Strings Attached Page 2

  Maybe I’d been dead wrong about Billy. Maybe the decision to stop seeing him was the latest in the long line of bad Corrigan luck. Wasn’t it true that I was still crazy for him, that I had to stop myself from writing him every single night? That there were plenty of nights I left the theater, hoping he’d be at the stage door in his uniform, with that hungry look in his eyes before he lifted me into his arms? How many times had I played that scene in my head — how I’d shake my head at him, telling him it was still over? Didn’t it always end in a kiss?

  There was too much going on in my head, and I was afraid some of it would spill out in front of Nate Benedict.

  “I never eat after a show,” I told him.

  When we walked out, the wind hit us, cold and damp from off the river, and leaves crunched under our feet as we walked to First Avenue.

  “I’ll put you in a cab,” he said.

  He raised his arm and directed his next remark to the street. “You said a lot, but you never said you didn’t love him.”

  The cab pulled over, and he handed in some bills to the driver. He cupped my elbow, helping me over the curb. Our heads were close together when he murmured, “You and me, we want the same thing. His happiness.”

  I slid a bit in my heels and almost fell into the cab. He closed the door. I crashed back against the seat, looking through the window at him. He stood on the corner, bareheaded in the wind, hands in his pockets. It was like we’d made some kind of bargain. Another one, like the ones we’d made before.

  In my pocket, my fingers closed around the key.

  Two

  New York City

  October 1950

  I hadn’t expected it to be easy to come to New York, but I hadn’t expected it to be so hard, either. Donuts and peanuts for a diet, rooming houses so far north in the Bronx that it took me an hour on the subway to Times Square. The green stain in the sink, the toilet that wouldn’t flush. The sounds from the other rooms — the fights, the crying, the rhythmic thumping that made me put my pillow over my head and hum “Skylark.” The discovery of bedbugs. I’d bounced from one bad rooming house to another.

  Then I got smart, and lucky. I found out where all the actors ate lunch, at Walgreens in Times Square, and I squeezed out my dimes and ate lunch there every day, just a bowl of soup I could eat real slow. One day a blonde in a tight red sweater started talking to her friend about a girl leaving a show. In the chorus and had quit right there and then, saying she had appendix trouble. The blonde had snickered, said in a high squeaky voice, “That’s four months’ worth of a swollen appendix if you ask me.” I slapped down my coins and left.

  I went straight to the theater and my luck was still holding, because the man at the door was Irish, and he actually remembered the Corrigan Three, the performing triplets from Rhode Island. He waved me through the door and said the director and choreographer were both onstage, right then.

  I picked up routines fast. You could show me once and I could do it, straight from the top. And I was strong. That was training. Then there was luck. This time I had the right height and the director didn’t need a blonde. I guess he knew the show was a dog and would be closing soon, and he didn’t really care. I think he patted himself on the back for giving a kid her first break.

  I was in a Broadway show. Lights and glory. But it wasn’t much different from summer stock. It was a bunch of girls razzing each other and helping each other, and there was always a mean girl, too. It was “Would you lookit that, I got a run and I just bought these at Woolworth’s yestaday” and “My feet are gonna fall off my legs one day, I swear to ya” and “Christ, I’m getting married as soon as somebody asks, as God is my goddamn witness” and making lewd comments about the state of the lead actor’s trousers when he looked us over. Pin curls underneath their rayon scarves when they got to the theater, and after the show half of the girls going out with dates, the other half home to their mothers.

  Luck doesn’t last, I knew that much. Sometimes over my cup of coffee I’d think about the Corrigans — a long line of lunkheads going straight back to County Galway. One dumb choice after another. The family had sailed to America in 1883 and they were still greenhorns. Always looking at their feet, never up at the sky. We went down in ships, we died in childbirth, we drank or worked ourselves to death, we disappeared without a trace. What chance did I have to break that chain of misfortune?

  Where did the bad luck start? Maybe you could trace it back to the night in ’23 when sixteen-year-old Jimmy Mac Corrigan offered to help unload some whiskey on a boat from Canada. Or a Sunday morning in ‘32 when, after three days of rain, Jimmy convinced Maggie Corrigan to skip church because he had a better idea of how to pass the time. Who knew that would result, nine months later, in twenty-year-old Maggie’s last breath as three babies came into the world?

  “All those falls from grace,” Aunt Delia would have said in that thin-lipped Irish way. Lust, liquor, and legs — that’s where I came from. That’s who I was.

  For a minute when I woke up, I thought I was back in Providence. Maybe it was the sound of the whistle on the teakettle. By the time I’d fallen asleep, the light had been just coming up. I glanced at the clock on the mantel, an ugly big brass number that looked like the first thing you’d grab to bean a burglar.

  It was after ten. Four hours’ sleep would have to do. I could hear Shirley and her mother in the kitchen, talking in loud whispers so that they could claim they were trying to be quiet. I didn’t know if I could get up the oomph to be polite this morning. I didn’t know if I could face Mrs. Krapansky flipping through the newspaper with her furrowed dark red nails, the shape of her toes showing through the worn leather of her slippers. Each time she turned a page she’d lick her dry finger. Turn, lick. Turn, lick.

  And today, Shirley would have told her mother that I almost messed up the line last night. Not to mention the crack about her age. Shirley was twenty-six and thought she was over the hill. No confidence, no brains. All she had was a mother with her hands at her back, pushing.

  I sat up. Hell to pay. No question about it.

  “She acts all high and mighty and sneaks around behind her boyfriend’s back. And him in the service and everything! I swear to you, it lit-rally makes me sick.”

  I felt bored already; I knew every step of what was going to happen next, how I’d have to go into that kitchen and pretend I hadn’t heard, maybe hum on my way to make tea, ignore it when Mrs. Krapansky complained about the cost of sugar. And then the remarks would begin, little pellets of contempt, putting me in my place.

  I got up and stretched, a dancer’s stretch. I could feel Shirley watching from the kitchen so I held it, knowing I was pulling my nightgown up my legs, almost posing now, because my figure was better than Shirley’s, and Shirley knew it, too.

  “You’d better get that bedding straightened up quick today. I’ve got guests coming later this morning,” Mrs. Krapansky said.

  Guests. Please. That meant Mrs. Maloney from next door. I yawned as I made my way to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and hair, then packed away the brushes and my things in the little pouch I’d bought at the five-and-dime. Shirley had given me one drawer in her dresser and a tiny space in the closet. I packed quickly and pulled my best cardigan on, along with my navy skirt, the most becoming one I had. I wriggled into high heels.

  Then I walked out and laid the key and ten dollars on the kitchen table.

  “If you think you can just walk out of here —” Mrs. Krapansky said, her potato nose glowing red. “Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

  It was easy enough to keep going, right out the door and down the stairs. It was when I hit the sidewalk that I lost my nerve. I looked down at my cheap suitcase with its broken latch. Everything I owned was in it, and it wasn’t much. The chill wind twined around my ankles, and my legs already felt cold in my nylon stockings.

  I only had one place to go. But maybe that made it harder to take the first step toward it.

  I woke up
alone the next day in fresh, flowered sheets. I sat down at the kitchen table with the yellow legs. The sun pooled on the tabletop, just the way I’d known it would. In one of those dramatic changes of weather that seemed to happen all the time in Manhattan, the October day felt like spring. The wind had blown the gray clouds out to sea, and when I threw open a window I was sure I could smell the river. It reminded me of home, but that was all right today. I was the product of rivers —you couldn’t walk a half mile in Providence without bumping into one.

  Steam rising from my teacup. Buttered toast on a plate. The sweetness of being alone. The radio on, softly. Everything would be perfect if I could just stop thinking. Nate had given me Billy’s address when he’d given me the key. I’d tried three letters, one after the other, and they were sitting in front of me.

  Dear Billy,

  I guess you’ll be surprised to get this. I never thought

  I’d be

  Dear Billy,

  How is everyth

  Dear Billy,

  You’ll never guess where I am!

  I put down the pen. I’d never lied to Billy — even when I’d told him I never wanted to see him again, I had genuinely never wanted to see him again.

  And now … I’d made a promise to his father. But I hadn’t promised when I’d write to him, had I? I didn’t have to write the day I moved in. I could wait a few days to find the right words. I’d find a way to fill the letter with so much truth that one little lie wouldn’t matter.

  A pair of sneakers appeared on the fire escape stairs outside the window. The ladder came shuddering down with a clang. I flinched, spilling the tea across the letters I’d tried to write.

  A boy, tall and lanky, jumped down the last two steps. A thick book was tucked underneath his arm and he held an apple in his teeth. His gaze slid past the kitchen and then stopped. His mouth dropped open, the apple fell out, and I burst out laughing.

  I walked over, tying my robe tighter, and leaned out. I looked down at the ground, where the apple had fallen into the dirt of the scraggly yard.

  “I think I owe you lunch,” I told the boy.

  “I didn’t know the apartment was rented — it’s been empty for years.” He stammered out the words, blushing up to the tips of his ears.

  I recognized the blush. I saw it on teenage boys all the time.

  “I’m Hank,” he said.

  “I’m Kit. I just moved in yesterday,” I told him.

  The book was a textbook, American Prose. I’d left textbooks behind when I’d left home, and even though I’d hated every day of school, the book made me feel hollow, like I was missing out.

  “I study outside sometimes,” Hank said. “For the privacy.” His hair was light brown and matched his eyes perfectly.

  “Lots of brothers and sisters?” I asked. “No. Just parents.” He shrugged. “That’s enough, sometimes.”

  “So who’s the piano player?” I’d heard the music that morning, through the ceiling over my head.

  He blushed again. “Me, I guess. Is it too loud? I can —”

  “No, it’s nice.”

  There was a pause. I began to feel stupid, standing there in my nightgown and robe. “I go to Stuy. You?”

  It sounded like another language at first — igotastyu?

  “Stuyvesant High?” he said. “I’m a senior.”

  I was used to people thinking I was older than I was. But my face was scrubbed clean, and I must’ve looked my age. A girl in high school. I was suddenly annoyed at him, at his earnestness, his sneakers, his book.

  “I just moved,” I said. “From Rhode Island. I’m not in high school; I work. And I’ve got things to do, so …”

  “Sure.” Embarrassed, he started back up the ladder, then paused. “With the move and all … do you and your parents … I mean, do you need help with anything?”

  “I don’t need any help,” I said, then shut the window.

  Empty for years, he’d said. I found myself wondering: If Nate had bought the building as an investment, why hadn’t he rented it out?

  He called that night about five minutes after I got home. Almost as if he’d timed how long it would take me to get back from the theater.

  “Did you send the letter?” he asked.

  “You said you wouldn’t call.”

  “Did you send the letter?”

  “You said you wouldn’t call.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “Exactly. You said you wouldn’t call.”

  The standoff. I leaned against the wall, the receiver against my ear. I couldn’t believe I was talking to an adult like this. I’d only been here a month, but New York had sure taught me not to waste time being polite.

  He let the silence hang there stiffly, frozen clothes on a line. I looked down at the carpet. The pretty carpet that wasn’t mine, that I really didn’t have a right to dig my bare toes into.

  “I haven’t sent it yet,” I said. “It’s not so easy. I can’t find the words.”

  “Tell him you’re here. He’ll have to leave soon, before he’s shipped out. If you don’t mail it now, he won’t come.”

  But I don’t know if I want him to come.

  Inside me lived a million versions of yes — all of them for Billy. Part of me couldn’t refuse him anything. Part of me was scared of him. But all of me loved him.

  I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no. Quietly, I put down the phone.

  It wasn’t until the next week, tired and worn out after the final performance of That Girl From Scranton!, that I sat down at the table again, in my stage makeup and robe. It had turned cold again, and I had a blanket wrapped around me. It was one in the morning.

  Dear Billy,

  I don’t know what the right thing is. All I know is that it shouldn’t have ended like that. I felt the breath go out of me when I heard that you’d enlisted. I don’t think I’ve breathed since.

  Here’s my news. I left, too. I dropped out of school. (My teachers probably threw a party.) I moved to New York City. It was hard at first, but I actually got a job in a Broadway musical! Now I have a nice apartment on the East Side. I can walk to Times Square or the river. I’m right near the new United Nations headquarters.

  Everything we talked about — I’m living it. I’m still not sure whether talking about it was better.

  Love,

  Kit

  I added my phone number and address, then put my coat on over my nightgown. I walked to the corner and mailed the letter that night, afraid that if I waited, I would tear it up.

  Three

  Providence, Rhode Island

  September 1950

  Jamie didn’t come home that night. Da was furious. He banged on my door and asked me where my brother was and I said I didn’t know. Muddie looked over at me, scared, and I only shrugged. I hadn’t confided in my sister since I was four years old. I’d learned the hard way that whatever I’d done or felt would be too big for Muddie to hold, like an overstuffed grocery sack that kept spilling oranges. Only it would be my secrets dropping to the floor.

  My face in the mirror looked wrecked. I had cried so hard that my eyes were swollen. I had gotten sick last night in the parking lot. One of the waiters had brought me a napkin dunked in ice water to clean my face.

  I didn’t know how I would get dressed and go through this day.

  Last night, Jeff Toland had come to, foggy and still drunk and lying flat out on the rainy pavement. Sammy and the waiters helped him into the kitchen. He kept asking for a doctor, or for the cops, and they kept saying they’d called them, but they hadn’t yet. They were putting ice on his nose while he threatened to sue the entire city of Providence.

  Nate arrived as Jeff was sipping Scotch for the pain. He came with two big men I didn’t recognize, who took Jeff’s agent off to sit at the bar. Nate and Jeff sat talking in the kitchen, and I knew everything would be all right when Nate put his arm around Jeff’s shoulder.

  “What happened with your brother last ni
ght?” Da asked me when I finally had to come out and face him. My father was a mild man, but when he was in a temper, you didn’t want to be near him.

  Muddie hovered in the background, already dressed for church in her blue skirt and white sweater, her strawberry blond hair brushed and shining. Out of all of us, she was the only one who still thought missing Mass was a mortal sin.

  I didn’t say anything, but Da closed his eyes and sighed. “I told you that no good would come of it. You’ve cried so many tears for that boy, it’s a wonder we don’t have a fourth ocean.”

  “Sixth,” Muddie said.

  “Oh, please, just leave me alone, the both of you,” I said.

  “Listen, Kitty girl, I’ve left you alone, and look what’s happened. You get your heart broken, just like —”

  The pounding on the door startled us all. Da swiveled. “Is that him?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Open the door, Muddie,” Da said.

  Muddie crossed slowly in her stocking feet and opened the door. Nate Benedict strode in, hatless, his face red.

  “It’s on your head, Jimmy!” he shouted. “It’s on your head, I’m telling you. It’s your fault they did it.”

  “Did what?” Da turned his guileless blue gaze on Nate. “What are you talking about? I don’t know anything except my daughter’s crying her eyes out for your boy, and it’s not the first time, either.”

  “They enlisted. Billy and Jamie. Last night.”

  This was not what any of us were expecting to hear.

  “Jamie’s underage —” Da started.

  “Well, apparently he was able to convince them he’s nineteen.” Nate shook his finger at Da. “This is his fault. It’s your pansy of a son, wanting to be around other boys, and dragging my Billy along …”