Chapter Twenty-Two Judy
Chapter Twenty-Two
Judy
Joe is coming to San Francisco.
Joe is coming to San Francisco.
I still can’t believe it.
I don’t know if I want him to.
Of course I want him to.
I’ll put my hair up.
I’ll put my hair down.
There is only one thing of which I’m certain: I know what I’ll wear.
It took me only one additional flight to Hong Kong for Mr. Chan to have my purple dress ready. Usually it takes three trips to complete one of his masterpieces. Or so I’ve been told, but I had been so enamored with the sample on the rack that he’d agreed to tailor that very one rather than create my dress from scratch.
I suspect Rosamaria had slipped him a little money to make it so. You didn’t have to be in Hong Kong for very long to discover that its lifeblood is tips and bribes and under-the-table transactions.
However it happened, my beautiful silk dress is hanging in the closet I share with Beverly, and its inaugural appearance will be tonight.
When Joe takes me out to dinner.
It’s only been three weeks since I’ve seen him. But it feels like so much more. The contrast between training in Miami and actually working the flights is vastly different. So much so that training is a distant memory, as if it happened to someone else. I’ve grown up in this short span of time.
I already know that I love the coffee that comes from Kona when I’m in nearby Honolulu and that my favorite version of it is served at the counter at Tops. And though I’ve graced its vinyl stools four times now, I still thrill at the fact that the opening scene of Elvis’s Blue Hawaii was filmed there.
I’ve already ordered two more dresses from Mr. Chan. One for Ronelle—who deserves a thousand of them. And another for me—this time made from a gorgeous golden silk with red butterflies embroidered on its hemline. Red being the Chinese color for good luck.
In this short time, I’ve also discovered that the soldiers stationed at another Pacific stop—Wake Island—will gather in the dance hall near the airport when a weekly flight deposits pretty stewardesses, the boys dousing themselves in cologne to cover up the sweat that permeates their uniforms after a long day in the tropical heat.
I can only imagine the education another few weeks will bring.
But in all that time, through all those adventures, Joe has not been far from my mind.
The doorbell rings at six sharp, and I recall that Joe Clayborn is punctual. Beverly says that timeliness was drilled into us so thoroughly during training that we wouldn’t recognize our former selves. Maybe the same is true for Joe. Are any of us the same as who we were before becoming part of this company?
Lorna, another of our housemates, offers to get the door while I pause in front of the mirror and dab at a stray smear of lipstick. She’s just finished the latest Andy Griffith episode, a show that fascinates her endlessly because its depiction of small-town American life is so different from what she knew in her hometown of Munich. I’d been listening from my room. In tonight’s show, Barney tries to set Andy up with a girl after he has an argument with Peggy.
Even in Mayberry, love is a frequent topic.
“Judy!” Lorna calls. “There is a man here for you.”
The truth is, she knows all about Joe. As do all the girls living in this house on Clarendon. Beverly had dished about it a little more than I would have on my own, egged on by a bottle of champagne that a male passenger had bought for her. But in the end, I was grateful for their counsel. I hadn’t listened to my mother’s concerns about Henry, so the advice of such worldly women was welcome.
Of course, I hadn’t told them that I was married. And that, at least, Beverly kept secret.
The consensus among the girls: go for it.
After all, Pan Am had been the catalyst for many inner-airline romances. Why not mine?
“Hi,” I say as I step into the living room.
I didn’t know how much I missed him until this moment, when he is standing right in front of me. My heart seems to still and race at the same time. And the room empties itself of all its oxygen.
“Hi,” he says in return.
Lorna looks at both of us and rolls her eyes. “Well. As scintillating as this conversation is, I have to pull myself away. I have the early flight to Tokyo to prepare for.”
I smell Chanel N°5 on her as she walks past me, the same scent that Beverly wore until we went to the Woolworth counter, and I insisted she find a perfume that she could be happy with for less cost. She settled on Revlon Aquamarine, marveling that she could buy their whole line—milk bath, bar soap, powder, and eau de toilette—for less than the price of one bottle of Chanel at Bergdorf’s.
Lorna turns around and places her hand on the doorframe. “Gute Nacht, you crazy kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Then she winks. “Which leaves you with plenty of options.”
The taxi pulls up to Tosca Cafe in the city. In my short time living in California, I had not yet set foot in San Francisco itself, having spent the few days that I wasn’t crossing the Pacific getting to know the charming little town of Burlingame. So as we drive, I am torn between looking at the city by the bay through the window on my right and the wonder that Joe is sitting to my left.
But I am spared having to jump right into conversation—the driver keeps the radio so loud that talking is impossible, music in a language I don’t recognize permeating every inch of the car. Instead, Joe and I exchange smiles.
His nearness is putting every nerve I have on alert, and it is all I can do to keep my smile from reaching ear to ear.
The taxi comes to a halt, and I instinctively reach my hand out to grip the headrest to keep from slamming into it. Joe hands a few dollars to the driver and, in no time, comes around to hold the door open for me. My Hong Kong dress is clingy, which is excellent for turning heads but is like a straitjacket when moving in it. I swing my legs sideways over the seat, grateful that the butterfly dress I’ve ordered from Mr. Chan is a bit more loose fitting.
But I can accept my lack of movement because Joe hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we left the bungalow. They remind me of the exaggerated way a character’s eyes pop out in a cartoon, and I am aware that Joe is trying to control his reactions as much as I am.
My cheeks burn at the realization.
I take his hand, comfort and energy pulsing in it. As soon as we reach the sidewalk, he shifts to pressing gently at the lower part of my back, guiding me through the crowd.
Tosca Cafe is abuzz with activity—fitting for how I am feeling right now. There is a line of fifteen people or so waiting to get in. But Joe walks right up to the hostess.
“Clayton, party of two.”
Of course he would have made a reservation in advance. How dependable of him.
The leggy girl is wearing a skirt whose hemline sits just below what might be considered legal, but Joe doesn’t seem to notice, even when she bends over to pick up two menus.
“Right this way, Mr. Clayton.”
She leads us to a booth in the back corner, and I slide onto the red-vinyl seating, thankful that the slippery texture is a good match for silk. Better than in the taxi. Joe makes sure I have the side from which I can see the whole restaurant, whereas his view is the wall. Well, more than just a wall. I noticed an enormous framed mural of Venice as we walked this way.
Venice. I wonder if that’s a place I’ll ever see during my time at Pan Am. I wonder if Joe has ever been. He hadn’t made a mention of it in the letter that came with the journal.
“I see you’ve paid a visit to our Mr. Chan,” Joe says, hands folded on the table. Strange first words given the weeks apart, but I kind of like how he eased right into talking as if we had just spoken yesterday.
“I should have realized that you would know all about him.”
He tugs at his shirt collar. “This is the best linen I’ve ever worn with the best tailoring known to man.”
I laugh. “Yes. Then you know him well. Though I have to say, you didn’t choose the most exciting of his fabrics.” Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Joe branch out beyond a basic white or brown shirt. Except for the time he went crazy and wore pale yellow at Villa Vizcaya.
Joe takes a sip of the ice water that the waitress set on our table and grins. “I’ll leave the fancy stuff to the ladies. I’m plain old Joe, and I’m happy that way.”
“That’s a departure from the animal kingdom, then,” I say. “Mr. Chan’s shop is like a candy shop for colorful peacocks, and you dress like a peahen.”
As soon as I say it, a burning sense of embarrassment washes over me. I’m afraid I’ve missed the mark. It was meant to be a humorous observation, not a slight. Actually, I like plain old Joe . A lot. I prefer his simple mannerisms to Henry, who took every opportunity to flex his imagined superiority. It was exhausting to keep up with such an ego.
Thankfully, Joe looks unruffled. I’m out of practice. I haven’t been out on a date in several years.
If this is a date.
I hope it’s a date.
“So what brings you to San Francisco?” I ask, eager to change the subject and leave my misguided statement behind us.
“You do.”
Every part of me freezes. I’d hoped as much, but it was another thing entirely to have him admit it.
“Me?” I grip my water glass. My hands need to do something.
Joe leans in, but his hands remain folded in front of him. “What you see is what you get with me, Judy. I felt a spark between us in Miami. I’d like to see what that might mean. And we happen to be lucky enough to have jobs where we can hop on a plane and find out.”
“How long will you be staying?”
It’s not the best response, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.
“My flight back is tomorrow at two o’clock.”
My heart is sitting on a seesaw right now. He’s here. Then he’ll be gone.
But he’s here for me . That’s what matters.
“So you took a ferry flight all the way from Miami just to take me to dinner.”
“Yes.” He unfolds his hands and sets them just a bit closer to me, though he never breaks his gaze. He lowers his voice and there is a hint of vulnerability in it. “Am I imagining the spark I mentioned?”
I shake my head. I am not one to believe in love at first sight—and I’m not even saying that’s what I feel for Joe. Any notion of love I’ve ever entertained was tarnished and it will take some time to polish. But I did fall for that purple silk dress back in Hong Kong the moment I saw it, and it gives me hope that my instincts might not be irretrievably gone.
That it’s not too late to make up for old mistakes.
Life is too short to live it in the past.
“No,” I answer. I feel as resolute as my one-syllable answer sounds. For the first time, I reach out to him. I take his hands in mine, the boldness of it intoxicating me before we even order our drinks. So it can’t be mistaken for liquid courage. This is one hundred percent me. Judy Goodman. “You are not imagining the spark.”
I feel my breathing become heavy and my chest tighten as the implications of his trip hit me.
“Judy, are you all right?”
Joe slides his hand across the table and holds mine.
“I’m fine,” I say, clipped. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you look like you’re going to be sick. And your foot is restless under the table like you’re doing a tap dance. Did I—is my flight out here moving too fast for you?”
He noticed. Either I’m not hiding my nerves as well as I thought, or he is a particularly perceptive man.
I have to tell him about Henry.
But if I tell him, he may have to report it to Pan Am.
I could be fired.
And worse, I realize.
I could lose him.
I pull my hand from his and wrap my own together. I am tempted to look at the table—it’s easier than meeting his eyes. But he deserves better than that.
“No,” I assure him. “Not too fast at all. This is—I am.”
I let out a big sigh before continuing. Here we go. “Joe, I’m married.”
Joe sits up as if an electric volt has gone through him. The look on his face is difficult to read—is he angry? Or merely surprised?
It feels like an hour passes between us, but according to the clock on the wall, it’s mere seconds.
“But—your application. It said you were single.”
My lip quivers, and it takes everything in me not to cry. “I lied.”
No mistake this time. He doesn’t mask his look of betrayal.
“Wait, though,” I hurry, suddenly feeling words coming faster than I can say them. “It’s not what you think.”
I begin to tell him the story. More than he probably wants to know and with a rapidity that would rival a speeding train. About meeting Henry at the Lancaster market. About how he dazzled me, about losing my mom, and then being swallowed into a world of his creation until I was lost as well.
About Ronelle, who helped me escape into the welcoming arms of Pan American.
And about Beverly’s plan for me to go to Mexico to dissolve this horror once and for all.
The waiter approaches, pad in hand, ready to take our orders, but I see him assess our body language, and he wisely turns around and walks away.
When I am done, I dab the cloth napkin to my nose, quietly apologetic to whoever has to wash these, for that is not their intended use.
Joe is quiet, arms folded.
I feel like the balance of the whole world is teetering on this axis.
Then he speaks.
“I am so sorry,” he says. He releases his arms and puts them back on the table, leaning in.
“For flying out here?” I whisper.
My heart is racing to the point of being painful.
But a smile begins to spread across his face, and his eyes soften into sympathy.
“No. No, dear Judy. Never sorry about that. Glad as hell, to tell you the truth. I thought there was something about me that was holding you back. I’m sorry that you have been holding on to this. And especially that you had to go through it in the first place.”
These were not the words I expected. My hands fly to my face, and the tears come. My shoulders are heaving, and I can’t control any of it. It is as if everything I’ve endured for the last few years is ready to be released.
Joe comes around and slides into my side of the booth, enveloping me in his arms. The wool tweed on his jacket itches my face, but it is the most glorious sensation because it tells me that I am alive when I have felt numb, dead all this time.
He strokes my hair, and I feel people around us looking at me. But Joe seems oblivious to everything except us.
This is what it should feel like to be in a man’s arms.
I pull back at last, and I can feel how the makeup I’m wearing has melted on my face. I even see the faint curve of my mascara has landed on his white collar.
“I’m sorry,” I say this time. But despite my apology for this spectacle, I feel amazing. Light. Released and new. I’m reveling in it and all it could mean.
Joe takes the napkin I’ve been holding and dips it into my water glass, wiping it gently across my face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re a brave woman, Judy Goodman, to do all you’ve done.”
“You—you won’t have to tell Pan Am? They’re your employer.”
He straightens up and exaggerates a professorial tone to his voice. “It is an indisputable fact that the stewardesses who represent Pan American Airlines must exhibit, above all things, grace under fire, and be ready for everything that is thrown their way. It is my professional opinion that Judy Goodman has demonstrated this skill in abundance and shall remain employed by the company for as long as she cares to.”
I smile. I can’t help it. This is a cute look on him.
“Besides”—he shrugs—“I’m not your manager. And thank goodness for that. You don’t come under my authority, and I feel no obligation to bring it to their attention.”
I grab his hand and feel myself squeezing it tight enough to cut off his circulation. But he doesn’t flinch.
“I’m going to fix this,” I promise. “I want a fresh start.”
“I want that for you too. And if you need me to back away for a while so that you can do that, I will.”
“No, Joe. Dear, dear Joe.” I stroke his face and like the feel of his gentle stubble against my fingers. “You are the very best part about starting over.”
If Beverly asks me later what we ate, what we drank, I won’t remember. Because for the remainder of the evening, Tosca Cafe becomes a blur while Joe is in full focus to me. An observer might find our conversation trivial as Joe steers me away from heavier subjects, sensing my need for levity.
It is not until after his taxi pulls away from my doorstep, after he has walked me to the stoop illuminated by a flickering bulb, after he has drawn me into his arms and kissed me with both delicacy and desire that sets my toes aflame, that I notice a car parked across the street.
The window is rolled down, and cigarette smoke spirals upward, and I see a man in the shadow and haze watching me as I unlock the door.
My stomach tightens in panic even as my head tells me that I’m imagining things.
But the man looks a whole lot like Henry.