Love and Other Consolation Prizes(58)

Everyone in Chinatown seems to have a B side to his or her character—an untold story—Ernest reasoned as he lit a cigarette and remembered that one of his favorite songs was a Hank Williams flip-side record, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” That song had seemed to do pretty well. Then again, some say Hank Williams died of a broken heart.

Poor Hanny, Ernest thought. She didn’t know what to believe. So she smiled and said nothing. I guess there’s comfort in denial.

But Rich knew the truth—Ernest could see that plainly in the man’s wide-eyed look of surprise and benign admiration, even as he went on and on about his colorful life in Las Vegas. He told a story about being a law clerk during the raid on Roxie’s, a famous western bordello. And about how he’d once met the famous Miss Bluebell, as well as Marli Renfro, the showgirl who’d been Janet Leigh’s body double in Psycho.

Fortunately for everyone, Hanny and Rich had had to leave before dessert. Rich had to take a phone call with a client who was in jail.

Ernest put out his cigarette and loosened his tie as he looked down the street toward Chinatown, past popcorn stands and Turkish baths, past businessmen in raincoats heading home or to a bar, and past secretaries running to the post office, or meeting their friends for a drink. He could see the old Washington Court Building in the distance—the ascendant home of Madam Lou Graham, then Florence Nettleton. The building was now home to the Union Gospel Mission, one of the few missions that had survived the great flu that wiped most of them out forty years ago. The building now had a neon sign, which read, REACHING OUT AND TOUCHING LIVES.

If there is a God, he’s the god of irony, Ernest thought. The angels of Ernest’s childhood had been replaced by a scattered crowd of lonely, bearded men who wandered around the sidewalk entrance like pigeons bobbing for crumbs of bread and wobbling, noontime drunks, loaded to the muzzle.

Ernest was still gazing off into the distance when Juju emerged.

“It’s all true, isn’t it?” she said as she put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What Mom said—and that’s where you both lived.”

Ernest nodded as his daughter handed him a bag full of pink takeout boxes. Gracie had appeared behind Juju, beneath an awning, buttoning her coat and covering her hair with a floral scarf as the cloudy sky began to drizzle.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s restless,” Juju said. “She talked to everyone about the new world’s fair—says she’s dying to go. But she’s tired. She hasn’t been over to this part of town in forever—so many familiar faces, so much to process, so many…things remembered.”

“You’re taking this revelation about your mom remarkably well.”

Juju shrugged. “I deal with the lurid side of humanity for a living. Am I shocked? Of course, but she’s still my mother—who am I to judge? It was a long time ago, and back then only one in ten girls even graduated from high school. She’s probably lucky she ended up at the Tenderloin. Besides, I still have a deadline and a feature to write.”

Ernest cleared his throat.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Juju said. “I’m leaving Mom out of it—I’m not crazy. But you—you’re still part of a great story. I still can’t quite believe you were raffled off and ended up in a brothel. That’s quite a secret.”

Ernest shook his head.

“I was just reading about how Louis Armstrong grew up in a bawdy house in New Orleans, a place just like the Tenderloin. That hasn’t hurt his record sales one bit.”

Ernest recalled a decades-old memory of Professor True talking about the urchin boys who grew up in Storyville and how they’d go through the suit coats of customers while the patrons were otherwise engaged, skimming the pocket change. Ernest’s life at the Tenderloin had been downright respectable by comparison.

Juju kept talking. “And, now that I think about it, Mae West practically made her name playing the types of characters you grew up with.”

Ernest said, “Mae West isn’t helping your argument.”

“Why’s that?” Juju asked as she helped Gracie fix the buttons on her coat.

“Because I remember going to the AYP and watching a dashing musician named Guido Deiro,” Ernest said. “He went on to be the secret love of Mae West—a scandal that haunted both of their careers.”

“It was a different time then.” Gracie shrugged. “People move on. Speaking of, we should too. It’s starting to rain.”

Ernest looked at his wife, his mouth open. It seemed as if she was really following the conversation. “I’ll go get the car,” he said.

“I’d like to walk,” Gracie interrupted.

Ernest looked at his daughter, and Juju’s expression seemed to say, Why not?

Despite the cloudy sky, it was a pleasant summer evening. The avenue was clear and the streetlights were flickering to life, reflecting gasoline halos in the wet pavement that surrounded them. Neon shimmered on the damp sidewalks, and gulls bobbed happily, picking out scraps among the litter. As they walked across the street, Gracie slowed and then stopped in the middle. She looked around, her face suddenly flushed with confusion. She pulled the scarf from her head and dropped it to the ground. Ernest felt a jolt of déjà vu as Gracie froze, a statue staring up into the sky as rain began to fall.