The Elementals (16 page)

“You must do something about this churl at once!” the woman shouted. “There are women and children in this car, and the things he’s saying!”

The rear conductor wound his way to them. He put his hand on the back of Kate’s seat and leaned over. He smiled tightly, and he cajoled, “Come on, now. Why are you giving this nice lady a hard time?”

Kate smiled. “I’m not.
She
’s having a very easy time of eavesdropping. I can’t help what she overhears.”

“Please stop.” Mollie shielded her face from the staring passengers with one hand.

Infuriated, the woman pointed at Kate. “I demand you eject him from this car at once!”

“I demand you eject her,” Kate retorted. She stood up too, hands on hips and chin raised imperiously. “She’s the one causing a commotion.”

Now the passengers murmured behind them, a drone that drowned the clatter of the red car as it slowed. They could only speculate about what lewd things had been said, and no doubt their imaginations served them quite handily.

Meanwhile, Mollie tried to compress herself in mortification. Though she could be quite compact when she wished to be, no one could miss her brilliant scarlet uniform.

Pulling the bell cord, the conductor rocked as the streetcar stopped. Then he clamped a hand on Kate’s shoulder and marched her toward the front. “If I were your father, I’d stripe your hide.”

“No you wouldn’t.
My
father doesn’t believe in corporal punishment.”

“Off!” the conductor snapped.

Catching the handrail, Kate swung around to call to Mollie. “I know you find a man in uniform very distinguished, but I couldn’t disagree more. I’d rather kiss an actor six days a week. Twice on Sunday.”

At that, the conductor grabbed Kate’s collar. He didn’t pretend to be gentle. The collar strangled, and only stopped when the conductor physically threw her from the car.

She stumbled in the road, pinwheeling around. A chorus of angry goose-honks sounded. Nimble black cars swerved around her, so close their wake pulled at her clothes. Leaping back, Kate bounded for the sidewalk. Crackling overhead, the electric wires seemed to taunt her.

Another kind of buzzing ran through Kate, and she threw a hand up to wave as the red car drove away. She was loose-limbed with it and felt dangerous. Then, underneath, there was a pounding of her heart, and a ripple in her belly that left her queasy.

It would be a long walk to The Pike if she couldn’t catch another red car, but she didn’t care. She was tired of caring; she was exhausted with it. She prayed the developed film would come soon, because
The Lady of Shalott
was their masterpiece. If Mollie could only see the art they’d made together, it would mend things between them. It
had
to.

Trying to cage her distress, Kate suffered the one thought that escaped: There was no such thing as a director without a star.

***

Though the heat never ceased, Julian found he enjoyed his job when there was something to look forward to at the end of the day. Instead of singing to pass the time, he sang to get Sadie’s attention. He sang when she rewarded him with subtle smiles.

And he sang to amuse himself while a hired mechanic climbed into the ceiling to fix the belt that would automate the dryer again. Since he couldn’t help with the machinery, Julian busied himself at the folding tables.

The long linen swaths snapped like pennants in the air when he shook them out. Much quicker than the little kids at the table, he tried to move from pile to pile so no one would get too far ahead of the others. The littlest ones, who couldn’t run a machine, got paid by the piece.

Reaching for the next sheet, Julian stopped when a sharp whistle sounded. Turning around, he saw Mr. Zweifel by his office door. He pointed at Julian with his clipboard. Then, with an exaggerated motion, he beckoned him to come, and walked into the office to wait for him.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Dottie whispered.

Whispering back, Julian said, “I think you’re right.”

Julian scraped the feet of his crutches on the floor to dry them, then hurried to the office, readying an argument. Mr. Zweifel had told him he couldn’t accept any help. He’d said nothing about giving it. And he had to agree it was better to work than to stand idle.

But he didn’t get a chance to say any of it. As soon as he reached the office, Mr. Zweifel handed him an envelope. “A week’s pay, plus an extra day so you don’t go hungry.”

Confused, Julian stood there. “I don’t understand.”

Mr. Zweifel folded the envelope in half, then tucked it into Julian’s front pocket. “Now that the dryer’s fixed, I don’t have a place for you.”

With confusion slowly turning to shock, Julian swung back on his crutches, then forward again so no one could overhear their conversation. “Not at all? No disrespect to you, sir, but you’ve got five-year-olds ironing in the back. I couldn’t do that?”

Firm, Mr. Zweifel herded him toward the front door. “I have them doing the job they can do. I pay them less than I pay you.”

“I could take less.”

“Boy, I have to keep pace with those fellas in Chinatown. You’re in the way now, I’m sorry.”

The numbness beneath Julian’s skin turned brittle. This was all too familiar. Looking around, he realized everyone in the laundry was watching. They all knew. It was written in the sideward tilt of their eye, coded in the way they spoke without moving their mouths overmuch.

Humiliated, Julian made himself stop looking before he found Sadie among them. He wanted her to be outraged on his behalf, but he refused to find her and shatter that fantasy. She was the owner’s daughter, after all. She probably knew this was coming.

“Don’t take it too hard, kid.” Mr. Zweifel clapped him on the back, then reached past to open the front door for him. “I wrote you a note, a recommendation. You can take it around. Bet you’re back in business in no time.”

“I did a good job for you. I worked hard.”

Mr. Zweifel didn’t shove him, but he did nudge. Putting his weight behind the gesture, he backed Julian out the door. “That’s why you got the note.”

“I’ll be back tonight,” Julian blustered. “To take Sadie to the movie palace.”

His face going hard, Mr. Zweifel did push him then. It was a promise of violence to come. “She’s working.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Every night this week.” Another push, and Mr. Zweifel walked up on him. He may have been shorter, but he was made of muscle and sinew. Years working the laundry had made a brick wall of him. “And for the rest of her natural-born life. Get outta here while you’ve got your dignity, fella.”

Julian longed to take the punch. He wanted to so badly that he could feel a phantom version of it play out within him. Bone would connect with flesh; hard satisfaction would race through his body with the vibration. But when he raised his hand, it was only to brush Mr. Zweifel aside.

“Give her my best,” Julian said as he left.

As if he couldn’t leave well enough alone, Mr. Zweifel called after him. “I’m doing you a favor, son.”

Julian ducked down an alley so he wouldn’t look back. He knew if he did, no good would come of that. Mrs. Bartow was strict about her boarding house, but Julian felt certain she ran a finer establishment than the city jail.

Emerging from the alley, Julian looked up the street one way, then down the other. One path led to Mrs. Bartow’s, the other to the unknown. Caging himself inside to bake was the last thing Julian wanted to do, so he walked.

The roaring heat outside the laundry suited his temper. It burned off his sweat, leaving him rough with salt and grit. Walking unfamiliar streets occupied his mind and left no time for ruminating.

At first, he thought he’d look for a new job. Back on the horse and all that; that’s what Papa would have suggested. But when a manager at the hat factory said he didn’t have any use for a cripple, Julian decided to look some other time. Since he’d started the day not punching somebody, he figured it would be for the best to end it that way too.

So instead, he struggled up steep streets, peering in department store windows and stopping to take in the unfamiliar. There were green spaces full of plants he’d never seen. He bought a paper bag of steamed dumplings from a street vendor, then rode the Angels Flight.

It was a two-track inclined railway, connecting a block at the top of a hill with one at the bottom. That was all—two cars perpetually climbing to Hill Street and descending to Olive.

While he burned his tongue on dumplings, Julian peered at the ornate mansion that flanked the train. It was all round towers and steep roofs, crimson walls interrupted by white columns and pediments. Anywhere that could be ornamented was; a fussy house for a fussy street, Julian decided.

At the end of the ride down, Julian wandered the city. Roasting beef and onions wafted from a nearby restaurant, mingling with horse sweat and grease. Red-striped awnings cooled the sidewalk, and Julian stopped short. He’d found the movie palace, entirely by accident.

Heart sinking, he approached the ticket booth. Brightly painted movie posters promised adventure and romance and thrills. As if to taunt him, a sign reading
MUSICIANS WANTED
obscured the clerk. Tentatively, Julian tapped the glass.

“Welcome to Clune’s Theatre Beautiful,” the clerk droned. “I’m sorry to say the matinee’s already started. No one’s admitted after the first reel.”

Julian shifted on his crutches, trying to look past his own reflection in the glass. “When’s the next showing, then?”

“Eight o’clock sharp. And like I said, no one’s admitted—”

“After the first reel, I know. Thanks.” Julian backed away, then thought better of it. Tapping on the glass again, he was the smallest bit pleased to see the clerk frown before masking the expression.

“Welcome to Clune’s Theatre Beautiful,” he said, unable to disguise a hint of annoyance. “Can I help you?”

Julian pointed at the sign. “What kind of musicians?”

With a sigh, the clerk jerked a thumb. “Beats me. Ask at the manager’s entrance on Fifth Street.”

But there’d be no point. Thanking the clerk, Julian moved along, newly dimmed. It didn’t take two feet to play a fiddle, but it
did
take a fiddle. Buying one was out of the question. He’d paid his room up for a month, but he’d returned the rest of Mama’s money. The four dollars and a reference letter in his pocket had to last him.

Julian put his head down and kept walking. The scarlet streetcars clattered as they passed, and it seemed nobody with an automobile could be satisfied without constantly honking their horn. There was no such thing as quiet in Los Angeles, at least, not that he’d found.

Drowning in a bitter rush of homesickness, he glanced at his watch, and then the sun. He hadn’t gone to the boardwalk yet; he’d never seen the ocean. Not in person, not for real.

When he’d run away, it could have been to anywhere. Florida, where it never snowed, Maryland, where his grandparents lived.

But he’d headed west—to the romance of jagged mountains and Pacific winds, to a place that promised adventure and excitement. California was supposed to be full of stars and possibility. And it was the only place he could imagine finding the girl he’d seen by magic his whole life.

So he squared his shoulders and drove all else from his mind. Crossing the street, he waited for the next red car. When it arrived, he ignored the conductor’s hand. He hauled himself aboard, and chose a window seat for the ride to Long Beach.

He could cool himself in the water and watch the sun set over the sea. Tomorrow he’d worry about a job. That was the plan. Much like his mother’s plans, however, Julian’s didn’t always work out the way he intended.

A bag of popcorn and a bottle of soda were hardly dinner, but then, Kate didn’t feel much like eating.

Once the spike of energy from fighting with Mollie had worn off, Kate found she mainly wanted to lie down and sleep. Instead, she’d trudged the rest of the way to The Pike to work her shift.

She avoided the main boardwalk. Every time she saw a flash of red, Kate hid. More than the rancid waft of rotting garbage, the prospect of going back to The Ems made Kate sick to her stomach.

So a sad, cheap dinner it was, and a sad, cheap perch on the beach as evening approached. She could have had
mantou
and
geng
if Chinatown hadn’t been three cars away. Or a big bowl of
tagliatelle
close to The Ems. But no, it was fizzy soda and popcorn. At least the popcorn was good for feeding the birds.

Gray-green waves danced in sharp peaks, the swells raising white foam, then swallowing it. Seagulls tossed themselves onto the invisible currents of the wind, shrieking to the heavens.

Staring into the sea, Kate sat on a stone pocked with bird droppings. It was like one of her father’s marble palettes—smeared and mottled, but not cold. It clung to its baked heat jealously, like the air did. Pale veins of heat lightning streaked through the clouds, a still-distant storm promising relief.

Kate couldn’t cry, but she couldn’t stop wanting to, either. She had no home. No one who could help her. Not even a dollar in her pocket to send a telegram to her parents.

They’d probably moved on to New York without her. They weren’t staying people. Settling people. They were probably furious, but they were free without her.

When even that miserable thought failed to prime her tears, Kate slid to her feet. The sky stretched out, tied in ashen knots. The horizon was a dark line, threaded between rough waters and churning clouds.

Tossing the last of her popcorn to the birds, Kate stuffed the bag into her pocket and approached the water. If she had her camera, if it would pick up all the shades of dusk around her, she knew what she’d film: Ophelia—not the monologue, absolutely not. Rosemary was for fried chicken, not for remembrance.

But with the
right
Ophelia, Kate would follow her into this ocean. The waves would welcome her, making her gown transparent and then into foam. Down below, her hair would become seaweed, and her skin would turn green—pale and speckled with uncertain light.