Dreamland Social Club(79)

Jane walked over to look at the contents of a big glass case by the far window and found the same photo of the Dreamland Social Club that she’d seen in Preemie’s old book. It appeared to be an original print—with scalloped edges and a wrinkle in it—and Jane’s eyes fell again upon the girl in the white dress. She noticed a sort of gash in the print right near her nose and it brought back a memory she really would have preferred to forget.





We’re walking down a cobblestone street and my mother has a bag full of food like carrots and baguettes and there is a lady walking toward us and I can tell that something funny is going on. On her face. As she gets closer, I see that she kind of sort of doesn’t have a nose, and that there are two metal spikes coming out of what should be her nostrils, and I have no idea what any of it can mean. “Mom?” I say, and I feel her squeeze my hand so tight that I think she may break my fingers.

“Lovely day after all!” she says to the woman as she passes, and it’s all I can do to not scream, SHE DOESN’T HAVE A NOSE! YOU’RE TALKING TO A WOMAN WITH NO NOSE!





The woman’s voice is totally normal when she says, “Yes, a nice surprise!”

And then she’s gone and my mother drops my hand and I say, “She didn’t have a nose, Mom.”

She stops at the corner and looks at me, sort of disappointed, and says, “Did you happen to notice that her eyes were the most remarkable green?”




Looking out the window of the museum toward the water, Jane squinted and imagined she was looking out of the eyes of the Elephant Hotel, and she thought there were worse things in life than being funny-looking and maybe worse things in life than not having a nose or not having any limbs at all. Like not being loved. Not being able to feel. Not having anything to lose or give away.

The museum guy came back into the room and stopped at Jane’s side. “We’ll take it all,” he said, just like she knew he would. “We’ll send a truck.”





At home all the furniture in the living room—even the horse—was covered with sheets and tarps, and Jane had this sinking feeling that something had gone wrong, that the whole thing—inheriting the house—had been a mistake and they had to move out. But then she smelled paint and saw her father up on a ladder with a roller at the far end of the room.

“Whatcha doing, Dad?”

He turned and pulled a face.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re painting.”

“Thought the place could use a little touch-up,” he said. He’d chosen a pale orange color, which Jane thought strange.

“Orange?” she said.

He kept on rolling, and it was actually sort of peachy and lovely. “It’s called Clementine Dreams,” he said. “I took it as a sign.”

Jane went upstairs to change into old clothes and then went back down and picked up a second roller. “You were right,” she said. “About the Anchor.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” He was pouring more paint into the tray.

“No.” She shook her head and got her roller wet. “It’s okay.”

She turned and rolled a tall stripe onto the wall. “So the guy at the museum said they’ll take the horse, and a bunch of Preemie’s stuff, too.”

“Well done,” her father said. “Really. I mean it.”

Marcus came through the front door then with an open letter in his hand. “Columbia,” he said. “In.” He looked around the room and said, “Is that peach?”

“It’s Clementine Dreams,” Jane said, and he took up the third roller.

This time when the house phone rang, Jane’s dad didn’t move an inch. He said, “I think that’s probably for you.”

Jane perched her roller on the tray and approached the phone warily, wondering what Leo could possibly have to say to her now, why he could possibly think that calling their house was a good idea.

She picked up and said, “Hello?”

“Can you meet me?” he said. “Like now?”

“I don’t know.” She twirled the phone’s cord in her fingers. “It’s been sort of a crazy afternoon here.”

“Here too,” he said. “Please. It’s important.”

“Okay,” she said. “Where?”

“I’m at the bar,” he said. “I’m alone.”

“I don’t understand.” It was the thick of happy hour.

“Just knock on the gate when you get here,” he said. “I’ll explain.”





Health department notices glued onto the gate to the Anchor announced it had been shut down. There were some numbers and letters and codes listing violations, but Jane already knew what they’d be. She rapped on the gate and it shook and rattled, and then she heard a sort of cranking sound as it started to lift, rolling into itself.

“Can you fit?” Leo said when it was about two feet off the boardwalk. Jane lay down and rolled into the Anchor under the gate. Leo helped her up, then cranked the gate back down and shut.

He said, “Can I get you a drink?”

He had a beer bottle in his hand and Jane said, “I’ll have one of those.” She felt very grown-up here with him, in a bar. Alone. She’d put on jeans and a sort of tank top that had been Birdie’s but looked new, never worn. It was sort of low-cut and, for once, Jane liked that.