by Selena Kitt
“It’s like a penguin convention,” Erica turned to whisper and Leah squeezed her hand hard, shushing her.
The person Leah noticed first, whose eyes locked with her own, was Mr. Nolan. He stood near the edge of the living room wearing a gray suit and a shiny blue and silver tie that made his eyes seem even more blue. He’d gone for a haircut, but he hadn’t changed the length much, his hair just brushing his shoulders. He stood holding a cocktail, his usual, a gin and tonic with a wedge of lime, and he raised his highball glass as he saw the two of them clustered at the end of the hallway.
“Here they are! Two of the most beautiful girls Detroit ever produced—with cleaner lines, smoother curves, and brighter exteriors than anything off Henry Ford’s assembly line!”
The group chuckled at his risqué comparison, in spite, or maybe because of, their religious leanings. Cocktails had been passed around a few times already, Leah noted by the number of empty glasses sitting on the tables, and even the nuns and priests had been partaking.
Erica pulled her along as the two of them murmured hellos all around and people went back to discussing politics and Eisenhower’s second inauguration, as well as Elvis’s last appearance on Ed Sullivan and the capture of the “mad bomber” the month before, none of which interested Leah—except for Elvis, but this wasn’t a crowd who would appreciate his appeal.
Elvis had been the subject of Father Patrick’s Sunday sermon from the pulpit four times already in the past six months, and each time the man had been labeled “the son of Satan” and rock and roll “the devil’s music.” The record player was playing Pat Boone’s Bernadine. That was as close as they would get tonight to anything really cookin’.
Erica introduced her to the people she didn’t know, although Leah couldn’t remember any names, except a few—Mayor Cobo was there with his wife, Ethel, and she shook his hand, incredulous. She was also introduced to the infamous Soupy Sales. The only place she’d ever seen them before was on television.
Then Erica sidelined them at the hors d'oeuvres table, loading up with hot cheese puffs and shrimp puffs and melon and salted almonds and something that tasted like sardines rolled up in bacon, which were good if you just ate the bacon, Leah discovered. The girls were technically still too young to drink, and while at most dinner parties, Mr. Nolan looked the other way, they’d been warned, given the number of religious guests for the evening, to not approach the bartender for cocktails.
So they ate canapés, taking off their long gloves and putting them in their pocketbooks, listening to the adults talk and pretending they were just a part of the crowd. Leah wanted to go over and talk to Mr. Nolan but he was talking to her mother and Mr. Eyebrows and she didn’t want to take part in that particular conversation, whatever it might be.
She wanted to talk to Mr. Nolan alone, about anything, anything at all.
Instead she listened to Erica go on about what a dream Father Michael was in street clothes (he was, admittedly, wearing his collar with a dark suit instead of robes) and how boring the music was (Dean Martin singing Memories are Made of This) and how unbearably tight her corset was, and how she wished she hadn’t worn it (even though the dress probably wouldn’t have zipped without it!)
“I have to go to the little girls’,” Erica groaned. “Come with?”
“Leah!” She glanced up, seeing her mother waving her over, and she sighed, shrugging at her friend.
“Hi!” Erica mouthed the word and waved to Leah’s mother, smiling brightly, and then turned back to Leah, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. Meet you back here in five.”
Instead of running off to do her mother’s bidding, Leah turned toward the appetizers, contemplating the celery and cucumbers stuffed with Roquefort and wishing she could slip over to the bar for a screwdriver or a gin fizz, something to calm her nerves. And she never drank.
“Your mother’s calling, little girl.” Mr. Nolan’s voice was so close in her ear, she felt his breath on her neck, could smell the gin on his breath.
Leah felt her heart leap and tried to keep her hands from trembling as she glanced over her shoulder at him with a smile. “Do I have to? And… I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“No?” He smiled a smile just short of wolfish. “All grown up, indeed. May I have this dance?”
She laughed self-consciously, glancing around the room. No one else was dancing, but he insisted, holding out his hand, crooning Dean Martin’s song, “One girl, one boy, some grief, some joy...”
“Mr. Nolan!” Leah laughed as he put a hand at the small of her back and took her other hand in his, leading her in the beginning of a dramatic slow dance. It was a show—he was kidding, of course he was—but there was something very real about it, feeling his body moving hers as the next record dropped.
“Oh now here’s a challenge!” He twirled her, petticoats lifting her dress two feet, as Margaret Whiting started singing about a tropical heat wave, and it sure felt like it from where Leah was standing. “Dance with me, beautiful!”
“Jitterbug!” she cried as they began to swing, her feet following him without a second thought, like she’d been born to dance, and of course she had, she just hadn’t known until this moment she was meant to be in his arms at the time. Rock step, rock step, they laughed and jitterbugged, feet kicking out, Mr. Nolan’s hand pressed to hers briefly before she was rolling out to the left, twirling away and then caught again, pulled back into his arms.
“Dip!” he called, and then he did, holding her as he swept her so low her hair brushed the floor before pulling her back up again, the room and everyone in it fading away as they faced each other, breathless and laughing, the attraction between them crackling like something alive. It reminded her of the night he watched her dancing, except this time it was both of them together, a different sort of dance.
Neither of them heard Solie’s dinner bell. It was Erica, back from the bathroom, who reminded them with a tug on her father’s sleeve.
“Daddy, dinner!”
He smiled, hooking his daughter’s arm with his, Leah’s with the other. “Shall we?”
Leah was delighted to find she was at the same end of the table as Mr. Nolan—and it was a huge table, all the leafs in, with twenty guests seated at it—because she was seated near Erica, whose father was at the head of the table on her right with Father Michael between them. Mother Superior and Father Patrick sat across from them, and Leah’s mother sat on her left with Mr. Eyebrows between them.
Solie was responsible for the cooking, but Mr. Nolan had hired more help to serve her roast beef and hominy in sherry with asparagus. There was even a man in a chef’s hat to carve the roast beef at a separate table. It was the fanciest dinner party she had ever experienced at the Nolans—and she’d been to, or had spied on, quite a few over the years—so whatever the reason for the gathering, it had to be pretty important.
“Erica, tell me,” she urged in her friend’s ear. “Who is it?”
Erica, who had been talking to Father Michael, smirked and shook her head. “Nuh-uh. Daddy swore me to secrecy. Didn’t you, Daddy?”
Erica nudged her father, who accepted a slice of Solie’s banana chiffon cake and a cup of coffee from the server by leaning back with a big, smug smile.
“Do you really want to know, Leah?”
She nodded, eyes bright. She couldn’t imagine who it might be. Mr. Nolan had become famous for his portrait work. Besides Elvis, who had been his crowning glory as far as the girls were concerned, Mr. Nolan had taken photographs of celebrities like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz—a portrait with their first baby. He’d also photographed James Dean, just before his death. But he didn’t just take pictures of celebrities—he had photographed some of the most famous people in the world, from a portrait of Dwight Eisenhower for the White House to Queen Elizabeth herself.
“Shall we take our dessert and coffee in the other room?” Mr. Nolan suggested, standing at the head of the table and rapping his fork against his wine glass to get the group�
�s attention. “I have something to show all of you.”
There was a flurry of black robes and flashes of white collars and wimples as they all crowded out of the dining room, an area of the warehouse only used on occasions like these, back into the living area. Several of the servers had followed them, standing by, their white jackets stark contrast to their dark faces, and when Mr. Nolan nodded, they each took an end of the room divider, carrying it off and revealing that Leah’s barre and little dance studio wasn’t the only thing it had been concealing all night.
“Oh my G—” Leah caught herself just in time, covering her mouth with her gloved hand to keep her from taking the Lord’s name in vain in front of so many pious witnesses. There was a collective gasp and everyone wearing black and white crossed themselves. Leah did too, as an afterthought, when Father Michael beside her whispered something in Latin and touched the cross at his neck.
“The Pope?” Leah whispered, blinking in shock at Erica, who just grinned back. She’d seen dozens of pictures of him. There was one hanging at the entrance of Mary Magdalene’s, him sitting on a throne in his red robe, hands folded in front of him, his eyes, behind his glasses, piercing and serious, as if he could see every sin you were trying to hide from him and God.
But she’d never seen the Pope like this, had never thought she would.
In Mr. Nolan’s portrait of him, Pope Pius XII was wearing white, his robes as well as his zucchetto, a golden crucifix on his chest, hands crossed casually on his knees. He wasn’t looking directly at the camera. Instead, his gaze was a little to the left, as if looking at or talking to someone, and the most surprising thing of all—the Pope was smiling! Not just the usual “say cheese and smile for the camera” sort, but the kind that lights someone up from the inside.
She’d never seen anything more beautiful, more holy. It brought tears to Leah’s eyes and she glanced over at Mr. Nolan in wonder. He seemed to understand how she was feeling, taking a step toward her and putting an arm around her shoulder, a gesture of comfort, connection, understanding.
“Beautiful work!” Mother Superior exclaimed, crossing herself again as she stared at the portrait. It drew the eye immediately and wouldn’t let go.
“Congratulations, Robert!” Father Patrick clapped Mr. Nolan on his shoulder. “An honor and tribute to the Holy See.”
Father Michael brought his hands together in a slow clap. “Bravo!”
The group picked up on it and the whole room swelled with applause.
Mr. Nolan smiled, shaking his head and holding his hands up in supplication. “Thank you, but with such a sacred subject, my camera was already blessed.”
Everyone came over to congratulate him and Leah slipped away, watching from Mr. Nolan’s wing-backed chair as they all murmured and exclaimed over the painting, wondering what they would all say if they knew what was hiding, just a few feet away, under a tapestry and through a secret door.
Erica came over, handing Leah a highball glass with something in it.
“Quick, while they’re all busy,” she whispered, downing her own drink in two fast gulps. Leah did the same, making a face at the way the alcohol burned its way down her throat, setting her glass next to Erica’s on the coffee table.
“So this is where he was?” Leah asked, remembering the trip he’d taken to Europe some time after Christmas. Solie had been in charge that week, sleeping on the pull-out sofa at night, and the girls had run over her the whole time, “forgetting” curfew and taking full advantage of her fear of driving to take the car out, although they’d been strictly forbidden.
“I know! He went to Rome, and he didn’t even take me!” Erica crossed her arms and glared at him, but she was smiling.
“You would have missed too many classes.”
Leah glanced up as Father Michael limped over. He always carried an ivory-handled cane wherever he went, even up to the pulpit. It had a cross carved into the very top. His limp always made him seem older than he was, although his face was relatively unlined, his curly hair still thick and dark, with no hint of gray. He couldn’t have been much older than they were, maybe mid-twenties, Leah guessed, early thirties at the most. He was the youngest priest in the rectory, that much she did know.
“Wouldn’t want to miss your class, Father Michael.” Erica smiled up at him, patting the sofa beside her. “Have a seat?”
“Thank you, I will.” He smiled over at Leah as he sat beside Erica. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
Leah couldn’t take her eyes off the portrait, even from a distance, although Father Michael noticing the fact made her blush but she didn’t know why. “I guess he’s famous for a reason, isn’t he?”
“He’s very blessed,” Father Michael agreed, gazing at the portrait. “To see the world that way, through the lens of a camera, is a great gift from God. Each photograph is a memory preserved, a small miracle, every one.”
Leah was thinking about the salacious little “miracles” in Mr. Nolan’s secret darkroom. It was hard to reconcile the paradox.
“Oh, he’s just my dad.” Erica scoffed, waving Father Michael’s praise away.
Father Michael smiled at her. “I saw those photographs of you girls as I came in, the ones down the front hallway?”
The cartwheels in the park, of course—Leah knew them so well she could recite their every detail, from the blonde curls framing Erica’s ruddy cheeks to the little stuffed dog forgotten on the lawn behind them.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, looking from one of them to the other. “One moment in time, perfectly preserved, both of you so very young. And look at you now, practically grown women!”
“Yes.” Erica glanced at Leah and she saw a smirky smile playing around her friend’s lips, and knew she was trying to hide it. “Practically.”
“I don’t have any photographs of when I was young,” Father Michael confessed. He was looking at the portrait again.
“None?” Erica sat up straight, incredulous. “Not one?”
He shook his head, his gaze far-off. “I grew up an orphan. No one takes photographs of orphans.”
Erica touched his hand. “That’s so sad.”
“Leah!”
She startled, looking up to see her mother and Mr. Eyebrows standing together beside her chair. Mr. Highbrow was older, but not old, his salt-and-pepper hair and, yes, bushy graying eyebrows, giving him a distinguished look he carried into court with him. From what her mother said, he was a very good lawyer, and a kind man. He’d always been nice to Leah when she came by the office, giving her butterscotch candies from a jar on his desk, and letting her pull big, leather bound books off his shelves.
He was also married and had a married daughter, although his wife was confined to a wheelchair and his daughter had moved to Chicago two years before, which is why Leah’s mother often accompanied him to social functions like these. They were “just friends,” her mother insisted, and Leah had always believed her, although now, as she looked between the two of them, she suddenly wondered. A whole new part of the world had opened up since she’d discovered the secret door under Mr. Nolan’s bed, a world of passion and lust she hadn’t really understood before.
“I’ve got such a headache, Leah.” Her mother blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth, her cigarette rimmed with lipstick as she stabbed it out into an ashtray. “Donald is going to take us home.”
“Oh, can’t Leah spend the night?” Erica sat up straight to ask. “Please? We’ll both get up for classes tomorrow, we promise.”
“You girls.” Leah’s mother shook her head, considering it. “Donald, will you get our coats? Leah, come with me for a moment.”
Leah followed her down the hall, stopping short as her mother turned to face her. “If you ever embarrass me like that again, I swear!”
“What?” Leah blinked at her.
“That dancing!” her mother hissed, keeping her voice low so no one could hear. “In front of the clergy! It was shameful!”
“Oh that...” She felt c
olor filling her cheeks. “It was just a little fun. It didn’t mean anything.”
She knew she sounded far too defensive by the way her mother’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her.
“I think you should come home tonight. You’ve been spending far too much time over here.”
“Oh, no, Patty, she’s welcome.” Mr. Nolan appeared out of nowhere, carrying her mother’s coat and putting it over her shoulders. It was plain, dark, sensible wool, not fur. Mr. Eyebrows followed, putting on his own. “Don tells me you’ve got a headache. You should go home and rest.”
Leah held her breath, watching her mother glance between the two of them, her face unreadable, but her eyes full of suspicion. There was nothing to be suspicious of, not really. Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen.
“Are you sure, Rob?” Leah’s mother reached out and squeezed Mr. Nolan’s arm, looking up at him in the dim hall light.