Read Online Ten Cents a Dance by Christine Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christine Fletcher
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on my feet.
"Your lips are practically blue," she said. "Eighteen dollars a week won't do us any good if you catch your death of cold."
My lips were blue because I'd scrubbed off my makeup before coming into the flat. Like all the plumbing in the building, the sink in the hall toilet had only cold water. When it got icy outside, so did the tap.
Well, I wouldn't have that problem anymore. I sipped my chocolate and thought about telling Ma that starting tomorrow, she wouldn't have to sit up for me.
In the end, I kept quiet. Maybe something would come to me by morning.
. . .
Nothing did. All I knew was, if I ever saw Art Dobbins again, I'd throw him a punch so hard that the trumpet player—what was his name, Ozzie?—would think he had ringside seats at a prize fight.
But that didn't help me any.
In the kitchen, Ma called good morning from behind two clotheslines sagging with clean, dry laundry. I ducked behind them and kissed her. She was dressed already; Betty must have helped her before going to school.
"There's oatmeal on the stove," Ma said. Cheerful, the way she always used to be in the mornings, the way she hadn't been in a long time. "Oh, and put the iron on while you're there, will you?" She unpinned one of Betty's blouses, folded it in half and dropped it in the laundry basket.
I spooned oatmeal into a bowl, chucked a little sugar over the top. Then lifted the iron out of the cupboard and set the heavy metal triangle on the stovetop to heat.
"I can't tell you, Ruby, how excited everyone is that you're a telephone operator. Mr. Maczarek said—"
The bowl slipped from my fingers and thudded to the counter. I grabbed it just before it spun off the edge. "You told Mr. Maczarek? Who else did you tell?"
"Well—not so many people. Mrs. Dudek, and Mrs. Artym upstairs, and Rose Terasek when the vegetable man came by . . . why, what's wrong? Why shouldn't I?"
"Nothing. It's just . . . " I carried the bowl to the table. A bedsheet hung between us and I was glad for it. "Ma, this telephone operator thing. It . . . it might not work out."
"Not work out?" The bedsheet twitched aside. I sat down quick, mashing at the oatmeal with my spoon, so that I didn't have to see the disappointment on her face. "Why? Did you . . . " Even without looking I knew she was peering at my eye, where the St. Augustine girl had socked me. "You didn't get into another fight, did you?"
"No! Of course not. It's just . . . " I laid my forehead in my hands. It wasn't only the gown, or even losing the job. It was that Ma's worries had somehow become my worries, and I was tired of it. I thought I'd found the solution but instead, we were in the same dumb mess as before. The back rent and owing money to the grocers. Bean soup. I didn't want to have to think about any of it anymore. But I had to.
"There's all these . . . I don't know, wires and . . . and things, and the other girls are so much better at it than me, and I just don't . . . I don't fit in, I guess." Which was the biggest lie of all, because I did fit in, I could, all I needed was a proper dress and I could show them, Peggy and Yvonne and all of them . . . and those beautiful dressing tables, each one with its own mirror, lightbulbs on either side, the most glamorous thing I'd ever seen, and now I'd never sit at one again. It was just like Paulie— something perfect dangled in front of me, then snatched away for no reason. At the thought, my throat closed up as if it was a rag in a pair of hands, wrung hard and squeezed . . . "And now Mr. Maczarek knows, and Mrs. Dudek and everyone, and they'll know I couldn't do it and it's all I'll hear everywhere I go for the rest of my life!" I picked up the spoon and stabbed it into the oatmeal.
"Ruby. Ruby! Look at me."
Ma's face wavered through my tears. She dragged a handkerchief off the line and handed it to me. I blew my nose.
"Did they fire you?" she asked.
I shook my head. I rubbed my knuckles, felt the scabs rough under my fingers.
"Your lips are practically blue," she said. "Eighteen dollars a week won't do us any good if you catch your death of cold."
My lips were blue because I'd scrubbed off my makeup before coming into the flat. Like all the plumbing in the building, the sink in the hall toilet had only cold water. When it got icy outside, so did the tap.
Well, I wouldn't have that problem anymore. I sipped my chocolate and thought about telling Ma that starting tomorrow, she wouldn't have to sit up for me.
In the end, I kept quiet. Maybe something would come to me by morning.
. . .
Nothing did. All I knew was, if I ever saw Art Dobbins again, I'd throw him a punch so hard that the trumpet player—what was his name, Ozzie?—would think he had ringside seats at a prize fight.
But that didn't help me any.
In the kitchen, Ma called good morning from behind two clotheslines sagging with clean, dry laundry. I ducked behind them and kissed her. She was dressed already; Betty must have helped her before going to school.
"There's oatmeal on the stove," Ma said. Cheerful, the way she always used to be in the mornings, the way she hadn't been in a long time. "Oh, and put the iron on while you're there, will you?" She unpinned one of Betty's blouses, folded it in half and dropped it in the laundry basket.
I spooned oatmeal into a bowl, chucked a little sugar over the top. Then lifted the iron out of the cupboard and set the heavy metal triangle on the stovetop to heat.
"I can't tell you, Ruby, how excited everyone is that you're a telephone operator. Mr. Maczarek said—"
The bowl slipped from my fingers and thudded to the counter. I grabbed it just before it spun off the edge. "You told Mr. Maczarek? Who else did you tell?"
"Well—not so many people. Mrs. Dudek, and Mrs. Artym upstairs, and Rose Terasek when the vegetable man came by . . . why, what's wrong? Why shouldn't I?"
"Nothing. It's just . . . " I carried the bowl to the table. A bedsheet hung between us and I was glad for it. "Ma, this telephone operator thing. It . . . it might not work out."
"Not work out?" The bedsheet twitched aside. I sat down quick, mashing at the oatmeal with my spoon, so that I didn't have to see the disappointment on her face. "Why? Did you . . . " Even without looking I knew she was peering at my eye, where the St. Augustine girl had socked me. "You didn't get into another fight, did you?"
"No! Of course not. It's just . . . " I laid my forehead in my hands. It wasn't only the gown, or even losing the job. It was that Ma's worries had somehow become my worries, and I was tired of it. I thought I'd found the solution but instead, we were in the same dumb mess as before. The back rent and owing money to the grocers. Bean soup. I didn't want to have to think about any of it anymore. But I had to.
"There's all these . . . I don't know, wires and . . . and things, and the other girls are so much better at it than me, and I just don't . . . I don't fit in, I guess." Which was the biggest lie of all, because I did fit in, I could, all I needed was a proper dress and I could show them, Peggy and Yvonne and all of them . . . and those beautiful dressing tables, each one with its own mirror, lightbulbs on either side, the most glamorous thing I'd ever seen, and now I'd never sit at one again. It was just like Paulie— something perfect dangled in front of me, then snatched away for no reason. At the thought, my throat closed up as if it was a rag in a pair of hands, wrung hard and squeezed . . . "And now Mr. Maczarek knows, and Mrs. Dudek and everyone, and they'll know I couldn't do it and it's all I'll hear everywhere I go for the rest of my life!" I picked up the spoon and stabbed it into the oatmeal.
"Ruby. Ruby! Look at me."
Ma's face wavered through my tears. She dragged a handkerchief off the line and handed it to me. I blew my nose.
"Did they fire you?" she asked.
I shook my head. I rubbed my knuckles, felt the scabs rough under my fingers.
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