For days, Elsa stayed hidden in her room, saying that she felt unwell. In truth, she couldn’t face her father with her jaggedly cut hair and the need it exposed. At first she tried to read. Books had always been her solace; novels gave her the space to be bold, brave, beautiful, if only in her own imagination.
But the red silk whispered to her, called out, until she finally put her books away and began to make a dress pattern out of newsprint. Once she’d done that, it seemed silly not to go further, so she cut out the fabric and began to sew, just to entertain herself.
As she sewed, she began to feel a remarkable sensation: hope.
Finally, on a Saturday evening, she held up the finished dress. It was the epitome of big-city fashion—a V-neck bodice and dropped waist, a handkerchief hemline; thoroughly, daringly modern. A dress for the kind of woman who danced all night and didn’t have a care in the world. Flappers, they were being called. Young women who flaunted their independence, who drank hooch and smoked cigarettes, and danced in dresses that showed off their legs.
She had to at least try it on, even if she never wore it outside of these four walls.
She took a bath and shaved her legs and smoothed silk stockings up her bare skin. She coiled her damp hair into pin curls and prayed they would create some wave. While her hair dried, she snuck into her mother’s room
and borrowed some cosmetics from the vanity. From downstairs she heard the Victrola playing music.
At last, she brushed out her slightly wavy hair and fit the glamorous silver headband on her brow. She stepped into the dress; it floated into place, airy as a cloud. The handkerchief hemline accentuated her long legs.
Leaning close to the mirror, she lined her blue eyes with black kohl and brushed a streak of pale rose powder across her sharp cheekbones. Red lipstick made her lips look fuller, just as the ladies’ magazines always promised.
She looked at herself in the mirror and thought: Oh, my Lord. I’m almost pretty.
“You can do this,” she said out loud. Be brave.
As she walked out of the room and went down the stairs, she felt a surprising confidence. All her life, she’d been told she was unattractive. But not now …
Her mother was the first to notice. She smacked Papa hard enough to make him look up from his paperback Farm Journal.
His face creased into frown lines. “What are you wearing?” “I—I made it,” Elsa said, clasping her hands together nervously.
Papa snapped his Farm Journal shut. “Your hair. Good God. And that harlot dress. Return to your room and do not shame yourself further.”
Elsa turned to her mother for help. “This is the newest fashion—”
“Not for godly women, Elsinore. Your knees are showing. This isn’t New York City.”
“Go,” Papa said. “Now.”
Elsa started to comply. Then she thought about what it meant to obey and she stopped. Grandpa Walt would tell her not to give in.
She forced her chin up. “I am going to the speakeasy tonight to listen to music.”
“You will not.” Papa rose. “I forbid it.”
Elsa ran to the door, afraid that if she slowed, she’d stop. She lurched outside and kept running, ignoring the voices that called for her. She didn’t stop until her ragged breathing forced it.
In town, the speakeasy was tucked in between an old livery station, now boarded up in this era of automobiles, and a bakery. Since the Eighteenth Amendment had been ratified and Prohibition had begun, she’d watched
both women and men disappear behind the speakeasy’s wooden door. And, contrary to her mother’s opinion, many of the young women were dressed just as Elsa was.
She walked down the wooden steps to the closed door and knocked. A slit she hadn’t noticed slid open; a pair of squinty eyes appeared. A jazzy piano tune and cigar smoke wafted through the opening. “Password,” said a familiar voice.
“Password?”
“Miss Wolcott. You lost?”
“No, Frank. I’ve a hankering to hear some music,” she said, proud of herself for sounding so calm.
“Your old man’d whoop my hide if I let you in here. Go on home. No need for a girl like you to walk the streets dressed like that. Only trouble comes of it.”
The panel slid shut. She could still hear music behind the locked door. “Ain’t We Got Fun.” A whiff of cigar smoke lingered in the air.
Elsa stood there a moment, confused. She couldn’t even go in? Why not? Sure, Prohibition made drinking illegal, but everyone in town wet their whistles in places like this and the cops looked the other way.
She walked aimlessly up the street, toward the county courthouse. That was when she saw a man headed her way.
Tall and lanky, he was, with thick black hair partially tamed by glistening pomade. He wore dusty black pants that clung to his narrow hips and a white shirt buttoned to his neck under a beige sweater, with only the knot showing of his plaid tie. A leather newsboy cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head.
As he walked toward her, she saw how young he was—not more than eighteen, probably, with sun-darkened skin and brown eyes. (Bedroom eyes, according to her romantic novels.)
“Hello, ma’am.” He stopped and smiled, took off his cap. “Are you talking to m-me?”
“I don’t see anyone else around here. I’m Raffaello Martinelli. You live in Dalhart?”
Italian. Good Lord. Her father wouldn’t want her to look at this kid, let alone speak to him.
“I do.”
“Not me. I’m from the bustling metropolis of Lonesome Tree, up toward the Oklahoma border. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it. What’s your name?”
“Elsa Wolcott,” she said.
“Like the tractor supply? Hey, I know your dad.” He smiled. “What are you doing out here all by your lonesome in that pretty dress, Elsa Wolcott?”
Be Fanny Hill. Be bold. This might be her only chance. When she got home, Papa was probably going to lock her up. “I’m … lonely, I guess.”
Raffaello’s dark eyes widened. His Adam’s apple slid up and down in a quick swallow.
Eternity passed while she waited for him to speak. “I’m lonely, too.”
He reached for her hand.
Elsa almost pulled away; that was how stunned she was. When had she last been touched?
It’s just a touch, Elsa. Don’t be a ninny.
He was so handsome she felt a little sick. Would he be like the boys who’d teased and bullied her in school, called her Anyone Else behind her back? Moonlight and shadow sculpted his face—high cheekbones, a broad, flat forehead, a sharp, straight nose, and lips so full she couldn’t help thinking about the sinful novels she read.
“Come with me, Els.”
He renamed her, just like that, turned her into a different woman. She felt a shiver move through her at the intimacy of it.
He led her through a shadowy, empty alley and across the dark street. “Toot, toot, Tootsie! Goodbye” floated from the speakeasy’s open windows.
He led her past the new train depot and out of town and toward a smart new Model T Ford farm truck with a large wooden-slat- sided bed.
“Nice truck,” she said.
“Good year for wheat. You like driving at night?”
“Sure.” She climbed into the passenger seat and he started up the engine.
The cab shuddered as they drove north.
In less than a mile, with Dalhart in their rearview mirror, there was nothing to see. No hills, no valleys, no trees, no rivers, just a starry sky so big it seemed to have swallowed the world.
He drove down the bumpy, divoted road and turned onto the old Steward homestead. Once famous throughout the county for the size of its barn, the
place had been abandoned in the last drought, and the small house behind the barn had been boarded up for years.
He pulled up in front of the empty barn and turned off the engine, then sat there a moment, staring ahead. The silence between them was broken only by their breathing and the tick of the dying engine.
He turned off the headlights and opened his door, then came around to open hers.
She looked at him, watched him reach out and take her hand and help her out of the truck.
He could have taken a step back, but he didn’t, and so she could smell the whiskey on his breath and the lavender his mother must have used in ironing or washing his shirt.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back, feeling hopeful.
He spread a pair of quilts out in the wooden bed of the truck and they climbed in.
They lay side by side, staring up at the immense, star-splattered night sky.
“How old are you?” Elsa asked.
“Eighteen, but my mother treats me as if I’m a kid. I had to sneak out to be here tonight. She worries too much about what people think. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“You can walk around by yourself at night, in that dress, without a chaperone.”
“My father is none too happy about it, I can tell you.”
“But you did it. You broke away. D’ya ever think life must be bigger than what we see here, Els?”
“I do,” she said.
“I mean … somewhere people our age are drinking bathtub gin and dancing to jazz music. Women are smoking in public.” He sighed. “And here we are.”
“I cut my hair off,” she said. “You would have thought I killed someone, the way my father reacted.”
“The old are just old. My folks came here from Sicily with only a few bucks. They tell me the story all the time and show me their lucky penny. As if it’s lucky to end up here.”
“You’re a man, Raffaello. You can do anything, go anywhere.”
“Call me Rafe. My mom says it sounds more American, but if they cared so much about being American, they should have named me George. Or Lincoln.” He sighed. “It sure is nice to say these things out loud, for once. You’re a good listener, Els.”
“Thank you … Rafe.”
He rolled onto his side. She felt his gaze on her face and tried to keep breathing evenly.
“Can I kiss you, Elsa?” She could barely nod.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. His lips softened against her skin; at the touch, she felt herself come alive.
He trailed kisses along her throat, and it made her want to touch him, but she didn’t dare. Good women almost certainly didn’t do such things.
“Can I … do more, Elsa?” “You mean…”
“Love you?”
Elsa had dreamed of a moment like this, prayed for it, sculpted it out of scraps from the books she’d read, but now it was here. Real. A man was asking to love her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
He drew back, fumbled with his belt, undid it, pulled it free, and threw it.
The buckle clacked against the side of the truck as he pulled off his pants.
He pushed up her red silk dress; it slid up her body, tickling, arousing her. She saw her bare legs in the moonlight as he pulled down her bloomers. Warm night air touched her, made her shiver. She held her legs together until he eased them apart and climbed on top of her.
Sweet God.
She closed her eyes and he thrust himself inside of her. It hurt so badly she cried out.
Elsa clamped her mouth shut to stay silent.
He groaned and shuddered and went limp on top of her. She felt his heavy breath in the crook of her neck.
He rolled off her but remained close. “Wowza,” he said.
It sounded as if there were a smile in his voice, but how could that be?
She must have done something wrong. That couldn’t be … it. “You’re something special, Elsa,” he said.
“It was … good?” she dared to ask. “It was great,” he said.
She wanted to roll onto her side and study his face. Kiss him. These stars she’d seen a million times. He was something new, and he’d wanted her. The effect of that was a staggering upheaval to her world. An opportunity she’d never really imagined. Can I love you? he’d asked. Maybe they would fall asleep together and—
“Well, I reckon I’d best get you home, Els. My dad will tan my hide if I’m not on the tractor at dawn. We’re plowing up another hundred and twenty acres tomorrow to plant more wheat.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”
 |
ELSA CLOSED THE TRUCK door and stared through the open window at Rafe, who smiled, slowly raised his hand, and then drove away.
What kind of goodbye was it? Would he want to see her again?
Look at him. Of course not.
Besides, he lived in Lonesome Tree. That was thirty miles away. And if she did happen to see him in Dalhart, it wouldn’t matter.
He was Italian. Catholic. Young. Nothing about him was acceptable to her family.
She opened the gate and entered her mother’s fragrant world. From now on, blooming night jasmine would always make Elsa think of him …
At the house, she opened the front door and stepped into the shadowy parlor.
As she closed the door, she heard a creaking sound and she stopped. Moonlight bled through the window. She saw her father standing by the Victrola.
“Who are you?” he said, coming toward her.
Elsa’s beaded silver headband slipped down; she pushed it back up. “Y- your daughter.”
“Damn right. My father fought to make Texas a part of the United States. He joined the Rangers and fought in Laredo and was shot and nearly died. Our blood is in this ground.”
“Y-yes. I know, but—”
Elsa didn’t see his hand come up until it was too close to duck. He cracked her across the jaw so hard she lost her balance and fell to the floor.
She scrambled back into the corner to get away. “Papa—” “You shame us. Get out of my sight.”
Elsa lurched to her feet, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door shut.
With shaking hands, she lit the lamp by her bed and undressed.
There was a red mark above her breast. (Had Rafe done that?) A bruise was already discoloring her jaw, and her hair was a mess from lovemaking, if that was what it could be called.
Even so, she would do it again if she could. She would let her father hit her, yell at her, slander her, or disinherit her.
She knew now what she hadn’t known before, hadn’t even suspected: she would do anything, suffer anything, to be loved, even if it was just for a night.
|
THE NEXT MORNING, ELSA woke to sunlight streaming through the open window. The red dress hung over the closet door. The ache in her jaw reminded her of last night, as did the pain that lingered after Rafe’s loving. One she wanted to forget; one she wanted to remember.
Her iron bed was piled with quilts she had made, often sewing by candlelight during the cold winter months. At the foot of her bed stood her hope chest, lovingly filled with embroidered linens and a fine white lawn nightdress and the wedding quilt Elsa had begun when she was twelve years old, before her unattractiveness had been revealed to be not a phase but a permanence. By the time Elsa started her monthlies, Mama had quietly stopped talking about Elsa’s wedding and stopped beading scraps of Alençon lace. Enough for half a dress lay folded between pieces of tissue.
There was a knock at the door. Elsa sat up. “Come in.”
Mama entered the room, her fashionable day shoes making no sound on the rag rug that covered most of the wooden floor. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a no-nonsense demeanor; she lived a life above reproach, chaired church committees, ran the Beautification League, and kept her voice low even when she was angry. Nothing and no one could ruffle Minerva Wolcott. She claimed it was a family trait, inherited from ancestors who had come to Texas when no other white face could be seen for a six-day horse ride.
Mama sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hair, dyed black, was drawn back into a chignon that heightened the severity of her sharp features. She reached out and touched the tender bruise on Elsa’s jaw. “My father would have done much worse to me.”
“But—”
“No buts, Elsinore.” She leaned forward, tucked a ragged lock of Elsa’s shorn blond hair behind her ear. “I suspect I will hear gossip today in town. Gossip. About one of my daughters.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Did you get into trouble?”
“No, Mama.”
“So, you’re still a good girl?”
Elsa nodded, unable to say the lie aloud.
Mama’s forefinger moved down, touched Elsa’s chin, tilted her face up. She studied Elsa, slowly frowning, assessing. “A pretty dress doesn’t make one pretty, dear.”
“I just wanted—”
“We won’t speak of it, and nothing like it will ever happen again.”
Mama stood, smoothing her lavender crepe skirt, although no wrinkles had formed or would dare to. Distance spread between them, as solid as any fence. “You are unmarriageable, Elsinore, even with all our money and standing. No man of note wants an unattractive wife who looms over him. And if a man did come along who could overlook your weaknesses, certainly he would not dismiss a tarnished reputation. Learn to be happy with real life. Throw away your silly romantic novels.”
Mama took the red silk dress on her way out.
