The toddler's mother—thirty if she was a day, with another kid hanging on to her legs and a baby in her flabby arms—craned her neck to watch Paulie go by. "That one can rub coconut oil on me any day of the week," she said to her friend.
As if Paulie would give the time of day to an old broad like that! I trotted to catch up to him and slipped my hand in his. He shook free and pointed.
"There's a spot," he said.
Instead of sunning on the towel, though, Paulie coaxed me out into the lake. "It's just wading," he said, when I told him I couldn't swim. "Even that grandma over there can do it."
In the water, the air seemed less muggy, the smells of suntan lotion and sweat and hot skin less. Pretty soon, I was in up to my waist. When he tried to get me in deeper, though, I planted my feet.
"Gee, Ruby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," he said, and reached out his hand. I took it and he yanked me hard off my feet. The water rushed cold up my body and I shrieked, but then he had me in his arms, one around my shoulders and the other under my knees, and I was safe against him, his belly sliding smooth and warm against my hip. The shrieking and splashing of kids faded; it might have been only the two of us in the entire lake. All around, the sun glittered like fireworks.
"See?" he said. "I wouldn't let you fall."
Holy Mary, I prayed, let me live in this moment forever.
By dinnertime, the crowd had thinned out. I felt lazy down to my bones: sleepy from sun and the water and hot dogs and root beer. The necklace lay warm as a cat over my collarbones. Paulie sat up.
"We gotta go," he said. "I got someplace to be tonight."
We bundled up the towels and walked to the beach house. Ahead, the downtown skyline rose like sharp-cornered mountains, the sun low behind, gleaming orange around the edges. Changing into my dress, I realized I should've grabbed my pocketbook and shoes before dashing out the door; then I could've gone straight to the Starlight. There was going to be hell to pay at home. Chester wouldn't help me now, not even if I bawled like a baby.
I had to decide. Quit the Starlight, or move out on my own. My family, or Paulie.
Whichever I chose, it felt as though I'd be leaving half of me behind.
The answer came to me in the car, so suddenly I must have been blind not to see it before. Paulie's hand was on the gearshift; I grabbed his arm with both hands. Something in the engine ground and snarled and the car lurched. Paulie stomped the clutch hard.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.
"Let's get married," I said.
For a long, horrible moment, Paulie just stared. Then he started laughing.
It was like he'd squashed me flat under his foot. I yanked open the door and started to scramble out of the car, but he grabbed me and pulled me back inside, still laughing.
"You're just a kid," he said. "Married? You're joking, right?"
I hit out at him. Missed, because of the tears blinding me. "You didn't think I was such a kid before!" I shouted. "I'm sixteen. Plenty of girls get married at sixteen. My own mother did!" I snatched up one of the beach towels and wiped my eyes. Sand gritted across my cheek. "We'll be getting married sometime anyway. Don't you see? If we do it now, it'll solve everything." His face skewed, as if it'd slipped on ice. A sudden panic fluttered like bird wings around my heart. "Paulie! We're getting marr—"
"Yeah, yeah, just shut up a second, all right?" I could feel the impatience rising off him, like steam. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his face.
"This is the thing," he said. "I got something going. I can't say what, but this . . . " He gestured at the inside of the car, at me. "It's not a good time, Ruby."
I closed my eyes. Wrung the corner of the towel in my lap. All this time, I'd been so sure . . . His fingertips brushed my temple. Pushing a curl behind my ear. Still irritated, I could tell by his touch, but trying to be gentle. He was trying. I grabbed at that like a lifeline.
"Don't you think if we could get married now I'd have asked you?" he said. "I thought you understood, Ruby. I'm trying to get a foothold in this town, you know? And I'm close. Real close." His thumb wiped tears across my cheek. "Gimme a little while. Just until things settle down. Then yeah. Sure." His gray eyes gazing steady into mine. Flecks of gold and green and blue. My heart slowed down. A little while.
"This thing with your mother's got you all riled up," he said. "It's driving you nuts. And it's driving me nuts. I'm tired of sneaking around, Ruby. I want to be able to see you when I want. You get your own place, we can do that. You want that, don't you?"
As he talked, I looked at our hands twined together on my knee. Peggy had been right; nothing had happened the way I'd imagined it would. But those were little-girl dreams, babyish as the stories in Angie's romance magazines. Runaway heiresse
s and dukes in disguise. If you were savvy, you knew real life wasn't like that.
I was savvy.
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, that's what I want."
"That's my girl," Paulie said.
NINETEEN
I was right: there was hell to pay. Thank God, Ma hadn't gotten a look at Paulie. I told her Hank Majewski from the old neighborhood had just bought a car and had come to show it off with a bunch of the old gang, Angie and Lois and some of the others. If Mrs. Burns had looked closer, she would have seen them in the backseat.
We were in old lady Nolan's room, Ma sitting at Betty's desk, me on the bed. Ma said Chester was so humiliated by what I'd done to Mrs. Burns, he couldn't bring himself to make his air warden rounds. He hadn't even looked at me when I came in. I wished he'd never brought me those Oreos, that he'd never been nice to me at all. Then I wouldn't feel so bad about it.
"Tell your supervisor tonight's your last night," Ma said. "Or tomorrow I'll call him myself. Understand?"
I'd made my choice. No question of quitting now. But I said, "Yes, Ma," and as soon as the door closed behind her, I started unbuttoning my dress. It was already after seven; I had just enough time to change clothes and get to the Starlight.
Betty came into the room. "Get out," I said. Instead, she flopped down on her bed, the cat-watching-a-mouse look on her face that meant she knew something. Well, whatever game she had in mind, I wasn't going to play. I went to the closet and sorted through the hangers.
"Where's my russet dress?" I asked.
"Which russet dress?"
"I only have one and you know it. Did you wear it?"
"Maybe." I turned and glared at her. Her cheeks flushed pink. "I couldn't help it. It's cuter than anything I have."
I snatched my red skirt with its matching peplum jacket off the rod. "If you don't keep your hands off my clothes, I swear I'm going to scalp you," I said, stepping into the skirt. Realizing, with a jolt, that Betty wouldn't be able to borrow anything anymore. Tomorrow night, Ma would expect me to stay home. Which meant that I had to leave before then.
My hand lay on the jacket lapel, ready to flick it free of the hanger. What could I possibly say to Ma, how would I explain? At the thought, my fingers dug into the smooth gabardine.
Later. I couldn't think about it now. I shrugged on the jacket.
Behind me, Betty said, "Was it Paulie who told you to flip Mrs. Burns the bird?"
My fingers jerked, slipping across a button. I managed a little breathless laugh. "Paulie? Suelze? What on earth would he be doing here? No, it was Hank Majews—"
"I saw him, Ruby." Lying on her stomach, cheek propped against one hand. Smug as if she'd not only eaten the canary, but dipped it in chocolate sauce first. "I heard the honking and went up the side yard and I saw him. Besides, Hank Majewski joined the army, remember? You better hope Ma doesn't."
The breath went out of me, sure as if she'd punched me in the stomach. "Did you say anything to Ma?"
"I knew it," she said. "You've been seeing him all along, haven't you? When the phone rings twice, that's him, isn't it?"
"I'm asking you, did you tell Ma!"
She rolled over and sat up. "Of course I didn't. What do you take me for?"
I drew a deep, shaking breath. Ma didn't know. In a little while Paulie and I would be married, and after that none of this would matter.
Betty leaned back against the wall, stretched out her legs. "So have you done it with him?"
"Have I . . . ? That's . . . I don't know what you're talking about!" I snatched up my black pumps, sat down at the desk to put them on.
"Oh, come on. How stupid do you think I am? I know all about it. Some of the victory girls have done it. Or they say they have."
"Victory girls?" I frowned at her. "Who are they?"
Instead of answering, Betty glanced away, an odd half smile on her face. For a moment, I saw her the way I had that afternoon in the Yards: not the sister I'd grown up with, but a girl with a high-bridged nose and chocolate-dark hair and a figure better than most girls out of high school. She'd just turned fifteen. A little practice, and she could pass for eighteen. Like me.
"Betty! What have you done?"
She looked up, startled, and then she was my baby sister again. "Nothing." She shrugged. "Gone to the USO a couple of times. That's all."
"You're volunteering at the USO?"
She laughed. "Volunteer?" she said, as if I was talking about cleaning a pigpen. "Pour coffee and wash dishes? As if the boys want to sit with those drippy do-gooders, anyway. We hang around outside and they're happy to see us." She scootched off the bed and stood up. "And you can save your looks, it's not like you're any angel. Besides, me and my friends, we don't do anything bad. They take us to the movies. Or out for burgers. They're nice."
Organizing scrap drives for the war effort, she'd told us. Going to wave at the troop trains with the neighborhood kids. Instead she'd been running around with soldiers. The movies! Oh, I knew about the movies.
"So have you?" Betty picked a file up off her dresser, drew it across her thumbnail. "Done it, I mean. With Paulie."
"Don't be ridiculous." Stuffing things from my brown pocketbook into the black one. Handkerchief, change purse . . . I glanced at the clock. If I didn't leave right now, I'd be late.
"The girls who have talk about it," Betty said. "They say it's not such a big deal." She looked almost wistful. It's not so bad, Peggy had told me, that night at Bennie's. It's never how anyone thinks it'll be.
I snatched the nail file out of her hand and pointed it at her. "If you go near those girls again, I'll tell Ma. She'll make sure you never see another USO as long as you live. Got that?" I smacked the file down on her dresser. She picked it up again, leisurely, ran it over another nail.
"You tell Ma about me," she said, "and I'll tell her about Paulie. Got that?"
We stared at each other, not speaking. Then I stormed past her out of the room.
. . .
". . . so the army doctors stamped my papers 4-F," the young blond fellow was saying. "Unfit for service, all because I broke my ankle back in '39! Is that fair?"
I was stuck on my third dance with this chatterbox. What with all his yammering, I could hardly hear myself think. And I had to think. If I'd known, two months ago, that I'd have to worry about my own sister, under my own roof, I wouldn't have lost one minute's sleep over Stan Dudek.
The band closed the number with a trumpet flourish. That was another thing: Ozzie wasn't on the bandstand. Oh, they had a trumpeter—couldn't have a dance band without one—but he was some tubby fellow, without half the pizzazz Ozzie had in his littlest finger. Ozzie couldn't be at Lily's, it was too early. What if he'd gotten into a fight with Ophelia's new boyfriend? He'd looked mad enough last night to do anything.
"Looks like they're taking a break," the blond fellow said. He seized my hand. "And here I was just going to tell you what the second army doctor said. Buy you a soda?"
"Gosh, thanks, I can't." I jimmied loose and didn't wait for my tip.
The Ladies' was packed, as usual. Three deep at the long mirror. I couldn't see myself even when I stood on tiptoes. All the dressing tables taken, too. Except Yvonne's, of course.
"If you're looking for a fight, keep doing what you're doing," Gabby said, when I walked to Yvonne's table. "Otherwise, scram."
I didn't answer her. As usual, Yvonne's red fox fur hung draped over the back of her chair. She wouldn't wear the coat again until October, but she left it here. Not even in her locker, but out where everyone could see. It had made Peggy mad, back when anything besides Alonso mattered to her. A nice fur like that ought to be stored for the summer, she said. Not shown off like a trophy. I brushed my palm across the collar, the hairs prickling the inside of my wrist. The tabletop was cluttered with makeup and combs and hairspray. No one else left their things lying around, not unless they wanted every girl in the place to help herself. But no one dared touch Yvonne's stuff. Peggy was wrong, I tho
ught. Yvonne didn't leave her coat here to show off. She left it as a sign: Queen Bee. Keep Out.
I sat down and picked up Yvonne's compact case. It was a gorgeous thing, beaded in red and gold, with a matching cigarette lighter. Whatever fish gave this to her, he didn't buy it at any five-and-dime. I dusted the powder over my nose, my chin. It smelled creamy, slightly sweet. Expensive.
"Just lemme know where to send the flowers, after," Gabby said. Two tables down, Nora laughed and repeated the remark to somebody else. Behind me, the everlasting chatter and yapping quieted down a moment. Then picked up again.
I know all about it, Betty had said.
She didn't. And she wouldn't, if I could help it. I didn't want her knowing the things I knew. Like the backseat of a kelly green convertible. Although you could call that by name, at least. Confess it to a priest. But what about all the other things I couldn't possibly explain? Like, knowing whether I'd get a bigger tip by flirting with a fellow or acting like it was my first time in high heels. Whether I could hook a fish for a date by suggesting cocktails and wild jazz, so he'd think I was the life of the party and a sure thing . . . or by mentioning a sweet little chop suey joint, quiet, away from all this noise, so he'd think I was fascinated only with him . . . and a sure thing. How far to let the hands go before putting on the kibosh, whether to joke or act offended, to keep the fish coming back, keep them believing, surely next time . . . How best to drop the hints, the sighs, the wants, so the fish would think the meals and dresses and makeup he bought me were all his own idea, and not me fishing him for everything I could get. If you went into the confessional and knelt in front of the musty-smelling screen and said, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, how exactly would you describe what you'd done?
Illusion, that's what Del would say. You're helping them believe what they want to believe. Was illusion a sin? Did it make you hard, put a shell over you, paint you like an Easter egg?
My eyes looked back at me in Yvonne's mirror. Mascara and eyeshadow were supposed to make them bigger. All the magazines said so. But mine struck me now like two glints of blue at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Was this what people saw when they looked at me?
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