Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (3 page)

In this vision I allowed my father the dignity of being at a distance from my vantage point, and facing away from me. In truth, I hadn’t yet seen a man undressed—though I’d seen young boys, and Renaissance artwork, which I supposed were representational enough.

“Speaking of nakedness,” Eleanor said, leaning across the table to take the end of the bandage from me, “last night at the movie house, an aviator—Captain Wendell Haskins, he said—asked me was the rumor true about you parading around the pool in a flesh-colored bathing suit. He was at the movies with May Steiner, and asking about you, isn’t that sublime? May was at the concession just then, so she didn’t hear him; that was gentlemanly, at least.”

Sara said, “I sure wish I’d been at the pool that day, just to see the old ladies’ faces.”

“Were you at the dance last winter when Zelda pinned the mistletoe to the back of her skirt?” Livye said.

“You should’ve been down here with us on Wednesday,” Eleanor told them. “Zelda commandeered our streetcar while the driver was on the corner finishing a smoke. We just left him there with his eyes bulging and went rolling on up Perry Street!”

“I swear, Zelda, you have all the fun,” Sara said. “And you never get in trouble!”

Eleanor said, “Everyone’s afraid of her daddy, so they just shake their finger at her and let her go.”

I nodded. “Even my sisters are scared of him.”

“But you’re not,” Livye said.

“He barks way more than he bites. So, El, what’d you tell Captain Haskins?”

“I said, ‘Don’t tell a soul, Captain, but there was
no bathing suit at all
.’”

Livye snorted, and I said, “See, El, that’s what I like about you. Keep that up and all the matrons will be calling
you
wicked, too.”

Eleanor reached for a pin from a bowl on the table, then secured the bandage’s end. “He asked whether you had a favorite beau, who your people were, what your daddy did, and whether you had siblings—”

Sara said, “Might be he just wanted some excuse to make conversation with
you,
Eleanor.”

“In which case he might have thought of one or two questions about
me
.” Eleanor smiled at Sara fondly. “No, he’s most certainly fixated on Miss Zelda Sayre of 6 Pleasant Avenue, she of the toe shoes and angel’s wings.”

Livye said, “And devil’s smile.”

“And pure heart,” Sara added. I pretended to retch.

“He said he’s not serious about May,” Eleanor said. “Also, he intends to phone you.”

“He already has.”

“But you haven’t said yes yet.”

“I’m booked up ’til fall,” I said, and it was true; between the college boys who’d so far avoided military service and the flood of officers come to train at Montgomery’s new military installations, I had more male attention than I knew what to do with.

Sara took my hand. “If you like him, you shouldn’t wait. They might ship out any day, you know.”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “It might be now or never.”

I pulled my hand from Sara’s and lifted another pile of fabric from the basket behind us. “There’s a war, in case you haven’t heard. It might end up being now
and then never.
So what’s the use?”

Eleanor said, “That hasn’t stopped you from seeing a military man before. He’s awfully handsome.…”

“He is that. When he phones again, maybe I’ll—”

“Chatter later, ladies,” Mrs. Baker scolded as she strolled by, hands clasped behind her back, bosom straining forward like a warship’s prow. “Important though your affairs may be, our brave young men would appreciate your giving their welfare more speed and attention.”

When Mrs. Baker was past, I tilted my head and put my forearm to my eyes, mouthing, “Oh! The shame of it!” as if I were Mary Pickford herself.

2

That evening, the Montgomery Country Club’s high-ceilinged ballroom was filled to capacity. Along with the young men and women from the town’s top families were a handful of chaperones and dozens of uniformed officers who’d been given honorary memberships while assigned to nearby Camp Sheridan or Taylor Field. Those fellas would soon be joining their army and air corps brothers in the skies or on battlefields in places like Cantigny and Bois Belleau—but right now they were as youthful and happy and ready for romance as anyone there.

My ballet troupe readied itself behind a bank of curtains. Shoes snug, ribbons tied, skirts fastened and fluffed. Lipstick, rouge—though not one of us needed it, as warm and excited as we were. A final costume check. One more hamstring stretch, ankle flex, knuckle crack. Instructions to spit out our gum.

“Two minutes, ladies,” Madame Katherine said. “Line up.”

One of the younger girls, Marie, moved a curtain to peek out at the audience. She said, “Look at all those officers! I sure wish
I
had the solo.”

Another replied, “If you were as good as Zelda, maybe you’d get one. Plus, you better quit eating so much cake.”

“Hush,” I said. “It’s baby fat. Time and practice is all you need, Marie.”

She sighed. “You look like a princess.” Mama had pinned my wavy hair into as neat a bun as it would tolerate, then encircled it with a garland of tiny tea roses from her garden. The roses were the same deep pink as my costume’s satin-trimmed bodice, and a shade darker than my diaphanous skirt. I
was
a princess, for right now anyway—and
right now
was all I ever cared about.

The orchestra began and I waited anxiously for my cue, glancing down once more to make sure my shoe ribbons were tied, that a bit of my skirt wasn’t tucked into my stockings. Would I remember the one-more fouetté the professor had added last minute? Would the two new girls remember to split the line when I came upstage from behind them?

When I took the stage, though, all of that disappeared, and I felt so light that I wondered if I’d been specially charmed by one of our Creole laundresses. Or maybe the lightness owed to the fact that I was
finally
done with school. Maybe it was the energy of wartime, the sensation that all of time was faster now, and fleeting. Whatever the case, my body was supple and tireless. It seemed I’d hardly begun the dance when the orchestra played the final strains and the performance ended to cheers and applause.

While taking my bows, I noticed the officers at the front of the crowd. Like others I’d met, these fellas were a little older than my usual beaux. Their uniforms, with those serious brass buttons and knee-high leather boots, gave them sophistication that the local boys—even the ones in college—were lacking. The soldiers wore an air of impending adventure, the anticipation of travel and battles, of blood and bullets and, possibly, death, which made them more vibrant and alive.

A pair of tall boots paler than the others caught my eye. As I straightened, I followed the boots upward to olive-colored breeches, a fitted uniform tunic, and, above it, an angelic face with eyes as green and expressive as the Irish Sea, eyes that snagged and held me as surely as a bug sticks in a web, eyes that contained the entire world in their smiling depths, eyes like—

Something bumped my arm. “
Go,
Zelda,” one of the young ballerinas said, and nudged me into line for our exit.

That officer was nowhere in sight when I returned to the ballroom after changing into my dress—corset included in the ensemble; shoes, too—and dabbing on Mama’s own rose perfume. So I danced a tango with a boy I’d known my whole life, then followed it with a half-dozen more dances, a new fella for every new song. Sweaty brows, sweaty hands; sweat trickling down my back as I moved from one partner to the next, indulging no one of them more than another. They were useful accessories, these fellas were. Good dancers. Good company. Nothing more—though I wouldn’t have said so to them. It was far more fun to let them think they had a chance.

Finally I took a break to catch my breath and get something to drink. As I stood near the doorway, cooling down and waiting for my latest partner to return with refreshments, here came the officer with the fawn-colored boots. Now I noticed the crisp white collar inside his tunic, his softly squared chin, the perfect almond shape of his eyes, and the long, feathery lashes that shadowed them.
Oh, my.

He bowed. “Lieutenant Scott Fitzgerald, hoping to make your acquaintance.” His voice was deeper than I’d expected, with no trace of Alabama or any place Southern.

I pretended to be shocked by his forwardness. “Without a proper introduction?”

“Life is potentially very short these days—
and
your latest partner might return at any moment.” He leaned closer. “I’m wiser than I am impetuous or improper, rest assured.”

“Well. General Pershing ought to be consulting you on strategy. I’m Zelda Sayre.” I offered my hand.

“
Zelda?
That’s unusual. A family name?”

“A Gypsy name, from a novel called
Zelda’s Fortune
.”

He laughed. “A novel, really?”

“What, do you think my mother is illiterate? Southern women
can
read.”

“No, of course. I’m impressed, is all. A Gypsy character—well, that’s just terrific. I’m a writer, you see. In fact I’ve got a novel being read by Scribner’s right now—they’re a New York City publishing house.”

I didn’t know publishing houses from Adam. What I did know was that he held himself differently from the other boys—other
men,
I thought; he had to be in his twenties. And his speech had that dramatic flair you find in people accustomed to playacting in theater, as I was. When you’d spent so much time performing onstage, the habit bled into your life. Or, possibly, it was the other way around.

I said, “I thought you were an officer.”

“My secondary occupation.”

“There’s not one bit of South in your voice, Lieutenant; where’s home?”

“Princeton, before my commission,” he said. “I did prep in New Jersey. My childhood was spent in Minnesota—St. Paul.”

“A Yankee in every single way.” I glanced beyond him; thirsty as I was, now I hoped my partner might forget to return.

“Yes—though I’ve developed quite an affection for the South since my assignment to Camp Sheridan. A growing affection, in fact.” In those captivating eyes was what Mama would call “an intention.” A spark, or sparkle; a glint or gleam. The fairy tales I’d read throughout my childhood were full of such words for such looks.

I said, “Well, that should make you more popular in these parts.”

“I’m hopeful.”

He smiled then, and I felt that smile like a vibration moving through me, the way you might feel if you walked through a ghost or it walked through you. “Hopeful,” he repeated as the orchestra struck up a waltz, “and compelled to ask you for this dance.”

“Well, I am waiting for that nice fella from Birmingham to get back with a whistle-wetter. It is so blazing
hot
. I don’t know how you all can stand to wear all that”—I indicated his uniform—“and not want to just strip down and jump into some creek.”

“I think it’s because creeks are lacking somewhat in music and beautiful young women. Dancing, I’ve found, provides a good distraction from the discomfort of all this wool. Won’t you help a fellow out?”

He offered his hand. How could I refuse? Why would I want to?

“I suppose it
would
be a service to my country,” I said, just as the Birmingham boy returned with my drink. I took the glass from his hand, downed the punch, then returned the glass, saying, “Thank you
so
much,” and let Scott lead me off into the ballroom.

He danced as well as any of my partners ever had—better, maybe. It seemed to me that the energy I was feeling that night had infused him, too; we glided through the waltz as if we’d been dancing together for years.

I liked his starched, woolly, cologned smell. His height, about five inches taller than my five feet four inches, was, I thought, the exact right height. His shoulders were the exact right width. His grip on my hand was somehow both formal and familiar, his hand on my waist both possessive and tentative. His blue-green eyes were clear, yet mysterious, and his lips curved just slightly upward.

The result of all this was that although we danced well together, I felt off-balance the entire time. I wasn’t used to this feeling, but, my goodness, I liked it.

Two hours later, we stood facing each other in the pink glow of a driveway post lamp while the Club emptied out behind us. Any second now, Eleanor would come out, and then her daddy’s driver would be there to ferry us home in the old phaeton I’d once decided to drive myself. I was twelve at the time, and the horses nearly ran away with me before the whole thing went sideways and I was flung into a hedge.

“Tell me more about this book business,” I said. “I’ve never known anyone who could write more than a news article—well, Mama wrote a short play once, but that hardly counts ’cause it was a musical and it only ran some fourteen minutes—it was for a charity ball, we’re always having charity balls here, do y’all do that, too, up North?”

He laughed. “Do you want to know about my novel, or St. Paul’s society habits?”

“The novel! Both! Tell me every single thing about every single thing until El drags me off.”

“How about this: I’ll send you a chapter, and you can see for yourself what I’m about. Then you’ll be able to say you were among the first to read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s phenomenal first book.”

“
F.
Scott?”

“Francis—after my cousin Francis Scott Key—
The Star-Spangled Banner
?”

“Not really!”

“Oh yes. Besides which,
F. Scott
sounds weightier, don’t you agree? Authoritative.”

“Absolutely.” I nodded. “Why, I respect you more already and I haven’t read a word. Imagine how much I’ll admire you when I’m done. And then once it’s an actual
book
…” I let the sentence hang like that, allowing his imagination to fill in the rest.

I wanted him to tell me more about how he’d done it, written a whole entire novel, and about what he liked to read, and I wanted to tell him what I liked to read, and then we could talk about things from those books. India, for instance; I’d been reading Kipling since forever. And Joseph Conrad’s made-up Costaguana, from
Nostromo
—had he ever heard of it? Where exactly did he think it was?
Tarzan of the Apes
—had he read that one? Africa, now
that
was a place to talk about!