In a year she’d have saved enough.
But in a year, there wouldn’t be an open audition for a Don Mannheim show.
Blood pounded in her ears. She slipped out of bed. Suspending herself from the two railings, she shimmied downstairs without touching a step. In the living room, she retrieved the box where her mother stored the war bonds.
She spread them on the carpet, moonlight shining through her mother’s hand-tatted curtains. During the war, when Eleanor was a girl, her parents had scrimped along with everyone else and, whenever possible, loaned $18.75 to the federal government. Eleanor’s mother still talked about how good she felt, counting up coins to protect their freedom, in Eleanor’s name. Each bond would appreciate. Eleanor would receive the money upon her marriage, to help her husband buy a house or land.
She put them down. It was as good as stealing. Her parents had designated this money for one purpose. Abandoning her parents with two fewer hands on the farm, and the shame of a renegade daughter, was a betrayal.
The bonds were for her future. But Eleanor could not imagine living the future her parents had planned for her.
She went to the kitchen and dialed Rosie.
After many rings, Rosie’s father picked up.
“Who’s calling after midnight?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hughes.” He always made her nervous. “I need to speak to Rosie.”
“You can talk in the morning.”
“Please. It’s my birthday.”
She heard the phone click down on the counter. A few minutes later, Rosie got on the line.
“I’m going to New York,” Eleanor said.
Eleanor could imagine her friend’s face. Rosie always twisted the cord around her arm when she talked, until it left a red mark on her skin. She’d endured countless hours while Rosie giggled with beaus on the phone, then hung up and rolled her eyes. But she wasn’t giggling now. Eleanor knew Rosie would take this seriously.
“On Tuesday, there’s an audition for a Don Mannheim show.” There was a pause. Eleanor could feel her future hanging in the balance. What if Rosie tried to talk her out of it?
“I’m coming,” Rosie said.
“Rosie, it’s expensive.”
“If you think I’m going to wait here while you have an adventure in New York, you’re batty. How much are the tickets?”
Eleanor told her. Rosie hissed in her breath. “I’ve got thirty in savings.”
“There’s a train at ten a.m. on Sunday.”
“Daddy’s home all day Sunday,” Rosie said. “He’ll notice.”
“It’s the only train that’ll get me there in time.”
“Are you chewing?”
“Pickles help me think.”
“Sunday it is.”
“I love you.” She jumped up and down as quietly as possible.
“You’d better.”
Eleanor hung up. The thought of her parents upstairs brought an old sadness over her, like homesickness. She could handle that later; she couldn’t allow herself to lose her grip on her decision. The audition was too important. The war bonds waited on the living room floor. She replaced the ones in her parents’ names and took the rest.
* * *
In the morning, Eleanor wore her best dress and swept her hair back from her face. Even so, her heart accelerated when she arrived at the bank, as if she were about to rob it. Eleanor was shown to a desk, the name placard reading “Mr. Paul Farrell.”
A gray-suited man with a pinched mouth approached.
“I heard you’re thinking of cashing your war bonds.”
“Yes, sir.” His eyebrows were raised. Eleanor deepened her voice. “In twenties, please.”
He put on his glasses, shaking his head. He held out a hand. Eleanor scrambled for her pocketbook and retrieved the bonds. When she gave them to him, along with identification, she felt nervous, as if, for some reason, he might tear them up.
He examined each one. “You know, dear, your parents saved for these. The money should go to something important.”
Eleanor nodded, but he looked up, wanting more information.
“It’s very important, Mr. Farrell.” She took care with her tone; without a bank account, she feared he wouldn’t relinquish her money at all.
He glanced at her left hand. Eleanor regretted not slipping on a dummy ring before leaving the house. “Many parents save these for their daughters’ husbands.” Eleanor kept her mouth shut. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
Sweat gathered under her arms. It took a long time. Three customers received service from a teller. She wondered if there was more she needed to do to receive the money. Then Mr. Farrell returned. He spread the bills on the desk.
Eleanor’s neck prickled with shame, but she refused to buckle. She reached out.
“Ah, not just yet—I need to count it for you.”
Eleanor bit down on the side of her cheek. The money could get her to New York and keep her there long enough to figure out her next step. Without the open call, she’d never have the nerve to go. It felt like Don Mannheim had reached through the newspaper with a personal invitation. All she needed was a train ticket.
“Two hundred.”
Before Mr. Farrell could inquire after her plans, she snatched the stack and clicked closed her pocketbook.
“Be careful with that, now,” he said. “Go straight home.”
When she walked onto the street, she was reminded of the first time she’d driven, or when they took the sleds out in winter and skimmed across the icy fields. But this time, it wasn’t a taste of freedom, it was real, and with that came an awareness of all she’d leave behind. Her house, Lou, the farm, even the pigs—she couldn’t yet imagine her parents. But, she reminded herself, she wasn’t only leaving home. She was going to a new one—and not coming back.
* * *
When she told Pat her news, he went to the back of the store. At first, she feared she’d made him angry. But when she followed him, she saw his hand pressed to his eyes. She embraced him. He patted her head, extricating himself as he cleared his throat.
She recalled again Pat’s time in New York, how he’d left, how it wasn’t for him, despite the draw of the theater. What kind of place was she going to?
“Pat.” She felt doubt and gripped the counter. “Pat, I can’t.”
He met her eyes. His mouth was set in a line, the corners falling, his brow pulled down and heavy. “You must, Eleanor.”
He took her by the hands, pressing paper into her fist. “Off you go.”
When she got to the street, she looked. Pat had given her one hundred dollars.
* * *
By ten o’clock on Sunday, Eleanor and Rosie were exhausted and pale. They’d packed all night, then snuck out just before sunrise, Eleanor’s heart pounding as she carried her suitcase a quarter-mile down the road. There, far enough from the house to hide the headlights, John Plutz picked her up—he couldn’t be counted on for secrecy but loved the idea of a heist—and drove to the Dells. By the time they started to see the winding river passages for which the city was named, the excitement had worn them raw.
“My father is going to kill me,” Rosie repeated for the third time since leaving. Eleanor had already asked her to stop whining; Rosie was coming by choice, and there was no theft on her part. Eleanor had left a note for her parents saying that she had to follow a dream and would write from New York. I’m going to be on Broadway, she’d written, boosted by the mischief of running off. Hours later, she felt sick imagining their reaction.
“You’ll be back home in just a few days,” Eleanor said.
In truth, Eleanor couldn’t imagine facing her family again. She’d shoved as many of her belongings as she could into her suitcase. She was getting out, with or without a Broadway role. But she knew Rosie would never have agreed to g
o with her if she knew this move was permanent.
Rosie smiled at her, wiggling in her seat. “Two girls on the way to New York! Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble!”
* * *
After a night on the train, they were spat out onto a concrete platform, still underground. Eleanor hadn’t slept. How could she, knowing she would see New York in the morning? Her body was tightly coiled, and she felt neither fatigue nor hunger. Even the air on the platform felt different. Droves of sleepy passengers flowed toward a door up ahead. The whole place smelled of oil and steam, though as she walked she caught snatches of something cooking up ahead. Nuts, and maybe meat. She memorized every detail. She would get just one first day in New York.
Rosie grasped her hand, losing her pluck now that they were in such a crowd. There was a map in Eleanor’s purse, as well as a list of everywhere they were due to be: Mrs. Horton’s Hotel for Girls Traveling Alone (Eleanor thought it sounded like the title of a gothic novel); Bowling Green, so they could wave at Lady Liberty; and finally, the Plymouth Theatre, where she would audition for Don Mannheim.
They reached the edge of the platform and went through the rotating doors into a gold-and-stone palace of a hall. The ceiling was magnificent, cerulean, decorated with constellations. It was so high above that Eleanor couldn’t tell if the designs were made from paint or tile. Briefcase carriers crossed the space with routine in their movements, but even they glanced up, the beauty of the room holding fast despite the dulling effect of daily commutes.
“This is the train station?” Rosie’s mouth was open, her head bent back. “Holy cow.”
Eleanor’s heart felt swollen. The floor was dirty, the lines in the marble stuffed with filth. Across the expanse was a sweeping staircase to a restaurant dressed in mahogany and golden light. In Manhattan, even the train station was glorious.
“I love it here.” Suitcase in hand, Rosie began to spin, never taking her eyes off the blue masterpiece up above. “I’m in New York!”
Rosie’s suitcase collided with a passing someone. She skittered to a stop and caught the glare of a man in a trench. “I’m so sorry!” She reached for Eleanor’s hand. “I can’t wait another moment—let’s go outside, Ellie.”
But Eleanor couldn’t move.
Rosie grasped Eleanor’s hand ever harder. “We’re supposed to get a frankfurter from a street cart, Pat says.”
Without answering, Eleanor walked with Rosie toward one of the exits. Her body thrummed with an excitement for what was to come, trembling with the nearness of it all. Broadway was here. The studios that produced the records she so loved, here. Don Mannheim.
She stopped at the door long enough to feel the anticipation for one last moment, then pushed it open.
The city roared.
A driver was leaning on his horn somewhere nearby. Taxis idled outside the station, their bright yellow bodies angled close to the curb so traffic could pass. Eleanor and Rosie stood under a viaduct, cars rushing above, and on either side, skyscrapers erupted from the concrete. Cigarette smoke and vehicle exhaust came from all sides. People shouldered them as they passed. Eleanor’s heart pounded, and she allowed herself a moment of panic before she breathed again and watched the masses curl around each other, sidestepping, lunging for taxis, crossing the street in sling-backs. There was a rhythm. She watched a child duck a man’s arm as she trotted to her mother, who continued forward with her hand stretched back, scolding her daughter to keep up. Eleanor’s heart stopped rushing. While it appeared chaotic, this place was organized.
Eleanor scurried to the curb and raised her face to see the top of Grand Central. It was the most ornate building she’d ever seen. Animals were carved into the corners of the building—gargoyles, which she had seen once, on a cathedral in Milwaukee. A glance around her revealed four buildings with gargoyles just on this block.
A man knocked her to the side. “Look out, miss!”
Rosie laughed out loud. Head tipped, one hand securing her hat, she too looked at the buildings, her mouth wide with joy.
Eleanor couldn’t speak, or even smile. She’d done it. All around her, the honking, the shouting, the slamming car doors—she was here.
Rosie took her hand. “Is it how you imagined?”
Eleanor squatted down and touched the sidewalk with her palm. Straightening, she looked over the crowd for a street sign, trying to get her bearings, then gasped and gripped her friend’s shoulders.
“Oh, Ellie, don’t—that’s filthy.”
“We’re on Forty-Second Street.” Eleanor waited a beat. “Rosie! This is the street! It’s famous! Forty-Second Street—oh, couldn’t you die?”
Rosie looked back at her, blank.
“This is where the theaters are, Rosie. We must be close.”
Rosie set her suitcase down on the dirty concrete and sat on it, inspecting a soggy half-eaten roll in the gutter. “I don’t think we should wander about.”
“Tell you what. Let’s stop in a diner. We’ll wash up and have lunch, then make a plan. How’s that sound?”
“Neat.” Rosie smoothed her hair. Eleanor noticed then that her friend’s hands were trembling and felt a rush of affection for her, that she had taken a risk to join her on this adventure.
“I’m starved,” Eleanor said.
* * *
They couldn’t waste money on taxis and had elected to avoid the subway throughout this trip, imagining shadowy figures that they both claimed they didn’t fear. So they walked and found a corner diner. It was packed—they had to wait by the hostess stand, and Rosie had to turn sideways to make room for a group of girls to pass, giggling with the novelty of it all.
“I think we should order corned beef,” Eleanor said when they were finally seated. “It’s the special here.”
“We have that at home!”
“Then what about a Reuben?”
When the waitress returned, they ordered two of them, and then settled with their map to plan the rest of the day. When the sandwiches arrived, Eleanor declared hers the best she’d ever had.
They split the bill and left, passing a group of navy men sitting at the counter drinking coffee. Rosie blushed in their presence, but Eleanor waited until they were out on the sidewalk before she teased her.
“Just passing a group of men sends you into a tizzy now?”
“My mother says navy men’ll seduce you without a second thought!”
Eleanor looked up at the street signs. They were on Third Avenue. They’d escaped the bulk of the crowds, but the city seemed heavier here, like it was pressing down around them. Everywhere she looked, metal and rock. It took her a moment to realize why she felt unmoored; then she noticed there was no horizon. For most of her life, when she was outside, she had been able to see the horizon.
“But I thought we were on Lexington,” Eleanor said. “We need to head east, since we’re going to Sixth Avenue.”
Rosie turned the map over. “If you say so.”
In fifteen minutes, Eleanor had a blister on her palm from her suitcase handle. They crossed a street and reached a highway. Beyond that, water.
“What on earth?”
“The river!” Rosie moaned. “That can’t be right!”
“But which one?”
“The East, knucklehead,” Rosie said.
Eleanor sat on her suitcase and consulted the map and groaned. “We made a wrong turn.”
“Well, don’t flip your lid.”
They went back in the other direction. Eleanor felt another blister forming on her heel. It was too hot in New York. The pavement reflected the heat back up so it wafted beneath her skirt, like she was baking in an oven. By the time they reached the diner again, sweat pooled between her legs, her thighs burning as they chafed together.
“We’re just blocks from Grand Central,” Eleanor said. “We can ask directions there.�
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Rosie watched the passersby. “But that will let people know we’re from out of town.”
“We are from out of town. And you said—”
“Do you want to get mugged, Eleanor?”
She didn’t answer. Admitting defeat was like saying she didn’t belong. Wasn’t New York the benchmark for success? She refused to be the kind of person who didn’t like it.
Eleanor looked through the window of the diner.
“We’ll ask one of the navy boys.” She spoke loud to cover her doubt and opened the door before Rosie could stop her.
“Excuse me.” Eleanor approached the men and pitched her voice down and stilled her body, thinking if she didn’t advertise her femininity, they wouldn’t notice.
No such luck. Three men in olive drab swiveled around on their stools. One was still chewing.
“We’re new here,” she said, glancing at Rosie next to her. “Can one of you gentlemen please point us in the right direction?”
“Why don’t you take a seat right here?” the tallest man said, blond and gangly. He patted the seat next to him and winked at Rosie. “Have a milkshake.”
Eleanor would kill her if she said yes. “We’re actually on a schedule? On our way to a hotel, and have to check in by a certain time?”
The man in the middle stood up. He was stockier than the other men, less boyish. He had a wide face and a strong jaw, dark hair that curled like an Irishman’s, and startling blue eyes. He had the look of a gentleman, a man who would call a skirt a dress and a bow a thingummy.
“My name’s Tommy Murphy.” He wiped his hands on a napkin before he shook Eleanor’s. She noticed his shoulders moving beneath his uniform. He had calluses on his palms. His friends made coy noises that he ignored. “Where are you ladies going?”
A Tender Thing Page 3