Juliana Page 3

  “You couldn’t?” Aggie was indignant.

  “What I meant was, so many young actors come to this city, and all they do is act. In the restaurant, the Laundromat, the grocery store. Acting belongs on the stage. Don’t you agree?” Max asked. We were calling him Max now.

  “Oh, yes,” Danny, Dickie, and Aggie agreed, all furiously nodding.

  “Since you’re new to the city, you must let me show you the ropes. A friend of mine is appearing in a nightclub on Swing Street. I’m considering putting her in a new show that I’m producing, and—”

  “You’re a producer?” Aggie exploded. I thought she was going to faint.

  “Yes, I am. Perhaps, sometime I can be of service to you , young lady.”

  Aggie smiled her prettiest smile. “Oh, that would be so kind of you, Mr. Harlington.” She oozed all over the table.

  “Cut it out,” Dickie said.

  “What?” Aggie asked.

  “You know,” Dickie said .

  Aggie was always trying to act sophisticated to impress people, but I never could figure out why. She was impressive just as she was.

  “Well?” Max said, standing. “Shall we say next Friday at ten? Here’s the address.” He took a card from his inside tuxedo pocket and scribbled on the back of it. He pushed it into the palm of Aggie’s hand, holding it there. “I shall be especially eager to see you again, my dear.” Aggie nearly fell out of her seat.

  Chapter Three

  Danny and I walked along the river, holding hands. Our feet clop-clopped on the wood slats of the dock. When I peered through the gap between the boards, I could see the slosh of the green-brown water. The heat from the day hadn’t quite given up yet, so I felt like I was covered by an unwanted blanket that I couldn’t kick off. In the distance, I heard the rumbling and whooshing of traffic coming from the nearby elevated highway.

  After we left Chumley’s, Aggie and Dickie kept diving into alleyways to smooch. So Danny and I left them behind and wandered over to the Westside Pier.

  We walked to the end of the pier where it was a little cooler. The almost-full moon hung low in the sky. The smell of fishy saltwater reminded me of sitting with Danny on our bench at Huntington Harbor, winter or summer, talking late into the night.

  The thing that bothered Danny most was he didn’t have a father. His mother wouldn’t even tell him his father’s name. Some folks in town said Danny’s mom didn’t know who Danny’s father was. That made Danny awful mad, but his Uncle Charlie told him other people’s opinions didn’t matter. All that mattered was what you thought about yourself. Danny believed him, till one day, Uncle Charlie went into the garage and shot himself in the head.

  As we stood on the dock looking down at the water, Danny lit a cigarette and threw the match into the Hudson. We watched it float downstream. He jiggled one of his legs, put his hands in his pockets, jiggled the other leg, unbuttoned his jacket, and buttoned it.

  “Stop that jiggling, Danny. You’re driving me cuckoo. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Of course, I knew this nothing was something .

  “Why don’t you take that jacket off? It’s boiling out here.”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” he said as he slipped it off. “Can you believe it, Al? That guy knows Hemingway.” He loosened his tie.

  “No, Danny. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “If this guy is a real producer, why would he hang out with us? We’re a bunch of nobody kids from a nowhere place.”

  “He told me why. When you and Aggie went to the ladies’ room before we left. He likes our youthful enthusiasm. He said too many would-be actors get to be wiseacres too fast, and he didn’t want that happening to me so he wants to help us.”

  I started walking again. “I don’t know, Danny. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “He called Gertrude Lawrence Gertie. How’d he know to do that if he wasn’t somebody important?”

  “By reading the Times Magazine cover story that came out in February. It said her friends call her Gertie.”

  “Okay, but what about all that stuff about opening night? I bet you didn’t read about that. Did you?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “See? You read everything. If it’d been written anywhere, you would’ve read it.”

  “Danny. That name. Maxwell P. Harlington the Third. Doesn’t that sound queer to you?”

  “No.” He sounded sad. He wanted so bad to believe in something, and I didn’t want him getting hurt.

  “And what’s the “P” stand for? Phony? Phooey?”

  “Philbert.”

  “What?”

  “Philbert. That’s his middle name.”

  “So this guy’s name is Maxwell Philbert Harlington the Third. That doesn’t sound queer to you?”

  “No.”

  “Danny! Who has a name like that?” I shouted.

  “He does. You never met an important person before. But once you get to know him—”

  “And you know him?”

  “No, but …”

  “I’m afraid that when you find out this guy is nothing but a—”

  “I bet he can get you a part on Broadway.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I sure do.” We leaned on the railing. As I looked out at the moon, I imagined being on stage looking glamorous like Gertrude Lawrence singing “One Life to Live.” The audience cheered me, and I bowed and my mother and Dad were in the audience; they loved me and…

  “Imagine, Al. Hemingway,” Danny said. “If I could only write something important like him, maybe other things wouldn’t matter so much.”

  I wrapped my hand around his. “You will, Danny.”

  We stood quiet, listening to the water slosh beneath us. It was like being down at Huntington Harbor again where we’d watched the waves and the tugboats for hours. The first time they took my mother away to that place I was so scared, but Danny and I went down to the harbor and listened to the seagulls far in the distance, and he kept telling me that nothing really bad could ever happen to either one of us if we stayed together.

  Danny suddenly blurted out, “And that’s why ya gotta come with us Friday night.” His eyes were lit with stars.

  “No. What would I wear to a place like that?”

  “What you got on.”

  “I can’t wear this. I wore it today, but it’s the only gown I have.”

  “So. It looks nice.”

  “I can’t wear the same dress I wore tonight. Aggie’s gonna be dressed like Mrs. Astor’s pet horse, and I’m gonna look like what the cat’s dragged in.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you wear.”

  “What do you know about being a girl? The rules are different for me. When you’re a girl, what you wear is all that matters.”

  “That’s not true.”

  I crossed my arms in front of me. “Then tell me what else matters, and don’t say I’m smart. Nobody cares about that.”

  “Well … you always look pretty to me.”

  Chapter Four

  We got off the Third Avenue El at 53rd Street and headed toward 52nd looking for the Moon in June Café. As I walked down the street, lit by traffic lights and neon, my arm through Danny’s, I felt like a sophisticated lady. Like Myrna Loy in The Thin Man or Gertrude Lawrence. My new heroine!

  Aggie insisted on doing my makeup before we left; she considered herself an artist. I was never very comfortable with that sort of thing.

  “Hold still,” she said. “I’m trying to make your eyebrows arch up like Hedy Lamar’s.”

  “I don’t have a hope of ever looking like her, so just get it over with. I should be downstairs with Danny. He’s looking sad.”

  “Danny always looks hangdog. Let me get your lips right. I got the perfect shade of red for you.”

  She drew the lipstick over my top lip.

  “Your bottom lip’s gonna look skinny if you don’t sit still.”

  “I
t’s fine.” I jumped up. “You sure made my hair look nice.”

  “How do you know? You didn’t look at it. You never look in the mirror. How do you stand it? I love looking in the mirror.” She turned to wink at herself.

  The whole of 52nd was lit for what seemed like miles. Swing Street was brighter than even Broadway.

  That morning, I sat on my bed counting my money. It took me two years of working at W.T. Grant’s department store selling canaries to save up the money to come to New York City. The savings I put away from that job were for living, not for buying fancy dresses. Aggie came in and said, “Put that money away. We’re going to Bloomingdales, and I’m gonna buy you a dress, too. ”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. ’Cause you wanna make me happy. And it would make me very happy to see you in a dress that fits instead of those cheap feedbags your mother makes.”

  Before we left Huntington, Aggie’s father handed her a thick envelope filled with money. “To keep you safe,” he said. Those words, “To keep you safe” floated through my mind for a long time. Aggie was the Wrights’ very special child ’cause when she was ten her younger brother was killed by a car when he was riding his bike delivering papers. People in the neighborhood gossiped that Aggie was spoiled, but I don’t think that was true; I think Aggie always just had more spirit in her than other folks.

  Aggie bought herself a green chiffon gown with spaghetti straps. She chose a blue gown for me ’cause she said blue was my color, and it wasn’t as naked on top as hers.

  The sidewalk was crowded with people in gowns and tuxedos. Dickie wore white tails that he’d rented from a used-clothing shop. The jacket was too big for him. Aggie wouldn’t go out with him at first, but he won her over by singing and dancing “At the Ritz” in the hallway of Hope House. Mrs. Minton wasn’t so appreciative of his talent ’cause she’d just waxed the floor. Danny wore his same high school graduation suit.

  Blinking neon signs announced the names of clubs like The Havana Madrid, and the El Morocco.

  “Look, Danny,” I said, pulling on his jacket sleeve, “there’s The Onyx.”

  “And up there,” Aggie exclaimed, “the 21 Club. I can’t believe I’m here.”

  Limousines drove up to entrances; chauffeurs opened doors. Glamorous men and women stepped out.

  “See, Aggie,” Dickie shouted above the din of traffic. “See that couple over there getting outta that limo? That’s gonna be us in a couple years.”

  We stood at the corner watching the fancy people go by while we waited for the light to change. Danny said, “So, Al, now are you starting to trust Max Harlington? He actually knows people on this street.”

  “Which one of these places are we going into?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s not actually on this street,” Danny said. He led the way to 49th Street to a small door sandwiched between The Harmony Book Shop, a place where they told your fortune, and a burlesque house where you’d see things you weren’t sposed to. There were no limousines in front.

  “This isn’t Swing Street,” I said.

  “So?” Danny said. “It’s close.”

  “Close doesn’t count,” I mumbled to myself.

  Inside there were rows of tables, clothed in white, and tightly packed together with a small stage in front. A piano player, a guy playing a saxophone, and a guy playing a horn blasted “Take the A Train,” but some of the notes weren’t right. A harried waiter dashed around taking care of a crowd that was too demanding for him while a cigarette girl in a gold skirt that extended to her mid-calf whizzed by. People knocked into each other as they danced on the tiny dance floor in front of the stage.

  Maxwell P. Harlington the Third scurried toward us dressed in his black tuxedo and white tie. “Come to our table.” He pushed me aside and took Aggie’s hand. “Lovely, my dear.” His eyes explored her gown. Or at least I think that’s what his eyes were exploring.

  Max escorted Aggie through the aisle, waving at folks as he went, stopping to introduce Aggie. The rest of us tagged along behind them.

  Dickie grumbled under his breath, “What’s that guy doing with my girl?”

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered to him. “You know Aggie. She’s just having fun.”

  “Yeah. I know her all right,” Dickie mumbled.

  “Stop thinking what you’re thinking. Aggie’s a good girl.”

  I hated it when people said bad things about Aggie. They just didn’t understand her.

  Max led the way to a front table so close to the stage that we were practically sitting on it. “Come now, everyone sit down. I want you to meet my fiancée.”

  The woman with the brown curls on top of her head that I’d seen with Max at Chumley’s was apparently his fiancée. She wore a vanilla-colored dress with a round neckline and a pearl necklace.

  “Hello,” she said, taking a sip from her glass, seemingly uninterested in us. She looked older than Max by a few years.

  “Sit everyone,” Max directed, and we obediently complied.

  “Excuse me, Max,” I said. “But you still haven’t introduced us to your fiancée. A name?”

  He stared at me for a long creepy moment and then with all graciousness said, “This is Virginia Sales. The very salt of the earth.”

  “Nice to meet ya, Miss Sales,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Alice Huffman. And these are my friends Danny Boyd, Aggie Wright, and Dickie Dunn.”

  “How do you do?” Still looking bored, she took another sip from her glass and said, “You’d better watch yourselves around Maxwell. He has a bad influence on the young. Don’t you, Maxwell, dear?”

  Max smirked at her and slipped a cigarette from his silver cigarette case; he twisted it into the holder. I noticed a small cigarette burn on my slightly gray-white linen napkin.

  “Cigars. Cigarettes,” the wilting cigarette girl repeated rhythmically as she passed by. Max snapped his fingers at her. “Anyone need anything?” he asked.

  “I could use another pack of Luckys,” Dickie said, reaching into his pants pocket.

  “On me,” Max said, taking a few packages off the girl’s tray and tossing a couple of bills at her. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Ladies?” Max looked at Aggie and me.

  “Oh, Aggie and I don’t …” I began .

  Aggie grabbed a pack of Fleetwoods from the girl’s tray. “I’m dying for a smoke.” Aggie didn’t smoke. She and I had tried it in the back of her father’s garage when we were twelve and choked. We vowed that that was one grown-up thing we’d never do.

  Dickie struck a match and extended it toward Aggie, but Max was already lighting her cigarette with his silver lighter. Dickie stared at them as his match burnt down to his fingers; he had to stick his fingers in the water glass.

  “I don’t suppose I can ‘corrupt’ you , Miss Huffman,” Max said, his eyes boring into mine. “But you know what Abraham Lincoln said, ‘He who has no vices, probably has no virtues either.’“

  “I’m not afraid of vice, Mr. Harlington.” I took a cigarette out of Aggie’s pack.

  Danny leaned toward me. “Al, you always said ….”

  I waved the cigarette around trying to be Myrna Loy making my voice high and feathery. “Will no one light my cigarette?”

  Max did. I breathed in, determined not to cough. I breathed out the smoke. Right into Max’s face. He coughed.

  Despite the cough, he continued to stare at me, and I stared back. I took another puff and blew another stream into his face. He smiled without blinking. Our eyes locked, and I was getting tired, so I dropped my cigarette—into his scotch.

  Miss Sales laughed and clapped. “Well done, Miss Huffman, well done. Maxwell, you appear to have met your match.”

  Max was about to respond, but Dickie got there first. “So, Max,” he said, “do you think we’ll end up in the war? Danny’s dead set against it.”

  “I think young Daniel is correct. We have no business being in the European War.”

 
“That’s exactly what I think,” Danny said.

  “But that Hitler,” Virginia Sales jumped in, “will be over here taking our freedom away if we don’t do anything.”

  “Virginia, dear,” Max said, “you have never had an opinion on this.”

  “As if you’ve ever listened to a thing I had to say.” She leaned forward toward Danny. “Young man, do you want to fight Hitler right here in the United States?”

  A light bulb above us flickered and went out. No one seemed to notice but me.

  “He won’t have the resources to come all the way over the Atlantic and fight a long-distance war.”

  “You’re making a good point, Dan,” Max said. “Too bad you can’t have a talk with FDR.”

  “Oh, what do you know about it?” Virginia said. “It’s you who never gave this topic a thought until now. And I know exactly why you’re thinking about it tonight.”

  “Watch it, Virginia, dear. I know where the bodies are buried. ”

  She stared at him a long moment as if what he said hurt her. She wrapped her hand tightly around her glass, her fingers turning white, and took a few quick swallows of her gin.

  Max said, “How about I order drinks for you kids?” He ordered us all Manhattans except for Aggie.

  “For you, only a Brandy Alexander will do. You must always drink Brandy Alexanders when you are among the people. The glass it arrives in will be delicate, feminine—like you. And as you lift the glass to your lips, take one sip only. Be certain all in the room see that one sip, then, ever so slowly, put the glass down again. Blot your lips with your napkin, and wait before taking the next sip. Hold your head high. Let them wonder. Allure. You must always surround yourself with allure.”

  A laugh popped out of my mouth, and everyone looked at me. “Sorry.”

  The drinks came and only a few sips made me feel light and breezy. I couldn’t look over at Aggie to see how she was doing with her Brandy Alexander and allure ’ cause I would’ve cracked up.