CHAPTER 11
Allison’s cocktail was called the Bee’s Knees, and Tommy swore it was all the rage in New York speakeasies. It tasted raw and burned her throat. She had wanted a champagne cocktail, like the ones she’d had on Berengaria, but Tommy told her that here they were just cheap gin mixed with ginger ale and sugar, and weren’t really champagne at all, so she nodded, and drank her Bee’s Knees without comment, hoping she looked very grown-up and worldly.
Tommy Fellowes, it turned out, knew all about how and where to drink, even in Seattle. Allison took another sip of the Bee’s Knees, determined to drink it all. She swung her foot, admiring the strap pump and the shortened hem of her pink georgette dress. It was a little uneven, since she had taken it up herself with inexpert stitches, but she liked the way it draped just below her knees. She touched her side curls to make sure they were still in place. It was hot in this small, crowded room, and she was perspiring with a complete lack of delicacy.
Of course, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Papa had forbidden her to go out in the evenings, or in fact to go anywhere without a chaperone. Mother would absolutely loathe Tommy for his lack of money or title or position, which was even better. Even thinking about that made the risk worthwhile.
Tommy grinned down at her. “Ready for another?”
She swallowed the last of the harsh gin-and-honey concoction, and nodded.
Tommy was on his way to Los Angeles, where he said he was going to work in the picture business. He claimed he had made the detour to Seattle just to see Allison. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but that didn’t matter. His appearance at Benedict Hall had been the first diverting thing that had happened since she got off the boat in New York.
She hadn’t let him into the house, of course. News of his appearance would go straight to Papa if she did, and she could almost feel Ruby spying on her from the upstairs windows. Instead, she took Tommy’s arm and pulled him around to the side garden, where they could talk in whispers behind a bank of rhododendrons.
“I’m not supposed to see you, Tommy,” she said. “How did you find me?”
“Clip in the San Francisco papers,” he said. “In the society column.” He seemed to like the clandestine meeting, taking her hand in his gloved one, squeezing it in a way that made her stomach quiver. “It says you’re spending Christmas at Benedict Hall with the Seattle Benedicts—too posh!”
“That’s just like Mother,” she said. “To put it in the papers!”
“But here you are,” he said. “So it was true.”
“Oh, it’s true, but it’s not like that. Papa’s punishing me.” She had begun to shiver, and Tommy put an arm around her, which made her cheeks flame.
“Punishing you for—you mean, that little party on Berengaria ?”
“Yes. He says—” She looked down at her feet, embarrassed, feeling that she should be more sophisticated about it all, more blasé. She didn’t know how to be blasé.
“Says what?” Tommy prompted. He was standing awfully close to her, and the heat from his body reminded her of that night, the sloshing water in the First Class swimming pool, the confusing cries of excitement coming from the cabanas—cries Allison hadn’t really understood and yet felt, somehow, that she should.
“He says I’m compromised,” she said.
Tommy barked with laughter, and she shushed him, glancing warily around to see if anyone had heard. “Compromised!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “What is this, the eighteenth century?”
“I think it is for my papa,” she said forlornly. Her teeth were beginning to chatter.
“Well, First Class,” Tommy said, squeezing her tighter. “Can’t keep you freezing out here. Let’s spring you from this cage! How’s tomorrow night?”
Allison simmered with her secret plans as she sat through luncheon with the family the next day. She could see the difference it made in the household to have the butler back. Blake kept everything moving smoothly, the maids popping in and out under his watchful eye, the courses set and removed and replaced with efficiency. Everyone seemed more relaxed, as if they had just been waiting for everything to be set right. Blake spoke very little, but he had an air of authority as well as dignity. When luncheon was over, he changed his coat and put on a cap, and drove Uncle Dickson and Dick back to their offices, and Cousin Margot to the hospital.
As the women started up the staircase, Cousin Ramona said, “Isn’t it marvelous to have Blake back, Mother Benedict?”
Aunt Edith responded, “I don’t like that motorcar.”
Ramona patted her shoulder. “I know. I know you don’t.”
Allison followed them up, with Ruby at her heels. At her bedroom door she said, “Ruby, I’m going to sleep for a while.”
“Do you want to change? Shall I help you?”
“No. Just—go see if you can help the twins, or—”
Ruby sniffed. “I’m a lady’s maid, Miss Allison. Not a housemaid.”
“Well, then. Find something else to do.”
“Yes, Miss Allison.”
When the door was safely closed, Allison turned the lock, just to be certain. She found her pink georgette frock in the wardrobe, and a tiny painted sewing box she had received as a birthday gift. She had never opened it before, and the needles and thimbles were a little daunting, looking very sharp and shiny, but she meant to use them just the same. There were small spools of thread in different colors, and one of them was a good match. She held the dress up to her in front of the mirror, guessing at how much she dared shorten it.
As she labored over the stitches, she remembered Berengaria and the excitement of escape, of daring, and of bewilderment.
It had been great fun at first. Her new friends clattered up the stairs to the First Class pool deck, shrieking when the pitching of the ship made them stumble and crash together. The only light was that of the stars through the skylight. The water in the pool sloshed this way and that with the rocking of the storm, splashing green water up over the tiled deck. Everyone was made careless by the champagne cocktails they had drunk in the Second Class Lounge. A couple of the men didn’t even bother to take off their tuxedoes before they threw themselves into the pool. The others, both men and girls, stripped off every stitch they had on. Brassieres, stockings, underwear, everything went in a colorful pile on one of the chaises longues. Allison, hanging back in the shadows, watched the naked bodies flash through the dark water like a school of great, shining fish.
They were so heedless, these girls. They climbed out of the water and dove back in, breasts and buttocks gleaming in the starlight, without the slightest reticence. Without any shame.
Until that night, Allison had never seen another human being nude. She had only glimpsed her own body by accident, always covering her nakedness with a towel or a dressing gown, averting her eyes if she caught sight of herself in her dressing table mirror. It was the way her mother was, and despite their differences, she had absorbed the habit, breathing it in as if it were part of the air of their home. She had never known anything different. Not even Ruby had ever seen Allison without at least some clothes on.
Despite that, naturally, she knew what a woman’s body looked like. But when it came to men’s bodies, she was completely, utterly ignorant.
Their silhouettes were familiar: wide shoulders, narrow hips, long arms and legs. Their naked bodies, though, were mysterious, dark, and distorted. They fascinated her, drew her—and terrified her. She wanted to look away, and at the same moment she wanted to see everything.
Tommy had come for her in her hiding place, seized her hand, and cried, “Come on, First Class! Don’t be a baby!”
The one thing Allison wanted not to be was a baby. A child. Shyly, she slipped out of her dress and tossed it with her scarf onto an empty chaise. Everything was wet from the sloshing water, and would be ruined, but she couldn’t help that. Tommy, in the same state of undress as everyone else, said, “Hurry up, old thing! Into the water!”
Allison had taken off her shoes, stripped off her stockings. Tommy flung himself into the pool with a great splash, and Allison seized her moment to step gingerly down into the pool, still wearing her chemise. She waded to a corner and sank up to her neck, hiding herself beneath the rolling water. The buzz of champagne evaporated, replaced by a fog of disquiet and embarrassment.
Tommy had just turned to find her, calling, “Hey, First Class! Where are you?” when the door to the staircase was thrown open. A shaft of light fell over the piles of clothes, the pale flesh of the men and girls poised at the edge of the pool, and Allison’s face. The purser strode onto the pool deck, and a little gang of stewards followed. Amid shrieks of laughter and denial, only Allison froze where she was, trapped like a goldfish in a bowl. In moments, the Second Class usurpers had snatched up their clothes and disappeared down the staircase.
Allison, the only person who actually had a right to be in the pool, was caught.
The scheme to sneak out of Benedict Hall after dark took more courage than her escapade on Berengaria. Then, she had acted on impulse. Now she had to follow a plan, take deliberate steps. She let Ruby help her into her nightdress, then sent her off for the night. When the bedroom door was closed, Allison went to her dressing table to rouge her cheeks, to use her lipstick, to paste her cheek curls into place. She slipped into the pink georgette, taking care not to step on the hem, which would probably come loose under the slightest pressure. She wriggled this way and that, stretching her arms behind her until, with some difficulty, she managed to do up the fastenings.
She dared a peek out into the hallway. It seemed the family had gone to their beds and the servants to their rooms. With her heart in her mouth, Allison slipped on stocking feet down the back staircase, carrying her coat over one arm. The kitchen was dark, but a single small light glowed from the garage apartment. Allison stayed in the shadows while she put on her shoes, then dashed across the street to Tommy, waiting for her beside the brick water tower. They hurried down the hill in a wash of brilliant moonlight. At the bottom they caught the streetcar, sitting all the way in the back and giggling together like naughty children.
Tommy led her down several dark alleys, checking street signs, keeping her hand in his and helping her over curbs or around puddles. They found the building, but they had to pass through several doors, guided by the music that grew louder as they made their way down dim corridors with sticky floors and dingy walls. When they reached the final door, Tommy muttered something to a large, unsmiling man, and this person admitted them into a cramped space. There were perhaps a dozen tables crammed into it, in no particular order Allison could discern. A haze of smoke hung near the low ceiling. A trio of musicians was playing, crowded around an upright piano. There was no space for dancing, but three couples were attempting it anyway, sidling and kicking between the tables. Every table was occupied, but a raucous group at one of them waved to the new couple, inviting them to share.
Unlike the Benedicts of Benedict Hall, the Benedicts of San Francisco drank no alcohol. Adelaide claimed it was fattening. Papa gave up whisky when Prohibition came in, saying if the Congress of the United States thought people shouldn’t drink, then that was good enough for him. Debutante parties mostly featured root beer and sweet tea. Adelaide had of course forbidden her daughter to sample the wines of Italy and France. Only on Berengaria had she tasted anything stronger than ginger ale. She accepted the Bee’s Knees Tommy recommended, and told herself she would get used to the taste. The room was much too loud for talking, but she and Tommy grinned at the other revelers at their table, and Allison sipped her drink and watched people.
Drunk people, she decided, were fascinating. Their faces seemed to loosen, their mouths and eyelids slackening, their cheeks sagging as if the muscles beneath them had relaxed. Voices got louder, movements broader. Drinks spilled now and again, and once a chair fell over with a bang, kicked by someone trying to do the Black Bottom. At one point, two men started to shove and shout at each other, but the big man from the door appeared in an instant, and both men were gone before the altercation could really develop.
Allison and Tommy had both jumped up for a better look at the fight. Tommy took her arm to settle her in her chair again, but her head suddenly spun, and she stumbled against him.
“You all right, old thing?” he shouted in her ear.
Allison swallowed hard and clung to his hand. She didn’t dare open her mouth to speak. Her second Bee’s Knees was threatening to come right up her throat.
“Hang on, hang on,” Tommy said. “You just need some air.” He picked up her coat with one hand, and circled her waist with the other to turn her toward the door. She stumbled beside him, her head leaning on his shoulder. She felt horrible, sick and dizzy, so weak she could barely keep her feet.
She hardly knew how they made it out through the maze of passages into the cold night air, but once there she did feel slightly better. Tommy bent over her as she leaned against the post of a streetlight, her eyes half closed with misery. “Food,” he said. She shook her head, but he pulled her upright and propelled her a few steps down the street. “Come on, First Class, there’s a café right over there. Some eggs and bacon, that’ll fix you right up.”
When he guided her into the warm, steamy atmosphere of the café, the smells of frying meat and toasting bread made her stomach turn again, and she shuddered with nausea. Tommy, ignoring this, ordered platters of fried eggs and sausages, potatoes fried with onions, and stacks of thick brown toast. With the food in front of her, the sensation in her stomach steadied and transformed into a ravenous hunger. She took a piece of toast, then a bit of egg. The spinning of her head slowed. She ate a sausage, crisp on the outside and running with juice on the inside. Her head felt much clearer now, better than it had all evening. Coffee came, and she drank some, then took another piece of toast, swirling it in yellow egg yolk, downing it in three great bites.
Tommy watched her with amusement. “Where are you putting that, First Class? You’re as wispy as a grasshopper!”
Allison grinned at him and speared another sausage. She couldn’t stop herself. Her belly, quivering with sickness only twenty minutes before, began to feel tight and full, and it was a wonderful sensation. She finished her eggs and all the sausage on her plate. She took a third piece of toast and smothered it with jelly. Tommy had finished his meal and pushed his plate aside, but Allison fed herself until there was nothing left. A waiter in a dirty white apron took their plates without comment, and left them a bill scrawled on a slip of paper.
Tommy paid the bill carefully, counting out his change. When they were on their way out, he said, “Feeling better, aren’t you? I was right—you needed food!”
Allison tugged on her coat. “I guess so,” she said.
“You must have! You ate enough for two hungry sailors!”
“I—I’m sorry about that,” she said. Now that she had stopped gorging herself, the food in her stomach was growing heavy. Her belly felt distended, bulging against her chemise. She could still taste the richness of the sausages and the sweetness of strawberry jelly. Opposing sensations tumbled through her mind, pleasure and shame, relief and guilt. Her stomach, equally confused, began to rebel against its burden, rumbling and quivering, making her fear for what would happen next.
“Why be sorry?” Tommy cried, even as she swallowed a sudden, terrifying rush of saliva. “I love a girl who enjoys her grub!”
She looked up at him, suspecting he was making fun of her. His freckled face was wreathed in smiles, and his blue eyes danced with humor. His arm around her was warm and strong and friendly. He meant it, she thought. He really did. Nothing in her life had prepared her to expect such a thing.
She walked to the streetcar with one hand on her stomach and the other under Tommy’s arm, and she pondered the mystery.
Allison’s stomach had begun to churn in earnest by the time they climbed Aloha and reached Benedict Hall. She bade Tommy a hasty good night. He wanted to stay until she was safely in the back door, but she said in a shaking voice, “No, Tommy, you need to go. If I have to, I can knock, say I came down to the kitchen for something, then went out for a breath of air. If you’re here . . .”
Gallantly, he said, “I can hide in the bushes!” but she gave him a little push, and he sauntered away, walking backward, waving and grinning and promising to write her from Hollywood. When he was finally out of sight, she hurried through the garden on trembling legs, stumbling around to the back lawn. Her stomach quaked, and she wanted only to reach the shrubberies before the inevitable happened.
Allison hated throwing up. When she tried it that once with the spoon, it was disgusting and messy. She never wanted to do it again. It was no more pleasant now, but she couldn’t stop it. The muscles of her stomach clenched, saliva flooded her mouth, and everything she had consumed that night came rushing back. Her stomach seemed to turn itself inside out as she retched. Everything came up, and out, as she bent over the dry rosebushes and hoped no one was watching from the house.
When there was nothing left, she still gagged. She longed to go into the kitchen to rinse her mouth, to wash her face and scrub her hands, to get rid of all this embarrassment, but every time she started for the porch steps, her stomach clutched again. It seemed to go on forever, and she knew it was because her stomach was unused to so much food. She had done it all to herself, and the shame of that—the guilt over her unrestrained gluttony—made the whole thing worse. She hunched over the flower bed, her hands on her knees. Tears of weakness streamed over her cheeks.
“Allison? What’s happening? Are you ill?” It was, of all people, Cousin Margot.
Allison couldn’t prevent the whimper of surprise that escaped her. She was caught. There would be a fracas in the morning. She wiped her mouth with unsteady hands, straightened with some difficulty over the ache in her belly, and turned to face her cousin.
The moon had set, but the sky had begun to lighten over the mountains to the east. She could see Margot perfectly. She wore her wool overcoat with the fox collar, and a dark hat and gloves. She had her medical bag in one hand, and she reached toward Allison with the other.
“Why are you outside?” she asked, taking Allison’s hand. “It’s cold, and you—have you been out?” Her eyes took in Allison’s clothes, her muddied shoes, her stockings, which must be revolting now, laddered and splashed with vomit.
Allison shuddered to have Cousin Margot touch her filthy hand. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but she knew she was a complete mess, and she trembled with humiliation. “I did go out,” she confessed in a rush. When Margot didn’t look shocked, or disgusted, or anything except concerned, she blurted, “I went to a speakeasy!” and then held her breath, prepared for the onslaught of reproach that was sure to follow.
Instead, Margot drew her up onto the porch and in through the back door. She turned on the kitchen light, then pulled off her gloves and pressed her fingers to Allison’s forehead. Evidently satisfied, she tipped up her chin to look into her eyes. “Did you drink anything?” she asked. “Were you sick?”
“I did,” Allison said. She pulled her head away and dropped her gaze to her soiled shoes. “They’re called Bee’s Knees, but they taste like—I don’t know, like turpentine. And I was sick in the rose bed.” She wrapped her arms around her sore stomach, wishing she could just drop through the floor and disappear. Cousin Margot hadn’t called Papa before, but she surely would now. She would tell him all about Allison’s transgression, and when he heard—
But Margot was nodding. “It’s just as well you were sick, Allison. You probably got it all out of you, and that’s good. Bootleg alcohol can be dangerous.” She went to the sink and ran a glass of water. “I’d like you to drink as much water as you can.” She held out the glass.
Allison, hardly knowing how to react, accepted the glass and drained it. When it was empty, Margot filled it again and passed it back to her. Allison sipped it more slowly this time, cautious of her rebellious stomach. Margot was regarding her with that intent look, but Allison didn’t mind it so much now, when she really did feel ghastly.
She finally said, “I’m awfully sorry, Cousin Margot.”
Now Margot smiled, her narrow lips curving at the corners. There were smudges under her eyes, and she looked pale. She was tired, Allison thought. She must have been called to the hospital. She might not have been to bed at all. Margot said, “I suppose you went out with a boy tonight. I didn’t know you knew anyone here in Seattle.”
Allison answered cautiously. “It was someone I met on my crossing.”
“Really? And he came here?”
“I think he likes me.”
“Of course he does. You’re a very pretty girl.”
It was an offhand compliment, a statement made easily, as if it were obvious, and Allison didn’t know how to respond. She would have to think about that later, when she didn’t feel so sick. She lifted one shoulder, not quite a shrug.
Margot’s smile faded, and she fixed Allison with that searching gaze again. “I have to ask you something,” she said. “Despite your lack of menses, I need to make certain. There’s no chance you’re pregnant, is there?”
Allison had never expected such a question. It sent a shiver through her, one of surprise, but also of recognition. Somehow, she knew this was important. She wished she knew why. She stammered, “I—I can’t be, can I, Cousin Margot? I’m not married.”
Margot lifted one sleek eyebrow. “Surely you know, Allison, you don’t have to be married to conceive.”
Mute, lost, Allison shook her head.
Margot clicked her tongue and blew out a long, exasperated breath. Allison felt fresh tears start in her eyes, but Margot, seeing, put out a hand to touch her shoulder. “No, no, Allison, don’t cry. The fault for this lies at someone else’s door, I promise you. But you’re nineteen years old, and you really should know about sex.”
“My mother said—” Allison began, then stopped, tongue-tied with confusion. Adelaide hadn’t said anything, in truth. She had said only that Allison would learn all about it from her husband, and she had implied that it would not be pleasant.
Margot dropped her hand from Allison’s shoulder and gave her a tight, weary smile. “I’m so tired, Allison, I can hardly think. Perhaps we should talk about this some other time. But—” She held up one forefinger. “We should talk. It’s not fair for you to go on in ignorance. Not fair to you, I mean.”
Allison made herself ask, “Are you going to call Papa?”
At this Margot chuckled. “Oh, Lord, no, Allison. Nineteen! I can hardly blame you for wanting a little fun.”
“I shouldn’t have gone out, I know.”
“You took a risk,” Margot said. “Several of them, actually. But you don’t know anyone your age here. You must be lonely.”
Again, Allison didn’t know how to answer. Her papa never worried if she was lonely. Adelaide only worried about how she looked. She just wasn’t used to discussing—or even acknowledging—her feelings.
Margot gave a short nod and put her hand under Allison’s arm. “Well, there’s no harm done that I can see. Let’s get you to bed, unless you’re still feeling sick.”
Allison shook her head. Her stomach felt tender, and her throat burned from having retched for so long, but she didn’t think she was going to throw up again.
“Good,” Margot said. She picked up her medical bag in her other hand, and steered Allison toward the stairs. The back stairs, Allison noticed. They went up together, and when they reached Allison’s door, Margot pointed down the hall. She whispered, “If you feel ill again, knock on my door.”
“Cousin Margot—”
Margot had released her arm, but she waited, eyebrows lifted.
Allison said softly, “You’ve been so nice.”
“Not at all. I just want you to be safe,” Margot said.
“Do you have to tell Uncle Dickson?”
“I don’t think so.” Margot smiled again, and Allison thought she had rather a nice smile. It seemed more special because she didn’t use it very often. “Sleep, Allison. We both need to sleep. Let’s talk about everything tomorrow.”