This Heart of Mine (3 page)

Marta backed off, redirecting her attention toward the limp stocking. She picked it up with one finger. “This is a disgrace. There are children here.”

Hildy put her hand on her hip. “Who? Jimmy?”

“My Rachel, for one.”

Unless Rachel has acquired an attraction to the smells of bacon grease and body odor, I wanted to say, she’d steer clear of Mr. Hahn’s office. “Isn’t Rachel outdoors?” I said instead. I knew she’d returned to kidland, running about with a pack of neighborhood children. I was sure she’d already forgotten about her mother’s slovenly boss, and the milky coffee we’d served her, and the charming man with Santa’s magic dollar. Children leave things in the past so easily.

“She is a curious child,” Marta huffed. “She could have found it. I want to know who is responsible.”

I’m going to tell you a secret, Mary—I wanted it to be me. I wanted to fess up, to take responsibility for a wanton life, a life I can only have in odd daydreams. “I—”

“Do you know who this belongs to, Marguerite?”

It didn’t even occur to Marta that it could possibly be mine. “No,” I said quietly. “I don’t.”

“What are we going to do about this?” she demanded.

“Nothing at all,” Hildy said. She picked up the stocking and threw it in the refuse bin. I admired her for it. Why do I come up to a mental stop sign every time I should take action? It’s as if I will live the rest of my life thinking so hard about every decision that the world passes me by. It’s dreadful. And cowardly.

Later we caught Jimmy fishing the stocking out of the garbage. Even he goes after what he wants.

And no,
he
hasn’t come back.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Saturday, December 24, 1921
Christmas Eve

Oh, Mary,

I’ve got to get this down before I forget a word.

Early dinner at the Mondlicht Café was a raging success. Hildy and I were so full of cheer we didn’t mind the cleanup, and time flew as it does when people are enjoying what their hands and hearts are doing. When the last customer left for mass, I wrapped some pork roast, spaetzle and baked apples for the Maiers, and Marta, seemingly over yesterday’s incident, added a jar of pickled herring to their basket. For the first time all holiday season, I felt celebratory.

The intensity of my Christmas spirit brought on a wave of planning. I would dine with the Maiers and then walk over to Mortie’s on Damen to buy a small Douglas fir. I’d trim the tree and then extract my mother’s nativity set from its hiding place under her bed. I’d dig out the garland and decorate the apartment in true holiday fashion. I grew giddy picturing it.

Hildy and I were last to go, and we locked the front door together. The air had grown frigid during the course of the day, and we huddled like newborn kittens, trying to decide whether or not to spend our extra money on cab fare. She lifted her arm to hail one when a black sedan pulled to the curb.

The window rolled down and a sharp-faced man wearing a newsboy cap appeared in the opening. “Howdy-do, Hildy. You and your friend want a ride?”

“You bet,” she said, and nudged me. “Get in before you freeze your goodies!”

I didn’t want to walk home, but I didn’t want to get into a stranger’s car, especially one who looked as if he moonlighted as a hoodlum. My feet were glued to the frozen sidewalk. Then Hildy’s hand reached out and she yanked me forward. There was nowhere to go but inside the car’s warm cab.

“Your conscience can blame me if you get into trouble,” she said in my ear as I settled in next to her. A man sat in the jump seat across from us. He also wore a workingman’s cap, but his features spoke to an innate refinement—an aquiline nose, a mouth full and lush. I’d never seen a man so handsome. When we passed a streetlamp, I noticed a bone-white scar traveling across the lower part of his face like a bumpy road. Strangely, it only accentuated his good looks. I was glad the light was dim in the cab, and he couldn’t see my blush.

“What’s your name?” yelled the driver.

It took me a second, but I realized he was addressing me. “Marguerite.”

“How does the wind blow, Margie? Up your skirt or down your blouse?”

“Shut your trap, slick,” Hildy said, kicking at his seat. “She’s not like that.”

Like what? I wanted to grab her by the shoulders. What was I not like?

“Oh yeah,” said the driver, “what
is
she like?”

Answer
him
!
What
am
I
like
?

“Beautiful,” the attractive man said. I nearly died right then and there. Who said things like that?

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He stayed silent after that but didn’t take his eyes off me.

“Have you ever seen hair that color, Vince?” Hildy asked, her voice dreamy. She was gazing out the window, taking in the city lights. “Like spun gold.”

“Where are we going?” the driver interrupted. “You don’t want to pack it in for the night, do ya?”

I suddenly remembered the basket on my lap. “I need to go home,” I said, unable to keep the note of pleading from my voice.

Hildy didn’t mask her disappointment. “Really? Are you sure?”

I’m ashamed to admit I thought about it for a second. “I must.”

I told her the address and she shouted instructions to the driver.

We pulled up to my building and Vince leaped to open the door for me. He was tall, taller than most, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. I noticed. Oh boy, did I notice.

I murmured my thanks and was about to dash away when Hildy leaned out of the car. “We’ll cool our heels for ten minutes and then we’re gone. If you want to come with, you know where to find us.”

My legs felt heavy climbing the short staircase to the Maiers’ door. I knocked once, twice, but heard nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. “Mr. Maier?” I called, but no one answered back. Had they somehow managed to go to mass after all? I debated leaving the basket at their door but decided against it, trudging up another floor to my place. The apartment was dark and smelled of dust. I shoved the entire basket into the icebox, changed into a green silk dress and ran back to the waiting car outside.

We went to Schulien’s on Halsted Street. My father once met his fellows there for a beer after work. Now one must sneak into a small door leading to a basement speakeasy. My Pops would never have suffered the indignity of it.

His daughter felt no such moral obstacle. With a quick nod to the hulking man guarding the door, we stepped into the dank tunnel leading to the speak. Inside, it was roaring. Lively jazz music welcomed all the lost souls seeking refuge from the cold Chicago night. The faces were bright, the clothing brighter, and I was suddenly glad for my green dress. With an outstretched hand, Vince parted the crowd so Hildy and I could make our way to the bar. We miraculously found two stools but lost the boys in the process.

“Where did Vince go?”

“Oh, sugar, you want him, don’t you?”

My face burned. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it. Every gal he meets wants a taste.”

I cringed at the vulgarity.

Hildy laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. I know you were thinking about it. He’s not for you, though. That medical student? Now, he’s the marrying kind.”

“Who said anything about marriage?”

“We all think along those lines. You should be thinking that way if you’re not.”

“I’m only nineteen,” I protested. “You’re young, too.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“See? There isn’t much between us.”

She frowned. “Compare what you know now to what you knew four years ago.”

That shut me up for a minute.

Hildy signaled to the bartender and he brought over two short glasses full of amber-colored liquid. She handed one to me and I smelled it and nearly keeled over.

“Drink it fast, Rita,” she said. “One, two, three—bottoms up!”

It scorched a trail all the way down to my stomach.

“Now,” Hildy continued, holding up two fingers in the bartender’s direction, “since I’m older, it’s my job to tell you what’s what. Your parents are dead, right?”

I shuddered. Was it the liquor or the thought? “Yes, they’ve both passed.”

“So have mine. When you’re alone in this world, you’ve got to start looking out for yourself. Rule number one? Don’t give anything away for free, but make it
appear
that you are.”

I felt an uneasiness in my stomach that didn’t come from the drink. “Can you explain how that works?”

Hildy leaned in. “Vince will pay for our drinks tonight.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he likes you.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got three extra dollars. I’d rather pay for myself.”

“Why?” Hildy said, genuinely puzzled. “It’s a fair transaction. You allow him to pass the night looking at a pretty girl, hoping he might score. That’s a good feeling for a guy. He pays for that good feeling by buying your drinks. Everyone wins.”

Was it really as easy as a children’s game? I didn’t think so. Passing out false promises like candy on Halloween seemed a surefire pathway to trouble. Still, why did I feel such a strong urge to test it? Did I simply want to be admired? If Vince bought the drinks, would it make me feel as though I’d won something?

“Don’t look at me like that, kid. Stop thinking too hard.” Hildy moved closer still. “You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever. That’s the beauty of it. You look like class, so you’ll be treated with class. Don’t underestimate the power of pale skin and a refined nose.”

Hildy tossed back another drink. I stared at mine for a moment, then drank it, as well.

“Look, I’m talking straight to you,” Hildy continued. “That medical student? You could have a future with him if you play your cards right.”

I didn’t like her use of the word
play
. It lessened the importance of something that should be, well...important. Hildy was looking out for me, but her perspective was skewed. I felt the need to express my disagreement, but I didn’t want to argue with her in a place that required shouting to be heard. I thought one would be able to
speak
in a speak, but that wasn’t possible given the roar of the holiday revelers.

I placed my mouth close to her ear. “Why do you call me Rita?”

“Marguerite is a Dresden doll. Something made of porcelain that sits on a shelf. Rita is someone who has control of her situation. Which would you rather be?”

Before I could answer, Vince appeared. Hildy winked at him and excused herself. “I need to use the phone box,” she shouted, and disappeared into the crowd.

Vince motioned to the bartender and two more drinks appeared.

“How does he know what you want?” I asked.

“There aren’t many choices,” Vince said, smiling.

I took a small sip of the whiskey to be polite. It was disconcerting to have such an attractive man staring at me so openly. I liked it—I’ll admit it—but his frank gaze closed my throat and sent the thoughts zipping around my brain into partial paralysis. He didn’t say anything and I didn’t say anything and even though the world around us exploded into singing and laughing and bellowing, the room seemed uncomfortably quiet.

“Are you German?” is all I could come up with.

“Irish as Paddy’s pig.” He shrugged. His face darkened and he gulped the rest of his whiskey. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“A problem for whom?”

His beautiful mouth stretched into a smile, sending the scar crawling up his cheek. I wanted to trace it with my finger but instead took another sip of my firewater.

Hildy came back, to my great relief. She took over the conversation, discussing something I couldn’t follow with the noise, but it concerned Rudolph Valentino and some starlet. Small talk. I wish I could manage it.

Instead, I stood at the bar awkwardly, holding my drink but not really drinking, trying to ignore the sultry looks Vince kept sending my way. I didn’t know how to respond, and I didn’t know how to make sense of what Hildy had told me. I thought she might be mistaken about his expectations. His longing, intense and dangerous, thickened the air and pressed uncomfortable emotions onto me—fear, worry, desire, need. Not the most ideal combination.

I felt a nudge and Hildy’s hot breath in my face. “There’s
my
medical student,” she said.

I nearly dropped my glass. Mr. Hahn, wearing a crushed fedora low over his forehead, wove uncertainly through the thick crowd. Hildy stood and threw her hand in the air, excitedly waving him over.

I am a stupid girl. Of course. The name change. The extended hours. The stocking.

“Hello, Marguerite,” Mr. Hahn said when we enclosed him in our small group. He had the decency to look guilty.

“Mr. Hahn.” I nodded.

Hildy picked up on our awkwardness and spirited Mr. Hahn onto the dance floor. He moved stiffly but made a valiant effort to stay with her.
Perhaps
I’ve
judged
too
harshly
, I thought.

“Want to join them?” Vince asked. He’d moved closer, so close I could feel the heat emanating from his body.

“No, thank you.”

He dropped his head, nuzzling my cheek with his scarred one. “You’re a tough nut to crack, ain’tcha?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of his rough skin against mine. What would it feel like to crack? To steal away with Vince into a dark corner? To let go, really let go, of the life my parents constructed for me? Of the life they’d hoped I’d live?

Vince threw some bills on the bar. “Want to get out of here?”

He’d officially paid for his part of the deal. Part of me wanted to keep it fair and square, to join him in the back of the sedan, curtain pulled. The other part knew I couldn’t go back to my mother’s apartment and live among her pots and pans and crocheted afghans afterward.

I fished around in my purse for the three dollars Mr. Hahn had given me. I placed them on the bar, over Vince’s money. “It was lovely to meet you, but I have to run,” I said, and set my sights on the door, not turning around, not stopping.