Juliana Read online

  Juliana led the way to a table in a corner, and we sat together on a red-cushioned bench with a wrought iron back and sides.

  “Do you know this café?” Juliana asked.

  “I’ve walked past it, but I’ve never been inside.” My eyes scanned the walls.

  “Different, isn’t it? Many of the paintings date back to the Italian Renaissance. Over there is a painting that comes out of the Caravaggio school.”

  “Caravaggio?”

  “A passionate Italian artist. I really have to take over your education.” She winked. “In more ways than one.”

  Harried waiters and waitresses ran back and forth with water pitchers and Italian pastries. Juliana placed her gloves in her purse, adjusted her hat, and picked up the menus the waitress had thrown at us as she ran by.

  “It’s warm for ravioli, don’t you think?” she asked me.

  “Juliana,” I whispered. “You’re really not wearing underthings?”

  “That’s right. The lettuce and tomato salad might be nice. Refreshing.”

  “Nothing? No bra and no underpants.”

  “Look at the menu.” She put a menu in my hands.

  I tried to concentrate, but it was impossible. “Nothing?”

  “A slip, all right. Now can we order?”

  “That’s it? Can I see?”

  “Well, not here. But you can feel.”

  “I can? ”

  “If you’re careful. I don’t want to be arrested. Hold your menu in front of you like you’re deciding so the waitress doesn’t come over.”

  I took my menu in one hand and put my other hand under her dress. I left it a moment on her knee. She wasn’t wearing stockings, but there wasn’t anything unusual about that, none of us were. I let my hand go up her leg to her thigh. I was sure she was teasing me and soon I’d feel her silky underpants. I moved my hand up higher, but all I felt was the softness of her skin. Soon, very soon I’ll feel the underpants. My hand moved up to her hip. Nothing. She really wasn’t wearing anything. I looked over at her; she was studying her menu. I glanced around at the people eating and talking at their little tables. There were two women in round hats sitting near the open door. By the window opposite us, a man in a rumpled suit sat with a woman in a gray dress. I let my hand slide from her hip to her stomach; I watched her face. She was concentrating on the menu as if nothing was happening.

  I let my hand slide down her stomach to where I could feel the hair. She turned to look at me, her eyes registering a quiet surprise, but she didn’t give any signal to stop. Was she going to let me continue? I slid my fingers between her legs. She turned her gaze back on her menu and parted her legs slightly. I was scared we’d get caught but was completely excited by what we were doing. My fingers found her spot and circled around it. Her menu shook slightly. I went lightly over the place. I could see she was having trouble breathing, and I was starting to feel the same even though she wasn’t touching me. She held her menu up higher in front of her face as I continued to touch her there. She grabbed her napkin, holding it to her mouth making sounds like she was coughing, but I knew what was happening. After some moments she lowered her napkin and whispered, “All right.”

  I carefully slid my hand from under her dress.

  “Why don’t you go wash your hands,” she said. “I’ll order. Is salad all right?

  “Sure.”

  Inside the ladies’ room, washing my hands, I stared into the mirror. “I can’t believe we just did that,” I said to my reflection. We were so bad. And I loved it. I loved every minute of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  My heartbeat sped up with the sound of her voice as I passed the kitchen.

  “Alice,” Henry said. “Show Juliana your list of celebrities. She might be able to help you. Take her to your office. It’s too noisy out here.”

  “Yes, Alice, take me to your office,” Juliana said, grinning. “Maybe I can help.”

  I did an about-face, wishing Henry would mind his own business.

  “I have something for you,” she said.

  I stopped in front of my doorway blocking her entrance. “What?”

  She handed me a package wrapped in brown paper. “Your blouse. It’s been laundered, of course.”

  “Thank you.” I hoped she couldn’t tell how fast my heart was beating.

  “Can I see it?” she asked.

  “What?” I clutched the package to my chest.

  “My goodness, what you must have on your mind. Your list of celebrities.”

  “It’s on my desk.” I didn’t open my door.

  “Well? Are you going to get it?

  “Sure.” I ran into my office, grabbing the list off my desk and handing it to her before she barely had time to cross the threshold into my office.

  “Am I not permitted in here?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I backed up and leaned against the front of my desk. “Just, uh, don’t close the door. I never close my door. Open-door policy.”

  “We both know that’s not true. Are you afraid to be alone with me? Afraid of what you’ll do?”

  “Of course not. That’s silly.”

  “Is it?” She took a step inside my office, studying my reaction. It took great effort to maintain a steady “I don’t care” gaze .

  “I love this office. It’s like being at the beach. Makes me want to throw off all my clothes and go nude sunbathing.”

  “No! Don’t!” I exclaimed, extending my arms as if to stop her.

  She laughed. “You really thought I was going to do that, didn’t you?”

  “No, of course not. I was just joking. Ha, ha.”

  She shook her head as she looked down at the list. “Yes, you did. What you must think of me. I can probably get you Mary Martin and Ethel Waters.”

  “How?”

  “Well, Mary’s rehearsing for her new show A Touch of Venus only a few blocks from here. I’m surprised you didn’t go over there yourself and ask her.”

  “I tried, but the stage manager gave me a hard time, and leaving notes never works.”

  “Mary’s a good egg. I’m sure she’d find the time now and again. Ethel, you might have to wait a couple weeks for. She’s still out on the coast promoting her new film, but she’ll be coming to New York at some point.”

  “In three weeks. But her manager—”

  “Is a pain in the derriere. I can get past him.”

  “How do you know these people?”

  “Ethel I know from the clubs up in Harlem, and Mary I met, well … you might say we all belong to the same … sewing circle.”

  “Sewing circle? You?”

  “Don’t go dumb on me. You know what I mean.”

  “You don’t mean they’re both—”

  “New topic. Do you want me to call them for you?

  “Yeah. Are you sure they’re …?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask Gertie Lawrence for help. She comes in here all the time.”

  “I don’t talk to her.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause she’s Gertrude Lawrence.”

  “She’s also a member of the sewing circle.”

  Later that night, I was about to lock up when I heard a sound like an angel drifting down from some high place, casting strings around me, pulling me toward it. It was as though my own will had been sucked out of me and been replaced with this heavenly sound that drifted out of the back room. I left my office and followed. The sound grew stronger. I stood by the door, open only a crack, and let the sound hold me. I pushed lightly against the door and it opened.

  Juliana sat at the piano, playing, and singing. She sang sounds that only God could’ve written with a voice that only God could’ve given her.

  Her eyes were closed as if she wasn’t quite in the room. It was private, this thing I was watching. I knew I should tiptoe back out and leave her to her privacy, but I couldn’t move.

  She opened her eyes, saw me, and stopped.

  “Oh, please,” I s
aid. “Don’t stop. What was that song? No, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. Please go on.”

  “You’ve never heard opera before, have you?”

  “No. Well, there was a lady in the church choir who gave an afternoon concert once, and she said she was singing opera, but it sounded terrible.”

  Juliana laughed. “Sit by me.”

  I walked slowly to the bench and sat beside her. “Why don’t you sing this kinda music instead of the other? I mean the other’s nice, but this ….”

  “I’m not good enough for this. I enjoy your appreciation, but to sing this professionally? I don’t have what it takes. You should’ve heard my mother sing. You and I come from totally different worlds, don’t we? We’re like two foreign countries.”

  “I spose.”

  “My whole childhood was spent going to the opera, the symphony, the ballet, and you—you jumped in the leaves at Grandma’s house.”

  “You remembered.”

  “How delightful to have a grandma with leaves to jump in.”

  She began to play again. “This piece is called ‘Pie Jesu Requiem’. The words are in Latin and they mean merciful Jesus who takes away the sins of the world, grant them peace.” She sighed, “Peace,” and played a chord. “How lovely that would be.”

  She began to sing, and her singing was more than beautiful. It was like sitting next to beauty itself, like being surrounded by wordless beauty, like it was around me and in me and there was no other place to be. Teardrops lined her eyelids as she sang and a few dotted her eyelashes, but none fell.

  When she finished, her fingers slid from the keys onto her lap. She looked far off, the tears still rimming her eyelids. I wanted to give her some words of comfort, but I didn’t know her pain, so what words could I have for her? I put my hand on hers. She looked down at my hand and wrapped her own around my wrist, rubbing her thumb back and forth like she was communicating with me. We stayed that way for a long time; she seemed to be fighting hard not to cry. Then she turned her face toward me, we looked into each other’s eyes, and she inclined her head toward mine moving closer. I thought she was gonna kiss me, and I wanted her to.

  “I think,” she said, “we better stop here or else we’re liable to get ourselves into some real trouble.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I waited on the platform as trains whizzed in and out of Grand Central Station. Some soldiers ran down the train steps and were greeted by girlfriends and families while others got on trains and waved good-bye. There were tears everywhere. Colored porters in red hats and jackets scurried over the platform collecting travelers’ luggage.

  I hadn’t seen Aggie in months, and she’d be arriving on the eleven o’clock train from Wichita, Kansas. Her tour was over and she was coming home to be my matron of honor.

  I could hardly keep myself from dancing on the platform. As the train screeched into the station, Aggie hung out the window waving one of her gloves at me like a madwoman. She had her hair done up in victory curls. When the train stopped, she ran down the stairs dragging her suitcase in one hand and carrying her overnight case in the other. She hugged and kissed other people who got off, who I guessed had toured with her, dropped her things on the platform, and sprinted toward me. We threw our arms around each other, and she jumped up and down squeezing me.

  “Porter, ma’am?” the colored man asked, bowing slightly.

  “How much would that be?” Aggie asked.

  “Ten cents a bag, ma’am.”

  “Good. You can take this.”

  The man carried her suitcase while we walked beside him. “Do you know how much to tip him?” I asked Aggie.

  “Why should I tip him? I’m paying him, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, but ten cents isn’t very much.”

  “Tipping is demeaning for the tippee. You don’t want me to take away his self-respect, do you? ”

  “No, but … what if he has kids?”

  The porter led the way up the stairs into the main concourse. I stared up at the blue and gold mural of stars and constellations that spread across the ceiling. Servicemen smoked and talked on the balcony above us in the servicemen’s lounge. When we were about to exit, Aggie took her bag from the colored man and gave him a dime. I reached into my purse, found a nickel, and was about to give it to him, when I thought maybe Aggie was right, maybe it would be demeaning to give him a tip. After all, she had to be worldlier than me; she’d been on tour. I dropped the nickel back into my purse.

  In the apartment, Aggie immediately flopped onto the couch, her arms spread out, “Oh, gosh, it feels good to be home.” She opened her purse and took out a package of Pall Malls. “Al, you never know what home means till you’ve been on tour going from one town to the next.” She lit her cigarette.

  “It sounds like fun to me.”

  “It is at first, but after a while …. Oh! I got bunches of pictures of the cast and crew and letters from Dickie.” She opened her overnight case and pulled out a fistful of photos and envelopes. “Ya wanna see the pictures or listen to Dickie’s letters?”

  “Both. But are you hungry? I could fix you a sandwich.”

  “I’m too excited to eat right now. Ya got some Scotch?”

  “Uh, no. I have wine.”

  “That’ll have to do.” She walked over to the radio and turned it on. A swing song came on and she started dancing. “You got that wine?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  It seemed a little early to be drinking wine. Noon. But we were celebrating, so I sposed it was okay.

  “So where’s Henry?” Aggie called to me in the kitchen.

  “He’s working. He’s gonna come over tonight and take us to Dinty Moore’s.”

  “Dinty Moore’s. Gosh, that’s expensive. You got yourself one peach of a guy.”

  “I know.” I called to her as I filled the glasses.

  “He’s got money, doesn’t he, you lucky dog?”

  “Well, yes and no.” I carried two glasses of wine into the parlor. “I mean he works for it. He’s not rich or anything.” I handed one of the glasses to Aggie.

  “Richer than Dickie.”

  “Dickie’s serving his country. Henry would do anything to do that.”

  “I didn’t mean anything. Let me see your ring.” I held out my hand for her. “Kinda small.”

  “I didn’t want anything big. It’s not me.”

  “It’s just—the man has money. He isn’t cheap, is he?”

  “Drink your wine.”

  “I only have this silly gold-plated band. You’re way ahead of me.”

  “You wanted to wait till Dickie could get you a big one. ”

  “Do you think he’ll ever be able to do that?”

  “Dickie won’t always be in the service or even in the chorus. Someday he’s gonna be big on Broadway.”

  “It’s waiting that’s hard.”

  The slow song “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow” came on the radio. Aggie sipped her wine as she danced to it, eyes closed. “You know, most of the boys in the chorus were fags.”

  “You need more wine?”

  “Sure. Fill ’er up.” She handed me her glass. “Did you know that, Al? Those good-looking dancing boys in the chorus were more interested in each other than me. It was disgusting.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  I returned with her glass of wine and the bottle. I put the bottle on the coffee table. “Why was it disgusting? Why would you care? You’re married to Dickie.”

  “A girl likes to be appreciated.” She took the glass from me and danced into the bedroom. “My Poopsie!” She snatched up her teddy bear and crushed him into her arms. “Poopsie, I missed you so. Now, everything’s complete. I’m home.” She sat on the bed, and tears fell down her cheeks as she slammed poor Poopsie into her breasts. “Poopsie, Poopsie, Poopsie.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said between sobs. “I’m just hap—happy.” She took a large gulp fr
om her glass. “Let’s read letters from Dickie.” She popped up and ran into the parlor. She downed the last of her wine and poured more. I sat on the couch opposite her while she lit another cigarette. “Al, Dickie is sooo brave. I never knew my Dickie could be so brave. Let’s read this one.” She opened her purse and pulled out an unopened envelope. “I got this just before I left. I haven’t read it yet. I saved it for you and me.”

  She slipped out the folded V-mail letter and read it out loud.

  Hi Ag,

  Our ship got hit last night. I’m okay. A buddy of mine didn’t make it, though. I keep seeing him floating in the water blood pouring out of his nose and mouth and…”

  “Ooh,” Aggie said. “That’s disgusting. Dickie never writes things like that to me.”

  “Maybe, he needs to write it,” I said. “What else does he say?”

  “I’m gonna skip the blood.”

  I keep thinking of his folks. I never thought about death when I was stateside, but now, I see it everywhere. Every day I hate them Japs more. All I think about is killing them. This buddy of mine, the one who got it last night, Bobby. We used to play cards, poker. Sometimes it gets boring on the ship. We just wait for something to happen. So Bobby and me, we used to play poker to make the time pass. How am I going to make the time pass now?

  Gotta go. Something’s up. xxo

  Tears rolled down Aggie’s face and my eyes were tearing up too.

  “He forgot to sign it.” Aggie’s mascara streaked down her face. “You think he’s okay?”

  “He sent it, didn’t he?”

  “Unless someone else mailed it for him. I heard about this mother who got a letter from her son that someone else mailed ’cause … her son was … gone.”

  “Dickie’s not gone. He’s gonna be a Broadway star.”

  Aggie wiped her face with her handkerchief. “Oh, no. I’m streaking.” She ran into the bathroom.

  “Aggie, it’s just me.”

  I gathered up the wine bottle and glasses and took them into the kitchen. I thought it might be time for that sandwich.