enforce the Fourteenth? One says a man shall not drink and the other says he shall vote. I would rather spend a million to enforce the Fourteenth Amendment than 14 to enforce the Eighteenth!
—CONGRESSMAN OSCAR DE PRIEST, The Advocate, Portland, Oregon, September 28, 1929
I tumble from dream to dream as if I’m the Alice who encountered a rabbit with a timekeeping fetish. I’m standing before a mirror in a gilt scalloped frame, pinning a netted cap of copper sequins over my hair, deciding which Nobody is called for. Trying on souls for Mr. Salvatici and tossing them aside like scarves. I’m at the edge of the Hudson in denim trousers and a man’s cap pulled low, the moon a wicked smirk, clenching and unclenching my hands in my pockets. I’m at the Tobacco Club, heart going like a hi-hat, and—
Whimpering as I snap awake, I discover I’m still not alone.
There’s a child in my sickroom. Blinking against wit-dulling pain, I examine the creature.
“Who are you?” he asks in a piping voice.
“The Queen of France,” I manage.
“Oh. You must have been in the War, then. ’Cause you sure look terrible,” he notes.
Well, this is fixing to cheer me up any old amount.
“We all look this way in France. We’re ever so strong for invalids—romantic, don’t you know. See here, good sir, just who am I addressing?”
“Davy Lee. I’m six.”
“Ah.”
“I just finished class at Mrs. Evelina’s Weekly Betterments downstairs. She lets me draw knights and dragons.”
“She sounds a peach.”
“She is. Do you live here now?”
“That’s a topic for further study.”
“I live here, just down the hall. In a fortress.”
“No kidding.”
Davy sits in the chair Blossom vacated, swinging energetic legs as if remaining still is an affront to personal freedoms. He’s a hazelnut shade with eyes painted in woodland colors, catlike, and he’ll be handsome as anything once the baby chub dissolves. Delicate bee-stung lips, lashes unnaturally long. Any self-respecting flapper would cast about for the shears and swipe them straight off his peepers.
“I get to meet you now, because Mavereen is checking the dining room before supper and Blossom is out singing.” He studies me hungrily. “If you start to look too sick, I can run for Dr. Pendleton and rescue you, the way the Yanks saved the world from the Hun. Boy, do you look sick. Are you fixing to die?”
“I’m none too keen, no.”
“I’ve never seen a person die before. It’d be awful interesting. If you nearly die, I can save you, though. Wouldn’t that be even better?”
“Short man, you are impertinent.”
“Sorry. Have you ever seen a dead body?”
“Oh, acres of them. Simply dozens,” I confess.
“Gosh.”
“Yes, quelque luck.”
“You don’t seem much like a queen. Who are you, really?”
“Nobody.” I sigh. “Davy, could you be a dear and fetch water from that pitcher? I’m expiring.”
He complies with the strangely rolling motion some children possess. As if they were spinning hoops or tumbleweeds. Croquet balls. He pours the water, splish-splosh, and returns radiating civic pride.
Sitting up, I grind my teeth against the firebrand on my side. By the time my whistle has been wetted, I’m ill with the effort. A clatter sounds when I return the glass to the nightstand.
Ain’t we got fun.
“Maybe even if you do start to die, I won’t need Dr. Pendleton. Maybe I can save you myself. Then I’d deserve medals, I figure. At least two.” Davy gives me a grin, rubbing at unruly curls.
“Two medals is the going rate?”
“Yeah. But I’d settle for cookies if there aren’t any medals downstairs. There are cookies downstairs for sure.”
“Really? That’s some strategic intelligence you’ve spied out.”
“Miss Christina makes the best cookies. But she never eats any herself. It’s awful peculiar.”
“Miss Christina sounds a few whiskers shy of a rabbit, in that case.”
“You’re the wrong color to be here.”
Biting my lip, I consider the word segregation and all the dreadfully droll rules of conduct it entails. The bizarre lad has identified a problem, all right. But I’m exhausted, and strung together with fishing line for all I know, and attempting to ignore a shattered heart.
God help me. Supposing God is inclined to help liquor peddlers and gun molls.
“It’s mighty funny, you being here. I’m not allowed to play with white kids anymore.” A distressed line beetles Davy’s brows. “Not even the ones a few blocks away, who have the best kites. Ever since they whupped me something awful.”
I frown. “Somebody gave you a licking?”
He nods, touchingly sobered. “I thought they were my friends, but they changed their minds. Six months ago.