“The papers are writing that Red Rodney and Clean Calvin are dead.”
The tinny chiming in Fern’s ears pitched higher, and higher, and then muted entirely. Her chest caved in. No air. No sound. Margie’s lips moved, but she couldn’t hearher. No. It wasn’t true. She was wrong; the papers were wrong.
Fern closed her eyes, wanting to sink out of sight, out of the world entirely. She wanted the blackness that had consumed her right after the explosion to swallow her again, this time for good.
They’d been together only yesterday. He’d been pressed up against her in that ridiculously narrow cot, holding her, loving her. Cal was too strong, too stubborn, tooaliveto be dead.
Tears wet her cheeks, leaking through her sealed lashes, and Fern struggled on gasps of air. A painful knot in her throat threatened to choke her completely. She let it grow, let it take over. She didn’t know how long she lay there like that, but slowly, the intuitive feeling that she was alone pressed against her. Fern opened her eyes to find Margie had left. The sounds of hard-soled shoes on the tile floors, of murmuring voices and the occasional moan of pain, filtered through her muffled hearing.
She’d sent Cal back to the Lion’s Den. She’d been trying to protect her family.
And her mother had sent Margie to sit with her.
Fern’s hot, dry eyes slid to the suitcase. No doubt her mother had instructed Margie to pack her something to wear. Basic toiletries. A pair of shoes, perhaps. She’d come into the hospital wearing a man’s suit, after all. Fern thought she’d been doing the right thing, sacrificing her reputation by releasing the photographs. Ensuring the fete was cancelled so Rod and his boys wouldn’t have a party to crash.
But Fern should have protected Cal. They shouldhave gone to see Hannah Levy together, then left Chicago right away.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
By a small miracle, Margie had left her purse slung over the chair when she went to phone Fern’s mother. Though she felt a twinge of guilt for it, Fern took the amount of cash she’d need for a streetcar ride to the Levy home from Margie’s pocketbook. Dressing herself had been a test of patience and an endurance of pain. Her broken arm ached from being shifted around so much as she finagled herself into a pale yellow shirtwaist, followed by a long, dove-gray rayon skirt, hosiery, and finally, a seersucker jacket that she wore over her shoulders to conceal as much of her cast and sling as possible. There was nothing to be done about her hair, which she had to leave down under a cream-colored pillbox hat Margie had paired with the ensemble. With her uninjured arm, she’d picked up the suitcase, held her chin high, and waltzed out of the hospital without a single attendant, doctor, or nurse inquiring as to where she thought she was going.
In my world, confidence is like air, Cal had once said to her.You either breathe it, or you end up in the ground.
Her chin wobbled as she took his advice to heart and made her way to the Levy residence. Maybe Margie had been wrong. Maybe Hannah would know something more.
But when she knocked on the front door to the brickbungalow, and Mrs. Levy answered, the pinched space between the woman’s brows sent another hollowing spike of despair through Fern.
“Oh. You were Cal’s friend,” she said, letting Fern inside.
Were.
The front hallway smelled of lemon polish, and it made Fern’s stomach churn. She blinked back more tears as Mrs. Levy spied her arm in the sling, half-hidden by the jacket.
“Have you come for treatment, dear?”
“No, I…I wondered if I could see Hannah?”
She appeared on the carpeted steps, her hand sliding down the gleaming wood banister. “Fern?” Her wide eyes took in her casted arm in the sling.
“I came from the hospital,” Fern said before Hannah could ask.
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Mrs. Levy disappeared into the kitchen at the end of the hallway.
Hannah bit her bottom lip, crossing her arms. “I read what happened. My parents, they’re…they’re pretty torn up about Cal.” She inhaled. “I am too. Are you…are you okay? Were you there?”
They were upset about Cal, not Rod. Fern didn’t have to question why. She hadn’t given Cal’s brother a sliver of space in her head since waking up in the hospital. He didn’t deserve it. Hannah’s mother brought a tea tray into the front sitting room, and as Fern haltingly relived the explosion, explaining as much as she could to them, Dr. Levy joined them. His eyes were solemn, his lips grim.
“Hannah said he was just here yesterday morning,” Dr. Levy said from where he stood in the entrance to the sitting room, leaning against the doorjamb. “Something about new papers?”
Hannah nodded, then smiled slightly as she met Fern’s eyes. “There are no secrets in this family,” she said. “Thankfully, my illicit skills help with the bills around here.”
Mrs. Levy rolled her eyes and shook her head but didn’t argue her daughter’s point.
“It’s why I’ve come,” Fern admitted, feeling a little guilty after having accepted their hospitality and their commiseration over the loss of Cal. She felt hollowed out, and by their glum expressions, so did they.
Hannah stood up and left the room, the carpeted steps on the staircase squeaking under her weight.
“She’s an artist in her own right,” Dr. Levy said, adding, “We were always happy to help Cal.” His mouth twisted with grief, and he ducked out of the room before he could show any more emotion.
