Searching for Grace Kelly (30 page)

 

He was going to kill her.

Opening her compact in the ladies' room, it crossed Vivian's mind that not only had she almost been murdered, but that once again she was right back where she'd started, in the very same ladies' room she had retched in the day Act had shown up for his reference. She pressed the powder puff into the beige makeup and slowly began applying it to her swollen cheek. The welt, red and purple speckled with yellow, sent pain scorching through her face as the pad made contact, and she winced. She'd have to endure it. She couldn't sell cigarettes with a huge bruise on her face. Luckily she had the long-sleeved dress on tonight. No one would see her arm.

She'd tried to run. She knew that nothing good would come by going through that door in the Bronx, Nicky on the other side of it, but in her shock at seeing his face she'd hesitated, and before she knew what was happening, he'd pulled her in and slammed the door. The words—evil, masochistic, foul—had come first, a low growl that quickly accelerated into violent screams. Vivian had no idea if there were other people left inside the office, whether there was another young woman now cowering somewhere down the hall, shivering in fear in a dressing gown and wondering if she was going to be next.

Nicky hauled back and punched her right in the face, sending her careening across an examination table and tumbling into a corner. Vivian had seen raw anger up close, witnessed it more than once in her own house growing up, but never in her life had she seen such ferocious hate in a man's eyes. As she put her hands to the floor, trying to get to her feet, he'd yanked her up by the arm and pinned her to the wall.

“You think you were going to get away with it, you dumb British bitch? Huh?! You were going to kill my bambino, my son? Fuck you! You think you can do this and not answer to me? To God?!” He shook her violently, his breath hot and acrid on her face. “You're lucky you're carrying my precious child. Because if not, I would
kill
you right here, right this minute!”

He'd raised his hand to strike her again, and she'd yelled out the only thing she could think to yell out. “No, Nicky! The baby! You'll hurt the baby!”

His fist was still in midair, his body shaking with rage, when he shoved her away, then turned and upended the exam table, sending it crashing into a wall full of supplies that clanged and clattered onto the floor. Vivian had stayed still with her back against the wall, watching a pair of forceps spinning on the floor, like a child's top. Exhaustion, fear, defeat, hopelessness, and regret heaped, one on top of the other on top of the other, inside her, and she slowly felt herself sliding back down onto the floor. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so lost.

Minutes passed—it could have been one, it could have been ten, she couldn't recall now—and he had finally bent down in front of her, reached out to stroke her arm, moved her hair out of her face, gently. He'd slowly pushed past her weak resistance and taken her in his arms. “Shhhh, shhhh, honey,” he said, stroking her head. “Ruby, why do you do this? Why must you make me so angry? We are going to have a baby. A little boy. We'll call him Nicola. I know it's a boy. A father knows these things. It's going to be great. You'll see. We are going to have a wonderful life together. We're going to be a wonderful family.”

Vivian fantasized about killing him, right there on the spot. Of breaking free and finding a knife and stabbing him right through the heart. But she was too weak, and too damaged, and too afraid, and so she'd simply remained limp in his arms, like a sack of flour, until she could compose herself enough to whisper the words she knew she must. “Of course, Nicky. I was just frightened. I'm sorry. I love you.”

As she now took a hard look at herself in the bathroom mirror, Vivian surveyed her face like a detective. You could still see the faint outline of the bruise, but in the club lighting of the Stork it would be okay. She had considered calling out sick or asking one of the other girls to switch days. But that would have been worse, made Nicky even more paranoid. He'd be in tonight to check on her. She was safer inside the club, around other people, acting as if all was well.

She studied herself again, harder this time.

What are you going to do?

She would call Act. Yes, call Act. She would take his money and get out.
Nicky is going to follow me everywhere
. But he couldn't follow her inside the Barbizon. She'd get Act to give the cash to Laura at the magazine, and then Laura would give it to her inside the Barbizon.
Okay, okay, this is good. This is good. This could work
. She'd dye her hair, change her appearance just enough in case Nicky had the hotel staked out. And then one night she would calmly walk out with some other girls and get into a cab to Port Authority, then on a bus going to anywhere. Because now there was only one way out.

Run.

She applied lipstick, put a brush through her hair, then threw everything into her bag and walked out of the ladies' room.

She heard crying.

A half dozen people were sitting around a table by the dance floor. Barbara was sobbing into a handkerchief, as were several other girls. Vivian caught Bennie the busboy's somber eyes.

“What is it? What's happened?” she asked.

“It's Act,” Bennie said. “He's been murdered.”

Laura had known things were bad when Dolly begged her to have lunch at Cortile on West Forty-Third Street. In the five months they'd lived together, she'd recognized the pattern: When she was happy, Dolly liked to eat. When she was sad or upset, Dolly liked to eat more. A
lot
more. When the feasting didn't work anymore, her dark moods got even darker, with curses and tears of frustration when a dress zipper wouldn't close or hose developed a run before she'd slid them up her leg. Laura had suggested—gently—that Dolly join her for the pre-work swims in the Barbizon pool and had been met with a reaction that registered somewhere between incredulity and horror. Cortile's specialty was fried chicken and waffles, and its location only a few blocks from the Katie Gibbs school made it a particularly friendly port for Dolly when she was literally feeding her demons.

Dolly had looked so awful—drawn, disheveled—when she'd walked back into their room after her meeting with Jack in Central Park that Laura worried that she'd been mugged. She'd been able to drag out that Jack had ended things and done so seemingly without any warning or explanation. Laura knew Dolly needed answers, answers she could only get from Jack, and had given up any hope of doing so. Instead, she had submerged herself in a sea of bread and chocolate.

I hope I'm doing the right thing
, Laura thought as the waiter slid her chef's salad onto the table.

“So, what's going on at
Millie
today?” Dolly asked. Laura had once casually mentioned that girls inside the magazine called
Mademoiselle
“Millie,” and Dolly, thrilled to know such a frilly state secret, took constant joy in now referring to it by its nickname. “You working on any big stories?” She picked up the syrup, slathering her plate of waffles.

“I don't get to work on ‘big stories,' you know that,” Laura said. “I get to transcribe notes and run errands and make carbon copies and deliver film, and occasionally write a very brilliant caption about a hat.”

“Yes,” Dolly said, stabbing at her plate. “Well, I certainly understand what it's like to be stuck.”

Laura brushed by it. “But it's been good today. Mrs. Blackwell is in Paris touring some of the fashion houses, so the office is pretty quiet.”

Too quiet, in fact. She had too much time to think, too much time to wonder. Box's proposal popped up everywhere she turned: in the bathroom mirror in the morning when she was brushing her teeth, in store windows, at the bottom of her coffee cup. There was no escape.

Why are you trying to escape?

Earlier in the week, he'd casually mentioned that he'd been to Car­tier, a sure sign that her engagement ring was forthcoming, and with it the need for a definitive answer. But the more she'd thought about it, the more certain she was becoming in what that answer would be. There was a difference between what you want out of the world and what the world is prepared to offer, she now understood. It was folly to look past the wonderful in search of the exceptional. Life was exceptional if you decided to make it so, not because someone handed it to you. Whenever she was with Box, the world was a beautiful and interesting place, one where he was thrilled to play tour guide. She had yet to tell him she loved him. Not because she didn't, but because of her fear of what would happen if she did. That by risking her heart with Box in the way she had been unwilling to with Pete, she, too, could end up sitting like this, burying her sorrows, perhaps not in sugar but in something far worse. She was, after all, the daughter of a woman who never refused a fourth Sazerac sling. Or a fifth.

This was neither the time nor the place to discuss all of that. She wouldn't pour salt into Dolly's wound. Instead, she hoped to apply some salve. Because what Dolly needed was a proper closing act, one she was never going to find in a plate of self-pity and waffles.

Laura clicked open her purse, took out a folded piece of paper, slid it across the table. “Here.”

Dolly was still chewing on a piece of chicken. She took a long drag of her Coke. “What's this?”

Laura exhaled. “It's Jack's address in Yonkers.”

Dolly stared at the piece of paper like it was radioactive. “Where did you get this?”

“Everyone has to file a tax return. Even Jack.”

“Tax returns aren't public record.”

“Box has a friend who works for the IRS. He called in a favor.”

Dolly threw her arms up. “You told
Box
about this? Oh God, why not give an exclusive to
Confidential
? I'm so humiliated.”

“I told Box I needed a favor for a friend. That's all. He doesn't know that ‘John Lyons' and your Jack are the same person. Remember, they've never even met. The point is, you need to get to the bottom of this or you'll just keep torturing yourself. Not to mention eat yourself into an early grave.” Laura reached across the table, took Dolly's hand in hers. “Go see him. Make him tell you what happened. Tell him you're not leaving without an explanation. You're owed that.” Her mind flashed to Pete, to the explanation she had owed
him
. “You're owed knowing that this was not your fault.”

“How do you know this wasn't my fault?”

“Because I know you. You are the sweetest, loveliest—”

“Please stop. I can't take the ‘you're great' speech right now.” A tear splashed down her cheek.

“Don't let him do this to you. Find out what happened, and then walk away.”

Dolly gripped Laura's hand tightly and with the other swept aside her plate and slid the piece of paper closer. “Okay, Nancy Drew,” she said, nodding. “I'll go get me some answers.”

 

The bus rocked, almost like a baby in a cradle, as it headed toward Yonkers. Dolly sat in the next-to-last row, thankful that it was only half full. Not too many people had occasion to leave New York City for Yonkers on a Saturday morning, and for this she was thankful.

She'd thought of putting on a nice dress (“You're all ‘Doll-ed' up,” he used to chide her when she turned up particularly coiffed for one of their dates) but had ultimately settled for a blouse and simple blue jeans under her coat. They'd had a bit of an Indian summer spell of late, a welcome change from the last few chilly weeks, and she hoped the weather might stay temperate through Thanksgiving, when she'd be back in Utica with the entire teeming Hickey clan.

I had actually thought maybe Jack would be coming home with me
, she mused with a twang of bitterness. Once—just once—she wanted to be the one bringing home the boyfriend.

But it never happens. Laura doesn't want me to talk badly about myself, think badly about myself, but how could she possibly understand? She's about to marry a handsome millionaire. Oh, she says she hasn't given him an answer yet, but she's going to, and we all know what it's going to be, what it always is for girls like her. And she'll have her beautiful mansion and gorgeous kids and a maid and throw elegant dinner parties, and I'll be sitting in an office somewhere, taking dictation, watching another guy send gardenias to some other girl
.

I don't want to be like this. I am so tired of being like this.

Why am I like this?

The rocking was making her drowsy. She felt her lids growing heavier.
If only I could fall asleep
, she thought.
If only I could fall asleep and have a wonderful dream, and have the dream be my life, and I could never wake up and then live in the dream and I would never have to be tired again.

Because she
was
tired. Tired of always smiling, tired of being the one who was always gossiped to and never gossiped about. She would never look like Laura or Vivian or Agnes Ford, and that was okay. Most girls didn't look like them. Ruth didn't. Miriam didn't. But the Ruths and Miriams didn't seem to mind like she did, didn't seem to have that burning jealousy flaring up all the time inside. The one she paved over with a smile made for S.R. toothpaste.

And it wasn't as if she had chased Box Barnes. She had gone after Jack, big, lumbering Jack, who had nice teeth but also a flat head and bad arches, and who always wore his pants too high at the waist. Over and over and over, she had searched every moment between them since their first meeting, trying to find out what had gone wrong, what she had done or what she hadn't done, tried to pinpoint the exact second when they'd gotten knocked off course. Laura had been right: She needed answers. She wouldn't depart Yonkers without them.