Joe didn’t come home until a year after the war ended. “Just a bit of mopping up to do,” he wrote to us. He was stationed in Salzburg, Austria. I knew right where Salzburg was, because we’d stuck a big map on the wall in the kitchen. Everybody’s geography got better during the war. I knew where Normandy was, and the Philippines, and Anzio, Italy. I could stick a pin in them right now without hardly looking. Pin the tail on the battle, Mom used to say. And pray Joe’s not in it.
Those last months were the worst. It seemed like every day someone else’s father or husband or son came home, and there was a party in someone’s living room or backyard. When Margie’s father came home, she walked around in a glow for weeks. I almost hated her. Your father was only a private, I wanted to say. Phooey.
We didn’t talk about it, but I knew what my mom was feeling, because it was just what I was feeling. It was like Joe had been a dream.
And then, suddenly, one April morning, Joe returned, blowing in the front door with his arms full of flowers. I remember the splash of cold spring air on my cheeks, how he kept the door open and even Grandma Glad didn’t close it. All the neighbors came over to say hello and stayed until one in the morning. General Eisenhower himself couldn’t have gotten me to bed that night. I was wearing a present Joe had brought back, a bracelet that I kept twisting around on my wrist. Real gold, he said.
I never took the bracelet off, even in the bathtub. I never once thought about who’d owned it before. I was too busy pushing up the sleeves of my sweaters so everybody could see it.
Within two months of coming home, Joe had opened his first appliance store in Queens. “How do you like that?” he said. “Everybody wants to loan me money now.” Then he opened another in Brooklyn, and he was planning to open two more. Everyone wanted to buy a brand-new Bendix washer from the Spoon.
When they got married down at City Hall, a photographer was there from Life, the magazine that was on every coffee table in America. He was looking for servicemen who were tying the knot. So Joe goes right up and tells him the story, how he’d stolen Beverly Plunkett, the prettiest girl in Queens, how he was called “the Spoon” and she was called “the Dish.”
But here’s the thing: Mom never had a nickname. Joe made it up. He conjured up the headline he wanted right out of the air, like Mandrake the Magician. He sold it the way he sold appliances.
The picture was on the mantel, in a silver frame. In it they’re jumping off the third step of City Hall down to the sidewalk, arm in arm. Her blond waves are bouncing, her mouth dark with lipstick. It is in the very middle of winter, snow on the sidewalks, husbands and brothers and fathers heading off to war. But look at Beverly Spooner. Nothing ahead but blue skies. You can see it in her gleaming teeth, in the gardenia on the lapel of her camel hair coat, in the way one of her gloved hands is bunched into a fist, ready to punch Herr Hitler’s lights out if he gets in the way of her happiness.
Over their heads, the headline hollers:
AND THE DISH RAN AWAY
WITH JOE SPOON
I was there that day, at City Hall. Mom asked if I could be in the picture, too. I saw the photographer’s gaze move over me, a plain-faced nine-year-old in my plaid coat, my legs all goose-bumpy from the cold. He took the picture, but even then I knew it wouldn’t be the one they’d pick. I wasn’t a part of that glamour, that glow. In the article they didn’t even mention me. It was like Mom got married for the first time.
We’d stopped at a bar before we went. I waited outside with the corsage in a box. I felt very important. Grandma Glad had refused to come. I would be their only guest. Good-bye, Evie Plunkett, I kept saying to myself. Evie Spooner. Evie Spooner. The new name tasted like strawberry jam. I would get that, and a dad, too.
Chapter 10
In the end the Graysons came, too, and we all drove down to Delray Beach in their brand-new Cadillac. We sat on a terrace in the shade, where we could feel an ocean breeze. Everyone ordered hamburgers. I sipped on my lemonade, pretending it was a cocktail.
Mom and Peter and the Graysons kept the conversation going. All the things grown-ups talk about smashed together: the weather, would the Commies get the bomb, did you hear Fiorello LaGuardia was in a coma, Peter’s home in Oyster Bay, Long Island. You could tell he didn’t want to brag about it, because he changed the subject to the Graysons. Peter had heard of the hotel Mr. Grayson owned, the Metropole, and he said it was one of the best in New York. You could see this pleased Mr. Grayson. He was a thin man in horn-rimmed glasses who looked more like a professor than a hotel guy; he didn’t look like an easy man to win over, but Peter did it so smoothly.
As the adults talked, I couldn’t seem to punch a hole in the conversation. I couldn’t capture his attention, not like I had the night before. I felt young and stupid again, with my glass of lemonade and my brown sandals.
Joe chomped on his hamburger moodily. I’d never seen him like this, grumpy and looking old in the bright sun. When he turned to signal the waiter for another beer I could see his scalp through his hair.
“Everybody wants to just jump in a car and go these days,” Peter said. “Especially ex-GIs. I enlisted the day after graduation. I drove down to New York from New Haven.”
“Ah, a Yale man,” Mr. Grayson said.
“Then I had three years of being told what to do and where to go. Enough already. Right, Joe?”
Joe didn’t answer. He had a big bite of hamburger in his mouth.
“How about you, Tom?” Peter asked.
“4-F,” Mr. Grayson said. “Bum ticker.”
No one said anything for a minute. Back home it was the biggest shame, 4-F. Unfit for service.
“What I felt over there was, the fellows that couldn’t fight, they held the country together. They gave us something to come back to,” Peter said. “My brother John was 4-F, same as you. He did more for the war than I did. Worked as an engineer in a defense plant. All I did was slog through a couple of acres of mud. John was the real hero.” He said it seriously, giving Mr. Grayson a look of respect. Mr. Grayson’s shoulders relaxed, and Mrs. Grayson looked grateful.
Mom took a sip from her glass. “Mmm, I can’t get enough of this orange juice,” she said. “Have you ever had anything like it, Arlene?”
“Never,” Mrs. Grayson said. “They keep the best oranges for themselves down here, I guess.”
“Rats live in orange trees,” Joe said. It was the first thing he’d said in a while.
“Don’t be morbid, Joe,” Mom said.
“Who’s being morbid?” Joe asked. “They need their vitamins, just like we do.”
Mrs. Grayson laughed.
Mom hadn’t touched her hamburger. I pushed mine aside. The meat seemed heavy and ancient, something that would soon be stinking in this heat.
Tom Grayson’s forehead was shiny with sweat. “I found out why our hotel is open in the off-season,” he said. “It’s for sale.”
“You thinking of buying it, Tom?” Mrs. Grayson said, smiling.
“You think that’s so crazy?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
“Maybe not so crazy,” Peter said. “Now we’ve got the gas to get anywhere we want. Lots of folks will be traveling.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Grayson said. He sat up straighter. “And wait until all the buildings are air-cooled. That will bring the tourists.”
“I’m thinking of adding those units to my business, selling to restaurants and hotels,” Joe said. “There’s a market out there.”
“Here’s where you should be selling them,” Mr. Grayson said. He cleared his throat, as though he was just waking up. “I’m telling you, this place is due for a boom.”
“Joe here is a smart businessman,” Peter said. “He knows when to grab the big chance. Right, Joe?”
Joe didn’t answer Peter. He nodded at Mr. Grayson, as though they were the real businessmen in the group because they were older than Peter.
Peter didn’t care. He turned to Mom. “How about y
ou, Beverly? Do you think Florida is going to boom?”
“People like to start fresh,” she said, looking at him from under the brim of her big straw hat. “You won’t go broke betting on that.”
He laughed softly. “Paradise seems like a good place to do it.”
“Maybe paradise is overrated.”
“Lady, you are one tough customer.”
Mom’s lips curved. “Me? I’m just a softy.”
“We should all go fishing one day,” Joe said. “Rent a boat and get out on the water.”
“I don’t like fishing,” Peter said.
“You feel sorry for the little fishes?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” Peter said. “I feel sorry for anything that gets hooked.”
“I love boating,” Mrs. Grayson chimed in. “Tom and I used to go in the south of France, before the war. Those were the days, really. We didn’t think anything could change.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “What we need is some coffee.”
Mr. Grayson twisted around, looking for the waiter.
I felt panicked. Was the lunch over already? I hadn’t said more than two words.
“Who’s game for a walk?” Peter asked.
I stood up quickly, almost knocking my chair backward. “I’ll go.”
“Don’t worry, Sarge,” Peter said to Joe. “I’ll take good care of her.”
We walked out of the courtyard and down the street toward the beach, toward the pavilion there.
Peter leaned over and spoke in my ear. “We finally ditched the chaperones. Come on.”
He took my hand as we ran across Atlantic Avenue. He linked his fingers through mine and swung our arms.
We walked to the pavilion and he dropped my hand. We looked out at the ocean instead of at each other. All I wanted to do was hold his hand again.
The breeze picked up, and we faced right into it.
“You’re a watcher, aren’t you?” Peter said. “I can tell. You watch and listen. But you know what I’m betting? The thing you can’t see so clear is yourself.”
I was startled. Here I was, trying to come up with something to say about the weather, and he said something real. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“You don’t walk like a girl who knows how pretty she is, for one thing. That’s a crying shame.”
“Once I heard Grandma Glad tell someone that I was as plain as a bowl of Yankee bean soup,” I said.
I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. “Your problem is that your mom’s such a looker. You get all balled up. You can’t even see what’s in front of you in the mirror. So you’ve got to listen to an older brother type like me. You’re pretty.”
An older brother type. That stung.
“If you were an older brother, you’d call me Rubber Lips,” I said. “That’s what Frank Crotty back home calls me.”
“That’s because he likes you.”
“Frank? He only thinks about the Dodgers.”
“Pussycat, you’ve got a lot to learn about boys.”
I pretended I was Barbara Stanwyck and tossed my hair. “Yeah? Who’s going to teach me?”
He smiled. “Now that’s a tempting assignment.”
The weather had changed. I hadn’t noticed how low and dark the clouds were. The ocean was now a flat dull gray, thick and molten-looking.
The first fat drops began to fall, but he didn’t move.
“A tempting assignment,” he repeated, “but I’m going to pass. I should stay away from you, pussycat.”
I couldn’t say anything. Of course he would stay away. What man wouldn’t?
“At least, I’m going to try,” he added.
The sky opened up, and the rain hit us hard. We stood there, looking at each other. I started to shiver because I knew something was happening. Something adult and mysterious.
He grabbed my hand and his grip was warm and wet and tight as we ran through the raindrops back to the others.
Chapter 11
I spent most of the next day strolling around the lobby trying to walk like I knew I was pretty. I saw the guests come and go: Mrs. Grayson off on a bicycle with a big bag in the front basket, Mr. Grayson and Joe driving off together, Honeymoon Wife heading for the pool. I waited and watched and waited some more. It didn’t seem possible that I wouldn’t see him again. Not after the way he’d looked at me. Not after the way he’d said At least I’m going to try.
His car wasn’t in the parking lot, and I felt desperate and crazy. Finally as dinner approached I thought of something. I went up to the desk and waited for the manager to notice me. In my hand I had a piece of hotel stationery (getting damper by the second) that said:
Thank you for lunch. I had a lovely time with you.
Hope to see you soon! Evelyn Spooner
At the last moment I almost walked away because I realized the exclamation point made me sound like sap.
“I’d like to leave a message,” I said when the manager looked up at last. “For Mr. Coleridge.”
Mr. Forney had a tiny mustache and thin dry lips. He gave me a look like I was a bedbug who’d crawled out of the honeymoon suite. “Mr. Coleridge has checked out,” he informed me.
I turned away. My head spun, but I walked across the lobby anyway, not knowing where I was going.
The boy who’d asked me to dance, Wally, came up behind me and said, “He left yesterday. No forwarding address or anything.”
I hadn’t even thought to ask about a forwarding address. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. I shrugged as I slipped the note into my pocket.
“Just thought I’d tell you,” he said.
I hated when it got dark, because it meant that I would have to go to sleep without seeing him. Mom and Joe were still talking in the lobby with the Graysons, lingering over a nightcap. So I left the hotel and walked. I kept thinking if I walked far enough, went down the right street, I’d run into him. But the streets were empty, like they always were.
I came back to the hotel late, but Mom and Joe didn’t seem to care about curfews here. “What could happen?” Joe had asked, silencing Mom’s “but…”
Under the trees I saw two people together as one shadow.
“No,” the woman was saying, her voice angry and broken with tears. “I won’t do it. You’re going too far now. If you do it, you do it alone.”
The door opened and one of the maids came out, carrying a garbage bag to the cans in back. The shaft of light illuminated Tom and Arlene Grayson.
Mrs. Grayson turned toward me, startled. Her face was wet, her mouth pulled out of shape. Then she yanked him away, farther into the darkness.
I was the only one at the pool early the next morning. I slid into the water slowly, letting my body fall until I hit the bottom and slowly rose again. I swam back and forth, back and forth. When I took a breath at one end, I saw Wally the bellhop watching me and trying to look like he wasn’t watching me. Once he knew he’d been caught, he walked over.
The sun was behind his head and I couldn’t see his face. “So, New York, why’d you come to the dance if you didn’t want to dance?” he asked.
I flipped over on my back and kicked to keep myself up. “Maybe I didn’t think you could keep up with me.”
He squatted down so he could see me. “Maybe I could.”
“Maybe I’ll never find out.”
“Well, that’s the last dance until December, so you’re probably right. Your loss, I guess.”
“I’m crying in my hanky.” I flipped over and dived.
When I surfaced Wally was gone and I noticed Mrs. Grayson. She sat under an umbrella and was writing on a pad. She had a stack of postcards by her elbow. When I got out of the pool, she waved me over. I grabbed a towel and walked over.
She tapped the stack of postcards with the end of her pen. “Looks like we’re the only early birds,” she said. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses. “‘Wish you were here’—doesn’t everybody write that? They don’t mean it, though, do they? I mean, what’s th
e point of coming here if you don’t want to get away?”
“Did you want to get away?” I asked.
A sudden gust of wind sent her papers flying. I took off after them, scooping up postcards as I ran. I put my bare foot down on a piece of hotel stationery. I didn’t read it. Not exactly. But the words popped up.
It could all explode in our faces
It would be wisest to delay wiring it as long as you can
Then I saw her black sandal, and I quickly scooped up the page and handed it to her.
In one smooth movement she tucked it into her bag. She cocked her head and looked at me. “Do you know that Bev dresses you like a kid? I think I saw you in a pinafore the other day. Really! How old are you?”
“Sixteen in October. October thirty-first.”
Her smile flickered for an instant. “Well, boo. It’s birthday time. Let’s go shopping.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to leave. What if I missed seeing Peter?
“Darling, I have a tip,” Arlene said. “Never, ever wait for a man. If I have to look at that blue skirt again, I’m going to scream. There’s a shop in West Palm that’s not bad. My treat, and don’t bother to say no. We’ll see what we can drum up in this hick town.” Then she winked at me, as if I were a grown-up.
We both ran upstairs to change. Mrs. Grayson rapped sharply at my door. Mom opened it, still in her robe. I could hear the shower running and Joe blowing his nose.
“I’m taking your daughter on a spree,” Mrs. Grayson announced. “No arguments, my treat.”
Mom did not look pleased. “Arlene, I can’t let you do that. Besides, she has plenty of clothes.”
Mrs. Grayson put her hands on her hips. “Not from where I’m standing. This girl needs some glamour.”
Mom smoothed my hair. “She’s too young for glamour.”
“I said no arguments. Now shoo.” Mrs. Grayson flapped her hands at Mom. “Go have a nice long morning with your husband.”
Mom held up her hands, as if Mrs. Grayson was about to arrest her. “Don’t shoot, I give in.”