Vixen (29 page)

And now Gloria was grounded, getting ripped apart by the papers, while Lorraine was free as a bird. How was that fair?

“I hope you told her the usual,” Gloria said, hugging one of her frilly pink pillows to her chest. “As in, ‘Don’t call this house again, you bitch.’ ”

“I left out the bitch part, but otherwise, yes,” Clara said, gliding into the room. She was wearing a floral silk robe that Gloria had never seen before—it looked European, with bold red poppies covering the black silk.

“Where’d you get that robe?” Gloria asked.

Clara froze for a split second. Then she wrapped the robe even tighter around herself. “It was a gift.” She went to the record player and stopped the song midchorus. “Someone needs to put you out of your misery.”

Gloria threw the pillow to the floor. “Good luck trying. I’d rather just wallow.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t volunteering for the job. Although I’ll bet I know the one person who could get it done.”

Gloria looked at her cousin suspiciously.

The girls weren’t enemies, but they hadn’t crossed over into “friends” territory yet. True, Gloria hadn’t been the most welcoming of relatives, but … No, the truth was that Gloria had been terrible. She had plotted to get rid of Clara before she’d even arrived. Then, once Clara had shown up, Gloria had either been rude or had ignored her cousin completely.

Looking at Clara now, Gloria regretted her actions. Was it too late to make amends? Even Marcus liked Clara, and he was the world’s harshest critic when it came to girls. So what if her cousin lived on a farm? It didn’t make her a bad person. It might even be nice to have a relative her own age who was also a friend, especially now that Lorraine had shown her true colors.

“If you say Sebastian, you are officially banned from my room,” Gloria said, attempting a joke.

“I have no problem with that,” Clara said, eyeing the volcanic disaster that was Gloria’s bedroom. Every surface was covered with piles of dirty clothes, books, old coffee cups, bowls of melted ice cream with cigarette butts floating in the dregs. “You might want to let Claudine in here one of these days, if she doesn’t faint first.”

“You’re right,” Gloria said. She hadn’t let the maid in for nearly a week, but living in squalor really wasn’t helping ease the situation. “So, who
are
you talking about?”

“J.J.,” Clara said. “Would you like me to spell out what each
J
stands for?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Gloria said, her stomach somersaulting. “What about him?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Gloria said.

“Oh, honey, I’m not as stupid as you think.” Clara picked up a hairbrush from the floor, sat on the bed beside Gloria, and began to brush her unwashed, matted hair. “You have a rock from a man who looks like Bastian Grey—a man every girl and her mother are lusting after—yet you’re locked up in your room looking like hell, playing a Bessie Smith song over and over? Can you get any more classically lovesick than that?”

“What would you know about it?” Gloria asked defensively. “Did some farmer steal one of your sheep or something?”

As soon as she said it, Gloria started laughing. Then Clara laughed, too. “I know this is shocking, but even where I come from, there is such a thing as falling for the wrong person.”

“In
Pennsylvania
?”

Clara put down the brush. “Listen, it’s about time I told you: I didn’t move to Chicago just to help plan your wedding. I needed to get away from someone, from my own past—so that I could start fresh. Someone I was in love with but never should have been.” She closed her eyes. “I’m no more of an expert on the subject than any other girl. But this much I know: Love is worth everything. If you really love someone, you’ll have no regrets. Even if it turns out badly.”

“But how do you know?” Gloria asked. “How do you
know
if it’s love? How do you know if it’s anything at all?”

“All you have to know is whether you’re willing to find out.” Clara took Gloria’s hand. “Or whether you’re ready to give up on it.”

“No.” Gloria thought of Jerome, of his hands around her waist during that first voice lesson. Of him teaching her how to sing, how to feel. “I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.”

“The only time I’ve seen you look truly alive was when you were up there with him, performing together. It was pretty magical.”

The tears came like a hot spring then, from a place inside Gloria that Jerome had shown her. “I
need
to find out
whether Jerome and I are meant to be. Otherwise, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Clara asked, gently wiping Gloria’s wet cheeks, her eyebrows arched with a hint of mischief. “Your mother won’t be home for another few hours.”

Gloria did something she had never done before: She took the bus. By herself. At night. To Bronzeville.

She’d never even set foot in Bronzeville. But she figured if she was going to take the biggest risk of her life, she couldn’t do it in a cowardly fashion. She couldn’t ask someone to drive her. She had to go by herself and show up at Jerome’s door and be willing to bare her soul. Otherwise, there was no point in going at all.

She’d “dressed down” for the bus—an old cloche hat, a plain long-sleeved white blouse, a skirt that was dark and modest—but hadn’t dressed down enough: None of the women were wearing heels, and most wore demure skirts that reached to midcalf. Like the men on the bus, they wore sensible shoes, shoes for walking and working. They were coming home from work, Gloria realized.

An older woman stood up and offered her a seat. Gloria tried to say no, but the woman insisted with a smile, saying,
“A lady shouldn’t be standing.” It was as kind as anyone had been to Gloria in days.

The other thing about the riders was this: Nearly all of them were black.

At first, she felt as if she stuck out and that men and women alike would stare at her with contempt. Old stories from school came to mind, and she clutched her purse in front of her and tried not to meet anyone’s gaze. But the ride was long and her patience was short. Soon enough, she was looking up at people.

A few glanced at her now and then, always turning back to a book, or a newspaper, or some knitting. No one much noticed the white girl in the fancy clothes. It was as if she didn’t matter to them at all.

And Gloria realized that was true: She
didn’t
matter. These people had lives—real lives, in which they struggled for things they cared about. A lovesick girl in a bad hat? There were more important things to worry over.

When she reached her stop, Gloria joined the passengers stepping down from the back of the bus.

She was shocked to find the streets full of activity. Astor Street, where she lived, was always eerily quiet. But here, noise was everywhere. Children playing stickball, running to the sidewalks when a car passed. Older women with baskets of laundry on their hips loudly gossiping on the corners. And there were black teenagers, leisurely sitting on
stoops and smoking cigarettes, and couples walking hand in hand.

As she passed, she felt some people stare at her. This was different from the train. She kept her eyes cast modestly downward and prayed she wouldn’t get lost.

Any trace of warmth had disappeared from the air, and a windy November chill had settled in. Still, she was drenched in sweat by the time she arrived at the address Evan had given her.

Jerome lived in a run-down three-story building on a block of brownstones. There were empty flower boxes in some windows, shirts drying on the fire escapes, music coming from slightly opened windows. It was a nice place. As nice as it could be.

Jerome had told Gloria once, during rehearsal, that he had moved out of his parents’ house a year before, at eighteen, having earned enough money from playing piano to start life on his own. His father didn’t approve of his career and wanted him to take over the family business, a grocery store on Garfield Street. Vera, who was Gloria’s age, still lived in their childhood home. Their mother had died when they were young, and Jerome’s sister was his only link to his father, whom he no longer talked to.

She pressed the buzzer for 2B, next to the initials
J.J
.

Her heart raced.

There was no answer.

Her finger was poised on the button, about to buzz again,
when she froze. She took a step down the front stairs and caught her breath.
It wasn’t meant to be
, a voice said crisply in her head.
It was never meant to be
.

There was nothing to do now but go back home.

A cruel shiver of defeat ran through her. She knew life was a series of near misses, but this one was tragic. The reality of never seeing Jerome Johnson again sank into her, and she staggered and gripped the railing and thought,
No!
She knew in that moment, clutching the rusty banister, in this all-black neighborhood with everyone staring at her, that she wanted him. Needed him. Only felt alive when she was beside him. Loved him with all of herself, with whatever she had in her to love him with.

That was when the front door opened and the dark silhouette of Jerome Johnson stood before her.

She wanted to run back up the stairs and into his arms. But the look on his face quickly killed that fantasy.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her voice seemingly detached from her body.

“What do you want?” He was wearing only a white T-shirt and a pair of old slacks.

“I’m—” she started, seeing that his eyes held no sympathy. “I’m freezing.”

He was about to protest when he saw that she had no coat.

“You can come in,” he said, “but only for a second.”

Without a word, Gloria followed him inside. The interior hallway was dark, the wallpaper peeling, the carpeting worn.

His apartment was small but charming, with a bohemian air that Gloria hadn’t expected. Hundreds of books and records were stacked on the floor, and a few bold unframed paintings hung on the walls. At one end was a tiny kitchen—just a sink and a burner and two cupboards—and at the other was an alcove that curved around a corner, leading to what she assumed was his bedroom. An old baby grand piano took up nearly half the room. She went to it, running her hand over the piles of sheet music strewn across the top.

Jerome watched her.

She wanted to appear comfortable, even though she was so uncomfortable. She turned to him. “See, I’ve warmed up already.”

“What do you want?” Jerome demanded again, staying on the other side of the room. “I hope you didn’t come all the way out here to see me. Is your driver waiting, Miss Carmody? Or should I say, Mrs. Grey?”

“I deserve that. No, my driver isn’t waiting. I took the subway. And I am still
Miss
Carmody,” she added.

Jerome didn’t respond. He folded his strong arms across his chest.

“May I have some water?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Sure,” he said. “Get it yourself. We don’t have maids here.”

Gloria shuffled over to the kitchen, took a glass out of one of his cupboards, and turned on the tap. She was used to
Jerome’s rough manner, but this was entirely new. He was angry at her. Which meant he was hurt. Which maybe, just maybe, meant he actually loved her.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a long sip.

Jerome rocked back and forth on his heels. “When you’re ready to tell me what you want, you let me know,” he said. He walked to the window, sat in a chair, and lit a cigarette.

Gloria had grown so used to men making everything easy for her. She never had to know what she wanted, only what she didn’t want. Now the opposite was true. “I want to explain.”

“Why should I believe a word you say?” He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, unimpressed. “You’ve already lied to me once. What makes you think I would trust you?”

“Because before, I had everything to lose,” she said. “But now that I’ve lost everything, there’s nothing left to hide.”

Jerome just kept staring out the window.

She walked across the room and sat in the chair next to his. “Please,” she said, placing a hand on his knee.

“You don’t owe me anything.” He didn’t brush her hand off, but he didn’t grasp it, either.

“You’re right, I don’t. We don’t owe anything to anyone but ourselves and the ones we love,” she said defiantly. His eyes widened at the word
love
. “But just hear me out.”

She told him everything.

About her background, her family, her schooling. She told him all about Bastian, how the engagement was nothing
more than a business deal with her parents. About her father, and how he had basically deserted her and her mother, leaving them to fend for themselves, make their own reputations and fortunes. How everything now rested on her shoulders. And how her world was slowly coming apart at the seams, but how singing had temporarily sewn it back together.

His face showed nothing as she talked—no emotion, no reaction, no flicker of understanding. She began to feel that she had misjudged those moments together, during rehearsal, in the dressing room. That almost-kiss—maybe it truly had been only about the eyelash. Had this all been in her head?