I’ve found no way to excuse his anger in line that day, or his behavior during our dinner. Yet I find his sudden absence painful. His mute punishment hurts far more than the raging fury of my father’s explosions. I’d choose papà’s brazen fire over Tom’s silent frozen wasteland.
I’m just as confused about Trombello. But I don’t let myself think about him. I keep my feelings locked away like a box in a dark closet.
But Tom doesn’t fit in a box. He’s unruly. He pulls me too close on the dance floor; he begs me for dates he knows I can’t accept; he meets me at my bus stop and finds me in line at the internment camp instead of staying safely on base. He’s made himself impossible to ignore—and then he disappeared without warning. No wooden crate or steel strongbox could keep him; I’m sure of it. And that only makes me think of him more.
If he shows up at the dance tonight, I’ll perform in front of him as though he’s no more special than the other uniformed men staring up at me. Perhaps he’ll remember why I first caught his eye and thaw out of his deep freeze. Or, if I’m very lucky, when I see him, I won’t get that flip in my stomach that makes me desperate for the warmth of his attention.
As I approach the burgundy door in the brick-lined alley next to the dance hall, I hold my arms away from my sides to keep the perspiration from soaking into the cotton of my summer dress. I’m one minute late. When I knock, Pauly, the piano player, opens the squealing door, and relief comes over his face.
“There you are, girlie. Frank was ’bout to panic. He sent me to drive out to your place to hunt you down. Where have you been?”
“Church,” I say, wiggling past his belly as he holds the door open for me. The sign-in is gone along with the senior hostess. I feel like a trapdoor has unlatched beneath me.
“Church?” he says, sounding puzzled, with a bit of outrage.
“Pauly, where’s Carly? You know, Mrs. Tawny? I need to check in.”
“Mrs. Tawny? I don’t have any clue. Only thing I’ve got a clue about is warm-ups. A whole new shipment of young’uns came into Atterbury this week, and the place is ’bout to get a whole bus full, so we need to get warmed up and playin’。”
“I don’t have my card checked yet.” I hold up my hostess card. The only way a girl is allowed to dance in this hall is with a signed card.
“I’m not so worried ’bout you dancing as I am you singing,” he says, basically chasing me into the familiar hall. Fans do little to cool the already oven-like heat of the room. Girls with perfectly curled hair and pressed dresses set up chairs and arrange plates of sandwiches and cookies on the refreshment table. The windows are open, and there’s a slight breeze that’ll mean nothing in a few hours when the room is a mass of humanity.
“There you are,” Carly says, lifting a giant punch bowl to allow a newer girl to straighten the tablecloth underneath.
“Am I too late?” I ask, holding up my card. Carly wipes her hands on her apron and sighs.
“Too late?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you mean. Got you on my list already.”
“You got me on your list?” I repeat slowly.
“Yup, right here.” She holds up the sign-in sheet, pointing to the last name on the list that looks a lot like, but definitely is not, my handwriting. She’s giving me a pass, and all I have to do is play along, and she’ll sign my card later on the sly.
“Oh goodness, I’m so forgetful,” I say fairly convincingly, and return the card to my purse. Carly slips her arm through mine to guide me to the coatroom where I can stash my belongings.
“Yes, you are,” she says, loud enough for the room to hear, and then more quietly asks, “Now, where were you really?”
“Church.”
“Church?” she asks with the same doubting incredulity as Pauly.
“Yes!” I hang up my things, powder my nose, and reapply my brightest red lipstick that matches the tiny red roses on my white dress. “What do all of you think I am? A heathen?”
“No. But it’s Friday night. Who goes to church on a Friday night?” She smooths my hair in a maternal gesture that reminds me of my absent mother. Frank shoves his head through the door, yelling.
“Vivian Snow, get your ass on the stage.” He’s joking but also not, and Carly’s hands go to her hips.
“Frank Broward! You watch your language,” she shouts back, and follows me out to the main hall, still talking.
“Is Tom coming tonight?”
“Get onstage, V.,” Frank orders. I’m walking quickly, but I refuse to run. The girl running from confession to the USO was Vivian Santini. Now that I’m checked in, my lips coated in Montezuma Red lipstick, and ready to step onstage, I’m Vivian Snow, and no one rushes Vivian Snow.
And Vivian Snow doesn’t get distracted by silly little problems with men.
“I don’t rightly know,” I say, trying to sound like Bette Davis in The Little Foxes as I climb up onstage and tap the mic while the band warms up behind me.
We do this every week, and I’m used to the simple sound system and the echo off the empty floors and barren walls. During our lessons, Carly always says, “A full room lies to you while an empty room tells the truth.” And she’s right.
I feel like a star when I sing to the cheers of GIs who might ship out at any moment. But when I sing to an empty room, I can’t help imagining what I’d sound like on a record or on the radio, and that’s when doubt tugs at my hem.
After sound check, I switch back to hostess duty. It’s easy to tell which soldiers are new. They take in everything like a child on their first day of school. Each batch looks younger and younger to me.
“Hello, soldier. What’s your name and where are you from?” I ask a young, wide-eyed GI with trembling hands who hasn’t stepped away from the back wall since he checked his hat. The other men are talking and laughing with each other and the hostesses, but this one seems out of place in the big room full of soldiers and pretty girls.
“I . . . I’m from Mississippi. Clinton, Mississippi,” he says with a heavy southern accent.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I say, my usual opening response. “And your name?”
“Thelwin Patterson. Though . . . though . . .” He stutters a little, and I see why he’s less social than the other men with their tongues of velvet. “My family calls me Winnie.”
I can imagine a sweet little house with a large porch and white rocking chairs as this young man walks down the dusty drive, still in uniform, a pack slung over his shoulder at the end of the war. “Winnie!” they call out, and all run to embrace him.
“Mind if I call you Winnie too, then?” I fight the instinct to adopt his accent like we’re in a scene together.
“You . . . you can call me . . . anything . . . you . . . you want,” he says.
“Don’t you want to know my name?” I say, knowing I’m flirting but seeing it as a necessary part of my job.
“S-sure do.” He’s nice, this Winnie. Young but nice and too sweet to face a line of gunfire.
Don’t think about it, I say, scolding myself.