Manhattan Noir

Besides, I liked shining his tap shoes. His feet were small and elegant, as if they’d been bound and sculpted to dance from the womb.

This rock? It’s fake. You think I’d be dancing if it wasn’t?

After I heard about Audrey yesterday, I hauled myself up to Tiffany’s. Some things you just do. Colorless things, diamonds.

Don’t know what Mother saw in them. At least she loved me in her own silly way. Ron was right about that. He was right about a lot, especially love. He said deep down, my father loved me because I was his flesh and blood. His own father had been a dancer, but died when Ron was eight. So he knew all about what he called the “empty spaces of the heart.”

But Ron was wrong about A-Ba. All these years and he’s never once tried to find me, I don’t think.

When Audrey Hepburn made her comeback in ’76, it was all Ron and I talked about.

We’d missed her. I’d seen every one of her movies, in memory of Mother, but Ron liked her too. She looked pretty good for her age. You know, if you look at her face front, she could almost pass for Eurasian.

That year, I dyed my hair and eyebrows coal-black, and cut a young-Audrey bob. Ron said it made me look exotic.

All the guys at work noticed. That was also when I started wearing makeup every day.

Funny stuff, makeup. One reason I never took performing too seriously was because I didn’t like all that stage goo.

Ron was tireless and careful about his; he needed to hide the lines. Mother wore makeup like it wasn’t there, long before the natural look. Her foundation and powder blended into the skin tones of her neck, unlike women who didn’t match their complexion properly and looked as if they’d severed and reattached their heads. She painted on eyeliner with a brush, rapidly, expertly, like an artist, but never used eye shadow. “Women with blue lids,” she declared disdainfully, “look frostbitten.”

Letting Ron pluck my eyebrows was a revelation. “You see, you do have eyes,” he said. “They were hidden by all that bushy fuzz.” With a little eye liner, my eyes became wider, brighter, more open.

I smiled at people now, instead of looking down all the time. I even admitted my feet were not too big. As Ron said, seven and a half is an average size in America. I began wearing stylishly nostalgic dresses from secondhand stores. Ron loved my quirky new look. “Lady fair,” he declaimed, “you put the stars and models to shame!”

That was the happiest time of my entire life. I felt elegant, even graceful.

Trust me, I don’t talk to just anyone. It’s not like I tell every writer who asks. What, you didn’t think you were the first, did you?

I started dancing here because welfare ran out. After getting laid off, it was great not working for a while. Like vacation. I loved playing housewife and not having to answer to anyone. Ron said not to worry about getting another job, something would turn up. He even suggested auditioning. But at twenty-eight, I felt silly competing with the kids. Wouldn’t say that to him, though. Why hurt his feelings?

In the beginning, I just used to dance. I tried a striptease, but it wasn’t a success. As the boss says, you have to have tits for that, and I wasn’t about to go silicon. So I stuck to the cage, or pole, because gams I’ve got. I’d come up with costumes for variety, like a see-through cheongsam with the waist-high slit, the Suzie Wong look? Oh well, I guess you are too young. Anyway, that was a big favorite. The act didn’t come about till much later.

I don’t remember exactly when Ron and I stopped dancing together.

What is it you want to know, kid?

Shortly after Audrey’s comeback, things started going badly for Ron.

He didn’t let on at first, laughing off problems and carrying on as if he were eternally onstage. First year, his agent was slow about returning calls. He talked about getting another.

Then, even friends in the business stopped returning calls, and his agent only had truly awful gigs, like the commercial where he had to wear a cow costume and tap dance around these giant milk bottles. I told him it was just the times, that the economy sucked and things were bound to get better. There were still occasional road shows in Alabama or someplace. We’d saved a little money, which was enough to live on, because I was a careful housekeeper, although Ron teased, calling me stingy.

Then I lost my job, it was tough finding another, and yadda, yadda, you know the rest. But back then on 42nd Street, they always needed fresh girls.

By daylight, Times Square was seedy, but not terrible.

Reminded me of Wanchai back home. When I was thirteen, I used to hang out on Lockhart Road after school. The mama-sans would stand around posing, fat old broads with painted masks and too- tight cheongsams. They’d catcall passing American sailors, pointing at the curtained doorways. It was like watching a show, somewhere very far off-Broadway, right at the edge of the grid. I gawked and giggled with my friends until they shooed us away.

Don’t know where I found the guts to walk into the biggest joint that day. Looking good helped, and I could still dance. They hired me right off. I was nervous the first night. It was a Tuesday. Place was dead except for a bunch of geezers in the corner. “Pretend you’re in a movie,” one of the girls told me. “That way, you’re not flesh.”

Ron was mad, but kept quiet because we needed the cash. After the first three months or so, he relaxed when he saw I always came straight home. “Just a job, I guess,” he’d say. I never expected him to dance, never breathed even the slightest hint, though he would have been terrific. He was way too fine for all this.

If only he’d kept going.

The kid. He looks a little like Ron.

You’re leaving town tomorrow? Getting married?

Ron went away, oh, ages ago.

Before he left home that winter afternoon, he claimed he was tired of the whole damned thing, said I would have been better off with Bogart. I didn’t get what he meant because I was running late for work.

In the morning, they found his tap shoes on the Brooklyn Bridge, his wallet and wedding band inside them. All I remember is, it was the day before he turned forty.

See you, kid. Good luck with the writing and all. Hey, what’s your name? I’ll look for your book someday.

So that’s the end. No one listens after the story’s over.

I cried myself to sleep for months afterwards. Ron kept me going, gave me hope, made me feel I was as good as any star despite my life. “Audrey Hepburn doesn’t hold a candle to you,” he’d say. He filled up my heart with so much love I thought it would burst. What more could a girl want?

Crying over Ron made me remember Mother. They would have adored each other. There were days I thought about going to join them both. Every night, I’d get up onstage and dance to whistles and catcalls, or the dead space of labored breathing, and I’d be okay. But away from here, alone in daylight, the space in my heart became immensely empty and bare. Tears cascaded from some mysterious source, against my will, until the day ended and night returned again.

And then one day, I’m not sure when or why, I just stopped crying.

Dancing’s been a kind of life. You get used to it. It’s better than hammering away at a noisy electric typewriter, mucking with carbons, hoping the cartridge won’t run out halfway. Plus no office politics. Girls who dance, they’ll be friends or leave you alone, whatever you want. Independent types. I like that.

The boss was good about things. Kept me on after Ron died, mostly because he felt bad for me. But business is business, and let’s face it, I was over thirty and this place is about fresh girls. So I came up with the cigar. He was skeptical, but gave it a whirl. I was a big draw. After the lighting incident, we moved on to vegetables. These were fine except for dai-kons, because those taste bad raw. But the boss was right.

Variety is spice, so out I strutted on spikes, hiked up the skirt, sucked in, spat out, and caught each tubular from between the legs, shoved each one between the lips, and crunched, hard, the pale, peeled daikon being the finale. Like juggling, with dance.

When I turned forty a few years back, the boss and girls gave me this big party. I look pretty good for my age.