TIL MORNING

Part 5

 

Dorothy

            On the street once more, they stood facing each other. She felt like a teenager trying to make conversation before her date kissed her at the door, or didn’t.

            “You were wonderful,” she said. “Better than your records, better even than the night I saw you open here. You sounded like Billie Holiday on Sweet Lotus Blossom.”

            He rubbed his cheeks, warm from the cold and the vodka. “Lady Day taught it to me. It’s about loco weed, as we used to call it back home.”

            “You didn’t write it then?” She was chattering, couldn’t help it. Keep him talking and maybe he wouldn’t notice that the evening was over.

            “No,” he said, “but someday I’ll sing you one of my songs, maybe later tonight.”

            “Tonight?” Not even her deliberately flat voice could make it a question.

            He touched her cheek then reached for her arm. “Come on.”

            His bachelor flat at Fifty-fifth and Broadway looked like a brownstone flophouse. They stumbled up the narrow stairs as if they came home this way together every night.  What am I doing? thought the sane side of her. They’d cuddled in the red leather booth, clung actually. But they hadn’t even kissed. Now here she was, trudging up the stairs beside him, smiling as he stroked her arm. He didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. Humming a few bars of Walking My Baby Back Home, he fumbled with his free hand for his keys.

            “It’s a dump,” he said, as he unlocked the door. “I’ll move if you hate it.”

            The interior of his apartment had the chilly scent of a bar after too many ashtrays had been emptied and too many glasses rinsed. Neon from the signs outside washed the wall with fuchsia light, illuminating a chesterfield and imposing oak coffee table. She pulled the fur close around her and maneuvered around something that had to be an overstuffed ottoman.

            “Where’s the lamp?” she asked.

            “Up ahead. Can I take your coat?”

            “Let’s find the lamp first.” She couldn’t give up the fur, not yet. Just then she heard a menacing growl and saw the shape of a huge dog as it descended upon her. “Mother of God!” 

            “Don’t worry.” Johnnie wrestled to control the Doberman. “Sabrina’s a sweetheart.”

            Dorothy stepped back into the ottoman and felt the heel of her shoe break off. She cried out and struggled to regain her balance as pain cracked through her ankle. “My shoe.”

            “Take them off, and I’ll buy you new ones.” He reached out in the flashing light. “Here, give me your hand. Show Sabrina you’re not afraid.”

            “But I am. My Underwood relies on all ten fingers.” Slowly she put her hand out and let him take it. The dog responded with a sloppy sandpaper kiss. “Ick. Her tongue’s wet.”

            “Most tongues are.” The dog tagged behind him. “Careful up ahead here,” he said, and led her deeper into the shadows. “Morrie might be flaked out on the divan.”

            “Morrie?” she repeated. “Another dog?”

            “More like a nearsighted owl. The guy’s my manager.” He let go of her and cupped his palms around his mouth. “Morrie, if you’re in here, give us a hoot.”