When We Were Enemies: A Novel(53)

“Miss Snow?” The mystery man steps out in a brown tweed suit and dark tie with a matching fedora. I let out a small yelp and then cover my mouth, embarrassed.

“Sorry to frighten you.” His lined face makes me certain he’s seen more in life than what Edinburgh, Indiana, has to offer. “I tried to find you inside but got shooed out by a stern, matronly woman.” I immediately know he’s speaking of Mrs. Portia.

“Yes,” I laugh into the back of my hand, no bus in sight yet. “Mrs. Portia runs a tight ship.”

“She’d be a right-fit yeoman; that’s for certain.” He has a city-like clip to his speech.

“You a sailor?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Eh, in my youth. Too old for that now.” He waves like he’s shoving those memories into the past where they belong.

“I was gonna say, we don’t get many sailors here.” I take a step toward the crowded bus stop, and he follows.

“I wouldn’t think so.”

The bus turns onto East Main Cross Street, and I pick up my pace.

“I’m sorry; this is my bus. I must go . . .”

“Hold up one moment, Miss Snow, if you would. I’ve got something important to talk to you about.” He’s out of breath and struggles to match my pace.

“I can’t miss it. I’m sorry.” I’m starting to panic as the crowd on the street fills the bus to the brim.

“Forget about the bus. We’ll get you a cab. Give me a minute of your time.” He’s stopped now and searching through his coat pocket. He retrieves a business card and holds it out. “I work for MCA. We’re booking talent for USO Camp Shows, and I’ve been looking for some fresh faces like yours. I saw your moves on the dance floor, and that was a nice set onstage. There’s a casting call next month in Indianapolis. I want you there.”

I stare at the card, the bus doors creaking closed behind me. This is the open call I’ve dreamed of attending, the agency that could potentially transform my career.

“MCA? As in Jules Stein? Or . . . uh . . . Benny Goodman and . . .”

“The Dorsey brothers, Guy Lombardo, Kay Kyser. Yes. All of them.”

I take his card with trembling fingers, admiring the raised letters printed on stiff off-white paper. The bus engine revs as it drives away.

ARCHIE LOMBARDO

MUSIC CORPORATION OF AMERICA

TALENT SCOUT

“Mr. Lombardo . . .”

“Archie. Call me Archie.”

“I’m just the singer. You’d need to talk to Frank Broward, our bandleader. I’m sure he’d be very interested.”

Archie tilts his head and takes out a cigarette, no longer out of breath but looking overheated. He lights it and then takes a deep inhale before letting out a cloud of smoke that catches in the streetlight like fog, and then he spits a stray piece of tobacco into the street.

“The band ain’t invited, doll. That’s for you.” He points at the card. “I put the times on the back for the call. Wear your prettiest dress and bring a nice photo. Anything will do if it’s wholesome, but you seem to got that act down already.”

“Act?” I ask, turning the card over, wondering if someone’s setting me up for a big joke.

“That little ‘pure as the driven snow’ thing. It’s a compliment. I promise.”

It’s not exactly the praise he claims it is, but I’m too busy taking in all the numbers and words on the card to care. I already know the audition is a little less than a month away. It’s at an address in an unfamiliar part of Indianapolis. I’d have to get the car and the day off. I’d need to save up gas money and fix up one of my dresses to look professional enough for the call. I’d need a photograph and an excuse to give papà. I’d need . . . a miracle to happen.

My hopes deflate, and I slide the card into my purse without another word.

“I can count on you being there, then? Right?”

“I’ll try,” I say, and it’s the closest I can get to the truth without lying. “I’ll try, but I probably won’t make it” is what I should say.

“Listen, missy. You’ve got it. You know what I mean by ‘it,’ right? You’re cute and got nice legs, and you could model, sure, but you’ve also got something on that stage, and not many girls your age have it.” He points to the dance hall with his cigarette. “You have all those boys dreaming about you tonight and all those gals wishing they could do what you do. That’s one room of people in one little town. One day it could be the whole country or the whole world; you know that, right?”

It’s like all my fantasies have come to life, but I know this isn’t a dream because in a dream I would say yes unequivocally. I wouldn’t have problems with mothers or fathers or expectations or money. Instead, I watch the smoke from his cigarette twist into the sky, drifting away like a dream upon waking.

“I . . . I better go. Thank you for this.” I hold up the card, the most priceless item I’ve ever had in my possession and possibly the most useless.

“Wait. I promised you a taxi.” He points to the taxi stand across from the bus stop. The idea of riding in a cab anywhere sounds so cosmopolitan, but I don’t know how I’d explain it to my father.

“Oh, no thank you. But it was nice meeting you, Mr. Lombardo,” I say, shaking his hand lightly.