Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (20 page)

We scurried through the alley for two blocks to his new Duesenberg. I was out of breath by then and sat in the passenger’s seat waiting for my heart to calm down. I felt oddly thrilled by it all. Thomas took note of my rapid breathing, my hand over my heart and my guilty smile. His hands left the steering wheel and clasped my face. He looked into my eyes as if trying to read my thoughts from there. Likely reading my dormant desire for him, he gave me a deep and long kiss. Delicious enough that I wanted more. The warmth that began earlier had heated up a few more degrees.

He started the engine. Looking straight ahead he asked, “Would you like to go to my apartment for a coffee?”

This was not goodnight as yet! “I would like that very much.” I said, smug in being so audacious. I would see his apartment!

Taking turns swigging from his flask of yet more whiskey, we rode into the center of town and parked outside a large gray stone building. A statue of a lion was posted on each side of the stairs leading to the entrance. I patted one’s backend as I walked by. “Swell butt,” I said and giggled.

Feeling more than a little lightheaded as a doorman tipped his hat to “Mr. Pickering, sir”, I stifled another giggle. Pleased to be
holding Thomas’ arm to keep me steady, I attempted to straighten my posture and my long climb to his third-floor apartment. I was grateful that he asked me to sit down. His tweed sofa felt scratchy, his living room looked sparse.

“Looks quite different from the Beauchamp Manor’s front parlor, doesn’t it?” he called from the tiny kitchen tucked into the corner of the large room. The only lighting came from there.

“Beauchamp Manor?”

“Yeah, where you’re living, the Lighthouse, didn’t you know? When we first bought the place, it was known as the Beauchamp Manor from two generations of a French family who had lived there. My wife, Cady, included this on her calling cards to give a better indication of where we lived. The name seemed to die out as the Lighthouse took over.”

He said “we” twice. This irritated me. “Oui, oui, monsieur,” I called out jadedly. I watched, fascinated, as the coffee table swayed to the left and then to the right. A scratchy record player was playing
Second Hand Rose
somewhere. I hated that song. It finally ended and a cup of steaming coffee appeared.

“Straighten up, Bess. You’re slouching.” He sat next to me and peered into my face, his hand on my knee. “Are you feeling okay?”

I smiled back at his sweet mouth. “Fine and dandy.” I licked my lips, feeling as brash as my sister. I wondered where she and her boyfriend had gone off to – was I supposed to be their escort? But when I opened my mouth to ask Thomas, I couldn’t remember what her boyfriend’s name was.

He continued to look at me intently as he took a drink of his coffee, his thick brows shadowing his thoughts. I followed suit, taking several sips into my parched mouth.

He snorted into his cup. “Your eyes crossed when you looked into your cup just now. I think you’ve had too much hooch.”

“So much for looking like a sultry flapper girl,” I said. My low voice was meant to sound sensual, but the smoky speakeasy had reduced it to a hoarse whisper. I cleared my throat and took another drink.

“Here, give me that cup, you impetuous thing,” Thomas said. He placed his cup and mine on the coffee table and returned his hand to my knee. He gave me a light kiss, the coffee’s bitter taste lingering. We kissed again, his hand sliding up my leg, under my dress. He pressed me back and further down to where he suddenly appeared above me, his weight on me, the toes in his sock removing my slip-on shoes, his knees between my legs. I gasped for air and reached for another kiss, a wetter one, on my lips, my ears, my throat. He moved his hips against my pelvic and I moaned for a deeper touch. The room began spinning and I gasped again, unsure if this was because of him or the hooch.

“Thomas?” I whispered into his hair.

“Yes, darling?” he muttered into my neck.

I began to feel nauseous. I tried to breathe in deeply but his mouth came down on mine again. How could I be ill at a time like this? I debated what I wanted more – to breathe or to be kissed. His hand massaged my thigh. We were moving too fast, or the room was. It seemed exceedingly warm.

“Thomas, I’m becoming dizzy!”

He slowed his motions and brought his hands to my hair. He studied my face for a moment and then kissed my nose. “No, not like this,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me. His half-closed eyes looked into mine, sending tender affection. “I won’t take you like this.” He smoothed back my hair and kissed my forehead. “Raise up, you’ll feel better.”

We rose together, smoothing down our hair and laps. Another wave of dizziness came over me and I heaved to his toilet in the nick of time. A few moments later as I remained leaning over the bowl, a cool wet cloth softly landed on the back of my neck.

“You’ll never be a flapper girl at this rate,” he said.

“Darn.” I moved the cloth around to wipe my face. “Oh well, the dresses wouldn’t become me anyway.”

Such a disgusting bodily reaction to alcohol was sobering – and humiliating to say the least. This introduction to the social scenes was very telling to Thomas I was certain; so much for appearing
worldly. Lizzie would be so pleased. More than ever, I was relieved Pearl wasn’t there to see how quickly I had been despoiled.

He poured water into a glass and handed this to me. “Rinse out. I’m taking you home.”

My head now sitting straight, I glanced around the room and noted that the only enviable piece of furniture was a chunky walnut cabinet, its dials, knobs, and panel telling me it was a radio, just such a one as I hoped to purchase some day. Was he happy living here when so many more of his earthly treasures were at the Lighthouse? It hardly seemed fair that his existence was reduced to this on behalf of women’s plight.

As we were leaving, I grabbed his hand and stopped until I had his attention. “Thomas, it’s your home too, you know.”

“It will be a home for me again someday.” He motioned around the room. “This place is certainly no home.” He placed his felt hat on his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking by bringing you here.” He gave me his sheepish grin. “That whiskey made me sick in the head and you sick to your stomach. No wonder it’s illegal.”

T
hat next day after that first date, I face down Uncle Joe to get my Duesy back.

“Now, little lady, that’s the last thing you need with all those wild soldiers running loose and free on furlough. Traipsing around Savannah alone can only get you hurt. I protect
my
kin,” and here his fat thumb points to his little heart, “or I’ll end up having to answer to your daddy. Why, his ghost would come around scaring the living daylights out of me, and I don’t have many daylights left.” He chuckles to himself.

Boy, is he funny.

“I thought I was here to look after you,” I say, trying to sugarcoat.

“You might if you weighed more than a hundred pounds, but you don’t.” He eyes me slowly up and down my body until I blush and take my hands out of my pockets and fold my arms across my chest. His eyes actually wet with a lusty shine. “You couldn’t whip your way out of a paper sack,” he said. “No, I’ve got Clary to help me around here; she’s better than most niggers. What I want you to do is to make up with TJ. And don’t you roll your eyes around with me, missy. I damn well heard you yelling ‘so-long’ in nary a sweet tone and then abuse ol’ Duesy by slamming her door. What else was TJ to do but to take it away until you cooled down? We southern gentlemen don’t take well to whores or to you sweet young things with temper tantrums. You be careful with her from here on out or I’ll take it away from you for good. What you need to remember is, they stopped making automobiles two years ago, thanks be to the war effort needing steel and rubber.”

He raises his hand to my open mouth. “Now, don’t get mad. I’m sure TJ had it coming, but he means well.” He drops his hand as if that’s too much. He leans his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes. He uses a softer tone. “I just want you to be hospitable to him is all, when he comes over tonight. Can you do that for your dying uncle? That’s all I’m asking of you.”

I want to ask,
Why is this so important to you?
But I just sit there watching him go to sleep, not really wanting to hear him talk.

So here TJ pulls into the driveway again that evening. In my car. He steps out like he owns it and everything around him. He brings irritation to settle on me like dust in the air and I fold my arms across my chest again. I kick at the gravel with my scratched oxfords and say nothing.

I hear the gravel crunch as he walks closer. “Go to a flick with me,” he says.

“Why?”
Why is he interested in me?
is what I really want to ask. I’m no lady, well, not like my mama is a lady, with good posture and dresses up every day of the week as if the mayor might just drop in.

“Cause I love going to the movie house more than anything,” he says, starting to circle around me. “Cause I’m buying the malted milk balls.” He pops his head over my shoulder from behind. “Cause it includes a newsreel on what’s going on in the war.” He comes around to face me and lifts my chin to look at his casual grin, his head tilted to the side as he watches me closely. “Cause I know you’d love this new one just came out.”

Ouch, he got me in my weak spot. “What film?” I say, against my will.

“‘Meet Me in St. Louis’. They say it’s a smash.” He says that last part like he’s tempting a child. He is, and I also love Judy Garland. I’m weakening.

“Besides the fact that the Office of War declared movie flicks essential morale,” he says, boldly placing his arm around my shoulders and pointing to Duesy. “I can’t very well leave your car here if you can’t take me home. And, while we’re out, we might as well see
a picture show, don’t you see? Then you drop me off at my place and everybody’s cheery.”

Everybody’s cheery, most of all William, and I quickly learn that is the most important thing in the world. When I drive him home, even his mother, Marge, says so. “I do hope that picture show made you cheery, TJ,” she says, handing him a glass of iced tea. She hands me mine with a wink and a smile. “He’s been in some sort of snit here lately. I thought I was going to have to sic the dogs on him and his big brother the other day, they were battling so. I don’t know whether to call the sheriff or call the Army. Is it warm out here to you?” She blows down into her pink sleeveless blouse and manages to plop gracefully into a wicker chair, her silver hair glowing from the lamplight coming through the window.

The white-sided two-story feels so homey with the front porch as wide as the house and the overhead balcony almost as wide, like arms open wide saying
Welcome
. Its pretty hostess plays the part of the charming southern lady wholly, with her healthy complexion and that silver hair styled and waved without a glitch. I like her and her home so much, I start liking William more.

“I am more accustomed to dressing for New York’s cooler nights,” I say. I hope this explains why I’m dressed in long sleeves and ankle socks. A woman can’t get stockings nowadays with war time, and truth be known, I have hairy legs that I hadn’t tended to. I cross my ankles and tuck my legs under my chair. “You have a lovely home. And I love that old oak tree with all that Spanish moss hanging from it. It sounds like a choir of birds in there.”

“Thank you, honey, that’s sweet. It’s a wonder we have any birds in that tree. Thank goodness TJ outgrew his sadistic slingshot. He killed about all these birds’ ancestors. Where did you say your home was?”

“It’s a small town you never heard of, in New York, Mother,” William pipes in. “Don’t start getting nosy. Let me guess what’s next: you’ll bring out a picture of me as a baby, naked and being washed by my mammy, to ensure my complete embarrassment.”

“And would it make you terribly un-cheery if I asked your friend where her home is now?” She says this softly but her eyes carry a big stick. She doesn’t wait for his answer but turns to me for mine.

“I’m staying with my — ”

“She’s staying with a friend of her mother’s,” William interrupts. “It’s on the other side of town, on the outskirts of town, and no, you don’t know her, or her family, or where their grave plots are.”

I open my mouth to correct him but he locks his eyes with mine and I can’t seem to get any words passed that stare. His mother seems the same way, although she has a right to be angry at his rude retort. We both just sit there looking at him. I’m asking myself why he doesn’t want her to know that I’m staying with Uncle Joe. Does she know him? Is his reputation so bad that William is protecting me? Would his mother think less of me? I certainly don’t want that. I finally nod. “Clary is her name,” I say, the first name that comes to me, and at least this name is true to where I’m staying. I can meet her eyes that way and look confident. “Clary and my mama go way back,” I say, and then stop because I’m not certain if Clary was here when Mama lived here with Papa. I blush in spite of myself. I’ve always been a lousy liar.

Something in her eyes and stiff lips tell me that I’ve lost some points with her and I’m sorry for that but William had dug our hole and I’m going to have to sit in it.