“One more time,” Daisy said from her stool at the piano. “You want to hit the high note,” she punched toward the ceiling, “not slide up to it.”
A few feet away, seventy-year-old Opal Lutz shook her newly permed hair and grimaced. “You’re sure you can’t smell this?” she asked for the third time that hour. “I’m not supposed to wash it for at least three days,” she shook her gray head, “or the curl won’t take.”
Daisy chuckled. “I can’t smell a thing over the Aqua Net coming up from the beauty parlor downstairs. I swear Beverly uses a whole can on every customer.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s five after eight. Why don’t we call it a night?”
“May as well.” Opal collected her pocketbook and hat from the sofa. “I have to get to the corpse house before they close up shop,” she said, smoothing the quilt on the cushions.
“Oh no.” As Daisy stood to comfort Opal, the pungent smell of the perm stung her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She took a step back. “Is it someone close?”
“Hardly, but I fancied her husband when we were in junior high, and I hear he still drives. I’m not saying he’ll be ready to date anytime soon, but what can it hurt? I’ll show up to Kearney’s, reintroduce myself, talk about the old days.” Her eyebrows popped up. “Maybe offer him a shoulder.”
“Kearney’s?” Daisy was trying to keep up with this conversation so she could repeat it to Beverly.
“The funeral parlor over on Clay Avenue. That’s where the wife’s laid out.”
“Well, I’m not sure what to say.” Daisy considered her options. “Good luck? Godspeed? Break a leg?”
Opal smirked. “I’ll take the luck. I want to see if time has been kind to him. I don’t mind a bald head, but I do like a full set of teeth or a decent pair of dentures.”
“Opal, you’re a pip. You better get yourself over there before the ladies from the choir steal your idea.”
“Speaking of the choir,” Opal said, “remember, mum’s the word. I’m tired of being passed over for the Christmas solo. Come hell or high water, I’m singing ‘O Holy Night’ this year,” she tugged on Daisy’s sleeve, “with a little help from yours truly.”
“You’ll be hitting those high notes in no time, assuming you don’t run off and get hitched after the viewing.”
“Then I’ll sing at my wedding.” Opal sashayed toward the doorway. “Either way, I’m getting a solo this year.”
Daisy laughed. “Same time next week?”
“Thursday,” Opal said, “seven o’clock sharp. And I won’t be late again.” She stopped short on the landing and blurted out, “There’s a colored man on your stairs!”
Daisy ran over to find Johnny frozen on the bottom step, his hands in the air. “I know him, Opal.”
“I’m sorry, young man.” The woman clutched her chest. “You gave me a fright. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone down there, let alone …” Her voice trailed off.
“No harm done.” Johnny lowered his hands and slowly took one step up.
“This is Johnny Cornell,” Daisy said. “Johnny, Opal Lutz.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He took another careful step.
“Likewise,” Opal said, backing up into the studio, giving Johnny a wide berth.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, entering the room. He pivoted toward Daisy. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“It’s not your fault,” Opal said. “With that sun going down, you and those stairs are black as pitch.”
Daisy’s eyes bounced back and forth between them as she wondered where to start. “The light’s burned out,” she said to Opal. “Johnny offered to change it for me.” She looked at Johnny. “Opal’s lesson ran long.”
Johnny grabbed the light bulb sitting on the counter and set the stepladder up on the landing.
“I was late.” Opal tossed her head. “My permanent wave took longer than expected.”
“No problem,” Johnny said. “Give me a minute.” He replaced the bulb, climbed down from the ladder, and turned on the switch. “Let there be light.”
“And now I’m off,” Opal said loudly. She leaned into Daisy and whispered, “Unless you want me to stay.”
“Good luck tonight,” Daisy said, ushering the woman toward the stairs. “I can’t wait to hear all about Kearney’s.”
“You’re sure?” Opal rested a couple of fingers on her top lip as if to camouflage the movement of her mouth. “I can always go over to the corpse house tomorrow.” She peeked over at Johnny putting away the ladder. “They’re viewing the body for three days.”
“No need. Now remember,” Daisy put her arm around the woman’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze, “mum’s the word. We want you to knock the socks off those ladies from the First Christian Church when it’s time to audition.”
“We do, indeed.” Opal glanced at Johnny one last time before starting down.
Daisy waited until the woman opened the door to the street before turning back to Johnny. “I’m sorry.”
“About?” He ambled over to the piano and sat on the stool.
“Opal. I didn’t think she’d be here this long.” Daisy pulled a chair alongside him and pouted. “No kiss?”
“And that’s it?”
“What?”
“I’m not the handyman,” he said.
“I never said you were.”
Johnny trained his eyes on the sheet music for “As Time Goes By,” propped prominently on the piano. “You never said I wasn’t.”
“You told me you’d change the bulb.”
“Because I was coming over anyway. Coming to see you.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘This is Johnny, we’re having a torrid affair’?”
“Torrid?” Johnny’s jaw loosened into a smile. “That’s news to me.”
Daisy wasn’t ready to let go. “Next time I’ll say, ‘Sure, he’s changing that light, but not as hired help. He’s here of his own volition.’” She pursed her lips, particularly satisfied with that last word, but then she thought of one more thing to say: “It’s what a boyfriend does.”
Boyfriend. Her cheeks immediately caught fire. She’d gone too far. Yes, they’d been out a dozen or so times in the last month, but that didn’t make them an item.
Johnny quipped, “Now, when you say ‘torrid affair,’ how torrid are we talking, because I think I missed that part.” He kissed her cheek. “Not that I’m complaining. I just remember a certain someone telling me she wanted to ‘take it slow.’”
Daisy’s defensiveness turned into worry about her own motives. Did I purposely mislead Opal about Johnny? “What should I say if there’s a next time?”
“If?”
“When.” She shook her head. “Never mind next time. What are we going to say, period? My mother’s starting to wonder why I’m always out so late.”
“Tell her it’s the price you pay for having a … boyfriend … who’s a musician.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So, I take it you still haven’t told her about us?”
Daisy dropped her eyes. “I was waiting.”
Johnny bristled. “For what?”
Because I don’t know how she’ll react, Daisy thought, but she couldn’t say the words aloud. “I’m working on it.”
“Makes me sound like some kind of chore.”
Daisy felt guilty enough without Johnny adding to it. She moved her chair to put a foot of distance between them. “And have you told your mother?”
“It’s not the same.” He sounded more confident than he looked. “She’s all the way in Atlantic City.”
“It’s the same.”
“I know.” Johnny took a couple of long breaths. “My mama always says we’re better off not mixing. I suppose that’s one way to see it.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“I don’t want to.”
A train rumbled through the crossing behind the studio. As if by agreement, Daisy and Johnny sighed in time to its plaintive whistle. Outside, a last gasp of sun surrendered to the manufactured light spilling from Kresge’s, A.S. Beck, and Woolworths. Stores stayed open till nine on Thursdays to accommodate shoppers who couldn’t get downtown during the day. In another half hour, the electric light too would be extinguished, so the moon and stars could take a turn.
With the train now out of earshot, Johnny asked, “What’re we doing?”
Daisy crossed her arms. “Having our first fight, though for the life of me, I’m not sure why.”
“No.” He swallowed hard. “I mean, what are we doing?”
“Spending time together, I thought. Getting to know each other.”
Johnny scraped the piano stool a few inches closer to Daisy. “And what if we’re kidding ourselves?” He pressed his dark forearm against Daisy’s pale one and held it there.
“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Daisy pulled away and sat up in her seat. “Opal just caught me off guard.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What?”
“We’ll always have to be on guard.” Johnny sat back. “I’m not sure you’re strong enough for this.”
“What about you?”
“It’s different for me.” He kept his eyes locked on hers. “I know what’s a stake.”
“So do I.”
“We don’t know what we don’t know.” Johnny reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “How are you going to feel when we’re out in public?”
“I see you in public at the clubs all the time.”
“You watch me from the audience.”
“And we go out to Tony Harding’s after every show. Are you saying a diner isn’t public?”
“And why do you think we always go to Tony Harding’s?”
“Because they’re open all night.”
“And?” Johnny waited, but when Daisy didn’t answer, he said, “Because they won’t give two people like us any trouble.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know?”
“That’s my point.”
“Look,” she said, “you’re right. I don’t know what I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before.”
“Situation?”
Daisy stroked the side of his freshly shaven cheek and inhaled the scent of his cologne. “I do know that every time I hear your footsteps on those stairs or see you sit down at a piano, my heart races. I’ve never known anyone like you, Johnny Cornell, and all I can think about is getting to know you better.”
Johnny took her hand. “What if we end up breaking each other’s hearts?”
“I’m willing to take that chance. Are you?”
Johnny pressed his navy pant leg against her turquoise skirt, creating a moody blue ocean. He touched her mouth and traced the length of her lips until they parted.
She closed her eyes, eager to feel the heat and hunger of his kisses.
He obliged, over and over and over again.
After a few minutes, Johnny exhaled loudly. “This ‘taking it slow’ is harder than I thought.” He kissed her one more time and turned back to the piano.
Daisy sat very still, steadying her breathing.
Johnny curled his hands over the keys, twin bridges spanning the octaves. “Name this tune,” he said. He started to play the first line of the opening to “Daisy Bell.”
Four notes in, Daisy sang along:
There is a flower within my heart,
Daisy, Daisy.
“Well, look at you,” Johnny said. “Nobody ever remembers that verse.”
“I’ve spent my entire life being called Daisy Bell after that song.” She rolled her eyes. “I know every verse ever written, even the naughty ones we sang as kids.”
Johnny played the entire opening and somehow turned that simple piece of music into art.
“How do you do it?” Daisy asked, watching his hands.
“I sneak in a few blues licks.” He played a handful of rueful notes before heading back to the melody. “A touch of bitter brings out the sweet.”
“What a gift.”
“How did I get so lucky?” Johnny gazed at Daisy with an intensity that made them both shudder. He swiveled back to the piano, played a few bars and crooned:
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.
I’m half crazy all for the love of you.
Daisy smiled, remembering the first time they’d met on the street, at this very piano.
It won’t be a stylish marriage.
I can’t afford the carriage …
He tugged her chin and kissed her nose.
But you’ll look sweet upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
Daisy got up and stood behind Johnny as he played the tune again. She rested her hands on his shoulders and sang sweetly in his ear:
Johnny, Johnny, here is your answer true.
He grinned at the sound of his name.
I’d be crazy to marry a lad like you.
She walked to the side of the piano, laughing.
There won’t be any marriage
If you can’t afford a carriage
He slapped his hands to his chest, feigning a broken heart, before returning to the keys.
’Cause I’ll be damned
If I’ll be crammed
On a bicycle built for two.
“So that’s your idea of a naughty verse?” Johnny shook his head, and they both broke cracked up.
“What’s so funny?” a voice came from the doorway.
Daisy looked up to see Mickey dressed in his baseball uniform from school. “How long have you been standing there?” she said, finger-combing her tousled hair.
Mickey kicked off his shoes, glided to the center of the room, and spun. “Long enough to hear you say damned.”
Daisy blushed. “What are you doing out so late?” Before he could answer, she added, “Mickey, you remember Johnny.”
“You’re the guy who likes dogs.”
“Not all dogs,” Johnny said, “just the strays.”
“What’s the difference?” Mickey asked, sock-skating across the maple floor to the far wall.
“Nobody around to give them orders.”
“Now that’s a thing worth remembering.” Mickey glanced in Daisy’s direction and held up a paper bag. “My granny sent me over to Woolworths for bread. She can’t have more than a slice because of her sugar, but she always likes to have a loaf on hand. Anyway, thought I’d come up and say hi.”
“At this time of night?” Daisy said.
“Your light’s on.”
“Little man,” Johnny chuckled, “she wants to know why you were at Woolworths so late.”
“If you get there at closing,” Mickey scanned the room to make sure no one else was listening, “they sell the bread as ‘day old’ and knock a nickel off the price.”
Johnny tapped a finger against his forehead. “Something worth remembering.”
Still holding onto the bag, Mickey bent over and walked his feet up the wall into a handstand. Soon he was steady, crossing over to the piano on his palms, dragging the bread with him. “So what are we singing?” he asked, still inverted.
“‘Daisy Bell.’” Johnny started the song up again.
Mickey let his legs drop down so he could stand. “Do you know the verse about the barkeep and the beer?”
“Never heard that one.” Johnny slapped his knee.
“I think that’s enough singing for tonight,” Daisy said.
Now that Mickey was upright, Johnny noticed the boy’s face. “Where’d you get that shiner?”
Mickey fingered the purple bruise circling his left eye. “Got into a fight at school.” He winked with his good eye. “You should see the other guy.”
“Mickey!” Daisy pulled the boy over so she could examine his injury. “Fighting never solves anything.”
“I don’t know about that,” Johnny said. “It depends on what you’re fighting for.”
“Just a couple of bullies having a good laugh.” Mickey did another spin and bumped into the piano.
“They’re trying to get a rise out of you,” Daisy said. “When they laugh at you, ignore them. They’ll get bored and move on.”
“Not me,” Mickey said. “Mary Lou Doyle, a girl from school. Her back’s bent, so she’s gotta wear a brace. Makes her walk real stiff, so the boys took to calling her Frankenstein. I got tired of hearing it. A joke’s not funny if it hurts someone’s feelings.”
“Good for you,” Johnny said, patting the boy on his back. “It’s important to be on the right side of laughter.”
Daisy couldn’t decide where she stood on the issue of fighting, so she asked, “What did your grandmother say when she saw your bruise?”
“She gave me what for, for fighting, but after that, she told me those boys are fools. When Mary Lou’s back straightens out, she’ll be a real beauty.” Mickey blushed. “I can already see it.”
Daisy turned toward the window just as the storefronts on Lackawanna Avenue went dark for the night. Clerks drifted out of buildings, some packing into courtesy cars for a ride home, while others headed over to the Casey Hotel for a drink and a spin around the dance floor.
“It’s late,” Daisy said. “I think we’d better walk you home.”
“I can take care of myself.” Mickey grabbed a chain at his neck, pulled a silver pea whistle from under his shirt, and blew. “Loud enough to scare off a deaf man.”
“He’s not wrong.” Johnny tugged at Mickey’s ear good-naturedly. “Where do you live, little man?”
“In the Flats.” Mickey pointed toward the windows on the alley side of the building. “At the bottom of the hill.”
Johnny crossed his arms in thought. “Whereabouts?”
“Birch Street.”
“Okay, then.” Johnny said. “But let’s be quick about it.”
Mickey skated back across the room to put on his shoes, then Daisy locked up and followed the pair out the door.
“So which one is Birch?” Daisy asked as they walked down the hill past the army’s towering ammunition plant with its imposing stone walls. “I swear, every street in South Side is named after a tree.”
“Between Hickory and Beech,” Mickey said.
“See what I mean?”
“Just past the bridge by Goodman Silks,” Johnny offered, “Anthracite Plate Glass is across the street.”
“Near where Roaring Brook empties into the Lackawanna River,” Mickey said. “A lot of good fishing, or there will be if we ever get some rain. Granny says she’s never seen a drier summer.”
“I work at the slaughterhouse a couple of blocks over,” Johnny said. “Eat my lunch on that very riverbank.”
“Howdy, neighbor.” Mickey shook Johnny’s hand. “Maybe you know the house. Brown asphalt siding. Two front porches, one up and one down.”
“Go past it twice a day,” Johnny said, “coming and going. Always in the daylight though.”
“We’re on top. The Secoolishes live under us. I’ll watch for you in the morning. If you hear …” Mickey pulled out his whistle and blew two high pitched notes, “you’ll know it’s me.”
Within ten minutes, the trio had crossed the railroad tracks and turned right onto Birch Street. Mickey ran ahead and led them to the first house on the block. In front, a large streetlight cast a yellow beam toward the brook. “You want to come in?”
“Not tonight, little man,” Johnny started to turn back, “but I’ll keep an eye out for you in the morning.”
“Hey, Bertie,” Mickey called out as a burly man with a crooked nose staggered onto the sidewalk. “How’s tricks?”
Bertie lurched forward and leered at Daisy. “Who do we have here?”
Johnny whirled around and stepped into the light.
“What the …” Bertie tripped back as he eyed Johnny. “You lost, boy?” He bent down and grabbed a baseball-sized rock at the edge of the yard. On his way up, he teetered like a top till he braced himself against the lamppost.
“That you, Gilbert Heerman?” a woman shouted from overhead.
“Hey, Granny.” Mickey waved.
Bertie squinted up at the second-story porch. “Why if it isn’t Mrs. McCrae.” He dropped the rock and offered a shaky bow. “How are you this fine evening?”
“When I put my foot up your arse, you’ll know how I am.” Mickey’s grandmother pulled her chair up to the banister. “Your saint of a wife is waiting for you at home.” She clapped her hands as if shooing a cat. “Get going.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bertie said as he stumbled into the street.
“I’ll never understand what that woman sees in you,” Mrs. McCrae said.
“Nor will I, Mrs. McCrae.” He started up the road. “Nor will I.” He disappeared into an alley.
“Who’s down there with you, Mickey?” the woman called out.
“Mrs. McCrae, it’s Daisy, Mickey’s dance teacher. And this is Johnny Cornell.”
The woman leaned over the banister for a better look. “Well there’s your problem.” She pointed a finger at Johnny before addressing Daisy: “You’re not doing him any favors, you know.”
Daisy glanced at Johnny then back up at the porch. “Ma’am?”
“Think it through.” The woman shook her head. “With you on his arm, he’s a sitting duck.”
“Times are changing, Mrs. McCrae.” Johnny squeezed Daisy’s hand.
“Time moves slow in Scranton,” Mrs. McCrae responded. “Young love. Do what you want. You’re going to anyway.” She addressed her grandson: “Did you get the bread?”
Mickey held the bag in the air.
“Will you come up for a sandwich?” Mrs. McCrae asked the couple.
“Another time,” Johnny said. “We really need to be on our way.”
“Mr. Secoolish!” Mrs. McCrae grabbed a nearby broom and hammered the handle into the porch floor.
Dressed in nightclothes, the first-floor tenant opened his screen door and called up, “What can I do you for?”
“How’s that car of yours running?”
“Like a clock.”
“I need a favor.” Mickey’s grandmother pointed her broom over the banister at Johnny and Daisy. “Will you give these two lovebirds a ride up the hill?”
“Let me put my robe on.” Mr. Secoolish’s screen door snapped shut.
“Mrs. McCrae,” Daisy said, “we’re fine to walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
“You never know if Bertie’ll come back around. No sense tempting fate.” Mrs. McCrae pushed herself up, using the broom as a cane. “Thank you for watching out for the lad. Mickey’s good to his old granny.”
Mr. Secoolish came back out to the porch and headed over to an old DeSoto at the curb with a ladder strapped to the roof rack. “Hop in,” he said, double-knotting the tie on his robe. “Watch out for the paint cans.” He gestured toward the floor on the passenger side. I’m a house painter by trade.”
“Come back anytime,” Mrs. McCrae called out. “You’re always welcome here. The pair of you,” she said before going back inside.