The Twelfth Child (15 page)

As they walked out onto the floor of Club Lucky, Abigail whispered into her friend’s ear, “Now, what am I supposed to do?” 

“Do what I do,” Gloria answered.  “Look available.  Flirt with the men.  Be real polite to the ladies, especially the hoity-toitys.” 

“How will I know –”

“You’ll know,” Gloria answered and then she sashayed across the room before there was time to ask anything else.  Abigail suddenly felt awkward – a scarlet rose in a garden of white lilies – a child dressed in grown-up clothes. Maybe, she thought, she’d been wrong about the gown – it now seemed somehow gaudy, something a woman of low morals might wear.  Trampish.  For a long while, she considered going back to the dressing room and resurrecting her blue silk frock, despite its prissy sash.  At least that dress wasn’t gilded with silver spangles.  Rolling this thought over in her mind, she lingered along the far edge of the room, a spot where a person could slip off without being noticed.  But instead of leaving, she stood there shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to make herself look inconspicuous, trying to convince herself that the hostessing business was a perfectly proper thing.   

She couldn’t guess how long she’d been standing there – Ten minutes?  Three hours? – But in whatever time had passed, the room became noisy and filled with people.  Sounds of raucous laughter ping-ponged from wall to wall and the musicians honked out one brassy tune after another.  Abigail tried envisioning herself as a puff of smoke, floating across the room, disappearing through the vent – avoiding the heartbreak of another mistake.  She had already started ruminating on how she should never have taken the hostessing job, when a heavy arm settled across her shoulder.

“Hey, Cutie,” a man older than her father said.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Umm.”  Abigail nodded and tried valiantly to dredge up a smile, but it felt like the muscles in her face were paralyzed.  “Actually,” she confessed, “I’m a hostess.”  She whispered the word hostess.

The man laughed.  “New, huh?”  At first he had seemed almost threatening, but as he spoke, his expression eased into a rounder, softer countenance and his smile was as kindly as any Abigail had ever seen.  She nodded and returned the smile.  “Don’t worry, kid,” he said, then took hold of her arm and led her to a small table alongside the bar, “You’ll do fine, you got pizzazz.”  He slid the chair out and motioned for her to sit.

As far as Abigail could remember, it was the first time anyone had ever suggested she had pizzazz – in fact, she wasn’t all that certain what the elusive quality actually was.  She knew it had nothing to do with making great pies or aspiring to someday be a writer. 
Pizzazz
was a special kind of sparkle reserved for wealthy debutantes and the flapper ladies of Vanity Fair magazine.  “Gosh,” she murmured breathlessly, her cheeks blossoming to the same shade of scarlet as her dress.

“Pete,” the man called over to the bartender, “fix us up with some gin and a bottle of champagne for the little lady.”  He turned back to the table and said, “I’m assuming Itchy told you to order champagne, right, cutie?”

She nodded, then shyly offered up her name.

“I’m Tommy.” He said.  “Tommy Anderson.” 

For the remainder of the evening Abigail sat alongside Tommy Anderson and listened as he told her of how he’d been smart enough to steer clear of the stock market and how he was now buying up real estate for a song.  He told of how he’d hooked a big fish and then tumbled overboard into the lake.  He laughed and Abigail laughed with him.  He poured champagne and she sipped it, hesitating just long enough to allow the bubbles to tease the tip of her nose.  As the evening wore on Abigail began to picture the years erasing themselves from Tommy’s face – first the deep forehead ridges, then the fleshy valleys that traveled down toward his jaw and finally the small crease that bridged the gap between his eyebrows.  They danced to a mellow rendition of
Who Stole My Heart Away
and swaying to the sound of a muffled trumpet, Tommy Anderson eased her head down onto his shoulder.  She didn’t pull away because it was, for the moment, a comforting feeling, something she could snuggle down into – a warm place, a safe harbor.  When the song ended she noticed that the silver-haired man was wearing a much younger face.  

As the evening drew to a close, he leaned across the table and took hold of her hand.  “Wanna make whoopee?” he whispered.  “I got a hotel room.”

Abigail yanked loose her hand.  “What kind of a girl do you think I am!” she stammered indignantly.  

“You’re a
hostess
!”  Tommy snapped back, then he stuffed a handful of bills back into his pocket and lumbered away.

By the time Abigail pulled herself together and started back to the dressing room, the crowd had been reduced to a few lingering drunks.  As she inched her way across the floor, Itchy grabbed hold of her arm.  “How’d you do?” he asked as he stood there scratching his crotch.

“Do? I did what any girl ought to do when a man tries to get fresh!” Abigail answered indignantly.  “Being a hostess is not the same as being a
trollop!” 
She was trying to hold back the tears and at the same time keep her eyes fixed on Itchy’s face.

“Huh?  Who said any such –” Itchy grimaced a bit and switched over to digging at his crotch with the other hand.

“Mister Tommy Anderson,
that’s who!
”

Itchy laughed.  “Tommy?  He’s harmless.  A sweet old guy – but gets a load on and right away thinks he’s a jazzbo.” 

“He asked me –”

“Guys do that.  Just tell ‘em to go fly a kite!”  Itchy shrugged and walked off, still scratching like he’d zeroed in on a nest of fleas.

A half-hour later, he came back to the dressing room and dolled out the tips.  Gloria got five dollar bills, Abigail got three.  “See,” Itchy said, grinning as he handed her the money, “Old Tommy Anderson took good care of you!”  He shuffled out the door, still digging at his crotch. 

Once he was well out of earshot, Abigail said, “You ever notice how Itchy keeps scratching his do-hickey?”

“Notice?”  Gloria laughed.  “Everybody’s noticed!  How do you think he got the name Itchy?” 

It was almost three o’clock in the morning, her head was throbbing and there was a stiff breeze nipping at her back, but none of these things bothered Abigail as she walked home that night; she was busy thinking about how she was going to spend the three dollars.  At the top of her list was a stewing chicken.  She’d buy it first thing in the morning, boil it for an hour and then eat the whole thing – every last bit.  Maybe she’d get a bag of flour and make dumplings as well – not the light as a cloud dumplings, but big doughy ones, the kind that would settle into her stomach and fill up all the cracks and crevices that had been empty for so long.  Yes, she decided, flour.  Coffee and sugar too!

Hostessing was never on the list of jobs she’d considered, but it was a lot better than going hungry.  Somehow having three dollars in your pocket made things seem remarkably more respectable.

A
s it turned out, Club Lucky, a place Abigail had never before heard of, was one of the hottest night spots in all Richmond.  In addition to Tommy Anderson and several more of his ilk, she met up with a young man whom she had seen at the ballet, and two ladies who were at one time members of Miss Meredith’s Museum Restoration Committee.  Every evening the room grew crowded with people – frivolous thrill seeking women, businessmen, jazzed up dancers, toughs looking for a brawl – people whose paths would usually never cross mingled at Club Lucky – at times they stood shoulder to shoulder, squashed together so that a person could barely make their way across the room.  The music never stopped.  Night after night Abigail would trudge back to the apartment with her feet aching and the strains of
Show Me the Way to Go Home
still pounding in her ears.  Her sleep was restless and her dreams frenzied, full of faceless partygoers, blaring trumpets and swirling colors.  She often woke in the morning with the smell of cigar smoke lingering in her nose and a purple bruise reminding her of some raucous reveler who’d given her a playful pinch.

Paul Martell seemed to be an exception.  He was a Frenchman in his early thirties, not a regular at Club Lucky, but a man with fistfuls of money to spend, and a large diamond ring on his pinky.  A person couldn’t help but notice Paul for he stood a head taller than most of the crowd and had a rakish crop of dark curls that tumbled down upon his forehead.  His green eyes were flecked with gold, a look, it was said, that drove women wild.  The first encounter Abigail had with him, left her with stars in her eyes.  “He’s a dreamboat,” she whispered to Gloria, “the kind of man I’ve always imagined myself
marrying
.”

“Paul?” Gloria replied.  “I heard he’s trouble.  Watch out.”

“Trouble?” Abigail echoed doubtfully and then walked off. 

The next night Paul Martell danced with Abigail for most of the evening and flamboyantly ordered her a second bottle of champagne while the first bottle was still half-full.  In-between dances they sat at a tiny table in the darkest corner of the room, chairs pushed so close together that a breeze couldn’t pass between them.  He dazzled her with tales of France and she wound the image of herself through every word.  When the band played
Moonlight on the Ganges
, they danced again and as Paul’s large hand pressed Abigail’s body to his, she snuggled into the crook of his neck.  “I’m not
really
a hostess,” she whispered.  “This is temporary – ‘till I can find a writing job.”

He didn’t answer, just lowered his head and let his breath graze her hair as his right hand eased its way down the back of her spine.

That night Paul left a ten dollar tip for Abigail, which according to Gloria was the largest any girl at Club Lucky had ever received.

The following night Abigail took special care with her make-up; she used a pale pink lip color, less lash paint and cheek rouge that could have led a person to think it was her own natural glow.  She left the dresses with fringe and sequins hanging on the rack and instead wore the ivory lace dress Miss Ida Jean Meredith had bought for her.  She stepped out onto the floor looking more like one of the patrons than a hostess.  All evening she kept one eye on the door as she circulated through the room, but Paul did not come.  Nor did he come the following night, or the night after that.

By the time he did show up, five nights later, Abigail had lost hope of ever seeing him again and gone back to wearing a fringed dress that wriggled even when she was standing perfectly still.  Sitting with an elderly gentleman from Texas and facing away from the door, she did not see Paul come in. 

“Hello, love,” he whispered in her ear.

“Paul,” Abigail sighed and swiveled to face him. 

“Miss me?” He chucked her playfully beneath the chin.

She nodded.  It was strictly against the rules for a hostess to walk off and leave a customer who’d sprung for a bottle of champagne, so Abigail smiled a thin smile and said, “I’m busy right now . . .” Her words trailed off as if there were something terribly important left unsaid.    

“I’ll be out back when the club closes.”  He smiled, then turned and walked over to where Francine was standing, as if she had been the one he’d come to see.

Abigail knew he hadn’t come there intending to spend the evening with Francine – at least she thought he hadn’t.  She’d
felt
something that first night and she was pretty certain he had too.  Throughout the remainder of the evening, she watched Paul’s movements from the corner of her eye.  “Oh, aren’t you the clever one,” she’d quip to her companion and laugh gaily but all the while she was thinking of how it would feel to have Paul kiss her.

It was well after two o’clock when the music died and the band started to pack up.  “Have Itchy hold my tip money ‘till tomorrow,” Abigail told Gloria and then hurried out the back door.  Francine was leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.  Paul was standing beside her; he’d already removed his tie and opened the collar of his shirt.  “Hello again,” he said to Abigail, as though they’d somehow met up quite unexpectedly.

For an uncomfortably long five minutes they stood there chatting about nothing – the music was good, the gin was watery, the weather was cool for the season – the kind of things people drag out as points of conversation when there is nothing else to be talked about.  Finally Abigail said, “I have to be going,” and she turned to walk away.

Paul whispered something to Francine, something Abigail wished she could hear but did not.  Then he called out, “Wait for me,” and hurried along.

After they had gone almost two blocks, Abigail asked, “Did I misunderstand?”

“Misunderstand?” he replied teasingly.

“Yes,” Abigail said somberly, “misunderstand that you were waiting for
me
.”

He tugged her into the bend of his arm and slowed his step to match hers.  “No,” he answered and affectionately nudged her cheek with his nose.  “You didn’t misunderstand.”  He stopped walking and looked into her eyes as a lover might. 

Suddenly she had no need for more of an explanation.  Moving together like mated swans they walked the full mile and a half to her apartment building – a building that she felt ashamed for him to see and an apartment that she would
never
allow any suitor to see.  “Goodnight,” she mooned dreamily as they stood facing each other in the dreary vestibule.

“Goodnight?” he said, then without further words placed his lips upon hers.  The first kiss was gentle, a tender touch of his lips to her mouth.  Abigail felt a tinge of warmth slither down her spine.  She tilted her face upward, like a baby bird wanting more.  Paul kissed her again and again – on the mouth, then at the base of her throat.  Abigail felt the warmth of his breath wrapping itself around her and she wished the moment would never end; then he pushed his body into hers with such force that it took her by surprise.  He wedged her back against the wall and pressed himself against her until she could feel the hardness of him.