Wynn in Doubt (15 page)

I sit on the grass between Oliver’s legs. I’ve decided it’s my new favorite way to sit. He offers me an apple. I bite down, and sweet juice fills my mouth. The book rests on my thigh, waiting for me to open it. It felt like an anvil in my lap the whole way here. I wanted to read it, and at the same time, I wanted to prolong the moment. I’m afraid of what more we’ll find inside.

“I could get used to this.” Oliver takes a sip from a bottle of beer.

“Me, too.” It’s not as hot out today, and there’s a nice breeze. I could stay beneath this tree with him forever.

He nudges me with his leg. “You ready to read me a story?” He offers me the drink.

I take a sip and then another. “Almost.”

We eat and drink in silence for a while. I close my eyes and rest my head against his chest. I haven’t talked to my mom since leaving. What’ll she say when I turn up with Lola’s diary? Will she even want to know the truth? And what if the truth turns out to be everything she said? The first entry paints a pretty bleak picture. But I keep thinking about the initials carved into the tree. Whatever else she did, whoever she became, Lola was in love once. I can relate to that.

Oliver’s arm reaches around me. He picks up the book. “You’ll never know until you read it.”

How does he do that? How does he know the questions that burn inside of me? I take the book in both hands, opening it carefully, and turn to the page with the first entry we read back at the house. It feels deeply personal to read someone else’s private words. Like you’re stealing something from them, which I guess I am.

“This is from the same entry.” I read the words slowly so I can savor them.

This morning I gathered two dresses, a pair of silk stockings, my mother’s patchwork blanket, and a few items from the bureau. I purchased this book from a man selling newspapers and oranges inside the station. I meant to buy the orange. I don’t have much money, only what I’ve been able to sneak away from Dutch. I guess that makes me a thief as well. But my hand landed on the book, so now I sit hungry as I wait for the next train. I will use these pages as a diary. I don’t know what will become of me or if I’ll survive on my own, but it feels important to keep a record, if for no other reason than to remind myself why I left.

The parallel of her words with my own actions strikes me. I look at Oliver, and he inclines his head, urging me to continue.

18th September 1927

I’ve found a room in a lady’s boardinghouse. It’s not much, and nothing more than a single bed, a small desk and chair, and a bureau that’s seen better days, but it’ll do. The landlady, Mrs. Blanch, seems kind enough. She didn’t ask many questions, which is good. What would I tell her, anyway? That I’ve run out on my husband and child? That I’ve got only enough money to last me until the end of the month? That after that, I’d rather live on the streets and starve than go back? I can’t tell her these things. I can barely say them to myself.

21st September 1927

The wind coming off the Ohio has a chill. I’ll need to buy a coat before long. I wanted to bring the wool jacket Mary Ellen sewed for me when I was pregnant with Elizabeth, but there was no room for it in my bag.

Elizabeth. I think of her more times than I breathe in a day. I wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s been crying for me? I hope Dutch will give her my letter when she’s old enough to understand. I can’t go back, I know that.

I went to the Seelbach Hotel to look for work as Mrs. Blanch suggested. The manager had a kind manner about him and promised to see me again a week from Thursday to discuss a job as a maid.

I’ve never been anywhere so beautiful. The hotel reminded me of a painting I saw in school. The walls and floor were made of marble. The railings on the stairs appeared to be built from solid gold. Every surface, every crack and crevice, glowed with an amber light. I wanted to stay longer, but I was afraid to be seen lingering.

I turn the page.

29th September 1927

I feel I can finally breathe for the first time since leaving. I’ve gotten a job! I smiled all the way back to the boardinghouse. It felt so foreign to me that I wondered if I were wearing someone else’s face. I can’t remember the last time I smiled or felt hope. I begin work tomorrow morning at five a.m. sharp. Mr. Kennedy warned me not to be late, and I don’t intend to be. It’ll mean rising before four a.m. but the money will keep a roof over my head. We’re served two meals a day, for which I am eternally grateful. I’ve lost so much weight since leaving. I look like a child playing in her mother’s clothes.

I pause, reading the passage again to myself. I’m torn between her excitement and my own sadness for my grandmother.

“She was a beautiful writer.” Oliver’s voice startles me. I got lost in Lola’s words.

“Yes, she was.”

His fingers play with a strand of my hair. “What is it?”

I shake my head. “It feels wrong to root for her, when I know what my Grams and her father must’ve been going through after she left.”

He says nothing, just keeps twisting my hair around his finger.

“I don’t know.” I shrug against his chest. “It just makes me sad.”

Oliver releases my hair and strokes my upper arm. “Keep reading. Let her tell her own story.”

I run my finger down the page, following the last entry. He’s right. If I want to understand why Lola did what she did, I need to let her words be the ones I hear. The rest—my grandmother’s pain, my mother’s resentment, even my own hope that Lola’s story will somehow give me courage to change my life—all of those voices must be quiet.

thirteen

9th October 1927

I had the day off and decided to take a walk. I thought the people here would be different than the ones in Chicago. But they’re the same. They move through the streets hurried and restless, and when they look at me, they look straight through me. I’m so dreadfully tired of feeling invisible.

What if Dutch was right, and I’m useless and stupid and I’ll never be anything more than the woman who cleans his shoes and has his babies? What if, after everything I’ve given up, I still die alone in this room with the cracked window and threadbare blanket? I wake up crying, terrified that his words are true. But I had to try. I had to leave before I became nothing at all. I couldn’t live a whole life existing only in the shadows.

It seems to me now that hope is a terrible thing. It’s the only emotion that pushes you forward and holds you back at the same time.

28th October 1927

I saw a little girl in the street today that looked so much like Elizabeth. I ran to her and called her name. She had lovely blonde hair, but her eyes were blue instead of brown. Her mother pulled her away from me. I stood in the street until a man led me away. I can’t remember his face. Hers is the only one I see. I thought it would become easier. I’ve been keeping busy at the hotel, and I help Mrs. Blanch with the housework three nights a week. But Elizabeth creeps into every thought . . .

11th November 1927

There was a man on the street in front of the hotel today selling ladies gloves. I thought maybe they were cheap imitations of the fine ones I see on the women in the Oakroom, but they were lovely and soft. He wanted five dollars a pair. I handed them back so quick you’d think they had burned me. I explained to the man that I couldn’t afford them. He told me I reminded him of someone he loved very much, and if I would only smile at him, he’d give me a pair for free.

His request was so ridiculous, the smile came to my face without consideration. He handed me a pair of blush-colored gloves without another word. I tried to give them back, but he said the exchange was to his benefit. He wouldn’t take them. I told him it wasn’t right, selling a pair of leather gloves for a smile. He looked at me with such affection, it nearly broke my heart. He thanked me.

He left me in a daze.

I tucked the gloves into my apron pocket and joined the others for work. The weight of them against my thigh felt like a secret. Like something private and dear. I wore them home, and my hands didn’t sting from the cold.

A man in a long black coat tipped his hat at me as I passed, and I bowed my head at him, unable to hide my smile.

I placed the gloves in the top drawer inside the folds of the tattered old shawl I wore when I arrived here, nearly two months ago. I stayed at the dresser for a long time, admiring the stitching and the evenness of the color. They’re the first thing I’ve ever owned that makes me feel special.

22nd November 1927

A policeman came to visit Mr. Kennedy as we sat down to lunch today. He looked at me several times. I was sure Dutch had reported me missing, and the police had come to take me home. I knew Dutch wouldn’t be able to let me go so easy. But the man left without saying a word. The whole situation made me feel jumpy and nervous.

I came back to my room in a panic, wondering what I’d do if my husband came to collect me. I think I’d throw myself in the river before I’d let that happen.

Wake up, light the stove, cook the breakfast, sweep the floors, beat the rugs, wash the clothes, peel the potatoes, iron his shirts, sew her dresses, make the dinner, clean the dishes, fill the bath, wash his hair, trim his beard, lie beneath him . . .

I won’t die if they take me back. I was dead when I left.

1st January 1928

Mrs. Blanch shared a glass of her good cider with me at midnight. It was nonalcoholic, of course, but I imagined it otherwise. We toasted to our good health and that of our families. She doesn’t know my true circumstances, of course. Shortly after I arrived, I told her my brother had sent me from Chicago to find a job and a suitable place to live before he and his wife would come to join me. I made up an elaborate story about him trying his hand at insurance and his wife and I being old schoolmates. I think she must know by now I wasn’t being truthful, but she toasted them anyway.

As I sit in my room during the first hour of the New Year, my thoughts turn to Elizabeth. I’ve written her several letters, but none that I can mail. Dutch would only burn them. For some reason the turning of one year into another has given me more courage. I’ve made it on my own out here. My back and feet ache from the long days, and my hands are pink and cracked from soap flakes. But those things don’t bother me. I’m living for me now. Every ache and pain is mine alone.

3rd February 1928

A funny thing happened. Mr. Kennedy asked if I would assist him in setting up the decorations for a party in the Rathskeller tonight. I’ve never been inside the room before today. I was amazed at its size and the beauty of the tiled floors, arched ceilings, and ornate sconces. There are sculpted pelicans in the pillars. Can you imagine?

A man dressed in a tailored navy suit came down as I was arranging the flowers. He handed Mr. Kennedy a list and turned to leave, but he stopped when he saw me. I kept working, but I heard him inquire after my name.

At the end of my day, Mr. Kennedy called me into his office. I was nervous he’d somehow found out my secret, but all he asked was whether I was happy with my position in housekeeping. I assured him that I was.

He said he felt perhaps my talents were wasted; perhaps I should be working as a cigarette girl in the Oakroom instead. I was shocked and could only ask if he meant me?

He called me a lovely girl, which made my face grow hot and my hands sweat. I know what they say about the girls who work in the clubs and restaurants. They’re wild and unrespectable. Flapper girls. I asked if I could think about it, and he gave me until the morning to decide. Before I left he told me the new position would come with a raise in income, and that I could expect to earn as much as thirty-five dollars per week!

The truth is, and you are the only one to whom I can tell the whole truth, I wonder why I left Illinois if not to do something exciting and maybe a little dangerous.

I’d just turned seventeen when I married Dutch because of the baby. I didn’t know him then. He told me he would take me everywhere I ever wanted to go and show me everything I wanted to see. But he lied. All he ever wanted was a slave to keep his house and a whore to warm his bed.

I know as I write this that I will go to Mr. Kennedy first thing in the morning and accept the job. I want to live fully and laugh loudly and be young again. If I don’t strive for those things, all of this was for nothing, and I’ve lost Elizabeth to fear rather than possibility.

9th February 1928

My hands are shaking so badly, I wonder if I’ll be able to make heads or tails of what I’ve written. Tonight was my first night in the Oakroom. The costume is a black satin dress that falls just above the knee with sleeves tight past my elbows. White crocheted silk dips beneath my collarbone in a
V
shape. I have never in my life worn anything so daring. Thank goodness I thought to pack the silk stockings Mary Ellen gave me as a wedding gift.

I was worried the other girls would think me an ugly duckling or a country bumpkin, but they’re a kind and happy bunch. One of the girls, Kristine, even helped me pin my hair back in waves so it looked as though I had the same short bob as the others.

I was so nervous, I nearly burned the first man to ask me for a light. I managed somehow. A couple of men reached to touch my legs as I passed, but most were polite and respectful, and all of them tipped. By the end of the night, I had more than seven dollars in my apron. I was nervous about walking home with so much money, but Kristine told me to keep it in my shoe. She said that way, if I was accosted, they wouldn’t think to look there and would let me go. It made getting home a little sore, but spreading the green and silver out on my bed was worth it.

I’ve hidden it and I won’t write where in case this book is found.

I’m so happy I could scream. For the first time since I was a girl, I feel like all I ever wanted could happen. I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight.

15th February 1928

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and the hotel lobby and all the rooms were transformed with red and white roses. I felt a bit morbid amongst the holiday splendor in my black hat and coat, but I didn’t want anyone seeing my new hairstyle until Kristine had a chance to freshen me up. On Sunday, she took me to the apartment of a friend of hers. She said her friend “has eyes as sharp as scissors.”

Her friend’s name is Dora, and she answered the door in nothing but a peach slip and an open dressing gown. I was a little shocked when she offered me a drink. It was hardly past two o’clock, not to mention it’s illegal! But Kristine said it’s illegal only if you buy it or sell it. We can drink it all we like.

I didn’t want to look like a ninny, so I took some in a small crystal glass. I’ve had alcohol only once before when I was still a girl in school. It tasted like expired medicine, and I spit it out. Dora’s sherry tasted tart, and it was hot in my throat, but I swallowed it, not wanting to seem rude.

I asked Dora how she came to have it, and she said a man she sees socially knows a bootlegger from near Bardstown.

I didn’t take the cigarette she offered, but I did finish my drink. It gave me a warm, pleasant sort of feeling. I wonder now if she gave it to me so I’d relax about my hair. After a second glass, I hardly knew what was happening. It wasn’t until I woke up yesterday morning and looked in the mirror that I remembered about it at all.

The other girls complimented me on the way my dark curls, now short and close to my head, make me look like a modern woman. A famous writer who comes in from time to time told me I looked like a heroine sprung from his imagination. I think I must have blushed brightly, because he looked a little embarrassed when I was next at his table.

The evening was long and full of dancing. Bursts of laughter were everywhere through clouds of blue smoke. I smiled so much my face feels swollen.

It’s early now; the sun hasn’t risen, though there’s red on the horizon. I really should get to bed, but I find, more and more, that sleep is impossible after a night among such jollity and decadence. I wish I could go back and stay in those hours forever.

29th February 1928

Today I have no happy words to write. I rose to assist Mrs. Blanch with lunch, and she asked if I might make a lemon tart for dessert. The smell of sugar and lemon reminded me so much of Elizabeth, I had to run to my room and burrow beneath the covers. I try so hard to put her from my mind. I feel like a wretched coward for leaving her as I did. I should have taken her with me. I should have risked it in order to be with her now.

But I was scared. I didn’t know how or if I’d be able to make any money, and the threat of starving to death was all too possible. I was prepared to take the risk myself, but not for my little girl.

There are so many grand things in the world. So much to do, see, and feel, but they’ll never make me whole. How can I be, when I left part of myself behind?

19th March 1928

When I was very young, I had a nightmare about a masked man who came to take my family away from me. I remember waking sweaty and scared with my mother’s hand on my back as she tried to calm me down. She whispered it had been a bad dream, but it felt so real. Even now I can recall how my voice cracked and pleaded with the man to bring them back. I was afraid of being left alone in the dark.

Last night I had the dream again, only this time the masked man was not taking my family. He was taking me away from Elizabeth. I fought him, but he was so much stronger than me. I tried tearing the mask from his face, but it wouldn’t come off, as though the mask itself was his face, dark and void of eyes or mouth. Elizabeth reached for me, her little fingers outstretched, desperate to touch mine, to bring me back to her.

I woke up as I did all those years ago, sweating and shaking with sobs. I couldn’t return to sleep after. A painful uneasiness settled in my stomach and lingers even now, with the sun touching the corners of the window. Perhaps it’s an omen of something bad. Maybe it’s a mother’s intuition, and something terrible has happened to my little girl.

My dream followed me out of the night and into the day. I don’t think I’ll help Mrs. Blanch this morning. I think I’ll return to bed and hope for nothingness.

12th April 1928

The air is warm and sweet today. I went to the waterfront with Kristine, and we got bags of roasted nuts and lemonade. She said I need cheering up and has made me promise to go dancing with her tonight. I’ve never been to a club before, at least, not as a patron. I told her I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear, and she said not to worry. She has lots of pretty dresses that will suit me. She was so excited over the prospect, I could hardly say no.

I’ve just dusted my face and shoulders and expect her at any moment. The dread, which has sat like a pit in my stomach for weeks, feels a little smaller today.