Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties (3 page)

The two dollars I’d been promised turned out to be a buck fifty, but I needed the money. That extra seven fifty or ten fifty a week, depending on if I worked every night—especially during the holiday season—meant I didn’t have to choose between making my rent and going to bed hungry. Plus, I got to wear pretty dresses and real diamonds and pearls. Working those parties put me smack in the center of a lot of impressive, glamorous people and you never knew who you’d meet. The day after a party I’d always see the photographs all over the society pages. Once I even managed to get myself in a picture. I recognized the dress first and realized the shoulder and back of the head belonged to me. I clipped the photograph and tucked it up in the corner of my mirror. Someday, I told myself, I would be important enough to be the subject of a society page photograph.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Evelyn said. “Was it very late?”

“After one.” I yawned. “I missed my train and had to wait forty minutes for the next one.”

“Poor thing.” Evelyn bent down and stroked my hair. She didn’t need to work a second job. She was a faster typist than I was and the best speller among us typewriters. Mr. Schlemmer insisted she proofread his most important documents, even if another girl had typed it. That right there made her weekly pay envelope ten dollars thicker than mine. Not that I begrudged her. She’d helped me plenty, lending me a dollar or two when I came up short, and it wasn’t as if she had much to spare.

“C’mon, now,” she said. “You have to get up! You’ll be late.”

“I’m always late.” I rolled onto my back and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand.

Grabbing her toothbrush, Evelyn slung her towel over her shoulder and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom we shared with the other girls on the floor.

Evelyn Schulman and I had been best friends from the time we were seven. Hers was the house on the corner, the big one with the steep front steps. Evelyn’s father owned a sporting goods store on Grand Avenue and all five of the sisters had matching bicycles, lined up one after another on their front lawn. I was jealous—not of the bicycles, but of Evelyn for having all those sisters. I didn’t have any sisters or brothers. I didn’t even have a father. He died when I was four years old. They found his body behind a saloon on Whiskey Row. His head, hands and feet were missing. Butchered like an animal. My mother never talked about his murder. She’d never used that word or even said out loud that he’d been killed. When she did speak of him it was always followed by, “May he rest in peace.” She acted like the rest of it hadn’t happened. But whether we called it by name, whether or not we acknowledged it, I slept with a light on until I was fifteen. I kept a lookout, leery of unfamiliar motorcars parked outside our house and strangers coming down our sidewalk. That was how I spent the bulk of my childhood: keeping watch, waiting for and expecting something else to happen.

Growing up it was just my mother and me, and Evelyn, my chosen sister. When we turned sixteen, our mothers sent us to the Queen Esther dances. Every Saturday night in the summertime they held dances outside the synagogue, beneath a big white tent. The music was never any good and the boys didn’t know how to do the bunny hug or the black bottom. But still, we went week after week, until my mother heard that I’d been spotted behind the tent, sitting on a crate with my skirt hiked up to my knees, smoking cigarettes and playing five-card stud with a group of boys. That was the last Queen Esther dance for me. My mother was angry but not surprised. She was used to me stirring up trouble. By the time I turned fifteen I was sick of being too afraid to live. That’s when I got busy, making up for lost time. There was newfound freedom in acting daring and bold, taking risks and seeing how much I could get away with.

I must have dozed off again, because the next thing I knew Evelyn was standing over my bed. “It’s half past seven. C’mon. You’re not even dressed yet.”

I dragged myself out of bed, chilled as soon as my bare feet touched the hardwood floor. There was a draft coming in through the window where it didn’t seal all the way. Our room was cramped, barely big enough for our twin beds and a set of bureaus. The faucet in the bathroom down the hall dripped, the boiler in the basement clanked all winter long and everywhere you looked paint was chipping and peeling.

Evelyn and I had moved in six weeks before. We’d both recently turned eighteen and had wanted out of our parents’ homes. Evelyn’s parents were strict, setting curfews fit for a child, not letting her wear makeup or date college-age boys. And I knew that unless I wanted to end up like my mother—alone and chained to a miserable family business—I had to get out of her house. So even though I was stuck in a dilapidated shack, it was still better than living with my mother. Especially since she was the main reason I’d moved out in the first place.

I dressed quickly, changing from my nightdress into a white shirtwaist and long black skirt. It was exactly the same outfit Evelyn had on, the same as all the other typewriters would be wearing that day and every day. I supposed since they called us
typewriters
it made sense to dress us like a bunch of Smith Coronas.

With three minutes to spare, Evelyn and I marched into the building and took our places at the insurance offices of Schlemmer Weiss & Unger. I yawned off and on until noon, and while the others ate lunch in the cafeteria, I curled up on a chair in the back and napped, the wooden slats pressing into my spine. I was more tired than hungry and besides, a bowl of barley soup cost a quarter. A roll with butter was a dime. Coffee was another nickel on top of that. If you wanted applesauce or gelatin, that was another dime. I figured by skipping lunch I could save two dollars and fifty cents a week. Besides, I could usually sneak some appetizers later at whatever party I was assigned to.

At five o’clock, I said good-bye to Evelyn and the others and headed from the Loop toward the Drake Hotel on Michigan Avenue. I was scheduled to work a Christmas party in the grand ballroom for a prominent law firm. Hopefully the hotel would be swarming with successful, eligible bachelors. But all I could do was look and not touch. At least not while I was working. My job was to walk through the party, smile and hand out Mr. Borowitz’s calling card to anyone interested in purchasing his jewelry. I wasn’t to speak unless spoken to, and I wasn’t, under any circumstances, to discuss the jewelry or the prices.

When I reached the el platform, I found myself crowded in between rows of businessmen and factory workers, shopgirls and office clerks. The first train arrived and before I could inch my way toward the front of the line, the cars filled up and the doors closed.

I had time and decided to walk despite the cold wind coming off Lake Michigan whipping around and through me. Even in between gusts, I had to hold my hat in place. The sidewalks were crowded with holiday shoppers darting in and out of stores, their arms loaded down with parcels. The traffic was backed up to the bridge at Wacker with drivers blasting their horns as pedestrians weaved in and around the automobiles.

When I made my way down Michigan Avenue and arrived at the Drake, a footman, dressed in his red-and-gold uniform, held the door for me as I crossed from one world into another. I paused for a moment, rubbing the chill from my hands as I took in the garlands, the wreaths and glittery decorations on the walls. The clamor of motorcars and trolleys was replaced by the delicate clinking of crystal goblets and silver tines on bone china. The dark, winter cold was overcome by the warm hum of a healthy furnace and the glow of chandeliers hanging overhead.

Downstairs in the chambermaids’ quarters, I changed from my typewriter clothes into the blue silk dress waiting for me with my name pinned to the sleeve. It was a swell number and flowed off my shoulders like it was made for me. The hem was one of those handkerchief styles that showed my kneecaps when I walked. They even gave me a pair of matching shoes with a two-inch heel. Though my cheeks and nose were still red from the cold, I applied rouge and some lipstick. I brushed my shiny, inky black bob into place, smoothing down my bangs to cover the faint chickenpox scar above my right eyebrow.

When I was ready, I went upstairs to check in with Mr. Borowitz, an oversize man whose thick, fleshy neck doubled down, overlapping his collar. Three other girls were ahead of me and he carefully draped them in earrings, necklaces, brooches, cocktail rings and bracelets. I stood still while he trimmed me as if I were a Christmas tree, reaching over and pinching a diamond earring onto each of my earlobes before he finished decorating me, sliding an emerald bracelet onto my wrist and topping me off with a matching necklace. It was always a thrill when I heard the clasp lock into place. It meant those jewels were mine—if only for a few hours.

This was my favorite part of the job. After I was dressed and wearing my jewels, just before the guests arrived, I had five or ten minutes to wander through the busy hotel. Nobody knew that dress didn’t belong to me, and that I didn’t have ten others just like it hanging in my wardrobe back home. Nobody knew the gems weren’t mine, either. As the heels of my loaner shoes clicked against the marble floor, I felt people watching me and in that moment I could be anyone I wanted to be.

Each night I tried on a new identity along with the gown and jewels. Sometimes I’d be a famous chorus girl—a Ziegfeld girl, or a moving-picture star like Clara Bow or Lillian Gish. Sometimes I’d pretend I was the daughter of a banker or a wealthy industrialist. Other times I was just famous for famous’s sake, the type of woman men fought over and women envied.

At seven o’clock the band began playing a jazzy number,
The Uptown Stomp
, as we girls took our places inside the ballroom, trying to appear as inanimate as the gilt-framed portraits on the walls. A giant Christmas tree, with gold and red ornaments, stood in the corner of the room, its lights twinkling as the guests filtered in. The men were dressed in tuxedos with top hats and carried walking sticks; the women glistened in beaded gowns and matching cloche hats. They puffed on cigarettes and sipped champagne, their glasses kissed with ruby red lipstick. They flitted and fluttered while waiters worked through their effervescent wake, holding silver platters of pastries filled with crabmeat, butterflied shrimp, and deviled eggs topped with dollops of caviar. When no one was looking, I grabbed a few.

A photographer asked me to step aside while he arranged a group of couples standing to my left. After squaring one man’s shoulders, he asked another man to crouch down while scooching his date in closer. I imagined myself as part of this group, mentally inserting myself into the shot, taking my place between the two men, looping my arms through the arm of the taller one, my fingertips gently caressing the fabric of his expensive suit. After adjusting the bellows of his camera, the photographer told them to smile as he raised his flash bag and—
poof—
released a burst of light and smokeless powder into the air. As soon as he was finished, the cluster of couples dispersed like billiard balls after a solid break. I desperately wanted to follow them.

The band struck up a new snazzy number and I watched as more couples crowded the dance floor.

“You look like a gal who’d like to dance,” said a short, stocky man wearing a crooked bow tie and a Santa hat. He pointed at my shoes.

I didn’t realize I’d been tapping my foot to the music. “I’m afraid I’m working here tonight.”

“Oh?” His mouth dropped open as his hand reached up and pulled off his hat. “How much is a dance?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “God, no. Not
that
kind of working.” Before I realized I’d just been insulted, I opened my silver card case. “That’s my boss,” I said, pointing to Mr. Borowitz’s name on the card. “He’d pitch a fit if I started dancing, but thank you anyway.”

After he’d replaced his Santa hat and moved on to the woman behind me, asking her to dance, I returned to my rigid modeling pose.

A young couple, looking like they’d just stepped out of a Marshall Field’s display window, stopped to inquire about my necklace. I listened as they debated whether it was the right length and size for a particular gown the woman was planning to wear to a New Year’s Eve ball. Evidently they weren’t sold on the necklace they’d seen earlier at Cartier. The woman was about my age and I would have bet good money that she’d never worked a day in her life. No doubt she thought the handsome, wealthy man on her arm was her birthright. I would have killed to slip inside her skin for just a day. Hell, just an hour. What did it feel like to have no worries beyond choosing a piece of jewelry that some rich man would buy for you? While they contemplated the necklace, a waiter appeared with a fresh tray of deviled eggs. My stomach growled as they both helped themselves, balancing their eggs on the embossed cocktail napkins.

“Exactly how much is this necklace?” the man asked.

As instructed, I opened my silver card case, and as I handed him Mr. Borowitz’s card, someone pinched my behind. I spun around, only to find half a dozen men within pinching distance who would look neither at me nor at my bottom.

“Oh, sweetie,” said the woman to me, fisting up her napkin, “would you be a dear?” She placed her dirty cocktail napkin in my hand. I glanced at the napkin and back up at the woman, searching her heavy-lashed eyes, hoping she’d rethink the request. But all I got was a dismissive smile. I made my way to the opposite side of the room, pitched the napkin and snatched two canapés from a passing tray.

The band continued to play as couples moved about the dance floor, spilling drinks and filling the air with clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. It wasn’t in my nature to stand back and watch the others having all the fun. Time seemed to pass slowly but finally the party was over and I went downstairs to change into my work clothes, which always felt rough against my skin after I’d been clothed in real silk. I had replaced the good wool coat that I’d lost in the Five Star raid with a secondhand wraparound. It had a torn lining and a hole in the pocket that I kept forgetting to mend. I’d lost a lipstick that way, and my favorite hair comb.