The security plan had reached the next level. The ladies arrived in small clusters, like Madeline had instructed, between seven-thirty and eight PM.
From her post at the front entrance, Madeline watched the guard screen each visitor before entering.
“Fabulous to see you, darling!” she sang out upon each woman’s entrance.
This night would be a return to basics, with sandwiches from the deli and a pile of new books and magazines in the reading and discussion area. The corners of Madeline’s mouth could barely keep from turning upward.
So many ladies had ventured out, even under the restrictions.
Things looked different at the Starlite, more like a secluded enclave. A heavy curtain hung from hooks in the ceiling. A dozen extra portable cots revealed themselves in a bumpy outline at the back of the storefront. It would be a big slumber party tonight, once they entered the wee hours of the morning—the biggest one yet.
She wouldn’t be a pawn in Fred’s game; she would find ways to win it.
“Elaine! Wonderful to see you, darling! And Lisa, hello! Thank you both for joining us!”
Elaine seemed much thinner, frail since her fiancé’s passing. Her complexion was always fair; this evening she was distractingly pale. But her black hair was neat, carefully parted to one side. And she had arrived with Lisa, so she was making an effort to stay social.
“Wonderful to see you too, Madeline.” Elaine’s eyes seemed to glisten with moisture, but she brushed it away, smiling. “Always wonderful to see you. Looking forward to telling you more about my job later.”
“I can’t wait to hear about it, but I’m on door duty right now, dear. At eight PM, we’re locking up, and then I want every detail.” Madeline took a peek outside the door, past the security guard, and spotted a man across the street, walking with a shopping bag. She leaned out the doorway to scan the sidewalk, but her own security guard nodded her inside.
When the clock struck eight, she inhaled deeply.
“No more newcomers, dear,” she instructed the guard, and then she shut the door—hard. The wall vibrated with the intensity of the slam, and the revelers on the dance floor froze their movements, wide-eyed. She laughed it away. “Carry on, ladies!”
Then she threw off her heels and joined them in her stocking feet, slipping into the rhythms of the music. Cynthia slid to her side and grabbed Madeline’s hand, and they made little box steps that ended in single claps, which only grew in volume.
Breathless from the dancing, Madeline poured herself a spiked cider, and a sip of spice danced across her tongue as she stood behind a side counter for a moment.
Taking another sip, she glanced over to a display of handmade bucket hats, where Elaine and Gloria were chatting. “Hey! Girls—do the two of you want some cider?”
Elaine was pale—giving Madeline only a halfhearted smile—but Gloria grabbed her arm and pulled her toward Madeline’s counter.
Madeline brandished the pitcher of cider with a spark in her eye, and the two of them sat down on two high stools in front of the counter, pushing aside stacks of hand-drawn dress patterns to make room for their feet.
“So this is just cider?”
“It’s a special cider, Elaine. You’ll love it.” Madeline held out the pitcher toward Gloria, who accepted a full glass.
Elaine bit her lip, appearing nervous. “I don’t know—I’ve only been having tepid tea these days—not much more than that.”
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll just give you a tiny taste.” Madeline smiled with reassurance, splashing a miniscule amount into the glass on the counter in front of Elaine.
Gloria playfully clinked her cider cup against Elaine’s. “Delicious, eh?”
Elaine took another sip, almost in guilt. Her skin assumed a faint glow. “Yes,” she conceded. “Tell us about your job.” Gloria sidled close to Elaine, talking above the hubbub of the social club. “It sounds beyond amazing. I would do anything to work at the Chronicle.”
Elaine’s lips edged upward. “It’s fast-paced. I stay busy most of the time. It can be high intensity if there’s a lot of breaking news.” She paused. “It’s fine to be a fact-checker, for now.”
“For now? Are you considering something else?” Madeline asked.
Elaine looked around, at the women who chatted in tight groups. “I always dreamed of being a reporter.” She gestured to her handbag and squeezed her journal inside a leather pocket. “But there’s not much room for poetry in journalism. And I think there’s maybe … a grand total of three women who work outside of fact-checking.”
Gloria gave her an encouraging pat on her back. “Well, you could be number four!”
Elaine seemed in a daze; she didn’t respond at first, and then she laughed, sadly. “That’s right.” She paused, her eyes locked—trancelike—at something in the distance. “How about you? What do you want to do?”
“Well, I’m trying to break into writing, any way I can. You know, I don’t have a college degree, so nobody’s going to hire me to be a reporter. But I’m making the news bulletin for my apartment building. It’s called The Jacobs Tribune. I made that name up; doesn’t it sound professional? I have a copy here.” Gloria went to her purse and pulled out a carefully folded paper. “It’s not much, but I’m thinking I could make it bigger. I might even do one for my whole block.”
She handed the thin brochure to Elaine, who read it carefully, then handed it to Madeline to read. The brochure lacked photographs or illustrations, but a quick read revealed agile prose and a subtle sense of humor.
“I love that headline: ‘New Elevator Uplifting Residents.’ ” She handed it back to Gloria.
Elaine nodded in agreement. “It’s quite well done.” Her voice emerged stronger than it had in some time. “Save it. It would be perfect for a portfolio.”
“Portfolio?”
“Just keep it together with anything else you do. It will impress employers to see examples of your work.”
“Oh! Thanks for the advice!”
Gloria beamed at Elaine, ear to ear. Her smile opened up new dimensions of hope, which registered so acutely that Madeline had to look away.
Madeline stared at the tarp over her broken window as the women snoozed intermittently in their cots.
It was late. Too late.
She found an empty cot and at last lay down to rest amid the others. In the semidarkness, women whispered to each other as they tossed and turned on their hard cots.
Nothing was comfortable.
It might happen again, if men lurked outside. Sharp pieces of glass, hurtling in. They could take down the guard if they needed to.
Her backed ached as she repositioned herself in dozens of revolutions, but she couldn’t settle comfortably.
It would be easy to shut it down.
It would be safer to shut it down.
It would be more comfortable to shut it down.
Madeline rotated, over and over, as the rough blanket scratched her skin.
It was so late at night.
If the social club ended, she could focus even more on her dressmaking. Put all her stock into sewing and her business.
It would be easier.
But then Fred would win.
He would check her intact window and see it darkened, night upon night.
It was four AM, cold in the storefront. Chilly air wafted in through the break in the window, beneath the tarp. She would need to secure the tarp to make the room warm. She made her way through rows of half-sleeping women, pulling a bedsheet from an empty cot to stretch over the tarp.
Back at the window, she tried to tape it, standing on her tiptoes to reach the window frame.
Through the darkness of the storefront, Harriet approached her, speaking in a sleepy whisper: “Here—let me help.” She stumbled over in a half sleep and held the corner of the sheet. “I can’t sleep, seeing you do this all by yourself.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The two of them worked quietly. They spread the sheet taut until it stretched fully. The cold air still had an entry point, but at least the cloth blunted the frigid winds.
Madeline cupped her face in her open palms, still in her dress clothes and jewelry. Her lids refused to close, even though the guard was still outside.
“Hey, how are you?” Harriet whispered.
“Fine.”
“I hope so.” She patted Madeline’s shoulder. “You know, I think it’s a great idea to get a security guard. I’m glad you did this so we could keep coming. I would go insane if I had to spend every night at home.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Frank drives me crazy.”
“What? What does he do?”
“He makes me do the deed every day, even if I’m not in the mood. He thinks it’s his right. And sometimes I just need some time away. Like tonight, I told him I was spending the night at my sister’s. That’s where he thinks I am.”
“What does he do if you try to stop him?”
“Well, he’s really tall, you know, really big. And the way he stands over me—I just don’t want to try anything. I don’t want to get him mad.” Harriet was small in the corner of the window, hunched over, and her profile made a curved silhouette against the wall. Not more than twenty-two—but aged. “I know that other women are dealing with things like that. Or completely different things. Or maybe they’re all alone and have no one. But whatever the case may be, I think it’s a good place here.”
“Thanks, my dear.” Madeline gave her a wan smile.
Harriet looked at Madeline, young and hopeful again. “It is. We need this. It’s a place just for us girls. A place to have fun. Because, you know, we need to have fun in life.”
Madeline looked out over her store. Most of the women were sleeping, but she heard whispers; others were wide awake as they told each other their secrets.
They existed in that moment, no matter what would come.
If she took the Starlite away from them, the ending would be her doing.
It took a couple of days for her to decide for sure.
Madeline’s fingers ran down long spools of thread, winding and unwinding the notion until the thread lay flat, in perfect circles.
She was struck with round after round of violent chills, as if a deluge of ice water had been sent through her veins.
She crouched down onto the floor and huddled into the skirts of her puffy dress.
Nothing brought comfort.
Even her decision.
She cradled the phone receiver with a hand of ice.
The society-pages reporter was friendly when she answered, almost neighborly. “I heard you might give me a ring. Good to hear from you, Madeline. You’re making the right choice.” She chatted with Madeline like an old friend and congratulated her on her bravery.
Madeline huddled beneath her skirt. “I’m a little nervous. I don’t know what the retribution will be.”
She couldn’t stop looking outside, as if another rock would hurtle through straightaway.
“Nobody’s going to try anything once you’ve made the society pages, darling. Don’t you think it would be a little too obvious?”
Madeline nodded and fingered the edge of her skirt. Her chest rose and fell quickly. “So, how much do you want me to tell you?”
“Every single detail.” The reporter coughed. “Hold on, let me get my notepad.”
Madeline gulped as her throat started to swell. When the reporter returned to the phone, she coughed out some distorted syllables, unable to speak.
Then she began.
“It was a slow buildup with Fred …”
Then she continued.
She remembered him staying out late a lot, claiming he had to go to functions “with the guys.”
He was always out. Getting gas for his car. Going to appointments for “aches in the back.” Picking up “stuff” from the store—“more packs of cigarettes.”
Always in and out, in and out. Sometimes he would smell different, like roses or heavy perfume, feminine scents. She asked him and he said it was hand soap. All the hand soaps at my office smell like women these days!
He always laughed.
She checked his collars when she did his laundry and always checked his pockets. But there was never anything, and he was his regular self otherwise, chatting up a storm at dinner, taking her out to shows on the weekend.
He was always so friendly to everyone and anyone—a real man about town. She felt silly to be suspicious, because she had such a sociable, charming husband who was politically engaged and locally powerful.
With Fred being out and about so much, she had a lot of free time, so she took up sewing projects when she wasn’t cleaning or cooking. She had always been good at sewing. Before she married Fred, she had worked at a little dress shop in downtown Brooklyn. So, once she had all this free time, she toyed with the idea of opening her own dress shop in a nice part of Brooklyn Heights.
Fred encouraged the project, and he gave her some starter money. She became busy when he was, and in that way she found plenty of things to do when he was at work, or at another “male-only” function.
“Too much detail?”
“Not at all. You’re showing me that he was building a facade around himself, trying to be the Fred that everyone thought he was.”
“Okay.”
Then she told the society-pages reporter more—about the day when she climbed up the stairs to her apartment and saw a woman scuttle out through her own door.
Fred claimed that this woman was a missionary, knocking on the door to try to convert him. But she sure didn’t look the part in her form-fitting attire, pointy brassiere, and high heels.
But there was no evidence. Nothing was out of place in the apartment.
“I thought you had a late day at work today,” she told him.
“I thought you had a late day too. Why are you home so early?”
He was an expert at flipping things around.
He got craftier after that first time. She was pretty sure the other liaisons didn’t take place in their apartment, though she received phone calls from women sometimes. They asked for Fred but wouldn’t give their names. She told him about the calls, and he said they must be “sleazy reporters” trying to pin him for something.
The day when she finally confirmed her worst fears was an unexpected one. She was at a gala function, a political fundraiser in a large hall overlooking the East River. It had been a gorgeous day, and she was in a great mood, looking at the sunset and sipping a perfect cocktail creation while having a lovely chat with the district attorney’s wife. The district attorney’s wife had just invited Madeline and Fred out to her estate on the East End of Long Island.
Madeline wanted to check to see if that date worked with Fred. She searched the reception hall for him, to no avail.
She went to get her coat so she could search outside for him, but the coat check girl wasn’t at the window. So she opened the door to the cloakroom herself, grabbing her woolen coat from its hanger.
That’s when she heard him.
“Quickly,” he said, behind a closed door.
She opened the door, and there was his naked backside, hairy and pale, with the coat check girl kneeling in front of him.
She didn’t say anything.
She only saw streaks of white.
Fred turned to face the open door, and she slammed it, running to the ladies’ room, where she vomited, over and over again, as if willing her insides to get rid of this horrific thing. She wanted to stay in that stall forever, but other women started banging at the door to ask if she was all right. When she coughed out that she was okay, the women whispered to each other that she must be pregnant.
She emerged from the stall about an hour later. A fully-dressed Fred was back in the ballroom, chatting with his cronies, puffing on a cigar. She was about to rip the cigar from his mouth and tell him that she was leaving him, right in front of everyone.
Before she could do it, he gave her his big Fred smile, putting his arm around her. “We’ll be going now, dear,” he said.
She wrangled herself away from his grip as party guests looked on in curiosity. Madeline kept silent for aching, choking minutes, and on the walk to the car she nearly passed out, but she got in the driver’s seat.
Fred didn’t dare argue, as he took the passenger’s seat. She wouldn’t let him drive her anywhere. She left the car idling.
“I’m leaving you.”
“Maddy, let’s not be silly now. You must have known, dear. I’ve made it quite obvious. You can’t really be that dense.”
He’d done it again, flipping it around on her. “I hope you burn in hell,” she said.
“I thought you were more forgiving than that, Maddy. And believe me, I’m not the only man in that ballroom who’s guilty.”
Inside her beautiful, purple coat, her inner core was boiling and blistering—like she was a nothing, a wrinkled crab inside a pretty shell.
“I’m leaving you. When we get to the apartment, I will remove all of my stuff.”
“You won’t be getting any of my things, Madeline. People saw the way you acted today. I can easily say that it was you who got in some trouble.”
“Nobody will believe you.”
“Everyone will believe me. I sell promises for a living.”
She started up the car and drove home in silence, mechanically. She was dead but still moving. She didn’t have anywhere to go but home. All her friends were wives of Fred’s cronies.
When they got back to the apartment, Fred put his hand on her arm.
“How about we make this easy on you—I have a few places to live. You can have the apartment. You can still play the role of my wife. You’ll have every material thing you want from me. I’ll do my thing, and you do yours.”
She didn’t respond.
Once they got to their apartment, Fred packed up a few bags and left.
She wanted to leave too. It felt filthy at home, though she kept it sparkling clean. But her dress shop wasn’t making enough money, and she had nowhere to go unless she wanted to live in a tenement. She didn’t want to be a woman alone in a tenement—so she stayed.
She worked long hours. She continued going to social functions, playing the role of wife, dead-eyed as Fred came to pick her up in his town car. At the functions, she tried to drum up more business for her shop to give her some savings, so she could move out on her own to somewhere that Fred couldn’t find her.
After months of loneliness, she started the social club. Then she met these lovely women, her friends, and Brooklyn didn’t belong to Fred anymore.
She told the reporter about the divorce, about the lies he spread.
And she told her about the broken window.
“You think he’s out to get you?”
“He could be. I’m sure he would love to see me disappear.” Madeline paced, and the telephone cord dragged around the carpet, picking up little pieces of lint. Her voice slurred with the effort to talk. “When will the article come out?”
“It shouldn’t be more than a few days,” the reporter answered. “You better get ready. I have a feeling that a lot more women will be coming to your shop and club, now that you’ll be public.”
“Public?”
“ ‘Owner of the Starlite Dress Shop Reveals All.’ That’s our headline!”
“Fred’s name won’t be in the headline, will it?”
“He’ll get his fair share of headlines after this comes out, darling.” The society-pages reporter laughed.
It was too late to keep quiet.