Last Night at the Blue Angel (38 page)

Read Last Night at the Blue Angel Online

Authors: Rebecca Rotert

BOOK: Last Night at the Blue Angel

9.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

So you're getting settled
, I say.

Well
,
I sure don't feel settled!
She laughs.
I feel like I'm in a whirlwind! It's all too much to believe
.

Rita clasps her hands in front of her and shakes her head.
Oh
,
my darling
,
I could cry
.

They talk about all the details, about music, about clothes, about venues. I slip away to the closet. The radio is so close. A few more solders and I can slide it into its neat little box.

I hear Mother say,
Are you sure it's no trouble? You know
,
I just can't be worrying about her right now with everything going on
.

Before she leaves, she comes to find me in the closet.
We have to talk
, she says.

I heard you. I know
.

It's just for a little while
,
love. And when we come together again
,
we'll have a whole new life. A brand-new start
.

I liked our old life
, I say as she turns to leave.

CHAPTER 58

S
ISTER TAKES ME
to Mitchell's for supper. She puts her fork down and folds her hands in front of her. I don't look at her.

We need to discuss something
, she says, smiling.
I've been talking with your teacher. You're not doing well in any of your subjects
.

I know
, I say.

There's still time. You can pull your grades up if you perform well on the end-of-year exams
.

I shrug, turning a french fry round and round in a pool of ketchup.

Sister is seriously considering holding you back
.
I really don't want that to happen
.

I watch her talk. The only thing I think is that if I get held back, I won't be with Elizabeth.

I have a plan, of course
.
I've spoken with Mrs. LaFontaine and was thinking Elizabeth could help you catch up. I think it would be easier that way. You don't seem to want my help right now
, she says, mostly to herself.

The waitress comes, Sister pays, and we leave.

Will you help me finish the radio?
I ask on the way home.

Sister smiles.
I'll do anything for you
,
Sophia. You know that
.

E
lizabeth is so worried I'm not going to pass she quizzes me on something or other the whole time we're together. Mostly we work in a study room at her father's university after school. She makes little tests for me and paces up and down the stacks while I take them. If I do well, she lets me look at microfiche on fallout shelters.

Mother calls every day and then every other day and then sometimes.

Sister peeks into my closet.
What can I do?
I make her solder diodes. We leave the door open so it feels like there's more room. Rita says,
You're both crazy people
, which makes Sister jump up and say,
You know what I'm thinking
. She pulls a record from the stack and plays “Crazy People” by the Boswell Sisters.

Oh
,
your mother loved these girls when she was young
, says Sister.

I listen to the song on the couch, watch Rita dance to it, and then I cry for a little while right in front of them.

A
few days later, I come home from school to a note that says Rita has to work late and Sister has a meeting and there's a sandwich in the fridge. The number to Rita's club is scrawled on the bottom next to
In case of emergency
. When it gets dark, I call Elizabeth and talk to her for a few minutes but she has to get off in order to go to a dinner at her church.

I go into the closet and study the radio plate, the instructions, and Mr. LaFontaine's notes. There are a few parts left but they are extras. I slide the plate into the brown leather case and snap it shut, reach for the knob, but then pull my hand away. What will I do if it doesn't work? The last thing he gave me? I hold it for a long time, until I can hear Jim's voice in my head saying,
Oh, for Christ's sake
,
turn it on already
. I turn the knob. Nothing happens. I shake it a little. Nothing. I feel a sinking in my stomach and look at the magazine against the wall.
I did everything I was supposed to do
, I tell Jim. And then I remember the batteries. I pull them out of the brown sac and unsnap the case and place them. I take a deep breath and turn the dial. There's static. I can't believe it. I turn the knob slowly and hear voices.
It works
.
It works
,
it works
,
it works
, I shout out loud. I keep turning until I hear a man's voice, it is low and nice. He's talking about songs he likes like they're girls he wants to go with. His voice makes me smile. I hold the radio on my lap and listen to him talk. It's warm. I made this, I think. Jim, I did it. Listen!

The low-voiced man says,
And now for something really sweet. Hot off the press
. I hear a needle touch and the band begin to play. I feel like it's a song I know by heart but it can't be, coming from this strange homemade thing on my lap. Then I hear her, her voice. Mother. On the radio. Singing to me in my closet.
“I'll be around,”
she sings.
“No matter how you treat me now.”
I hold the radio in front of me, like it could break any second, like a bit of solder might simply lift off the plate and leave me in silence.

I place it very slowly on a hatbox and curl up right next to it and close my eyes.

Here she is.

AUTHOR NOTE

I
N MY RESEARCH
for this book, I spent many days wandering the streets of Chicago and countless hours in the city's libraries. I was trying to build in my mind's eye a vision of Chicago in the sixties, and as I poured over photographs, I kept returning to the images of Richard Nickel. Nickel's chief work as a photographer was to capture, with the hope of protecting, the city's architecture. He made countless appeals to city leaders to save buildings slated for destruction, and he staged protests. His aesthetic scope was broad enough to capture the slightest detailâa banister, a touch of ornamentationâto the entirety of buildings and the blocks on which they stood. He infected my imagination and increasingly insinuated himself into the character of Jim. Nickel, like Jim, did perish in the Chicago Stock Exchange Building but that building didn't come down until 1972, not 1965 as it happens in the novel.

I am indebted to Nickel for his work. He ignited in me the awareness of, and the desire to illuminate, the life of a guardian, and this story would be lost without the history he preserved so beautifully and the passion he embodied.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
O WHOM AM
I not indebted?

I don't know many agents and editors but I know I have the best. Thank you, Henry Dunow and Jessica Williams, respectively, for being smart as hell and fierce and honest.

My humble gratitude to the teachers, Bob Grunst and Jonis Agee, who expected so much, to the Nebraska Summer Writers Conference which led me to Timothy Shaffert, Maud Casey, and David Ebershoff, excellent artists and guides. To the kick-ass nuns (Servants of Mary, Sisters of Mercy, and the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet) for being tireless advocates of education, justice, and unblinking acceptance. To Kathy Havlik for holding my indecipherable poems, and my heart, for twenty-five years now. To Sara Koch, for asking, since we were little, to read more. To Mimi, for sharing her Chicago. To the other writers in the familyâRon Hansen, Bo Caldwellâyou show me, so beautifully, how to do it well. From this tribe of Omaha artistsâthe dear musicians with whom I spent so many hours stitching together songs (Air, Brad, Quinn, Al), the writers with whom I share so much, least of all work (the luminous Lindsey Baker and the penetrating Todd Robinson)âI have learned both discipline and a commitment to what we must do, despite the outcomes, and whether or not anyone is watching. To Bruno and Melanie, for taking us to sea during the saddest year and filling me with enough sunlight to finish the book. My dear friend Amy Loyd with her huge talent and huge heart has inspired me forever. To the early readersâEmily Danforth for paving the way and pushing me, Jack Phillips for teaching me narrative via the life of trees (and for firing me four hundred times), Karen Chaka for her nagging and support, and Jim Shepard, the greatest most underappreciated writer on the planet, whose generosity and patience moves me as much as his talent.

To the people around the tables, especially my Northside family, the Grat Girls, and Tuesday Process, for giving me a safe place to unfold myself week after week. To Leslie Jeffries for fielding four million phone calls, Marilyn Cady and Shirley Huerter for telling it like it is, Father Michael for teaching me over and over that we are loved as is, Kirstin Kluver for shining her big redheaded light all over the place, and to Bernie Devlin who said thirteen years ago, come in, sit down, here's some coffee, and has been my compass ever since.

I am nothing if not the product of my mother's artful life and my father's cowboy courage. What grace they showed in supporting me whether or not they understood. My brother Wil has made me laugh at myself all my life, and I love him for it. My sister Nik's big brain and constant inappropriateness are a beacon in the dark. My big extended clanâthe Roterts, Hansens, and Shawsâare all stories of compassion and eccentricity and getting back up, and they provide more support (and material) than I can stand. And little B, who will not read this book until she's at least thirty-eight, you gave me Sophia and you give me wonder.

Finally, I thank Bud, my love, my toughest crowd and steadiest hand, for crying when I read you scenes and dancing with me in the kitchen.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo Â© by Bud Shaw

REBECCA ROTERT
received an M.A. in literature from Hollins College, where she was the recipient of the Academy of American Poets prize. Her poetry and essays have appeared in a range of magazines and journals. She's an experienced singer and songwriter who has performed with several bands, and a teacher with the Nebraska Writers Collective. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska. This is her first novel.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

CREDITS

Cover design by Amanda Kain

Cover photographs: woman Â© by Jen Kiaba/Arcangel Images

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL
. Copyright Â© 2014 by Rebecca Shaw. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-231528-1

EPub Edition July 2014 ISBN 9780062315304

14 15 16 17 18
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

http://www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Canada