The Queen of the Big Time (21 page)

“I’m busy.”

She laughs. “Well, get unbusy. Anthony Marucci has asked me to marry him, and I’m going to. You’re the maid of honor!”

“Congratulations!” I give her a big hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I know you are. Now, don’t get blue because you’re not getting married too. I’m four months older than you.”

“Right, right. I’m getting used to that ‘maid’ title, though. I’m starting to believe it suits me.”

Over lunch I tell Chettie all about the factory’s new direction. She thinks it sounds like a swell idea.

As the new designs are sent, there are some new skills to master in the mill. Hollywood styling requires topstitching, beading, embossed pockets, all sorts of fancy details that we have never dealt with. I keep the girls after hours to train them. I ask Jenkins if I can assign three of my best girls to do accent work. He agrees. We should be up to production speed in no time.

Soon the designs are pouring in at the rate new movies come to
town: the Carole Lombard, a sleek chiffon tank; the Constance Bennett, a silk tunic with a satin collar; the Barbara Stanwyck, a cotton pique button-down with vest; and the Ginger Rogers, a kicky white cotton peplum with black piping and a satin belt. I know the designs will sell because the machine operators all want to own them. Before they hit the stores, the Hollywood knockoffs are already a success. I have to hang a notice in the entrance near the time clock:
PLEASE REFRAIN FROM TAKING BLOUSE TAGS FEATURING MOVIE STARS FROM THE FINISHING DEPARTMENT
. Turns out the girls like to have souvenirs of their favorite stars, and the sizing tags with the beautiful faces of their matinee idols printed in color are sweet remembrances.

Chettie and Anthony are taking me out for my birthday. We’re going to the Americus Hotel over on Hamilton Street in Allentown. I have some paperwork to finish before I go home to dress. I am alone, except for a maintenance man, who mops the main floor. I chuckle to myself when I read the production numbers. Since we started making the Hollywood blouses, production has increased by 30 percent. Even though our work is more complicated, there is something about the glamour girls that inspires my workers. Maybe we read
Modern Screen
too much, but it certainly seems like elegance, beauty, and style lift our spirits and help us aspire to be better at what we do.

Franco comes into the office and leaves a work order on the board. “I heard it’s your birthday.”

“I’m twenty-one. A genuine old lady.”

“I’m still older than you are.”

“I wouldn’t brag about it.”

I go back to my work. Franco stands in front of me. “Can I help you with something?” I ask. I hope he’s not going to ask me out again; I am tired of turning him down. Sometimes I think he’s forgotten about me, and then I’ll walk to the finishing department and there will be a cream puff on my clipboard. He doesn’t give up.

“I’m seeing a girl in West Bangor.”

“Congratulations.” I try not to act surprised and go back to my work.

“Nella.” I look up at him. “I’m not going to ask you out anymore.”

“Um, okay.”

“I’d just like you to answer one question. Why wouldn’t you see me?”

I never really thought about why I kept saying no, except that it felt like the right thing to do, or maybe rejecting him became a habit. I don’t want to hurt Franco’s feelings, but I aimed much higher than a machinist when I dreamed of love. Yes, I have a sort of animal attraction to him, but that’s all. He would never engage my intellect the way Renato did.

I tap my pencil on my spreadsheet. “I just don’t think we’d be a good match.”

“We are a good match,” he insists.

“There’s more to it than kissing,” I correct him.

“It’s a start.”

“Franco, you have a girlfriend, whoever she is, in West Bangor. Why are you asking me about us?”

“Because if you said you’d give us a shot, you know I’d never look at another woman again.”

I look down at my papers. I admire his persistence. The truth is, I am lonely on Saturday nights. There are only so many movies to see, and so many card games to play, and so much laundry to do. And while I love babysitting the kids, I wish I had my own home. I’ve been dating a little, at Chettie’s insistence. I went on a few dates with Imero Donatelli, but he was too slick for me. I feel badly that I compare every man to Renato, but the truth is, I want what I had, and it’s gone.

“You don’t want me, Franco.”

“Why don’t you let me decide?”

“I’m trying to tell you something. I’m not perfect.”

He laughs. “Neither am I. One date. That’s all. Just one. Give me a chance.”

Unbridled ardor is an element in all my favorite books. Unrequited love is another one. I read about men who give up countries, riches, and power for the love of a good woman. Here’s a nice Italian boy who wants to make me happy, and I won’t give him a chance. What would it hurt to have dinner with him? Will it kill me to go to one show with him? He’s not asking me for much. “Okay, one date.”

His face breaks into a wide, boyish grin. “When?”

“I’m going out tonight. Tomorrow night I’m busy. How about next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday it is.”

“Oh, and Franco …”

“Yeah?”

“I take it we’re not going to West Bangor.”

“I think I can do better than that.”

In the week between my acceptance of Franco’s invitation and the moments leading to his picking me up at 137 Dewey Street, I find myself thinking about him from time to time. There are things about him I like. He makes me laugh, and I do find him handsome. But I can’t imagine what we’ll talk about. Chettie thinks I’m nuts, that a man and a woman can always find something to say to each other.

I dress in Elena’s spare bedroom because it has a three-way mirror. Next door, we are furnished with the bare minimum until Mama and Papa decide to move to town permanently. I pull on my stockings slowly, lining up the seams perfectly. I am wearing a blue silk cocktail dress. It has a boat neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, and a bow that anchors over my hips. I saw this dress in Hess Brothers and had to have it. I feel like Constance Bennett, long, cool, and sophisticated. Or at least I’m a good Roseto imitation.

The doorbell rings and I hear Elena answer it. I check the clock. He’s right on time. I dab perfume behind my ears. My hair is shiny, cropped into a shorter bob and combed close to my head. It curls just right to the nape of my neck. I wear Elena’s earrings; small clusters of rhinestones dangle from my ears. I have on soft pink lipstick, inspired
by the sketch of Paulette Goddard on the ticket bearing her likeness at the factory. I want to look pretty, though I’m not sure why. Chettie thinks I like Franco deep down and won’t admit it.

“Hello, Franco.”

My niece lets out a low whistle when she sees me descending the stairs.

“I agree, Assunta.” Franco winks at my niece then helps me into my coat. I pull on my gloves and hat. We say our good nights. Once we’re out in the cold night air, I look up at him. “You look handsome,” I tell him.

He beams. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

We chat about work as we drive through town. “I thought I’d take you somewhere different,” he says as he turns off the main road outside Roseto. The pond at the Roseto Rod and Gun Club is frozen over with a silvery glaze of ice that shimmers in the moonlight like sugar on a cake. Franco parks his Hudson coupe up in a clearing of trees by the edge of the pond. “I’m coming around for you,” he says.

“I don’t have boots,” I tell him when he opens the door. I look down at my Sunday shoes, black satin pumps with a strap and simple rhinestone shoe clips, and pull my feet back into the car.

“I do.” He pulls a pair of clean rubber work boots out of the backseat. “Here, I’ll help you.” Like the prince in
Cinderella
, he removes my shoe and slips the boot over my stocking feet. He does the same with the other foot, but for my money, he lingers too long at my knee. I pull my dress tightly around my calves and smooth my coat over them, pushing his hands away. Franco may have good intentions, but he has a few bad ones as well.

He helps me out of the car. The boots are a few sizes too big, so it’s hard to find my footing. I trip and fall against him. He catches me and we laugh.

“Wait here.” He goes to the trunk of the car and pulls out a large wicker basket. “We’re having a picnic,” he says with a smile.

“It’s awfully cold for a picnic,” I tell him.

“It won’t be,” he promises.

He takes my hand and leads me to the edge of the pond. His hands are large and have the rough calluses of a workingman. He has been here earlier, and he’s already prepared a campfire. He reaches in his pocket for a match. The dry wood ignites into an orange blaze. He unpacks a thick blanket from the basket and invites me to sit on it. He uncorks a jug of wine and pours me a glass, and then one for himself. “We’ll eat a little later, okay?”

“Okay.” I find this all so curious. I’m on a date with a machinist with a theatrical bent. The curtain has been raised, the orchestra plays; in a moment I expect to see Ruby Keeler tap across the ice followed by a string of chorus girls in red velvet skating costumes. But the only sound here is the spit and crackle of the fire. Even the moon, which has gone behind a cloud, seems to know we don’t need it right now.

“I thought I’d read to you.” Franco pulls a book from the basket.

“It’s a little dark, isn’t it?” I regret saying that when I see the look on his face. I need to play along at this romantic scene a little better than that. “I would love for you to read to me,” I tell him kindly.

“It’s a poem,” he says, opening the book on his lap.

“Really, what is it?”

“You’ll see.” He smiles. And he has a beautiful smile. I can hear Mama’s voice reminding me to always check a man’s teeth. “Something funny?” he asks.

“I just thought of my mama. Something funny she said once.” I look at him. “Go ahead. Please. Read.”

I notice this book has been read a lot, because the pages lie flat where the spine has been broken. Franco leans in to read by the firelight as he cradles the book gently in one hand, holding the page with the other, like a scholar who returns to the words time and time again to find new meaning in them. As he reads, I watch the moon as it pushes back through the clouds and through the bare branches of the
old birch trees around the pond. I wonder how many lovers have come to this place. Then his deep, soft voice breaks the quiet.

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep
,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace
,
And loved your beauty with love false or true
,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you
,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars
,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

“That was beautiful.” My voice breaks a little. Renato used to make me read, and when he read aloud it was with the pomposity of a professor. “William Butler Yeats. When did you first read it?”

“I was a boy. And I knew I wanted to feel that way about someone someday.”

“Do you feel that way about me?” I say, apparently too loudly, because something rustles in the woods, as if I disturbed it with the timbre of my voice.

“You say whatever is on your mind, don’t you?”

My face turns red, but maybe it’s the heat from the fire. “I think it’s good to … ask questions.”

“I’ve never known a girl like you. You just come out with it.” Franco closes the book and leans back against an old tree stump. I have somehow offended him, and I didn’t mean to. This is a lovely evening, and I know better than to blurt the first thing that pops into my mind. After all, I’ve seen Joan Crawford, Norma Shearer, and Jean
Harlow handle men with ease. They slither and slide and giggle, they don’t ask questions; they say very little in a low, throaty voice and most important, they don’t assume that the man is smitten. The smitten part always happens at the end of the picture. Here I am, a half hour into this date, and I’ve already asked him for a declaration of intention.

“Is my honesty a problem?”

He looks at me. “No.”

“I’m not a flirt like the girls from West Bangor, or silly like the girls who slouched through school instead of studying. I’m not a beautiful girl who doesn’t have to work. I know what I am, and maybe that’s why I’m not soft. I never had a chance to be delicate; it wasn’t called for on the farm.”

“But you are tender. I’ve seen it.”

“I have feelings, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“I know you have feelings. It’s just that you put on this tough act, and I don’t know how you want me to take that.”

“You don’t have to take it at all,” I say quietly.

“I want to.”

“Why?”

“The first time I saw you, you walked so tall, with confidence. I thought you were older. And then you sneezed. You were so cute.”

“I’ll remember that when I have a cold.”

“Then you let me have it when I said you were too young to be a forelady. I like that you stood up for yourself. I want a girl who pushes me … I don’t know, who makes me want to do better. Be better.”

“You like a challenge?”

“No, I like
you.”
He looks at the basket, unsure whether he should serve dinner or not. I help him decide by opening the basket and unpacking the sandwiches.

“The poem talks about love that has lasted a long time.”

“A lifetime,” Franco corrects me gently. “I believe it’s a young man saying it to his young love, and telling her that no matter what comes,
no matter how her beauty fades, he will still love her. It’s more of a promise than a poem.”