Ten Cents a Dance

by Christine Fletcher

  "Me!"

  "It was you told me about it, wasn't it?"

  My coffee cup slipped from my fingers. I grabbed for it, but not before coffee splashed across my peplum jacket. I snatched up my napkin and blotted the stains.

  Paulie shot someone for money.

  All those grilled cheese sandwiches I ate with him in diners just like this. Snickers and Old Nicks in Peoples Theater. Listening to him talk about the big score, while movies flickered light and shadow across his cool gray eyes. Me soaking up every word, thinking, He'll be big as Capone someday. Feeling that old, cold-shivery thrill.

  How'd you think Capone got big, Ruby? By stealing dresses off delivery trucks? What'd you think he might do?

  Not shoot someone. I never thought that. And the policy kings . . . mansions, Rolls-Royces . . . millions of dollars, built on nickels.

  "They'll get you," I said suddenly. "Paulie, they'll come after you!"

  He laughed. "That's the beauty of it, Ruby. They can't. They'd have to go through Canaryville to get to the Yards, and no colored in his right mind is gonna step foot in either one. If the Irish don't beat the tar out of 'em, the Poles will. As far as the law, fat chance. Policy's illegal. The coloreds pay off the cops so they don't get raided. It ain't protection money." He swallowed the last of his second doughnut, started on a third. "Best of all, Frank Nitti and all the big boys in the mob, they won't care. Whatever happens to policy ain't no skin off their nose." The doughnut piece fell into his coffee; he fished it out with his fingers. "See? Home free."

  He made it sound easy. Maybe it was. But then, how come nobody thought of it before?

  Either Paulie was the first one ever to hit the policy kings. Or . . . or somebody had done it before, and everybody knew better than to try again.

  Paulie shot someone for money.

  No. He couldn't have. He couldn't have done that, then sit across the table from me, eating a doughnut. He wouldn't be the same Paulie, with his hair gold on top from sun, his ears that stuck out just a little too much, his rain-cloud eyes.

  "You know," he said, "a friend of mine is moving out of some sweet digs over on Van Buren."

  Paulie shot someone for money. I shivered. Goose walked over your grave, Ma would say. I took a swallow of coffee. Not hot enough to chase away the sudden chill. I signaled to the waitress.

  "I've seen it. Upstairs of a swell two-flat. Soon as I heard, I thought, that's the place for Ruby."

  It took me a second to realize what he'd said. "But I can't afford a flat. I was going to see about the hotel where my friend Peggy lives. Like we talked about before. It's nice enough and I don't need much room."

  "You can do better than a fleabag hotel. As far as the rent"—Paulie pushed the crumbs on his plate into a little pile—"I could take care of that for you."

  I frowned. Take care of the rent? Like Yvonne and her fish? "No. I couldn't do that," I said.

  "What's the matter, you think God's gonna send a lightning bolt?" He grinned up at me. "Seems to me he'd have done it already, if he was going to. Look, I'd pay the rent if we were married, wouldn't I?"

  "But we're not." I flushed, remembering our fight in the car earlier.

  "So?" The waitress came over, topped up our cups. Paulie waited until she was gone. Then he slipped his fingers under mine, stroking my knuckles with his thumb. "We do other things married people do, don't we?"

  A shiver zigged down my back. I nodded.

  "This'll make us more like being married. Isn't that what you want?"

  "Sure it is, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  Maybe it wasn't the same as Yvonne at all. She did it for money. When you loved the man, though, like I loved Paulie . . . and we were going to be married soon, anyway . . .

  "So that's settled." Paulie leaned forward and took my other hand, folding them together in both of his. "You know, Ruby, I been thinking. Taxi-dance halls—that's old stuff. In your racket, where's the real dough? Hooking the fish, right? But you gotta dance your feet off all night first. The smart dames, they don't wait for fish to come to them."

  "Oh, yeah? What do they do, put an advertisement in the paper?"

  Paulie didn't smile, but he had the same light in his eyes as when he talked about the big score. His fingers tightened on mine.

  "See, this is how it works. I find the fish. You show 'em a good time. I'm telling you, the way this town is booming with GIs, we'll clean up. How does that sound, huh? Dress up in your pretty dresses and go out on the town, and not have to hop around a dance floor for nickels?"

  The uneasy feeling stirred again; the coffee felt like acid in my stomach. Their fish get something for their money, Peggy had said. And what they get is plenty more than a foxtrot.

  I pulled my hands free of his. "I don't get it. How are we supposed to clean up, just from fellows taking me out to clubs?"

  Now it was Paulie's turn to frown. "Well, that's not all they . . . Look, it's not anything more than you're doing already. My way, you'll get to spend more time off your feet than on 'em." He shrugged. Acting casual. But his shoulders had gone tense, and his face. Watching me.

  I'm not asking for nothing you haven't already done. My back shoved up against bricks, Tom's breath in my hair. I looked at Paulie's rain-cloud eyes and I couldn't see past the flecks of color. I couldn't see inside. I wondered if I ever had. Or if that had been an illusion too.

  Earlier, when I'd charged Yvonne, I'd been so angry I'd literally seen red. Now my vision was sharp as glass. My hands were in my lap, the tablecloth brushing across their backs. I wadded fabric between my fingers, crumpled it small into my palms. Then I stood up and yanked. The tablecloth upended into Paulie's lap.

  I should've ordered the egg plate, with toast on its own dish and orange juice. As it was, there were only the coffee cups and saucers and the doughnut plate and the water glasses and water pitcher and silverware and napkin holder. Although, the water pitcher was full. That was something. I dropped the tablecloth while the pitcher was still tumbling, but from Paulie's yell I was pretty sure it got him.

  There's your big score, I thought.

  I walked to the door while glass still crashed behind me and knives clattered (maybe it was spoons, I didn't turn around), Paulie hollering, "Goddamn bitch, what the hell's the matter with you!" Then I was outside, heat slapping across my face like wet laundry fresh out of Ma's new washing machine.

  I hadn't gone two steps up the sidewalk when a hand grabbed my hair and yanked backward. Pain shot across my scalp and I fell. I screamed and beat at Paulie's arm—it was his arm, of course, the muscles hard edged and taut— but he didn't let go. He yanked again and my leg and hip scraped across the sidewalk. I dug my nails into his wrist, trying to make him let go, trying to pull myself up, to make the agony on my scalp go away. From the corner of my eye I saw his knee draw back. I swung one fist high. Hit something. Couldn't tell what. The next instant, pain exploded down my side.

  He let go then. When I could breathe again, I pressed a hand to the back of my head. My scalp tingled and stung. My side felt numb. I knew that would change soon. I heard Paulie panting above me. He'd panted above me in the backseat of the kelly green convertible. I'd thought it meant he loved me.

  I heard an anxious voice asking something. "It's all right," Paulie said. "She's my wife." Footsteps walked away. To me, Paulie said, "You bitch, I'll teach you to make a fool out of me. Goddamn whore."

  "I'm not a whore." I didn't know if he heard me. I pushed myself up along the wall. My fingertips scrabbled against the brick. My breath came in short gasps, every one like the stab of an ice pick into my right side.

  "All those fish you bragged about, what'd they give you all those gifts for, huh?" Paulie said. "To look at that piggy-eyed face of yours? I know your racket, Ruby. You don't get something for nothing."

  Illusion. That's what they got. They got to believe a girl thought they were handsome. Funny. Interesting. They'd pay for that. Every time. But that was one of th
ose things you couldn't explain.

  Illusion was what I'd paid for, with Paulie. I got to believe he loved me.

  Now his face hovered above mine, the corner of his lip raised, a glimpse of white teeth showing. His eyebrows pale smudges in the shadows. Big man. He'd shot someone for money.

  "Problem here?" a man's voice said. Paulie spun around. The cop—I could see it was a cop now—peered past him at me. Paulie edged in front of me, blocking my view.

  "No, officer, no problem," he said. "My wife just fell down. Had a little too much, you know. She'll be fine in a minute."

  "Wife, huh?" A big red hand appeared on Paulie's shoulder and shoved him aside. The cop looked me up and down. "You all right, miss?"

  I didn't snitch. Maybe I should have. But what difference would it have made?

  "I'm fine," I said.

  He frowned. Glanced at Paulie, then back at me. "You make sure she gets home safe."

  "I will," Paulie said. When the cop was gone, he turned around on me.

  "Touch me and I'll scream bloody murder," I said. "That flatfoot will be back here in two seconds, and I'll spill everything I know. I swear to God, Paulie. I will."

  He put his face up close to mine. "You breathe one word about me to anyone," he whispered, "and I'll hurt you. I'll hurt you so bad, you won't ever get better. You got me?"

  I worked my lips like I was going to spit on him. He drew back fast. Raised his fist. I opened my mouth, drew a double lungful of air.

  He turned and walked away.

  TWENTY - ONE

  The priest raised his arms high overhead, holding the white circle of the Host high before the altar. The jangling of bells scraped my nerves. I shifted on the kneeler, my arms on the back of the pew in front of me, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn't one.

  When I got up this morning, my entire right side throbbed. Just taking a step made me catch my breath. I'd hobbled to the bathroom, peeled off my nightgown, and stared at myself a long time in the mirror. At what Paulie had done. A bruise the size of my palm bloomed across my ribs, the color of raspberries in the center, spreading to grape and lime at the edges. Oddly enough, the girdle helped a little, once I'd managed to get it on. Betty had tried coming in our room while I was getting dressed, but I'd yelled at her to stay out. I didn't want anyone seeing.

  "What happened to you?" Ma cried when I limped into the living room.

  "It was the dumbest thing," I said. "Last night I tripped and fell down the platform stairs at the el station."

  Chester hustled off for aspirin and a glass of water. "Let me look," Ma said, pulling off her gloves. "Do you want to stay home from Mass?" Behind her, Betty tried to catch my eye. I ignored her.

  "It's okay, Ma, there's nothing to see. And I'd rather go." The phone had rung three times already this morning. If Paulie came, I didn't want to be alone.

  Getting in the car, Chester insisted I lean on him, as if I might break in half. It certainly felt like a possibility.

  At the altar, the jangling stopped. The priest lowered his hands. I bowed my head, but I wasn't praying.

  I'd been in fights before. But I'd never been kicked and beaten. If it'd been some rough kid, some stranger, maybe I wouldn't feel so undone. Like even the ground under my feet might buckle and collapse, no warning, nowhere to run.

  I never should've made Paulie so mad. I knew he had a temper; I could still feel his grip on my arm, that night months ago in the Yards, the stomach-flipping sensation of my bones bending. Last night, he as good as admitted he shot a man. So what did I do? I dumped a tablecloth in his lap. I remembered his yell, when the water pitcher landed, and shame washed over me.

  At the same time, a little part of me said, He deserved it.

  ". . . nos inducas in tentationem," the priest intoned.

  "Sedlibera nos a malo," the congregation replied. Betty's clear voice to my left, Ma's slightly huskier tone to my right, Chester proclaiming loud on the other side of her. I moved my lips along with them, not making a sound. The ends of the lace covering my head fell like white fences at the edges of my vision. Keeping everyone out. I wished I could make them walls and hide forever.

  We stood for Communion. As soon as Ma and Chester turned toward the end of the pew, their backs to us, something nudged my elbow. I glanced down, saw a folded note in Betty's hand. I took it.

  Paulie called this morning. He said to tell you he was stupid and he's sorry and he wants to see you. 8 p. m. at maddie's Dinner in the Loop. He said please. Five times.

  I turned to Betty, as far as the stabbing in my side would allow. "You talked to him?" I whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I tried but you—"

  "Psst!" From the aisle, Ma frowned at us. We hushed and followed her.

  The minute we got home, Betty and I made a beeline for our room. I unpinned the lace from my hair, tossed it on my dresser. "Tell me exactly what he said. Exactly."

  Betty nodded at my pocket. "Just what I wrote. I figured it was him calling. Two rings, nobody there. Then he called a third time and I grabbed it and said his name, and at first he didn't say anything but then he asked for you. I tried to tell you. You wouldn't let me in the room, and I couldn't say it was him because Ma was right there."

  "Did she hear anything?"

  "I told her it was a girl, Polly, from your work. I told her you forgot something there and this girl would bring it for you if you met her tonight." Betty stepped out of her good dress, pulled on the skirt she used for gardening. "Pretty good thinking, huh?"

  It was. "Where'd you learn to make up a story like

  that?" I asked. "Your friends the victory girls?"

  "Are you kidding? I'm teaching them a thing or two." Betty pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "All those whoppers you told Ma about going out with your friend Peggy. When all the time it was Paulie, wasn't it?"

  Guilt settled on my shoulders like a crow. A fat, black, sharp-clawed crow.

  "And Ma," Betty went on, "rooking us with all that la-di-da about the altar society. I bet there never was any altar society."

  No. There wasn't. I'd figured that out about half a second after Ma announced her engagement. I hadn't said anything to Betty, I thought it'd hurt her. But here she was, half smiling at me, that kind of smile that says you know what's what. Nobody's pulling the wool over your eyes.

  Betty gave a final tug to her ponytail. "You should've heard him, Ruby. He sounded awful. What happened, did you catch him with another girl?"

  "Just forget it, will you? It doesn't matter." I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my dress. My girdle covered the bruise, Betty wouldn't see it.

  "Whatever it was, my friend Susan says you should never forgive a fellow right off. She says make them beg first. Otherwise they think they can take you for granted."

  I took Betty's note out of my pocket and reread it. He sounded awful. . . Did Paulie feel as bad about what happened as me? Maybe he wanted to take it all back, the way I wished I could. Maybe last night was just a mistake. A misunderstanding. Those terrible things he'd said, out on the sidewalk; he'd been upset.

  The little part of me spoke up. My way, you'll get to spend more time off your feet than on 'em. He'd said that, too, and he hadn't been mad then. Pushing me to move out. Paying my rent, just like Yvonne's fish did for her. Only not a fish. Something else.

  The way this town is booming with GIs, we'll clean up. It's not anything more than you're doing already.

  Tears pricked my eyes, blurring Betty's handwriting. Paulie believed the worst about me. And even worse than that: he didn't mind. All the times I'd told him about the taxi-dance racket, he'd never cared how many fish I had. All he cared about was how much I'd soaked them for.

  I crumpled the note into a ball and dropped it on the floor. Betty stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Aren't you going to go see him? Aren't you going to talk to him?"

  "No," I said.

  Because to Paulie, I was just another Yvonne. And I couldn't forgiv
e that. Not ever.

  . . .

  I took two more aspirins, then joined everyone in the kitchen. Ma and Chester sat at the kitchen table, eating sandwiches. At the counter, Betty chopped rhubarb stalks from her garden. Ma had said she'd make a tart for dessert.

  "Betty said something about you meeting your friend Polly tonight," Ma said to me. "Now, is it Polly or Peggy? Or are they two different girls?"

  At the sound of the name, I flinched. "No, she's . . . they're different. But it's just a . . . a magazine I loaned her. I don't want it back."

  Betty shot me a look, her lips tight. She'd yammered at me about how awful I was being to poor Paulie until finally I threatened to stuff a shoe down her throat. That had shut her up.

  Chester put down his sandwich. "Shame if you lose all your friends, just 'cause you're not working anymore. Say, tomorrow when I make my air defense rounds, why don't you come with me? There's some girls up the street I bet would love to meet you." He turned to Ma. "The Gorman sisters. You remember?"

  "What a wonderful idea! Why don't you, Ruby? I believe you and Betty will be in Amy Gorman's class this fall. It'll be good to make some friends before then, don't you think?"

  I'd seen the Gorman sisters walking to school in their St. Casimir's uniforms. Their faces looked as sweet and blank to me as whipped cream. I opened the refrigerator, looking for the lemonade; suddenly I felt as if I were inside it, the walls pressing down hard. I shut the door.

  Betty and Chester went to work in the victory garden. Chester invited me, too, but I wasn't up for hoeing, or for more of Betty's sour looks. The day whiled itself away, one radio program after the next, a different one every fifteen minutes. The news came on. I listened to war news now, with so many boys I knew gone overseas. The navy had just won the Battle of Midway; I wondered if Manny or Alonso had been there. A merchant marine vessel had gotten torpedoed by the Japanese. The news finished. When Scatter good Baines started, Ma switched the station to music. A minute later, she was humming along to the radio. More cheerful than I'd seen her anytime since we'd moved here. Well, why not? Now that I'd fallen in line, we were a real family. Acting the way a real family should.