Wynn in Doubt (16 page)

I wonder what the club will be like. What kind of women and men will be there? I’m twenty-five but feel like an old hen next to Kristine, with her golden hair and ruby-colored lips. I don’t have any designs beyond standing in a corner all night, though my imagination can’t help but wonder what it would be like for a man to ask me to dance, to be twirled until my dress spins out around my knees and I fall over from laughter.

13th April 1928

I don’t know where to begin. Last night I stepped off the streetcar and into a dream. The club was warm and filled with the sweet perfume of cigars. Everyone had a drink in their hand, a real one, so I got one, too. People were crashing into one another, but no one seemed to mind. In fact, no one seemed to walk! Everyone was dancing, twisting and kicking, stomping and sliding across every available surface. It reminded me of a picture show I saw, and I told Kristine. She agreed it was an especially good crowd and introduced me to her friends. A girl in a green-and-gold dress laughed at my face. I think she must’ve seen my awe at being there. Then she embraced me like a sister and kissed my cheek.

After that, a man took my hand and twirled me around. I thought I was going to lose my footing, but there was always someone beside me to keep me propped up. Kristine danced the Charleston and another dance with a funny-sounding name. I joined in when I could, but I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t follow for long. The band played jazz. They sat high on a stage in the back. Their faces changed, contorted in both shape and color as they played. The notes they cast never seemed to land. A man whispered in my ear that I was beautiful. He pulled me in for a dance and spun me around until I forgot I was ever sad or lost, or lonely.

26th April 1928

The most amazing thing! Kristine and I have been asked to join a group of dancers that performs in the Rathskeller on Friday and Saturday evenings. I hardly knew how to respond, the invitation was so unexpected. Kristine said yes right away and included me in her acceptance of Mr. Kennedy’s offer. She squeezed me in a tight hug after we left his office and laughed when I asked her if it had actually happened.

Showgirl. The word looks made up. Can something be real if it feels impossible?

29th April 1928

The past few days have been like something off a film reel. I’ve been coiffed, dressed, fanned, and flirted with. The black-and-silver dress, its tassels dangling, tiered like many thin church ropes, hangs in the center of my open closet.

We had only two days to learn three dances, and to my astonishment, I’ve picked up the moves quickly. Even Kristine, who is a natural dancer, didn’t learn the steps as fast as I did. There are four others in our group. One of the girls looks like Clara Bow, with big bedroom eyes and a round mouth. Her name is Jezebel St. James. At least, that’s the name she gave me. She asked my name and when I told her, she laughed.

“Showgirls don’t have names like Harrison.”

I wanted to say that wasn’t even my real name, that my real name was McConnell.

“You need something romantic. Something that’ll make the men fall in love and the women fall over in jealousy.”

I think it’s fitting that I come up with a new name. I’ve left everything else behind. But another part of me doesn’t want to give away more of myself than I already have. The part that wants me to stay the same for Elizabeth. How will she ever know me again if I have a new name, a new face, and a new life?

Lola LaBelle. I’ll keep my first name for her. One day when we meet again, she’ll still know me. I’ll keep that much of myself for Elizabeth.

12th May 1928

A man caught my attention in the crowd tonight. His clothes had the worn appearance of the country, and his boots weren’t black and shiny but brown and scuffed with mud. He was speaking with Thomas Jury, who manages the bar—and the things behind the bar we’re not supposed to talk about. We were dancing, turning like the blades of a fan, when he looked up and our eyes met. He had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They looked like a piece of glass I saw once in a window display at Marshall Field’s.

I could hold his gaze for only a second. By the time I came back around, he had gone. I thought maybe he hadn’t been there at all, that his eyes had been a trick of the low light, but as I was leaving with Kristine and Dot, I saw him again. He was leaning against the bar, and as we passed he removed his hat and inclined his head toward me. His hair was thick, unruly, and as black as an oil slick on the road. He smiled, and I stepped on the back of Dot’s heel. I don’t know how to put it in words.

He shook me off balance.

17th May 1928

Michael Craig. His name is Michael Craig.

fourteen

Blue glass.
The words nearly stopped my heart. I close the book, keeping one finger against the spine to hold my place.

“What?” Oliver shifts so he can see my face. “What’s wrong?”

How do I explain it to him, when I can’t make sense of it myself? “It’s the words she used to describe his eyes. Blue glass. She said his eyes reminded her of blue glass.”

He stares at me, not understanding the significance of what’s been uncovered.

I look at the book in my hands. “My Grams was obsessed with blue glass. It was all over her house.”

His eyes fall to the diary. “And you think—”

“I don’t know what to think.” I drum my fingers across the cover. “But it seems like too big of a coincidence to—”

“Be a coincidence, yeah,” he finishes for me. “You said your grandmother never saw Lola again. If that’s true, how could the two things be connected?”

“I don’t know.” Something’s out of order. I open the diary back to the page I left off on, and continue reading aloud.

25th May 1928

A cluster of white gardenias tied with yellow ribbon was lying on my dressing table after our last dance of the night. My name was all that was on the note, but I know who must have sent them. Michael was there again. He was wearing a brown suit jacket and had a crisp white shirt on underneath. He wasn’t wearing a tie, as the other men do, and he held a black fedora against his knee. He must’ve run his hand through his hair a few times because it was sticking up in places.

I looked everywhere, at the other men and women in the crowd, but my eyes were never long off his. Blue eyes made of sapphire glass. I was nervous to leave the dressing room. I was sure he’d be there, waiting to see if I got the flowers, but he was gone when I came out. I asked Kristine to stay back with me, just in case he hadn’t left the hotel yet, but he never returned and after half an hour, she said she had to go.

I brought a mason jar from the kitchen pantry and filled it with water. The petals of the gardenias overlap each other like the silk petticoat my primary teacher wore beneath her plain black dress. The scent is exotic. It transports me to a place I’ve never been, somewhere warm and beautiful.

I tied the yellow satin around my head. It feels forbidden to sleep with something a man gave me. Dutch never gave me anything. He only ever took.

I know my dreams tonight will be overrun by thoughts of Michael. I wonder when I’ll see him next, and why he left as he did.

26th May 1928

He left another bouquet of flowers, white daisies bleeding purple from the center. I had to ask Mrs. Blanch for another jar and confess to the one I borrowed last night. She said I had better be careful, that I didn’t want to invite any untoward behavior from a man I didn’t know. But I caught her smiling when I looked back over my shoulder. No matter what she says, I think she’s a romantic at heart.

The daises were held together with a pink ribbon. I’ve twisted it around the yellow and used them to tie back my hair. I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, admiring the colors against my dark curls. His note lies next to my hand as I write this. “For you,” is all it says. I never even saw him. I wonder if he’s a magician, and all of this is some elaborate illusion.

1st June 1928

My room looks like the inside of a florist’s shop. Every day this week, I’ve found a bouquet of flowers waiting for me at the hotel. I had Tuesday off, and he must have known. Instead of turning up at work, a dozen red roses were delivered to Mrs. Blanch’s front door.

She turned fuchsia when the boy asked if they were for her. I could tell she wanted to scold me for whatever it is she suspects me of doing, but she didn’t have the time to spare on a lecture. It’s hard, being alone. I think deep down she’s happy there’s someone out there who wants me.

I’ve spread his notes across the small desk. The same words over and over. “For you.” “For you.” “For you.”

3rd June 1928

He kissed the back of my hand. I was stepping off the stage, and he took hold of my fingers. He materialized at my side as though he’d always been there. I hadn’t even seen him in the crowd. I couldn’t say a word, only watched as he brought my hand to his lips. Even now, hours later, I could swear the hall was empty but for us. He introduced himself and I said, “I know.” It came out in a whisper.

I walked with him to a dark corner. The basement was busy and crowded with workers and customers, but I can’t remember them. My eyes and ears saw and heard only Michael.

He stood in front of me and removed his hat. I felt his fingers twitch. I think he wanted to smooth out the dark hair he’d revealed. His eyes were slow to meet mine, but when they did they were the same brilliant blue I first discovered.

I found my voice and thanked him for the flowers. He ran his thumb across my knuckles. I shivered and he wondered if I was cold. I told him I was hot and fanned myself. He inquired after my health and happiness, and I assured him both were satisfactory.

Then he leaned in close and said that I was beautiful. I watched his lips form the words, and I said, “So are you.” He seemed completely untroubled by the pounding of my heart, which I was certain he could hear.

We spoke several minutes. He and his brother come from Anderson County every weekend to do business with the hotel. It was on my lips to ask the nature of the business, but I stopped myself. I already know. Kristine told me the night I first laid eyes on him. He’s a bootlegger. A merchant of bottled amnesia for people thirsty to forget.

I had to get back and change into the red-feathered costume for the last dance of the night. Michael asked if he might escort me home after I was done. I wanted to say yes, and, had the music been lower, my heart would have answered for me. But in the back of my mind, I knew it’d be a mistake. I’m still a married woman. The thought of Elizabeth, of the sweetness of her breath on my cheek as I kissed her good-bye, helped me pull my hand from his.

The flowers are gone now. I’ve shoved them inside the bin behind the house along with his notes and the ribbon, all except the yellow one. I’m going to keep it in this book, as a reminder of how it felt to be admired.

I flip through the pages gently, but no ribbon falls out.

Oliver looks around us. Dark clouds have begun rolling in, and the wind has picked up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the weather turns.”

We put the bottles and wrappers from our picnic into a plastic grocery bag. Fat raindrops begin to fall as we arrive at the car. I wipe a drop of water from the cover of Lola’s diary. Oliver climbs into the driver’s seat. It’s amazing how fast we’ve sunk into the routine of him driving. There’ve been moments during this trip when I’ve felt like we’ve been together for years, rather than days.

His fingers find my chin and tilt my head up. “What’s going on inside that big brain of yours?”

My smile is weak. It isn’t fooling either of us. “I’m just processing.”

“It’s okay for you to feel however you feel, Wynn.”

“Is it?” I’m not so sure. Lola’s diary has hinted—strongly—at her reasons for leaving as she did. Will her reasons be worth what she lost, what she left behind, if her story has a happy ending?

He starts the car along with the windshield wipers. The rain is coming faster now. “Yes. You are entitled to make up your own mind about everything. Just . . .” He pulls us onto the main road, letting his sentence go unfinished.

“What?”

He looks apprehensive. “Don’t let this story affect what you want for your life.”

“Why would I do that?”

He keeps his eyes focused on the road, which appears every three seconds as the rain is wiped away. “I know you think you have a connection with Lola—”

“I do have a connection with her.”

“—but you’re not her. Your decisions, what you want for your life, they’re different. I just want you to remember that.”

We drive in silence on the highway. Our hotel for the past few nights is nearly forty minutes from here. There’s no point in turning around just to check in all over again, so Oliver points us in the direction of the next closest town. We’ll be going home tomorrow. Back to our jobs, our families, our separate lives. I know he wants to keep seeing me, and I have no intention of letting him slip through my fingers, but the past four days have been like something out of Lola’s diary. Something I can’t believe is real.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him drive. He has a small tattoo on his arm, right at the place where the sleeve rests on his bicep. I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the words inked there: “Be Brave.” He says they remind him not to give up.

I lean my head against the seat and stare out the rain-splattered window. There’s a whole world out there, passing me by. Is that how Lola felt before she left? It seems so. Sometimes I forget other places exist at all. As if they fail to be real because I can’t see them or walk on them. I want to go to those made-up places. I want to leave and not be held back by duty or guilt.

I want to be brave. Like Oliver. Like Lola.

Oliver snores softy beside me. I crawl out from under the covers, finding his T-shirt and boxers on the floor. Taking them off earlier was infinitely more fun than putting them on in the dark. I tiptoe across the room and open my purse. The embroidered cover of Lola’s diary is easily discernable. I pull it out, careful not to disrupt anything around it that might make noise. I turn the doorknob silently and step into the brightly lit hall of the hotel.

It’s just after two a.m. No one else is around, so I sit with my back to the wall. I felt drained by the time we got here. I needed time away from the words in the diary, and, if I’m being honest, I wanted to finish reading Lola’s story on my own. I know I wouldn’t have made the trip at all if not for Oliver, but the more I read, the more I want to keep the words to myself. There’s a connection between my great-grandmother and me. One that I felt, without knowing it existed, long before her article ever made its way out of Grams’s book.

I thumb through the pages—secretly hoping the yellow ribbon Michael gave her will appear.

14th June 1928

He was there again tonight. He’s always there now. Dot told me I should say something to Mr. Jury, but I doubt that’d do any good. A bootlegger is far more valuable to a speakeasy than a silly dancing girl. I’ve tried ignoring him but he refuses to let me. Jezebel noticed the way he hangs around. She’s taken to flirting with him after the show. To my delight, he seems completely uninterested. Still, I wish he’d stay away. Every time I brush past him, I feel like a weather vane caught in a storm, turning toward the pull of lightning.

23rd June 1928

I’m worried he’s uncovered my secret somehow. He was waiting on the street corner in front of my room this morning. I didn’t want Mrs. Blanch getting suspicious, so I slipped out the door and walked past him, motioning for him to follow. When I turned the corner and looked over my shoulder, I was caught off guard by his closeness.

There weren’t many people about at that hour, but I worried about being seen, so I ushered him into an alcove in front of an auditor’s office. I asked what he meant by showing up at my home. He told me I hadn’t left him any choice. “You can’t drive me away,” he said. I told him it was no good, that he was wasting his time.

He asked if I was ready to stop running; I asked from what?

He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and said, “From everything that’s behind you.”

He can’t know about my life before. No one knows what I’ve done, but I saw understanding in his eyes. He knows I’m hiding from something, and now I know he is, too.

5th July 1928

I’m writing from a different room today. The floors are unfinished and full of splinters. Three of the walls are robin’s-egg blue, but the sun from a western-facing window has bleached the fourth almost white. I tried the bed in the corner. It creaked loudly when I went to lie down, but it’s been made up with fresh-smelling linens.

A vase of wildflowers sits next to me on the desk. This is my home now. I still can’t wrap my head around what’s happened.

Last night began like any other. Then, an hour past midnight, we changed into the red, white, and blue costumes for the holiday dance we rehearsed last week. The city put on a fireworks show over the Ohio, and men and women had just traipsed back inside, no doubt to toast the eighteenth amendment.

I looked to see if Michael was in the audience. He hadn’t been there since our argument on the street. Kristine told me not to worry, he’d be back around. I didn’t tell her I wanted him to stay gone.