he says, and walks toward me.
Then I hear the sound of an automobile. Of course, he’d come after me in the Oldsmobile. I run behind a building and look down State Street. I see the car pull up in front of Holy Name. He goes into the church. Thank God I didn’t go there, but where now?
The church bell rings eight o’clock. The streets are empty. He’ll have no trouble finding me. Hide in a tavern or a restaurant? Only a few around here. Wouldn’t take long for him to find me. The thought of Tim crashing in and dragging me out of the place. Where?
I come to the bridge across the river. My feet are wet and my toes burn with cold. I’m shivering and, wouldn’t you know, it starts snowing. Big flakes slapping at me, dropping into the river. The bridge is slippery and I have to hold on to the rails as I go across. All I need now is to fall in the river. Suicide, on top of everything else.
The thought makes me laugh. And then, oh Jesus, the sound of the Oldsmobile again!
I start running, turn onto Wacker. Please God, he’ll go straight south expecting me to make for Bridgeport. I turn right, and there in front of me is a huge block of gray stone holding its own against the snow. The Opera House. People inside and warmth. Maybe I could sneak in a side door …
What’s wrong with me? Dolly’s performing there tonight, playing the Merry Widow in Lehár’s operetta. Tim always bragged to me that he never picked up Dolly after the theater. Not at her beck and call. She had her own car and driver and she could join him at the casino or go back to the Palmer House. He’d be there or not, as it suited him.
Dolly. Dolly. Would she help me? The way she’d said, “No” … But then hadn’t Tim said something about Dolly thinking I’d be the kind of girl who’d give no trouble?
The old fellow at the stage door stands for a long time looking at me—a wet mess by now. He stares at my shoeless feet. I say I’m here to see Mrs. McKee.
“I don’t know. Mrs. McKee didn’t say nothing to me about nobody coming. She’s particular.”
“Please, just put me in some corner down in the basement until the performance is over and then give her my name. I’ll write it down. I’m sure she’ll see me. Please.”
“All right, all right. Cold enough outside to freeze a witch’s tit. I’ll let you into her dressing room, but don’t steal nothing.”
And I’m in Dolly’s lavish space. A big sofa against the far wall. To sit down! Thank you, God, thank you! I pull off my stockings and start rubbing feeling back into my feet. My blouse and skirt are soaked.
The door opens. Not Dolly, but Carrie O’Toole, her dresser, a woman I know from Dolly’s fittings. Must be well into her seventies, from Brooklyn, New York, as she’s told me often enough. The only one I’ve ever seen razz Dolly and get away with it.
“Look what the cat’s dragged in,” she says.
“Oh, Carrie, I’m…”
“I can see,” she says. “Take off those wet clothes and I’ll give you one of Her Highness’s robes.”
“I don’t think…”
“Hurry up. Dolly’s got a quick change coming up, and I’ve got to go out and help her.”
I start to fumble with the buttons on my blouse, but my fingers are so cold, stiff and trembling …
Then Carrie is helping me. She looks at the torn collar and up at me. She undoes my blouse and starts to loosen my corset. I yelp. “Sore?” she says.
“I … I…”
“Bumped into a door?” she says. She lifts the corset off. “Bruise already turning purple.”
The skin on my chest’s an awful color.
“Anything broken?” Carrie asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Take a deep breath,” she says.
I do.
“You can breathe. You’re probably all right. Go in and take a hot bath. This place’s got amazing plumbing.”
“I know. My brother Mike put in the system.”
“Isn’t that nice?” she says, shakes her head, and starts laughing.
“Sorry,” I begin. “Ridiculous
Then I hear the sound of an automobile. Of course, he’d come after me in the Oldsmobile. I run behind a building and look down State Street. I see the car pull up in front of Holy Name. He goes into the church. Thank God I didn’t go there, but where now?
The church bell rings eight o’clock. The streets are empty. He’ll have no trouble finding me. Hide in a tavern or a restaurant? Only a few around here. Wouldn’t take long for him to find me. The thought of Tim crashing in and dragging me out of the place. Where?
I come to the bridge across the river. My feet are wet and my toes burn with cold. I’m shivering and, wouldn’t you know, it starts snowing. Big flakes slapping at me, dropping into the river. The bridge is slippery and I have to hold on to the rails as I go across. All I need now is to fall in the river. Suicide, on top of everything else.
The thought makes me laugh. And then, oh Jesus, the sound of the Oldsmobile again!
I start running, turn onto Wacker. Please God, he’ll go straight south expecting me to make for Bridgeport. I turn right, and there in front of me is a huge block of gray stone holding its own against the snow. The Opera House. People inside and warmth. Maybe I could sneak in a side door …
What’s wrong with me? Dolly’s performing there tonight, playing the Merry Widow in Lehár’s operetta. Tim always bragged to me that he never picked up Dolly after the theater. Not at her beck and call. She had her own car and driver and she could join him at the casino or go back to the Palmer House. He’d be there or not, as it suited him.
Dolly. Dolly. Would she help me? The way she’d said, “No” … But then hadn’t Tim said something about Dolly thinking I’d be the kind of girl who’d give no trouble?
The old fellow at the stage door stands for a long time looking at me—a wet mess by now. He stares at my shoeless feet. I say I’m here to see Mrs. McKee.
“I don’t know. Mrs. McKee didn’t say nothing to me about nobody coming. She’s particular.”
“Please, just put me in some corner down in the basement until the performance is over and then give her my name. I’ll write it down. I’m sure she’ll see me. Please.”
“All right, all right. Cold enough outside to freeze a witch’s tit. I’ll let you into her dressing room, but don’t steal nothing.”
And I’m in Dolly’s lavish space. A big sofa against the far wall. To sit down! Thank you, God, thank you! I pull off my stockings and start rubbing feeling back into my feet. My blouse and skirt are soaked.
The door opens. Not Dolly, but Carrie O’Toole, her dresser, a woman I know from Dolly’s fittings. Must be well into her seventies, from Brooklyn, New York, as she’s told me often enough. The only one I’ve ever seen razz Dolly and get away with it.
“Look what the cat’s dragged in,” she says.
“Oh, Carrie, I’m…”
“I can see,” she says. “Take off those wet clothes and I’ll give you one of Her Highness’s robes.”
“I don’t think…”
“Hurry up. Dolly’s got a quick change coming up, and I’ve got to go out and help her.”
I start to fumble with the buttons on my blouse, but my fingers are so cold, stiff and trembling …
Then Carrie is helping me. She looks at the torn collar and up at me. She undoes my blouse and starts to loosen my corset. I yelp. “Sore?” she says.
“I … I…”
“Bumped into a door?” she says. She lifts the corset off. “Bruise already turning purple.”
The skin on my chest’s an awful color.
“Anything broken?” Carrie asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Take a deep breath,” she says.
I do.
“You can breathe. You’re probably all right. Go in and take a hot bath. This place’s got amazing plumbing.”
“I know. My brother Mike put in the system.”
“Isn’t that nice?” she says, shakes her head, and starts laughing.
“Sorry,” I begin. “Ridiculous
Similar Books
