Stony River Read online

  Dearie lifted a white porcelain teacup from her shopping bag and set it on the table next to the ottoman. She dropped two quarters from her change purse into the cup. “I don’t let it get too full in case my ladies think I don’t need no more.” She poked Tereza’s arm. “G’head, admire yourself whiles you got the chance.”

  Tereza had been stealing glances at herself in the mirrored wall.

  “I was the cat’s meow too, once,” Dearie said. She grabbed her skirt at the hem, pulled it tight around her ass and strutted across the room. “Dresses were longer then. We had to hold our skirts so’s we didn’t trip. Pretended we didn’t know how it made our heinies look.”

  Tereza stood and checked herself out, front, back and sides. From Haggerty’s robe, Dearie had made Tereza a uniform like her own except that Dearie’s was the same bright pink as her hair and looser fitting to slip over her corset. Tereza wished Buddy had been home to see her all done up. She’d never worn so much black, including fishnet nylons Dearie had dug up somewhere and the pumps and wig Tereza had bought in Stony River. The only color came from her Hot Tomato lipstick and the gold hoop earrings Dearie said had been taking up space in her dresser.

  “Ava Gardner as the Waitress Vampira,” Tereza said, baring her fangs.

  “Your skin’s too dark for that. More vampy than vampire.”

  “I zink you’re right, dahlink,” Tereza said, extending a limpwristed arm.

  Dearie bowed at the waist and kissed her hand. “Now you’re talking. Put on an accent. Get the ladies buzzing.” She pulled a key from her pocket. “A reporter wrote about me once. He called me the Pink Lady, like the cocktail, and it caught on. You’d be surprised how many girlies know about me before they come in. Some ask for my autograph.” Dearie unlocked the door to a closet stocked with towels, little soap bars, toilet paper and cleaning crap. She pulled a stack of white towels off a shelf. “Every Saturday night after closing, Manny at the bar says, ‘Make you a Pink Lady?’ and I say, ‘Twist my arm.’ It’s nice having a drink with them that stays around after closing. Buddy wants me to retire. We’d manage with Alfie’s pension and what Buddy makes, but he ain’t home much and I enjoy being with others.”

  Dearie was right about Buddy not being around much, what with going to school and working at the Linden A&P all day Saturday and five to nine every night except Friday. After school he had time only for homework before changing into black pants, white shirt and clip-on bow tie. On Fridays he went out who knew where. On Sundays he waxed his car and did chores for Dearie. If Tereza didn’t get up with him in the morning, she’d hardly see him at all.

  She liked the way he smelled from the shower, his freshly slicked hair. Liked watching him fix himself eggs, toast (always brown), bacon, oatmeal and juice. “You slay me,” she said the first time she saw him drink milk, moving his mouth up and down like he was chewing it.

  Coffee seemed to be against the Atlas religion, along with soda, sugar and a bunch of other stuff. Why Buddy had gone to the White Castle that night was beyond her; they didn’t make anything he ate. He said Dearie couldn’t keep his diet straight so he fixed his own meals except on Sundays. “She’s getting on,” he said. “I’m happy you’re with her when I can’t be.”

  Tereza couldn’t recall ever being accused of making somebody happy.

  Dearie took a soap bar from the closet. “Listen for the rattle of the lock in the stall and turn the tap on so’s it’s ready when she steps out. Hand her a new soap; be sure she sees you take the paper off. Turn the water off when she’s done and hold out a towel.”

  Dearie had started coaching Tereza on the gray city bus as it farted its way down streets lined with row houses and stores, Tereza only half paying attention, imagining Buddy bagging groceries and thinking about her. Staying in during the day so a truant officer or cop wouldn’t spot her was boring. Being stuck in the house when Dearie and Buddy were both at work was like being on a deserted movie set. Tereza would wander from room to room, imagining herself a character written out of a soap opera. She didn’t want back in that story but didn’t know how to get into a better one. She kept meaning to get on the train to New York but hadn’t found a day yet when it felt right. Hadn’t found a day when she wanted to be that far away from Ma.

  Dearie had said that if Tereza was going to stick around she needed to pull her weight. Her boss, Herman Schottler, was okay with Tereza helping her out, as long as she understood he wasn’t paying double. Dearie made seventy-five cents an hour plus tips. The roly-poly, shiny-skulled Herman had shaken Tereza’s hand when they got there and said, “Welcome to my humble eatery.” He didn’t look humble at all in tuxedo and bow tie. He showed her around the dining room where other old guys in tuxes set tiny vases with rosebuds on tables.

  A sudden image of Ma and John Derek at a table for two caught her by the throat.

  The big room was quiet as air. Chandeliers dripped glass icicles and ornate, heavy mirrors covered the walls. The deep red of the tablecloths, flocked wallpaper and carpet sucked her in. It could’ve been a Hollywood set for a whale’s belly or an Amazon’s snatch. The restaurant held two fifty at a time. On a good night, Herman told Tereza, four hundred might come in for a meal and more, later, for drinks and a dance.

  The deal was, Tereza and Dearie would split the tips which could be anywhere from a nickel to a dollar; on a good night Tereza’s share could be as much as ten bucks. She thought about Linda cleaning house for nothing, about how many guys you’d have to jerk off for sixty dollars a week. Tereza could pay Dearie for room and board and not need to dip into more of Miranda’s money until she moved on. She’d taken the money out of the briefcase and hidden it behind a loose cinder block near the furnace. No reason Buddy and Dearie had to know about it.

  Tereza hustled all night, keeping up with Dearie’s orders to check stalls, wipe sinks and countertops (“Tips don’t crawl out of wet pocketbooks”), refill toilet paper holders, empty the towel basket and the ashtrays. Her legs went to jelly each time the door swung open. She didn’t know a soul in Newark, much less anyone who’d come to such a ritzy place. But a spark of hope told her that Ma might want to find her bad enough to march through that door.

  That night one woman puked. Someone else needed help washing blood out of her skirt. More than a few came in to light up and stare into space, their smokes growing into drooping worms of ash. Tereza didn’t see anybody ask for Dearie’s autograph, but some knew her name. Dearie received them like a queen on her ottoman, her cackle rising above the sound of flushing.

  By the time Herman’s closed that night, Tereza could size up women by the way they reacted when she handed them a towel: the cheapskates waved her off, the nervous ones had to be told it was okay to throw it in the wicker basket, the self-confident ones thanked her and the assholes took it without looking at her, not even grunting. They made her think of Jimmy, made her want to take off in shame. But she didn’t. It was still better than sucking dicks.

  Thanksgiving was next week. Herman’s and A&P would be closed. She’d sweet-talk Buddy into driving past the apartment. Drop in and see if Ma had turned into a puddle.

  NOVEMBER 21, 1955. Allen wasn’t waiting for Linda and nobody answered the Dobras’ door. Linda peered into their apartment through the window that overlooked the porch. Gone were their meager furnishings. An abandoned sneaker lay in the middle of the living-room floor.

  Linda stopped in to see Rolf. He lived in a few dank rooms behind the store with his wife who was shrinking more each day from cancer, a constant smile stretched taut over her skeletal head. Tereza had claimed that Rolf was an escaped Nazi but Linda didn’t care. She loved his accent and he’d loaned her lederhosen for fifth-grade Show and Tell.

  “Zey must heff sneaked out in ze night,” he said. “Gone tiptoe. Zey owed me money, ja? Maybe run out on ze rent, too.”

  Linda barely heard Rolf after “Gone tiptoe.” Her ears had begun to ring with God’s accusing voice: if she’d only kept her fat nose out
of things Tereza would still have a home to return to.

  EIGHT

  JANUARY 3, 1956. Linda’s winter boots trampled the crusty snow as she trudged home from school, her body frozen with anger and shame. She’d considered faking a sore throat this morning but missing school would onl have put off the inevitable.

  She’d invited everybody in her seventh-grade homeroom to her first New Year’s Eve party ever, the same kids who’d been at Kenny Ronson’s party the night school let out for Christmas vacation. At Kenny’s they’d had chips and soda. Danced. Played Spin-the-Bottle, Post Office and Flashlight. At Kenny’s party, his mother hadn’t come into the living room time after time during Flashlight, turning the lights back on and marching back out without a word. Why couldn’t New Year’s Eve have been one of Mother’s sick nights? She’d gussied herself up in a scoop-necked maroon taffeta dress Linda had never seen before and greeted everyone at the door as if she was the hostess. Every time she came into the room to turn on the lights, the taffeta went husha husha against her nylons. Linda had wanted to die.

  Linda had stuffed celery stalks with Cheez Whiz and made popcorn balls for midnight, but the kids didn’t stick around until then. Mother acted surprised when everyone left, but Linda thought she’d probably planned it so she’d have the living room to herself to watch Guy Lombardo. Daddy made things worse when the kids were gone by lecturing Mother that kissing games gave “sexually awakening adolescents a safe outlet for physical desires.” Mother said there would be no such awakening in her house. Linda had stormed up to her room and not come down until noon the next day.

  At school today the girls gave her pitying looks and the boys made rude jokes. She’d suffered through the day, praying that a huge sinkhole would open up beneath her desk. She was so full of misery on the cold walk home she almost missed the FOR SALE sign at the end of Lexington. She turned and tramped down the middle of the unplowed road. Someone had shoveled a path to the house and cleared the snow off the steps and porch. Linda trod right up to the front door where another sign said BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

  The boards were off the windows and doors. Maybe Miranda Haggerty was dead. Why else would they sell her house? Linda imagined her own funeral and teared up. The kids would be sorry for leaving her party early and her mother for putting the lights back on.

  Unable to find the doorbell, she knocked on the heavy oak door. She stomped her feet to warm her toes and announce herself, but no one came.

  She cupped her mittened hands around her glasses and peered through a porch window into an empty room with a wall of shelves rising clear to the ceiling. She knocked again then tried the door. It opened. Maybe the real-estate agent was inside and would show Linda around. She called “Hello” into the echoing hallway. Legs shaking, she stepped inside onto a rubber mat—the only thing in the room—and peered up at the grand stairwell, shrinking back reflexively as if she expected Crazy Haggerty’s ghost to float down it. The place smelled like stale crackers. She wanted to explore where Miranda had lived, but her conscience reminded her that an unlocked door wasn’t an engraved invitation.

  Forgive us our trespasses.

  She backed out and closed the door. Tereza would have called her chicken, but honestly, Linda was merely respectful, not to mention considerate of Mother and Daddy who would be mortified if she ended up at the police station. If Tereza had taken cover in Miranda’s house, she probably tromped all over, rude as could be. But Linda was responsible. The sun was hanging low: Mother would be expecting her to get dinner started.

  She reached Jackson Boulevard just as the high-school bus stopped a few feet away. Richie got off and waved. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d phoned about Tereza’s balloons. “Hey there,” he called. He pointed to the FOR SALE sign. “Buying Crazy Haggerty’s?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I have a dollar forty-seven in my pocket.”

  He laughed. “They’ll jump at that.” He wasn’t wearing gloves and blew on his hands. “I’m heading to the Castle. Can I buy you a cup of coffee to warm you up?”

  Mother said coffee was too stimulating for children, and she disapproved of the White Castle because she’d heard they used horsemeat during the war and passed it off as beef.

  Linda took a big breath and said, “Why, thank you, sir.”

  He laughed again.

  Her glasses steamed up as they entered the White Castle. Richie gently lifted them from her face, set them on the counter and helped her onto a stool. He winked at the guy behind the counter who was wearing a white paper hat. “The usual, barkeep,” he said, “and the same for the little lady here.”

  Linda needed lots of cream and sugar to get the sharp-tasting coffee down. Richie told her his cousin had loaned Tereza a jacket in the Castle the very night she’d run away. She’d returned it to him a few days later, but his cousin didn’t know where she was now. Richie didn’t know either; Tereza hadn’t gotten in touch with him. Linda wanted to learn more about what Tereza had been doing with the “old guys” Richie had mentioned on Halloween, but she didn’t want to remind him of her ignorance and risk being humiliated again. She talked about a bunch of other things, but couldn’t remember what later, only that Richie listened as if she had opinions worth hearing. She wondered if he was a better kisser than the boys at Kenny’s party had been during Flashlight. They either slobbered all over you or pressed your lips so hard it made your teeth hurt.

  She didn’t have dinner ready until a half hour later than usual that night. Crossing her fingers behind her back, she told Daddy she’d stayed at school to try out for a play. He told her she had a duty to come home directly after school and take care of things. “Twenty years from now,” he said, “you won’t remember if you were in a school play or not.”

  “Twenty years from now,” she said, her voice steadier than her nerves, “you won’t remember if you ate dinner at five-thirty or six.”

  Although he sent her to her room for being disrespectful, his eyes betrayed the faint concession that she might have scored a point.

  WATER RUSHING through the pipes told her Buddy was up. Tereza slipped into dungarees and her tight pink sweater and was in the kitchen when he came in to make his breakfast. She said “Sure” when he asked if she knew it was Leap Day and pretended she knew what he meant about the Earth going around the sun and al-go-rhythms. She sang I got rhythm, I got music, wishing he’d jump in with I’ve got my man, which would have been hysterical, but he didn’t.

  From the dining-room window, she watched him back his car down the drive into the dark morning, his right arm draped over the front seat, his head turned to check over his right shoulder. She pictured herself next to him, breathing in his English Leather, twisting the heater to full blast to keep him warm.

  She turned the basement shower on and stood under it screaming like Fay Wray, practicing for her future career in sci-fithrillers; they’d be a snap compared to Broadway. Actresses in thrillers mostly just screamed and buried their heads in some guy’s chest.

  She folded the Castro convertible up into a couch so that the basement looked more like an apartment. Imagined a Photoplay interview in her Hollywood mansion, recalling when she’d rented some old pink-haired broad’s basement, cracking up the reporter with her boss imitation of Dearie saying “terlet,” “goily” and “Hoymin.”

  Water rushing through the pipes meant Dearie was up. Tereza followed her nose to the kitchen and the smoky coffee smell. Said, “Toast and joe, same as usual,” when Dearie asked her to name her poison.

  “A girly needs more than that if she’s going to make a baby someday,” Dearie said. Tereza flashed on Ma pregnant with Allen, one arm resting on her belly shelf like she’d grown it just for that. After breakfast, she screwed up her nose when Dearie cold-creamed her face and made her look at the crap that ended up on the tissue. Yelped when Dearie ripped a brush through her tangled hair and said she had to show her body that she cared more about it.

  When the lady from next door ding-d
onged, Tereza ducked down to the basement. She and Dearie had cooked up the story that she was a friend’s niece from Brazil and didn’t speak English. The neighbors never demanded to see for themselves. Dearie could have been torturing Tereza with a hot iron for all they knew. It made her think about Miranda Haggerty. Best not to waste your hope on things like guardian angels, Saint Bernards and nosy neighbors.

  It was safe to be outside for an hour when school kids trekked home for lunch. Wearing her Grace Kelly coat and the red-and-white striped stocking cap and matching mittens Dearie had knitted her for Christmas, Tereza took Dearie’s shopping list (milk, Ex-Lax and Niagara starch) and hotfooted it four blocks over to a little store. Got back in time for spaghetti with meatballs and the radio announcer’s chocolate pudding voice: Once again, Backstage Wife, the story of Mary Noble, a little Iowa girl who married one of America’s most handsome actors. Dearie never missed that program. Tereza was going to be a star, not marry one.

  After lunch, shuffling on her knees with Dearie as they dusted baseboards along the piss-colored carpet in the parlor, Tereza asked, “How come Buddy’s so serious?”

  “A real sad sack at times, ain’t he? Should’ve seen when he was little, trying to drown himself in a pail of water once a week. He ain’t put his fist through a wall since you came.”

  When Dearie took her nap, Tereza descended to the basement. She stepped into her white shorts and the amazing black pumps. Practiced cheesecake poses, lying on her back, legs in the air, or leaning against the bar, hands behind her ass. Even though her tits weren’t as big as Marilyn Monroe’s, she imagined Buddy going bonkers over them, never wanting to drown himself again. Count your luck, Ma used to say. Tereza eased out the cinder block and counted Miranda’s money, adding five dollars from tips. Wouldn’t take long to replace what she’d spent.