When We Were Enemies: A Novel(15)
“’Bout time, girly,” he grumbles, and I mutter an apology, not even offended at his judgmental inflection. Pauly Jones, the thirtysomething piano player unable to enlist because he lost a leg in a combine accident when he was a kid, winks at me. It’s the reassurance I need. I run a flat palm over my hair and turn to the microphone with a smile.
As the words flow out, gliding over my punch-coated throat and likely red-stained tongue, I feel her arrive—Miss Snow. My nerves calm; the sixty or so sets of eyes on me make me feel like being wrapped up in a warm blanket—the opposite of how I feel when I get attention offstage.
During slow songs like this, the hostesses allow the boys to hold them a little tighter than the manual suggests, and Carly Tawny, our senior hostess, resident mother figure, and my kinda-sorta voice teacher, turns a blind eye and goes into the kitchen.
As I croon to the slowly swaying crowd, I look for Tom. He’s leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, staring right at me, which sends an odd thrill through my body in a curiously enjoyable way.
As the song ends, the crowd applauds, and I step back from the microphone, looking toward Tom’s towering figure. Seeing my interest, he peels his body away from the wall and takes a step toward the stage. He looks like he wants to say something, and I want to know what it is.
But I won’t find out yet.
Because when the slow song comes to an end, I call out, “Lets pick it up a little, boys!” like I always do at this point in the night. “Shoo-Shoo Baby” starts to play. I sway to the beat, holding on to the microphone stand, and Tom settles back into his place on the wall. I can see him, and he can see me.
I’m onstage for an hour, and during that time, I sing the fifteen or so songs listed on my crib sheet. I dance and joke around with Tony as a part of a small bit we improvise from week to week. I banter with the soldiers in between numbers, ask where they’re from, tell little jokes.
When I’m onstage, the time goes by in a flash. I close out with the sultry, heartfelt ballad “We’ll Meet Again.” If there were any wallflowers before, they’re gone. And when voices from the swaying mass join in at the chorus, I blink back tears like I do every week, even though my father and sister are safe at home and no soldier has claimed my heart.
One thing both Vivian Snow and Vivian Santini agree on—war is terrifying, and many of these uniformed men won’t return from it.
The music fades, and my tears recede. I give a slight bow and a wave.
“Thank you and good night.”
The applause swells, and I gesture to the band so they get their share of the praise. The band will play a second set after a short break, and the men will trickle out and return to base in shifts. The girls have an obligation to stay until the end of the dance to guarantee enough dance partners and to add to their recorded service hours.
I can’t leave either. Though I’m paid a small fee for my performance each Saturday, I spend the rest of my time here as a volunteer, so I follow the same rules of conduct. But Carly’s given me permission to freshen up after my sets each week in a quiet spot in the kitchen where I can powder my nose and get a bite to eat and maybe a drink of water away from the heat and the crowd.
I skirt the always-congested refreshment table. A few servicemen tip their hats or give me a shy compliment, but most watch from a distance as I disappear through the set of swinging doors. I find Carly inside, arranging a platter of sandwiches and cookies in a pretty, geometric pattern.
“You were killer-diller out there, Viv. You’ve been practicing your runs; I can tell. And your breath control was banger. Everyone was on that dance floor. You know; I get asked every week how we ended up with a famous star here in Edinburgh.”
I’ve been singing in the back room of Carly’s apartment every Thursday night for a year. She was a music teacher at an elementary school before she got married, and though she’s not a professional, she’s helped me progress as a performer. I pay her back by babysitting a few nights a month. She’s a young widow, and though there are more and more of those these days, she’s been alone for longer than she was married. I look up to her for that—she’s a strong and independent woman. And at thirty-two, she’s more of a parental figure to me than my own mother.
“Ha, famous,” I laugh, stealing a triangle-shaped egg-salad sandwich on white bread and a cookie.
“You don’t know how many boys moon after you, Vivian. I gotta remind them over and over again that you’re a hostess and can’t date any of them. Otherwise, you’d have a line at your door.”
“My father would chase them all off with his shotgun. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise? Fighting Italians in Europe and on the home front.” I take a bite, grateful to have something in my stomach, even if it’s void of flavor.
Carly laughs as she opens the door of one of the refrigerated units in the back of the kitchen. I hear the clank of the Coca-Cola bottle before I see it.
“Here. I hid this for you. Thought you might be thirsty after your performance.”
“Oh, Carly! Thank you!” My mouth waters. She pops off the cap and passes the bottle my way. The carbonation sizzles and snaps; little sprays escape the top and tickle my fingers when I wrap them around the cold glass.
I take a long drink, almost too fast to even taste the syrupy cola. I know it’s unladylike and that papà thinks that all sugary drinks are poison. He’s always pushing watered-down wine on us instead of soft drinks. After smelling it on my mother’s breath for so much of my childhood, I can hardly stand the taste of wine. He thought it would cure her mental ailments, but it only made them far worse. Now the only time I drink wine is at Communion.