and dabbed sweat from his lips, it seemed as if she was wiping years of strain and unhappiness off his face. For one moment, a moment when he seemed spellbound by the spotlight and the music, he lifted out of himself, floating upwards to a place of eternal relief and comfort. He lit a cigarette and said, “Delorita, over there, that American fellow’s looking at you.”
At the end of the bar was a tall man, looked Irish or German, with a head of wavy blond hair. He was dressed in a sports jacket and bow tie and seemed quite clean. He was in his mid-twenties. Delores was now seventeen.
The man smiled. A little later, he came over and respectfully asked Delores to dance. She’d already turned down a number of other requests, and she turned him down, too.
“I just wanted to talk to you anyway. My name’s—And I know this seems a little unlikely, but you have to believe me . . . See, I work for the Pepsodent toothpaste company and we’re holding a beauty contest down in Coney Island in a couple of weeks, and so, I just thought that you might like to enter. I mean, if you give me your name and all that, I can take care of everything . . . There’s a first prize of one hundred dollars.” Then, looking away, he added, “And you’re certainly pretty enough to win . . .”
“What do I have to do?”
“You just put on a bathing suit—do you have a bathing suit?—and you get up in front of the people. It’s on a Saturday morning . . . Why don’t you give me ya address, huh? It would be a nice thing for you.”
He put up his hands as if to say, “I’m not armed . . .”
She blushed, looking away. “You can find me at the Woolworth’s on Fordham Road. I work there part-time.” And she wrote down her name, Delores Fuentes.
He looked over the piece of paper and said: “You have really beautiful handwriting.”
“I can write down poems for you. I write my own, and I learn poems in English.”
“Yeah?”
“You want me to write one down?”
“Sure.”
She turned to the bar and meticulously wrote out the poem “Annabel Lee,” by Edgar Allan Poe.
“You’re kidding me?” And he scratched his head, put the poem in his pocket, and said, “You’re really classy, you know that?”
Later, around three o’clock, when the dance was winding down, Delores no longer felt angry or anxious about her father. As a matter of fact, she now seemed happy about the dance hall. And her father didn’t even seem drunk. As they left the dance hall together, he walked with his back straight and his head held high. It made her happy to think about coming back here. People paid you compliments, and said you were pretty enough to enter a beauty contest! She and her father were heading to the bus stop, and as they crossed the street to catch a downtown bus, the American fellow dazzled Delores, pulling up alongside them in a 1946 Oldsmobile. It was a convertible and the canvas-top roof had been pulled down.
“Let me drive you folks home.”
And so they climbed into his car, feeling like wealthy people. Her father plopped down into the plump leather upholstery of the back seat. He put his arm around Delores, eventually falling asleep and snoring, as the car drove away.
The fellow she’d met in the dance hall was a nice man. He would show up at the Woolworth’s to make sure that she’d enter the contest, brought her a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, a little cuddly teddy bear. On the day of the contest he drove over to the Bronx from his apartment on Dyckman Street and then took her down to the boardwalk of Coney Island in his open convertible. He was a sporty-looking fellow. That day he wore a light blue summer suit, with a light pink shirt and a red bandana around his neck. As they drove along, his golden hair whipped like a sea flag in the wind. He was muy guapo —handsome—and seemed prosperous. That day the beach’s sand warmed the bottoms of more than a million people, and while looking at
At the end of the bar was a tall man, looked Irish or German, with a head of wavy blond hair. He was dressed in a sports jacket and bow tie and seemed quite clean. He was in his mid-twenties. Delores was now seventeen.
The man smiled. A little later, he came over and respectfully asked Delores to dance. She’d already turned down a number of other requests, and she turned him down, too.
“I just wanted to talk to you anyway. My name’s—And I know this seems a little unlikely, but you have to believe me . . . See, I work for the Pepsodent toothpaste company and we’re holding a beauty contest down in Coney Island in a couple of weeks, and so, I just thought that you might like to enter. I mean, if you give me your name and all that, I can take care of everything . . . There’s a first prize of one hundred dollars.” Then, looking away, he added, “And you’re certainly pretty enough to win . . .”
“What do I have to do?”
“You just put on a bathing suit—do you have a bathing suit?—and you get up in front of the people. It’s on a Saturday morning . . . Why don’t you give me ya address, huh? It would be a nice thing for you.”
He put up his hands as if to say, “I’m not armed . . .”
She blushed, looking away. “You can find me at the Woolworth’s on Fordham Road. I work there part-time.” And she wrote down her name, Delores Fuentes.
He looked over the piece of paper and said: “You have really beautiful handwriting.”
“I can write down poems for you. I write my own, and I learn poems in English.”
“Yeah?”
“You want me to write one down?”
“Sure.”
She turned to the bar and meticulously wrote out the poem “Annabel Lee,” by Edgar Allan Poe.
“You’re kidding me?” And he scratched his head, put the poem in his pocket, and said, “You’re really classy, you know that?”
Later, around three o’clock, when the dance was winding down, Delores no longer felt angry or anxious about her father. As a matter of fact, she now seemed happy about the dance hall. And her father didn’t even seem drunk. As they left the dance hall together, he walked with his back straight and his head held high. It made her happy to think about coming back here. People paid you compliments, and said you were pretty enough to enter a beauty contest! She and her father were heading to the bus stop, and as they crossed the street to catch a downtown bus, the American fellow dazzled Delores, pulling up alongside them in a 1946 Oldsmobile. It was a convertible and the canvas-top roof had been pulled down.
“Let me drive you folks home.”
And so they climbed into his car, feeling like wealthy people. Her father plopped down into the plump leather upholstery of the back seat. He put his arm around Delores, eventually falling asleep and snoring, as the car drove away.
The fellow she’d met in the dance hall was a nice man. He would show up at the Woolworth’s to make sure that she’d enter the contest, brought her a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, a little cuddly teddy bear. On the day of the contest he drove over to the Bronx from his apartment on Dyckman Street and then took her down to the boardwalk of Coney Island in his open convertible. He was a sporty-looking fellow. That day he wore a light blue summer suit, with a light pink shirt and a red bandana around his neck. As they drove along, his golden hair whipped like a sea flag in the wind. He was muy guapo —handsome—and seemed prosperous. That day the beach’s sand warmed the bottoms of more than a million people, and while looking at
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