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THEY HAD DISAPPEARED like the final scenes of a dream. Their words rattled through my mind as clearly as the moment when Harrison emerged into his sitting room. The weight of the situation was well upon us, and our understanding reasonably questioned the sure path of the world. After all, it is difficult to take a man seriously in anything when you have seen him in nothing.
My mind wandered briefly to the strength of Keane’s hands pulling my head above the petty thoughts deemed for the common man. Yet his grasp did not hurt me in the slightest.
They had gone and I had stayed. It was that simple.
And yet it was so horribly complicated.
I had watched Keane practically drag Harrison into the car with a final shout in my direction. They would be staying in the beach house and I, in turn, should stay in the director’s apartment. I assured him I would.
And then caught the first available taxi and registered in a nearby hotel.
The clerk gaped down his sharp nose at me; a figure in a pair of plaid trousers, loose shirt, and shoes that bore a multitude of scuffs and filth. I had no doubt my short hair was also a reason for concern, but that was irrelevant. Anything was irreverent when it came to those such as he. Polished leather was not bright enough to create his boots, and no queen or king hath power enough to bow before him. I slipped a few extra, large bills across the counter, signed my name (or an alias thereof), and was rewarded with a key. The bellboy, having only recently entered out of the shadow of childish youth, attacked me with an arsenal of jokes that would have made the most vulgar bow their heads in shame. With each abhorrent line, his irrotic cackling nearly sent my single piece of luggage clattering down the stone staircase. The third time I caught it myself and instructed him (none too gently, I’ll admit) to open the door when we got there. He did. I paid him. He was gone.
Thank God.
Ask most any Englishman, Keane especially, and they will tell you that American hotels have always been designed for the staff’s convenience, not yours. He once compared them to Victor Hugo’s Thenardier; picking money from your pocket with all those little wastes one has not requested, and could very well live without.
And yet, it was not as horrid as I might have feared. A single bed had been shoved into the corner across from a worn armchair. Below a row of windows set a writing desk, complete with a select amount of stationary and pencils that were short enough to fit into a reporter’s hat band. The dresser had been topped off with a vase of flowers. Really, aside from the striped wallpaper, I had no complaints.
I dropped my luggage onto the bed and turned immediately toward the lavatory. The bathtub would have fit the former president Taft, and still had room to spare. I immediately twisted the taps and cajoled a steady stream of hot water from the pipes. Peeling off the woven ilk of my clothes, I stepped down into the porcelain bowl and allowed all my worries to sprout wings and take flight far from the realms of my mind.
I am convinced there is nothing so wonderful in the world as a good, hot bath; the tingling sensation of the water as it pulls the dust and grime from your skin, breathing the aroma of soap as it bubbles upwards towards the water’s surface. All pains and frustrations were slowly tugged away from my person on the golden chariots of fire. The world no longer grabbed at me with frozen hands. It was a heady combination of absolute bliss. Not something I was permitted to experience very often. My mind drifted aimlessly from the whitewash ceiling to the cream tiled floor. Everything smelled of those meadows of Summer after a Springtime of rain, barring only the slightest brush of smoke wafting from somewhere below.
A shock shot up my spine. No matter how many times I came to that exact moment (The screech of tires as the machine fell from the brink of control . . . ), it still felt like the last pangs of a nightmare ( . . . the burning cigar ash flinging into my face. . . ); the fingers of a fevered mind clawing its way to the layer of reality rarely punctured ( . . . and the vice grip on my collar jerking me out of the car just before—)
I sat up in the porcelain tub just in time to watch a cloud of steam fly upwards with the sudden motion.
(. . .and the blast of hot air as a pillar of black, oily smoke shot into the night sky.)
I extracted myself from the bath soon after, fully aware the water was still warm but not caring in the slightest. What was comfort to the body when the mind is unwilling to succumb to rest?
I dried and dressed with the intention to do nothing more than write for the remainder of that day. Pulling out the wooden chair of the small desk, I took my battle position; pen in hand to fend off all enemies of the literary arts.
And then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At last, when nothing would peek its head upon the horizon of malleable ideas, I slammed the fountain pen onto the stack of stationary with the cold vomit of black ink spewing from the silver nib.
The first mark I had made in hours.
I shoved my hands together and stretched them high above my head with a painfully satisfying pop of my stiff shoulders. God, since when had I become a domestic? Extracting my leather jacket from its prostrate position upon the suitcase, I left the room and jogged down the stone steps into the lobby. The greasy-haired clerk stationed behind the desk grinned as I quickly approached.
“Leaving so soon.” It was not so much a question as a hopeful proclamation.
“No, but I would like to know where the nearest library is.”
“Oh.” His cold smile faltered to the point of near extinction. I would have to remind myself to check for reptiles under my pillow before retiring that night. “Well, I think there’s one if you walk down the street a bit, turn left, turn right again, and keep walking for a block or so.” He might as well give me the directions to Siberia, for all the good it did me.
I thanked him curtly, my fingers flitting near my pockets as I turned abruptly and stalked out the door. It is a forbidden thing to look over one’s shoulder; a sin to Lot’s wife and degradation of all human sanity. Shadows lurk beneath one’s heel, though they hide well. Even windows become eyes when the heart is not willing to stand alone in a world to which it does not belong. I wondered how long he would stand there with his hand outstretched in the most common form in the art of money making.
Begging.
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I DID NOT ATTEMPT TO follow the man’s directions, for the only thing one ought to do with such advice is to pass it off to someone who believes a broken match is the equivalent of a burning candle. The heat of the sun was doubled by the pavement that insisted on crumbling away at the most inconvenient places. The heavy stench of exhaust felt thick on my tongue, far thicker than one of Keane’s cigarettes and infinitely less appealing. One can find the oddest people in such places; the endless stream of people aiming their cameras at most anything, the men with their tinted glasses, the women strutting about like disillusioned film stars. And then there was another person—the faintest glimpse of a shadow—that was constantly appearing among the crowds. I stopped and allowed the bobbing hat to catch up and stared into a face I knew, and which, in a moment, recognized me.
“Joanna?” She gasped. “Joanna, is that you?”
Ruth Woodsworth, one of my few ties to America that had found me. We had been schoolmates, she and I, though ‘friendship’ might be too broad of a word to truly emphasise our brief acquaintanceship those final months before I left for England. She was the iconic sort of female posted across billboards; slender, fair skinned, and that blonde mass of hair scorched by curlers.
Iconic, but with the obnoxious resemblance to a plastic doll.
Cheap.
“Yes, Ruth. It’s me.” I said calmly as her eyes drilled holes into the scars accumulated over years of adventure.
“Gosh, you haven’t changed a bit.” She noted with something edging near distaste. Of course I had not changed. She was right about that. My hair was still a short, curly mass of a color deceptively near to that of wet sand, and, unlike the makeup meticulously spotting her face, I had never made an effort to conceal my ruddy complexion. She wagged her head. “Still into leather jackets and men’s clothes, huh, Joanna?”
“You might say that. And my name is still Jo.” A quick feminine giggle bubbled into the air.
“Gosh, yes. I remember you giving Tommy Tanner a black eye for using your full name. You don’t do that anymore, do you?”
“Only when necessary.” Ten to one she thought I was joking.
“And what brings you back to the old country? Got tired of England? Or trying to get into show business?”
“None of the above. I came with a friend. And you? I thought you said you were never leaving Ohio; farm country turned industrial, or something like that.” Her hand flew into the air, revealing a gold band.
Ah.
Marriage.
“Guess Mr. Right just didn’t follow my plans. Now, is this friend of yours . . .” Ruth wiggled her eyebrows.
“God, no. Only friends.” Her brow fell disappointedly. I had seen that look before, but more often from those relations shoved into my past, rather than an acquaintance from over a decade ago.
“I swear, Jo, you’re going to turn into an old maid. Is that what you want? Oh, that’s right, you always said you would never marry unless he had—What was it you said? Oh, it doesn’t matter. You always did like the idea of being some old spinster.”
“I prefer ‘bachelor’. ‘Spinster’ sounds like a damn spider.” Her eyes grew wide for an instant before that tedious giggle again surfaced.
“Well, if you ever do marry, he had better be a sailor. My Robert would never put up with language like that. He is such a wonderful man. We should all go out some time. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of you.” Not if I kicked him first.
“That sounds grand, but, like I said, I’m here with a friend and it wouldn’t be right if I just abandoned him.” Not that I could anyway. He had already abandoned me to save his other friend.
At my insistence, of course.
Ruth smiled.
“Of course you can bring him along if you want. The more the merrier. And I want to meet this mystery man.” Again an edge was laid to the words I did not appreciate. I could make no note of it; however, before Ruth had spun off again. “Say, how about you and I go get something to eat right now. Coffee alright? Or would you rather tea? I have a few hours before I need to finish my shopping, and Bobby wouldn’t mind a speck if I took just a little longer. A girl needs her friends, don’t you know?” In truth, I hadn’t known. But, of course, that made no difference. Her fingernails dug into my jacket as she began hauling me down the pulsating streets, tittering on all the while. “I think it’s wonderful you came back, Jo. Bobby would think so too. You’d like Bobby. He’s smart—real smart—went to college and everything. Or do you call it university now? They didn’t take him for the war though. Said his feet were all wrong. Something like that, anyway. I’ve seen his feet plenty of times. They look fine. But you’d never see me parading like a turkey in one of those uniforms. I mean honestly, do you really think they’d want Bobby for the war anyway? They can take all the dirty men off the street, so why should they want good, educated men?” I held my tongue. Keane had discussed the same topic frequently, but our shared opinions had never crossed this threshold so near the brink of immorality. Why should educated men be spared? The man in the firearm factory was just as valuable as a daft scholar. A great deal more so even.
Ruth hardly stopped for a breath before continuing. “I mean, gosh, if you want a lot of men, get the ones who aren’t working. Lucky they didn’t get Bobby. Do you know what he does for a living? Insurance. Makes a lot of money off of it too. Of course, I’m not like Penelope Hasselhemmer. Do you remember her? She was a dirty cow for some of the things she used to say. She was so stuck up about money and things, just because her parents were rich. Well I am not like that. Gosh, if she saw me now she’d take back all those things she said about my clothes in an instant. I bet she doesn’t have a new car. And I know she doesn’t live in California because I haven’t seen her.”
“This is only Los Angeles.”
“Only Los Angeles? All sorts of big Hollywood stars live around here.”
“Do they indeed?”
“Gosh, yes. Just last week I saw—Oh, look, we’re here.”
‘Here’ was the ground floor of, what I could only imagine to be, a women's club. Unfortunately, where the gentlemen were content with tobacco smoke, newspapers, liquor, and billiards, these women seemed prone to prattle endlessly over pots of tepid coffee. As Ruth led me through the well-lit room, I caught a few snippets of conversations that would no doubt be of great use to the political leaders of our separate countries.
“ . . . and little Tim and teething still . . .”
“ . . . hear about Madeline Shoemaker’s party? Fell to pieces. I think she is having problems with her husband too . . .”
“ . . . but if you smear butter on that . . .”
“ . . . poor Tim was crying through the whole night . . .”
“ . . . or if they devorce . . .”
“ . . . the butter melts and . . .”
As it happened, I did not give a fig about a little Tim, nor a crumbling marriage, nor, thank God, what to do with butter. I was; however, infinitely disappointed that these women, the children of those brave suffragettes, would so willingly relinquish their progress and slowly crawl back to the impending stereotypes. It was their safe haven—their blanket—and ought to have been ripped away back when the 19th amendment took hold.
Ruth stopped and sat down at a table already occupied by a woman swaddled in the latest fashions and absolutely reeking of peppermints. How fitting it was then when Ruth introduced her to me as Mrs. Candace Caine. Better known to her friends as ‘Candy’. As she shook my hand daintily, I noticed her eyes flickering toward my other five fingers.
“No ring, honey?” Her voice, unlike her name, was heavy and unwelcome upon one’s ears.
“No. Nor am I married.”
“Oh, too bad. Are you English? You sound English. You must know a lot of handsome boys over there.” I assured her I did not.
“Jo is here with a friend.” I did not appreciate Ruth’s added inflection to the final word, but Mrs. Caine positively swallowed it.
“A friend? Well, that’s different. I’m all for modern girls. Wish I’d had an affair or two before I married.” I shuddered. What a laugh Keane would get out of all this.
At my expense, of course.
“He’s only a business colleague. A professor, actually.”
“How romantic! I read last week that professors can make the best lovers.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Just as Keane would never know of this conversation. “And what is it you do, Mrs. Caine?”
“Do?” She laughed, a rough, dirty screech. “I’m married, honey. I don’t have anything more than that. Why? Don’t tell me you’re a professor too.” You would have thought intelligence a fatal disease from the over exaggeration of syllables flung distastefully from her mouth.
“No, a writer.” A coffee glass shattered on the floor. Mrs. Caine appeared unaware of the fact, gradually floating upwards toward the conversation’s surface, as though my chosen profession had dragged her under.
“Ah. A writer. Well, I suppose we need those. Don’t we, Ruth?”
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I DEPARTED FROM THE pair of vocational wives soon after, though it was not so much a departure as a retreat to the sanity of solitude. As evening had alighted upon the tips of buildings, the higher classes had dissipated with the sun and made room for those energetic night lives to make their appearance. It was rather like a ballet; when one group exits, another pulls the full attention of the audience until that first is hidden safe behind the curtains. They were comfortable there; hidden behind a shroud of duties and expectations.
And yet, I was not.
I stopped briefly at some obscure restaurant in the hopes of a cup of tea, but found none. Instead, they made a liquid with the same name, though the taste resembled a handful of lawn grass boiled in a pot of sewage. Liquid sewage perhaps, but even the form could not improve the horrid odour reeking from the glass. I took two sips, paid my bill, and was off again toward my room at the hotel, where I fell asleep moments after hitting the bed.
The following morning I was vaguely aware of an ache in my lower abdomen that only increased as I bathed and dressed myself for the day. It was a feeling I had felt several times throughout the course of my life and possibly more than the average person of twenty-four years.
Hunger.
I did up the laces of my shoes, grabbed my jacket, and was out the door in a matter of seconds. The morning air was heavy with fresh exhaust and the streets cluttered with the bodies of a few drunkards who had not made it to shelter during the night. Men in freshly pressed business suits pummeled the pavement with their well-polished shoes, while women shuffled about with armloads of shopping bags. Such was the life they chose to live.
Such was the life I was working so desperately to avoid.
My legs pulled me back to Dilly’s Diner, which had few customers in spite of the breakfast hour. I slipped onto the same stool as last time and began glancing over the menu when an enormous clatter erupted somewhere off to my right and an object was suddenly hurling toward my head. In a burst of animalistic instinct, my hand immediately shot up into the air and grasped the glass between my fingers. The weight of it brought me back into reality just in time to realise I had an audience greater than just the boy apologizing profusely as he began to sweep up the other glass shards spotting the floor like a minefield. This second person was leaning over the counter with his different colored eyes staring at me with a newfound respect.
“If it isn’t Jo Lawrence. Hey, you didn’t tell me you could catch like that.” I pulled the menu up to my nose.
“Good morning, Frank. Now, I think I’ll have—”
“—What a catch. Can you throw too?” I laid the paper on the counter, inadvertently brushing the glass I had left cautiously beside it.
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Well, see, me and the guys have this little group that gets together and plays ball every afternoon after we get off work. A lot of them are good enough to be in the majors. We are playing today, or at least we were before Clark Martin sprained his ankle sliding into second. Nothing too bad, but he’s off it a whole eight days and—” A spark shot across the young man’s different colored eyes. “Hey, are you doing anything this week? I mean, I know we usually don’t invite girls to play—in fact we never have—but I think the team would be alright with you. Heck, what does being a girl matter when you can catch better than half of them on a good day. So what do you say? The park? Today at one?” I sighed. At least he wasn’t asking me to do something annoyingly feminine. In fact, he was opening a gate no other woman would walk. I grinned and picked up the menu.
“I’ll be there. Now, about breakfast . . .”
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I DID INDEED GO TO the park that afternoon. It was a grand establishment, the diamond well-kept in spite of all other filth in the world. ‘The boys’, as Frank constantly referred to them, were the finest example of America’s melting pot as a foreigner could find. Dino Crocieti, the son of Italian immigrants and whose father was a barber just down the street, was an excellent outfielder.. John Logan, who went by Jackie after his baseball hero, was the catcher. Then there was Ned and Ben on first and second base. I was to take Clark’s place at the third.
I will not dissolution myself in saying I am a grand player of the sport, but my knowledge of it assisted me greatly as I participated in throwing the ball with a strength that made a few jaws drop every now and again. We played, not for a want to demolish each other into the dust (though that did occur frequently) but for the love of the game. And when one loves a game as those boys did baseball, life itself may then be reflected.
They had done what the world had so often failed to do. They had created themselves out of the minorities to create a team that might have had a chance at the majors. And I had completed it as an incredible young man had completed the Dodgers. Only, this time, it was not the barrier of race being torn from its hinges, but the divide separating the strength of the male, and the assumed fragility of the female.
And I had done it in one, sound crack.