Strings Attached (18 page)

 

Prosperity was just around the corner. So people said. At first I thought it meant that if Da could just walk another few blocks, he’d get a job, because the streets in Providence had names like Benefit and Benevolent, so why not Prosperity? But there was no Prosperity Street, and there were no jobs, even on a street called Hope. Delia’s salary was cut, and endorsements dried up. We were growing fast, and it was hard to look cute in a dress made out of an old
faded pillowcase, even for me and Muddie. Shirley Temple was the child everyone wanted to see, with glossy curls and the fresh plump cheeks of someone who had a chicken in her pot and warm water to wash with.

In the winters, we spent all of our time in the kitchen, the biggest room at the front of the apartment, where the coal stove gave out a thin, inadequate heat. A bonus was that we were away from the thin walls of the rear bedroom, behind which the Duffys in the next apartment argued every Saturday night when Duffy came home drunk.

Delia had the bedroom, Da slept on the couch, and Muddie, Jamie, and I slept on a mattress in the hall closet, all tangled together, pushing each other and arguing about who got spit on the pillow.
Aren’t you the luckiest of children,
Da said,
who get to sleep in a cave like wolf cubs, instead of in a regular room with a door?

And weren’t we lucky to hang on to that home when we saw other families losing theirs and disappearing in the middle of the night?

We were five years old the day Delia was fired, and we saw her cry for the first time, as fiercely as she did everything else. She prided herself on being a secretary, on her clean fingernails and her gray dresses and her pretty scarves. She was a professional.

We had never seen Da and Delia scared before.

Jamie stood up. “It’s time for the lucky pennies,” he announced.

It was a ritual we saved for only our most dire circumstances, and this was the worst one yet.

Da and Delia stood. They emptied all the coins from their pockets and Delia’s purse. Delia went to get the spare change she kept wrapped in a handkerchief for church. Jamie looked at the pile on the table. He took each coin
and went around our apartment, placing them heads up on windowsills and door frames.

Then he put his hands on Delia’s knees. “All we have to do now,” he said, looking straight into her face, “is wait for the luck.”

“Darling boy,” she said, putting both hands on his cheeks.

That was Jamie. Darling boy.

At night we’d face each other, lying down in the darkness, and we’d press our cheeks against one another so that we could be eye to eye. Our eyes would be black and deep, and yet we’d wait to see the reflection of a point of light, the diamond that shone in our eyes. Then we’d shout the word straight in each other’s ears:
Diiiiiaaaamond!
Trying to blast each other’s eardrums and laughing fit to bust. I don’t know who thought of the game — it wasn’t a game, really, more like a ritual, a hunt to find the light in the darkness. There were diamonds in our eyes and all our coins were heads up. Everything would be all right.

Delia folded her dresses and the blouses and carefully placed them in the bottom drawer. She looked for work, coming home tired and thinner every day, insisting that she preferred her bread without butter and her tea plain, so that we’d still have bread with butter and sugar for our treat. She tried to take in washing, but others had got there before her. Finally, she found a job cleaning offices at night.

“That’s what our mam did when she came over, on her knees mopping floors,” Da said. “There’s Irish progress for you.”

Delia didn’t laugh. She tied a turban around her bright hair and went off after tea, leaving us to Da’s cooking. A pot on the stove with some kind of thin stew he called
slumgullion. When one of us was hungry we’d take a bowl and slop some in, and that was dinner.

I’ve heard people say about their childhoods during the hard times,
We didn’t know we were poor,
and do you know what? They’re lying.

Twenty-two

 

New York City
November 1950

I told some of the story to Hank as we stood there in the subway, leaning against the wall, and he listened so intently to my whispers that I felt the grip of nerves ease and the time pass. As we climbed the stairs back up to the light, it felt like a miracle to see the sun and everybody going back to the cars and the buses, taking up their lives on an ordinary day.

An ordinary day for them. Not me.

He kept asking more questions and I kept remembering because it was easier than thinking, and soon we were standing outside his mother’s office and we’d walked twenty blocks.

“So you’re a triplet,” he said. “I can’t imagine two more of you.”

“Oh, we’re as different as night and day. We don’t even look alike.”

“So when did you meet Billy, then?”

“That’s another story, a longer one. I met his father first, Nate Benedict.”

Hank’s face changed. “Nate Benedict? The lawyer?”

I nodded. “He knew my father back in the twenties.”

“And… you know him now?”

Hank was suddenly looking at me as though I were someone he didn’t recognize.

“He comes to the club sometimes,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.” Even as I said it, I realized how hollow the words sounded. Even if Hank knew nothing about how I was tangled up with Nate, he knew from the morning paper that Nate was defending a murderer. “Listen —” I started.

Hank looked up at the clock hanging over the entrance to the office building. “I’m late,” he said. “My mother will be worried. I’m never late. Listen, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the walk.”

“It’s okay,” I said, even though it was miles past okay. He had turned away so fast, and now he was almost running. He had to get away, as though just knowing Nate Benedict was enough to taint me.

 

It was a good thing Billy never read the papers, because when he called that afternoon, there was no mention of what had happened at the Lido. Instead, he asked me if I wanted to join him and his army buddies for an afternoon on the town.

“They’re taking me to — where are you taking me? — oh, Coney Island, because Tom says I have to have a hot dog at Nathan’s or I didn’t see New York. So I guess that means you do, too.”

“It’s sounds swell, but —”

His voice pitched lower. “Look, I’m going crazy, thinking about you. You don’t have to come to Brooklyn. I’ll ditch the guys and come to you. I miss you.”

I heard hoots of laughter and some voice yelled, “Get out the violins, Tommy boy!”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “But it’s only a couple of hours until I have to get to the club. You’d spend all that time on the subway. I’ll see you tonight.”

He didn’t like it, but he said he’d see me at the club. He’d come to the last show so he could walk me home.

I wanted to tell him everything. But “everything” was so much. So I hung up, and after I did, I wished I’d spilled it out over the phone, every last secret, and just let it fall.

He’d know tonight, anyway. So at least I could give him a carefree afternoon on the boardwalk, one last good time with his pals, with hot dogs and roller coasters and the Parachute Jump.

I hadn’t expected to see Hank again that day, but he knocked at the kitchen door later that afternoon. I was starting to get ready for work, and I had to throw on a robe when I answered the door.

He held up a piece of paper. “I got your note.”

“I didn’t —”

I heard a knock at the other door, a quick, sharp rap, and then the sound of the door opening. I could have sworn that I’d locked it. I ran toward the front of the apartment, Hank behind me.

Nate swept off his hat. “Hello, Hank.”

Hank froze. “I guess I’ll be going, Kit —”

“In a minute,” Nate interrupted. “Kit, why don’t you make us some coffee?” His voice was low and polite, but Hank looked nervously toward the kitchen, as if he wanted to dash that way and out the other door.

“What’s going on?” I asked. My hand drifted to my robe, holding it tightly closed. This felt like an invasion.

Nate had walked in as if he owned the place. Which he did. Like he had every right to be here. Which he didn’t.

My words got swallowed into the tension in the air. It was like I wasn’t even there. Nate just held Hank’s gaze.

“I’m Nate Benedict, Hank,” Nate said.

“I know. I saw your picture in the paper.”

“And I’m your landlord. I own this building. Isn’t that right, Kit?”

I nodded. Hank gave me a swift, surprised glance.

“I bought it before the war, as an investment. I’m the one who’s been giving your parents a break on the rent. I know they got a raw deal, losing their jobs because they’re Reds.”

“They’re not Reds.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? You see, I don’t like it when people get pushed around. That’s why I became a lawyer, no matter what the papers say. Kit, go make some coffee,” he said, and this time the tone in his voice made me move toward the kitchen. I just didn’t want things to get worse than they were.

I ran the water and filled the pot, measured the coffee and dumped it in, but I didn’t plug in the percolator. I moved back toward the living room to listen.

“You’re going to Yale, right? Scholarship and everything, smart kid, you have a future, no question about it. This is just a rough patch in the road. I’m sure you’ll get through it. The thing is, I can help. Believe it or not, I take an interest in my tenants.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Just hear me out.”

I could recognize something hard behind the pleasantness in Nate’s voice, like he’d knocked Hank’s shoulder, the way kids do before they fight. And I could tell by Hank’s
voice that he was scared. I couldn’t leave him alone like that. I walked back into the room.

“Coffee ready?” Nate asked.

“Not yet.”

“I have to get home,” Hank blurted. He went by me without seeing me, blundering into the kitchen. I heard him fumbling with the knob.

Nate followed him quickly. “Hank, wait. One more thing.” He slipped an arm around him and talked quietly to him. I couldn’t hear a word unless I got right on top of them.

I’d seen this before.

That night at the Riverbank, Jeff Toland holding the napkin-wrapped ice to his swollen face, listening as Nate put a gentle arm around his shoulders. That quiet voice in his ear, telling him what was going to happen. I knew that now. Jeff had listened, and he’d gone off to Hollywood, and his career had been saved by a contract. Was that what Nate had promised him that night?

When Nate released him, Hank opened the door so fast he slammed it into his forehead. Then he rushed out, shutting it behind him.

Leaving me alone with Nate.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Nate lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. “He’s a good kid. I’m just trying to help out.”

I started to get an ashtray and stopped. I wasn’t going to wait on him.

“Did you just walk in the door before?” I asked.

“I knocked, but you didn’t hear. It wasn’t locked.”

“Funny, I thought it was. I have to get dressed.”

“You have time.”

“No, I have to do my makeup and my hair and everything —”

“Kit, it’s only five thirty. You’ve got an hour. You heard what happened at the Lido last night.” He opened the cupboard and took out a saucer. He tapped his ash onto it.

“I can read the papers like everybody else.”

“Yeah, well, Tuesday is a slow news day. They need headlines.”

Tuesday.
It was Tuesday. How could this impossible, terrible day… be a Tuesday? And then it hit me.

It was the day of my callback audition. And I was already an hour late.

“I have to go. I have an appointment —”

“Kit, sit down.”

Never in my life had I wanted someone to leave so badly. He tapped his ash onto the saucer. He didn’t drop his eyes. “You have the apartment, the clothes, the job. You have
my son.
You think all that comes without a price?”

I could feel the fear rise up against my throat, and I swallowed, reaching for my nerve. “What’s the price?”

He smiled. “Five minutes. Is that so bad?”

I didn’t sit, but I put my hands on the back of the chair. My palms were wet, and my hands slipped. “So talk.”

“You look nervous. Don’t be. I know, the murder in the club was upsetting.”

“A bad meal is upsetting. A murder isn’t pot roast.”

“The thing is, this isn’t about us — I mean, what I asked you to do. It’s a war we’re not a part of.”

“You made me a part of it!”

Nate’s amiable expression faded. “Don’t ever say that again. You’re not a part of it. I’m not a part of it. I’m defending the
guy. That’s a straightforward deal. But I wasn’t involved in the hit.”

“You were there that night, I was there, you asked me to keep tabs on him —”

“I told you.” Nate’s voice was low, and that made it even worse, the menace in it. “Don’t say that again. Forget I asked, forget what you said, forget his face, forget it all. You’re a girl dancing in a club. That’s all. Just do your job. Anybody asks questions, you don’t know anything, you don’t know Ray Mirto from a hole in the wall. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say anything, I just clutched the chair.

“Do you understand?”

I nodded in one sharp jerk. “I understand.”

He took another drag of his cigarette. “Now, about Billy. Where is he?”

“He’s with some army buddies. They’re seeing the sights.”

“When are you going to see him again?”

“Tonight. At the club.”

He blew out a long plume of smoke, then stubbed out the cigarette. “All right. I’ll see him there. Is there anything I should know?”

I stared at him through the smoke. Anything he should know? Like, I might become his daughter-in-law? Like, his profession made his son sick?

“No,” I said.

I trailed behind him as he picked up his hat and walked toward the front door. “Just do your job,” he said. “Smile, show your legs. Just don’t take a wrong step, Kit. That’s all.”

 

The director and the choreographer were still in a huddle when I arrived at the rehearsal hall more than an hour late. They sat against the mirrored wall on two metal chairs in close conversation, but they looked up when I arrived. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pink and out of breath.

“I’m sorry, I had an emergency…”

“That’s too bad.” The director turned a shoulder away. “Auditions are closed.”

“But I —”

“This is the theater, Miss Corrigan,” he said icily. “There is only one emergency, and that is if you’re unconscious, in the hospital, with amnesia.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “because that’s exactly what happened.”

The director didn’t laugh. But the choreographer, Tom Cullen, grinned. He had pale gray eyes in a slim, long face, and they brightened as he gave me a sharp glance, squinting at me through cigarette smoke. I shrugged as if to say,
It was worth a shot.

“Wisecracks still don’t get you a tryout,” the director said. “They get your ass kicked out the door. Good afternoon, Miss Nobody.”

The sting of the remark hit me like a slap. I bit my lip and turned around. I made my way down the dingy hall and leaned against the wall near the elevator. I couldn’t believe I had blown my chance at a big break. I’d thought about the murder at the club, I’d thought about Nate, I’d thought about Billy. All day I’d thought about everything but the most crucial appointment of my life.

“If it makes you feel better,” Tom Cullen said behind me, “we’d already decided Janine Taylor would get the part.”

I quickly swiped at my tears before turning around. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Kid, I’ve looked at your résumé. You’ve been in the chorus of one stinkpot show. And now you’re a Lido girl, hoop dee doo. You’re a good strong dancer — that’s why I wanted to see you again. You’ve got a voice and a look. You were close but not close enough, and that’s something. Just keep plugging away. How long have you been in New York, six months?”

“Not even.”

“It shows. Never talk back to a director, especially Hobart Dean. He’s old school, baby. He wasn’t nice, but he was right. So learn your lesson. Show up. That’s the easy part, or it should be.” His eyes were kind in his long, mournful face. “Look, kiddo, it’s not a question of whether you want it, it’s a question of how much.”