Ten Cents a Dance

by Christine Fletcher

  Yesterday, Paulie shot a man for money. Yesterday, I was the top earner at a taxi-dance hall, and yesterday, I'd burned a hole in a woman's fox coat.

  Yesterday, I'd thought that today I'd be leaving home for good.

  Now today was here, and I was rolling out tart crusts for Ma. I didn't have Paulie. I didn't have a job, or my own place. In a little while, I wouldn't have any money left out of the stash in my pillowcase. Fifty cents a week allowance, and come fall I'd be walking to school with Betty and the cream-faced Gorman sisters. Four of us, in matching plaid uniforms.

  I was back where I started, nine months ago, before I pulled Ma's wedding ring off her finger and went to work stuffing hog's feet into bottles. A school kid. No worries except whether or not a boy liked me, and if I'd get called on to read poetry in class. But I wasn't that girl anymore. Chester came in, red faced and sweating. I poured him a glass of lemonade. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He and Ma nattered on about the war going on six months already. I put the tarts in the oven. The days marched ahead of me, I could see them, every single one exactly the same, and I wondered how I was supposed to unlearn all the things that I knew.

  "I'm going to lie down," I told Ma.

  "Are you feeling all right?" she asked. She felt my forehead. "Do you need more aspirin?" Chester shifted in his chair, ready to dash off for the bottle. I shook my head.

  "I'm just stiff, that's all. A headache. Maybe I overdid it."

  In old lady Nolan's room, the sun threw deep gold rectangles across the bed. I drew the curtains. Six o'clock. I could change into Paulie's favorite dress, the sweet little pink and black number, catch the el, be waiting for him when he walked into Maddie's Diner.

  No—he should have to wait for me. I imagined strolling in, in my own sweet time. Paulie taking my hand, swearing over and over he'd never do it again. I imagined the tears rolling from his beautiful eyes. In the dark, sticky heat of the room, I built a shining picture of the two of us, just married, sitting down to dinner in a little flat of our own. Pretty curtains in the window, a quilt on the bed. Paulie carving the roast. Peggy and Alonso coming over, the men talking baseball in the parlor while Peggy and I sat over coffee in the kitchen and talked about them.

  Knuckles rapped on the door and I jumped. Pain stabbed my side. I eased down onto the bed as Ma poked her head in.

  "Chester's running some things to St. Rita's for the jumble sale next week," she said. "I know you're tired, but I thought you might like to go. Here it is two weeks since we've been here, and you two have hardly had a chance to say more than good morning and good night to each other."

  I've decided to meet my friend after all. I could say it, and she'd let me go.

  The stabbing in my side faded to a throb. I tried to call back the picture of me and Paulie and the pretty little flat. I couldn't.

  Even if you made Paulie lose his temper, the little voice said, you didn't make him kick you like you're a low-down cur. He did that himself. And as good as he did it, what do you want to bet it wasn't his first time?

  Maybe not. But it would be the last time for me.

  The words came like they were being dragged in chains, but I spoke them. "Sounds like fun," I said.

  Ma crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed the top of my head. "Thank you, sweetheart," she whispered. From the doorway, she threw me one of her old smiles, blue eyes flashing. "I'll call you when Chester's ready to go," she said.

  As soon as the door closed, I laid my head in my hands and cried. For Paulie. For the Starlight. And for whoever I was now.

  TWENTY - TWO

  Betty begged off coming with us. Said she didn't want to miss Truth or Consequences. So Chester and I drove to St. Rita's in his old black Ford. I thought he could tell I'd been crying; he didn't say much, but as he drove he seemed to be listening extra hard, as if anything I might say or do could give him a clue how to help. It was the kind of thing that ought to rub me exactly wrong. But somehow, the way Chester did it made me feel safe. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt safe.

  I could get used to it.

  An hour later, though, after drinking three cups of coffee and listening to the St. Rita Jumble Sale Committee argue over how to arrange the sale tables, I was ready to run screaming around the parish hall. Right at this moment, the Ladies' would be hopping. Yvonne crowing at the top of her lungs about how she'd run me out, I bet, Gabby and Stella and all the others congratulating themselves. I wondered if Peggy missed me, if she was watching the door, rooting for me to come in. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter to eight. Fifteen more minutes, and I'd officially be canned.

  Fifteen more minutes, and Paulie would be waiting at Maddie's Diner.

  I got up from my chair and poured myself another cup of coffee. By the time I finished it, the meeting was breaking up and it was three minutes after eight o'clock.

  "Sorry we got stuck there so long," Chester said, on the way to the car. "I hadn't meant to get caught up in all that. Hope it wasn't too boring for you."

  "No, it was fine."

  "Your mother and sister'll have dinner waiting for us, I expect. I'm starved, how about you?"

  "Starved," I said. He opened the car door for me, and I smiled at him. It felt strange, like putting on a favorite dress that you've outgrown. A little tight. The good-girl dress.

  On the way home, the shadows stretching long across Sixty-third Street, I decided. I couldn't unlearn what I knew. But I could make Ma happy, I could get along with her husband. And I could damn sure watch out for Betty. Betty and those friends of hers. Victory girls? Know-nothing idiots was what they sounded like. Trouble.

  Keep Betty on the right road—that much, I could do. It would have to be enough.

  I'd make it be enough.

  The house smelled good, pork roast and potatoes and the rhubarb tarts. I'd eat, then plead another headache and go to bed. I was tired and I hurt. My heart, more than my body now. But that was worse.

  I followed Chester into the dining room. "How come the table's only set for three?" he asked. "Where's the munchkin?"

  "On an errand," Ma called from the kitchen. "She'll be back soon."

  "Errand?" Chester said. "At this time on a Sunday night?"

  Ma appeared in the doorway, a bowl of mashed potatoes carefully cradled in one arm. I went and took it from her. "It's Ruby's fault, really," Ma said. Winking at me, so I'd know she was joshing. "Apparently, when Betty spoke with your friend Polly this morning, she promised you'd meet her tonight."

  My fingers froze around the bowl.

  "Then you said you weren't going to go," Ma went on, "and Betty felt badly. So she went instead."

  "She what? And you let her? You let her go?"

  Ma frowned. "Well, we couldn't have your poor friend sit there for hours waiting. Betty said she'd explain what happened, then come right back. I would have sent her with Chester but—for goodness' sake, Ruby, what's wrong?"

  I didn't answer. I dropped the bowl and ran for the door.

  . . .

  Maddie's Diner lay around the corner from the USO. Servicemen of all stripes—literally—crowded the place, along with their dates. The radio was blaring, but you could barely hear the music over the riot of laughter and joking. I picked my way around a soldier's outstretched legs ("Go ahead, step over 'em, honey, they don't bite") and squeezed past a bunch of sailors blocking the path between tables. ("Say, darlin', what's your address? I'm lost without you.") A waitress would need hazard pay to work this joint. I searched for a dark blond head, but the few there were all in uniform. Had he taken her somewhere else? How would I possibly find her? Stand in the streets, scream her name? Call the police?

  Maybe I was panicking for nothing. After all, what would he do when Betty showed up instead of me? A kid like her, probably he'd tell her to scram. She might this minute be on an el train headed back to Chester's house, boo-hooing because Paulie had called her a squirt and a baby. And when I got home, by the time I got through with h
er, she wouldn't know which way was up. I was almost comforted, imagining how I'd lay into her.

  But what if he hadn't laughed at her? I'll hurt you, he'd told me last night. I'll hurt you so bad you won't ever get better. I'd thought he meant he'd break my arm, or my leg, or cut a cross into my cheek like Eduardo Ciannelli did to Bette Davis in Marked Woman. What if he looked at Betty and saw a way to get back at me? She could be anywhere in this bedlam of a city with him, a man with the backseat of a car, a man who'd shot someone just last night.

  I pushed my way past two marines. And caught my breath in relief. There, in the very last booth. Dark blond, facing me. All I could see of Betty, the sleek chocolate crown of her head.

  It's easy to sneak up on people when you're short. It's also easy when the people you're sneaking up on are sitting with their heads practically touching, holding hands between glasses of cola and vanilla milkshake. When I was almost to their table, Paulie raised his eyes. "Hey, waitress, gimme—" Then he saw me. His face went through an odd kind of struggle. He ended up smiling, but I'd seen the anger in his eyes before he pasted on that grin. He didn't let go of Betty's hand. No struggle on Betty's face; she wasn't happy to see me, and she didn't care if I knew it.

  "What are you doing here?" she snapped.

  "I thought I'd ask you that." I turned to Paulie. "Let go of my sister."

  He shook his head slowly at Betty, as if she was a naughty child. "Looks like your big sis thinks you're horning in on her turf." He glanced up at me. "You want to send her on home? Slip into her spot?"

  "Paulie!" Betty cried, at the same time I said, "Gee, thanks. But we're both going home." I jerked my head toward the door. "Come on, Betty."

  "You go wherever you want. I'm staying."

  "The hell you are." I took her by the arm. She yanked free and glared up at me, mad as an alley cat and ready to bite.

  "Go on back to your dance hall, why don't you! You and your clubs and your booze, who are you to tell me what to do?"

  I felt myself go cold. I felt my mouth flapping. No sound coming out. Paulie raised a pale, cool eyebrow at me and shrugged. Then he lifted Betty's hand to his mouth. Kissed it, all the while watching me, one corner of his mouth curling up.

  I grabbed Betty's hand out of his and wrenched her half out of the booth. "Nol" she yelled. Give her credit, she was a quick thinker; instead of pulling back, she stuck her foot out to trip me. I'd have been proud of her, except that it was me she was doing it to. I kicked her in the ankle and hauled again and got her to her feet.

  "NO!" she yelled. "You hypocrite, you liarl Leave me alone!" Kicking and flailing so hard, I couldn't keep hold of her wrists. So I got behind her and crooked one arm around her neck and the other under her tits and dragged her backward to the door. The servicemen about choked, they laughed so hard. Shouting bets to each other, shouting to Betty: Sock her, sis! Land her a good one! She did, too. Knuckles right in my eye, which got her a whooping round of applause. Finally, though, we got to the door. A grinning sailor pulled it open for me. I dragged Betty onto the sidewalk. I let her go to catch my breath and that was a mistake; she put her head down like a bull and aimed straight for the diner. This time I threw both arms around her waist and lifted her clear off her feet, spinning us both around.

  My side was killing me and I was gasping for breath, but Betty had plenty of fight left. I realized I had no idea what to do now. I couldn't possibly wrestle her on the el the whole way home; I'd expire before we got to Western Avenue.

  "Ruby? Ruby!" A man's voice, familiar. Tall, a natty blue uniform. A navy officer. I had to stare at his face a second before I recognized him.

  "Stan!" I said, just as Betty twisted her neck and tried to bite me. I pinched her ear as hard as I could and she yelped.

  "Need a hand with anything?" Stan said. He was grinning too. What was it men found so damn funny about girls fighting?

  "God, yes," I said. "Whistle us a cab, will you?"

  "Let me GO!" Betty bellowed. "I'm old enough to do what I want, and you can't stop me, you liar, you phony, you—"

  Christ on a shingle, it was like trying to hold a giant cat in a dress. Where the hell was that cab? "Betty, so help me God, if you don't quit, I'm going to rip your ear right off your head!" I gave it a good wrench. Show her I meant business. That calmed her down some.

  A cab pulled up to the curb. "Here we go," Stan said, and opened the door.

  That set Betty off again. "If you send me home, I'll tell Ma everything! I'll tell everyone, I'll—"

  I hauled her around and slapped her across the face as hard as I could. Her hand flew to her cheek; red blotches spread from under her fingers. I shoved her toward Stan, making sure to keep her sideways so she couldn't kick him. "Take her home, please, Stan. I have to—I have to clear up something here. Will you? Please!"

  He glanced at the window full of laughing sailors. Then at Betty. "Tell me which one it was. I'll take care of it."

  "No, you're an officer, you'll get in trouble. I can handle it. Just please, take her home!"

  "No," Betty whimpered. "No, I won't . . ."

  "You will. Or I'll belt you so hard you'll think God himself smote you." To Stan, I said, "You better get in first. Or she'll jump out the other side."

  "You always were the sharp one, Ruby." He bent forward swiftly, kissed me on the cheek. Then he grinned and folded himself into the taxi. I pushed Betty in after him. The slap had taken the wind out of her sails; as soon as her fanny hit the seat, she collapsed on Stan's shoulder, sobbing. I leaned in the cab window and babbled the address to the driver.

  "Make sure she gets in the house," I told Stan. "Hand her to her stepfather. He'll take care of her from there."

  "Will do," Stan said. "You sure you don't need a hand? I could call a few fellows . . ."

  "No. But thanks."

  Betty raised her head. Her face was ugly, contorted with tears. "Ill tell Ma!" she shouted. "I'll tell her everything!"

  Yeah? Tell me something I didn't know.

  I walked back into the diner to a chorus of whistles and applause. "Watch out, here comes the wildcat," someone called. I shouldered past them but didn't look left or right. My eyes were fixed on Paulie. He was leaning against the diner counter, his hands in his pockets. Then he straightened up and crossed his arms. Tough guy. Paulie was a tough guy, all right. Won all his fights, in the ring and out. Half killed a fellow with his hands. Beat up a girl on a sidewalk.

  The trick to punching somebody, he'd told me once, is aim six inches behind where you want to hit. Then follow through. Where most chumps make their mistake is, they don't follow through.

  I drew my fist back, still walking. The soldiers hooted. Paulie tilted his chin up, out of my reach. Gray eyes hard as walls slanting down at me.

  Last step, dip of my knee, fist swinging underhand. Paulie knew where I was headed then. Tried to scuttle backward but I'd figured on that and I kept coming. Eight months of dancing, my legs strong as hell. Fist coming up. Knuckles scraped cotton trousers, kept going. Followed through so hard I felt his heels lift off the ground.

  I staggered a little, recovering. Almost tripped over Paulie jackknifed on the floor. I put a hand on the counter and steadied myself, and I said, "You come within a mile of my sister again, 111 kill you."

  Paulie didn't answer. He was puking.

  I walked a clear path to the door. God parted the Red Sea, I parted a khaki one. Nobody crowding. No catcalls. The only sound, Paulie retching.

  I stepped outside and I didn't look back.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Out on the sidewalk, the streetlights had come on. I stood panting. My side throbbed deep. My arm hurt from my knuckles clear up to my elbow. Behind me, I heard the diner door squeak open. I brought my fists up, but it was only a GI holding out my pocketbook. I took it from him. He glanced back into the diner and said, in an easy Southern drawl, "You might oughta lay low a bit, miss. The stuff he's starting to say, it ain't too pretty."

  "Thank y
ou," I said. The GI touched his cap and went back inside.

  I didn't even think where I was going. I took the el and then the streetcar and twenty minutes later I was smelling a smell as familiar to me as Ma's lavender water. Summer strong, as if the heat boiled the stench down thick as gravy. I stumbled off the streetcar at Forty-seventh and Damen. Ahead, in the fading light, rose the smokestacks of the Yards. I'd come home.

  Boys played line ball in the street. Crack of the bat, sprinting, a flying catch. All up and down the block, folks sat on their front stoops or leaned out their windows. So many windows with stars. Mostly blue, but every once in a while, gold. The Majewskis' flat had one of each. Hank and his big brother, Les. Which one wasn't coming home?

  Union Hall. Paulie and I met there. That night, the only time we ever danced. He'd kissed me, then left me staring after him like a fool. But he'd always come back. Never when I was looking for him. But I'd turn around and there he'd be. Crooking his eyebrow at me, grinning.

  He wouldn't stop now. I knew it, even before that GI said what he'd said. I'd humiliated him, I'd laid him out like a ninepin in front of an entire diner. He'd be coming back, all right. But . . . I remembered the shift of his eyes to mine as he kissed Betty's hand. I'd seen the look on her face when his lips touched her fingers. She was a smart girl. But when it came to Paulie, smart wasn't nearly enough.

  Just look at me.

  Nothing could stop Paulie from crooking his eyebrow at my sister. Nothing could stop her from running to him when he did. And he would. He'd do it just to get even.

  Whistles blared from the packinghouses. Shifts changing. I rubbed my knuckles, feeling the ghosts of scabs, the sting of brine in cuts and scratches. I could go back. Tell Chester. And Chester would do what? Call the police? What good would that do?

  I could go to the police myself. Say that Paulie attacked me. I had the marks to prove it.