The Secret of the Nightingale Palace (26 page)

Goldie had been staring out the window without actually seeing anything. The sound of Alan's voice brought her back to the present, and she forced herself to pay attention to the landscape. “Oh, my,” she said, gazing out toward the sea.

She picked up his hand from her knee and, without really thinking about what she was doing, lifted it to her mouth and kissed each finger one by one. At that moment, Goldie was only vaguely aware of Alan's presence. She understood, within the context of her own misery, that she needed him right now, which meant she had to demonstrate that she had not forgotten him entirely. Her own lack of feeling, however, caused her to seriously miscalculate the effect that a gesture like this could have on a man whose lust had grown increasingly less manageable as the day progressed. Those little taps of lip against finger left Alan Stevenson almost completely unwound. “Oh, Goldie,” he sighed.

After about an hour, they turned off the highway, then followed a country road east toward Pescadero. At first Goldie saw nothing but farmland. Then, after a mile or so, the town appeared, and they pulled to a stop amid a run-down collection of buildings lining a dusty intersection. “The great restaurant is
here
?” she asked. It seemed like a long way to drive for so little.

Alan grinned and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Trust me,” he told her. Then he came around the side of the car and opened the door for her. It might have been a nothing town in Goldie's eyes, but she did notice that expensive-looking cars filled every space along the street. Alan took her hand and led her toward a door.

Inside, they walked through a carpeted vestibule and stepped down through a red velvet curtain into a large room arranged with tables set elegantly around a dance floor. Other diners already filled most of the seats. The men wore suits and smoking jackets, the women evening gowns, elbow-length gloves, high heels. Goldie still had on her outfit for the wedding, which was appropriate for a daytime ceremony and reception but made her look underdressed now. She lifted her hand to her head and smoothed down her hair.

A maître d' in a white tuxedo approached them. “Good evening, Mr. Stevenson,” he said. “Your regular table?”

Alan nodded. He glanced at Goldie to see that she was impressed. They followed the maître d' to a table on the edge of the dance floor. He pulled a chair out for Goldie, then handed them menus. Goldie glanced around the room. “I don't even know the name of this restaurant,” she said.

“Maestro's Inn,” he told her. “Most people just call it Maestro's.” He pulled a cigarette from his silver case and struck a match. “They call it the most famous place that no one ever talks about.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, Goldie could more easily observe the scene around her. The restaurant, with its white linen, twinkling crystal, and lively band, seemed much like the other fine restaurants she had visited in San Francisco, but she sensed a difference in the atmosphere here. At other establishments, each table served as its own little planet of activity, with diners focused on the people they were with. Here, people seemed equally interested in diners at the tables surrounding them. They turned to observe each new party that stepped into the room. The mood was festive, but also edgy and distracted, and this combination gave the room an energy that Goldie found unfamiliar and intriguing.

“It feels like something's about to happen here,” she said. “Is there a show or something?”

“Just dancing.” Alan kept his eyes on the menu. When he looked up, he leaned forward as if he were making her a tender offer. “You know, they serve lobster here. Would you like that?”

Goldie felt no loyalty to her religion, but the idea of eating pork or shellfish still repelled her. “I love a good steak,” she told him.

Alan had heard that lobster made women receptive, but when he failed to convince Goldie to try one, he settled for a couple of steaks, some baked potatoes, and a bottle of champagne to “celebrate the newlyweds.” The mention of the wedding made Goldie's face, which had finally grown more attentive, turn vacant again. Alan wondered if she expected his efforts tonight to lead to a proposal. The idea concerned him, but he didn't feel it necessary to alter his plans.

They danced every song. The band was only a combo, but their sound was lively and confident, and they seemed to play every melody that Goldie had ever loved. Dancing offered a kind of salvation to her then. She didn't have to think at all with Alan leading her across the floor. Together, they danced the Jitterbug, the Balboa, and the St. Louis Shag, stopping to eat only when the band took its breaks. As soon as they heard the musicians tuning up again, Goldie pulled Alan back onto the dance floor. Eventually their rainbow sherbet turned into forgotten little puddles in their crystal bowls.

At about eight o'clock, the music slowed and the band slid into “Fools Rush In.” Alan pulled Goldie closer. She rested her head on his shoulder. He had taken off his jacket now, and his body, pressing against hers, gave off a heat that she found unexpectedly soothing. Goldie chided herself for her disappointment. Who had ever promised that anything wonderful would come her way? Don't think about your empty pocket, Goldie's mother had told her, think about finding that penny on the ground. Alan Stevenson was tall and handsome, Caucasian, manly, and ambitious. Every time an image of Henry floated into her mind, she resolutely pushed it away. When she felt Alan's lips against her neck, she closed her eyes and tried to focus completely.

There were times in Goldie's life when she possessed an astonishing ability to read the clues in front of her. At Feld's, she could estimate a woman's wealth by the scent of her perfume or the seam of her stockings. On dates, the way a man unfolded his napkin or buttered his bread supplied her with everything she needed to know about his background and education. She had found herself to be so consistently accurate that, in her brief adult life, she had developed an almost unflagging confidence in the sharpness of her intuition.

But tonight she was not so astute. It was perhaps too much to expect that such a young woman would remain observant at all times, particularly on a day that had nearly destroyed her. By this point, her emotions had worn her down and blinded her. Goldie failed to notice the shift in atmosphere that began to occur when the lights dimmed and the music slowed. She had not even contemplated the obvious questions about Maestro's Inn: Why would an elegant restaurant become so crowded with fashionable people at 5
P.M
.? Why had these people traveled so far from the city? And why now, when it was still quite early, did it feel like the end of the night? There were other details, too, that Goldie missed entirely. For one thing, among the couples in the room, she might have noticed a predominance of gray- and white-haired men paired off with voluptuous younger women wearing magenta lipstick and thick mascara. The women's gowns, too, had necklines that dipped surprisingly low, and side slits that rose to levels that weren't quite proper. Goldie didn't notice the way the men slid their hands up and down their partner's bodies, or see the couple kissing deeply a few feet away from her. She rested her head on Alan's shoulder, keeping her eyes shut, telling herself again and again that things could get better.

Despite her obliviousness, then, it was this commitment to her future, and not her naïveté, that compelled Goldie to follow Alan out of the dining room and down a hallway that led them in the wrong direction. Later she would remember a room draped with satin curtains, a tiled bathroom, a large bed. She would remember, too, that she didn't agree, but she didn't argue, either. He was gentle enough, but driven more by urgency than care. And when, finally, she felt him slide between her legs, she wasn't completely surprised by what was happening. Instead, she pictured the smooth chairs, the lovely rug, the big window looking out onto Market Street, and the inconsolable expression on Henry's face. Now she understood that every touch, every kiss and whisper of love could, after all, have led Goldie and Henry to this. But it hadn't, and among all the emotions she would feel that night and for the days and months and years that followed, it was this sense of having missed something essential with Henry that affected her most.

By midnight, they were turning up Sacramento Street and pulling to a stop in front of Rochelle's house. Alan had held her hand for a while as they drove back up the coast, but gave that up and lit a cigarette instead. Goldie had stared out the window. Sometimes the moon lit up the hills, sometimes it seemed as though the entire world had vanished. She felt drained inside, as if she'd used up every emotion, but she sensed, too, the earliest stirrings of a deep and abiding revulsion for him.

Alan didn't get out of the car to open the door for her. He glanced at his watch. “Nobody's turning into a pumpkin tonight!” he joked, as if he'd fulfilled his princely obligations.

Goldie opened her purse and looked for her key. Was she supposed to thank him for a night like this one? “Rochelle will probably blast me about how late it is,” she said. She opened the door, but before getting out she stopped, leaving it wide open, and leaned back into her seat again. “I wonder,” she said, staring out the windshield in front of them. “Did I ever tell you about my sister Louise?”

“Not that I recall,” he said.

“She's the oldest of the ten of us. I'd say she's nearly forty. She used to be a pretty girl, and she went on an awful lot of dates. One fellow proposed, but Louise thought she'd find a better match, so she discouraged him. Another young man moved away. My mother was sick, and my father was no kind of provider for us. We needed money, so Louise found work cleaning houses and eventually moved in with a rich family downtown. It's not easy finding a husband when you've got a job like that. Then she lost her looks. Domestic work will do that.” Goldie turned to Alan. “Have you ever seen the hands of a girl who does domestic work, Alan?”

He had lit another cigarette. He didn't want to seem callous, but he saw where this was going, and he didn't want to get entangled, either. “Sure,” he told her. He let the smoke sift through his lips, focusing his attention on the dim glow of the embers. The fact was, he had no intention of marrying a Jew.

“It is not a pretty sight,” Goldie continued. “Your fingers get blistered and cracked. Sometimes they bleed. You spend half your time with your hands in hot water and the other half burning yourself with an iron. Poor Louise. She would have made a perfect wife.” She looked at him. “You know, Alan, Louise's situation scared me. I came to San Francisco, all by myself, because I thought I'd have a better chance here.”

Alan tried to laugh. “You don't have to worry about a thing like that, Goldie.”

“Actually, I do.”

He shifted in his seat. He'd enjoyed the evening, but he got no pleasure from her manipulation.

Goldie touched the back of her head. Earlier, in the bathroom, she had straightened her clothes again, then stared at her face for a while in the mirror. Eventually she managed to reassemble her bun so that she could return to Rochelle's looking as she had when she left. The events of the evening had caused her to lose some bobby pins, though, and now, sitting in the car, she discovered strands of hair falling out of place again. “What a mess,” she muttered. One by one, she pulled out the pins and, holding them between her lips, let her hair tumble down to her shoulders before securing it again with a few deft twists and an artful replacement of the pins. “That should work,” she said, before turning her attention back to Alan. “I just want you to know that this evening together meant a lot to me.”

He squirmed. “Well, sure.”

Goldie put her hand on his leg and leaned closer. To Alan's surprise, the gesture affected him. Despite her obvious cunning, he had enjoyed himself with her, and she remained more intoxicating than he would have liked. Perhaps he could find a way to continue to see her after all. It might be complicated, but he was smart enough to manage. Wasn't that part of the fun—the battle between the sexes? He started to pull her toward him, but Goldie moved away, preferring instead to whisper in his ear.

“Oh, Alan,” she said. Her tone was deliciously soft and seductive. The sound alone excited him even more, which might explain why it took so long for him to absorb the meaning of her last few words. “I'd rather clean houses for the rest of my life,” she purred, “than marry a rat like you.” By the time Alan Stevenson did comprehend what Goldie had said, she was out of the car. He saw nothing but the side of her arm as she slammed the door behind her.

Goldie ran across the sidewalk and up the stairs, gripping her pocketbook in one hand and holding her hair in place with the other. At the door to the apartment, she slid her key into the lock and quickly turned the knob. Rochelle's accusations began before she'd even stepped into the hallway. For the first and last time in her entire life, the sound of her sister's voice gave Goldie comfort, so much comfort, in fact, that it brought her to tears.

16

Appendicitis

G
oldie had left school after eighth grade, and though she witnessed the progress of her sister's pregnancy, nothing in her education had taught her to read the signals her own body began to provide over the next few weeks. At first she took the exhaustion and nausea as signs of flu. She noticed the lateness of her period, but her knowledge of female fertility was vague and incomplete, and she made no connection between her current symptoms and the fact that she wasn't bleeding anymore. Goldie's mother had died before giving her any information about relations between women and men. Her sister Eleanor had at times offered advice like “Don't be alone in a room with a man” and “Keep your panties on.” Once Goldie had moved from Memphis to California, Rochelle made a few distracted attempts to offer cryptic warnings—“Be careful!” and “Watch out!”—but Rochelle had been so focused on her own small children and her currently bulging belly that she didn't notice the signs of change in her sister. By now, strong smells made Goldie feel sick. She couldn't eat anything but fresh fruit and warm milk. And she felt monumentally tired. All she wanted to do was nap.

Some nights, though, she couldn't sleep. Late in the evening, she curled up on her bed, a narrow sofa in the children's room, wedged between the toddler bed and the crib. While the children slept, she moved her hands uncertainly over her body, which seemed to be failing her. Was it some strange disease? Did she have cancer? Sleepless, she could watch the crisscross pattern the moonlight threw against the wall over the baby's crib. Some nights she would lie for hours staring at it, and in the darkness, her sense of color became unsure. What color were those boxes of light on the wall? Were they yellow? Gray? Even in her worried state, she still had the presence of mind to imagine a dress in such a fabric—hazy and geometric, in night shades of black and yellowy gray—but she had come to feel so hopeless about her life that the possibility of ever having such a dress seemed no more realistic than the possibility that she would be crowned princess and get to wear a tiara.

One morning in early February, the cramps began as she stepped from the bus on her way to work. She felt some discomfort, but nothing painful, and wondered if her “monthlies,” as she and Rochelle called them, had finally returned. If they had, she knew there was a box of pads and belts in a drawer in the ladies' lounge, kept there for just such emergencies. Once she arrived at Feld's, she ducked into the lounge and checked inside her underwear, but nothing had happened. It was nearly 9
A.M.
, so she hurried to her post at the circular tie counter, where, because she'd been feeling “under the weather,” she had been assigned for the past week. The tie department was a coveted position because employees could spend most of the day on a stool. Goldie felt grateful to Mr. Blankenship for assigning her there, though he may also have noticed the increase in tie sales. When Goldie was stationed there, it seemed that every college boy in San Francisco needed a tie.

Not long after she'd stepped behind the counter, one of those very boys approached and lingered shyly near the cabinet, his gaze half on the selection inside and half, surreptitiously, on Goldie.

“Can I help you?” she asked, standing up from the stool and moving over toward the side of the counter near where the boy hovered. Because she wanted Mr. Blankenship to always see her busy, she held a rag in her hand to wipe the counters.

“I need a blue tie,” the boy said. Goldie glanced down through the glass. Blue ties in every imaginable pattern lay on a tray before them, and the young man was wearing one, too. He moved closer and peered down through the glass.

Goldie might have been profoundly ignorant about the human body, but she had an intuitive understanding of her influence on men. Gently, she lifted her hand and took the edge of the boy's own tie between her fingers. “Are you looking for something like this one?” she asked him, bending closer. She knew that doing so enhanced his view of her breasts, but she didn't mind. She liked to display her body in a way that seemed thoughtless and unintentional. It made men feel that they were getting a glimpse of something private.

That was Goldie's normal approach, at least. Today, she was leaning forward in order to take the pressure off her feet. The cramping had started again, mild waves that moved up from her lower groin, then expanded out in every direction. She had to conserve her energy for the eight hours of work ahead of her. She shifted onto a different leg, but that changed nothing.

The sight of her fingers on his tie clearly distracted the young customer, and she let go because she didn't want to scare him off. He looked well dressed, and she thought perhaps that, with the right technique, she could sell him two ties, maybe three. “Um, yes, something blue,” he said.

“Let me show you.” She unlatched the cabinet and began to pull out a tray. Just then she felt a stabbing pain, like something suddenly slicing through her gut. “Uh!” she gasped, gripping the edge of the display. She looked around, feeling as if the earth had moved, but no one had noticed. The boy kept his eyes on the ties. He might not have even heard her.

Goldie looked down. Turning her foot, she saw a thin stream of blood moving down her lower leg and along her ankle, then disappearing into her shoe. The pain did not stop. Somehow she managed to set the tie tray on the counter. “Just a moment,” she managed to say. “Let me see if I can get someone to help you.”

Just then, Marvin Feld was walking by. Since the day on the boat the previous summer, Goldie's relationship with Marvin had settled into a warm and respectful acquaintance. More recent events had caused her to forget her plan to marry him, and she certainly didn't think of him as a friend. If someone had told Goldie in advance that she would face a choice at this moment, to call to Marvin Feld or die, she would have said that she would die.

Goldie's instinct for self-preservation was stronger than she knew, however. The potential for embarrassment didn't even cross her mind. “Mr. Feld,” she called. “Could you help me?”

Goldie's face was white and full of strain. Marvin, seeing it, hurried over. “Miss Rubin,” he said. “What is it?”

Goldie felt another stab of pain. Now she doubled over, blinded, but still aware of the customer on the other side of the counter. “I've dropped something,” she groaned quietly. “Could you help me, please?” she clutched the side of the cabinet to keep herself from falling.

Swiftly, Marvin raised the hinged counter and stepped inside the display case. He saw the blood running down Goldie's leg and beginning to pool on the floor. “Oh, my,” he said. Then he turned toward the young man, who seemed frozen over the selection of ties. “I'm so sorry, sir,” he said. “You'll have to excuse us. Could you come back tomorrow?” Then he yelled toward French Agnes in scarves, “Call an ambulance!”

For the next several minutes, Marvin crouched in that tiny space beside Goldie, holding her hand, wiping the sweat off her forehead, whispering soothing words. The staff of Feld's had always seen Marvin as friendly enough, but disinterested and lazy. He seemed like a good-natured rich boy to them. But Marvin had spent a year on a Liberty ship in the Atlantic. He had seen his share of injury and battle. Among the dozens of staff and customers in the store at that moment, no one was better fit to sit with Goldie than Marvin Feld, who could look at the blood pooling on the floor without feeling even slightly squeamish. Marvin moved in closer, gripping Goldie's hand, and when she couldn't sit up any longer, he held her. “What's happening to me?” Goldie asked. “Am I dying?”

“Of course not,” Marvin said, his voice so full of resolve that he managed to convince her, if not himself. “You'll live,” he whispered again and again, until the ambulance finally arrived and took her away.

Later, Goldie would not remember the ride to the hospital. She would not remember the doctors' brief examination, the diagnosis of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy and massive internal bleeding, anything about the surgery itself, or even much about the days she spent in the hospital while she recovered from the miscarriage. She remembered the lovely vase of flowers that Marvin sent, and Rochelle's furious, repeated demand: “Who was it?” By this time, though, Goldie had figured out the details of the birds and the bees, and she refused to answer. Rochelle, as bloated and whiny as she may have been, knew enough to stop asking. Two weeks later, informing everyone within earshot that she had almost died of appendicitis, Goldie returned to work as if nothing really terrible had happened.