“It’s hard to learn to move well without music,” Grace said. “What if I show you something my dance instructor choreographed back home? Every so often, she’d bring out a record of novelty songs. Our favorite was ‘Let Me Play with It.’ ” She started to sing and do the simple routine her teacher had put to the tune. “You let me play with your little yo-yo. I’ll let you play with mine.”
I grinned at the lyrics, but Helen and Grace seemed to take them at face value. The song was about as easy as could be, though, with those two cracked lines repeated again and again. Helen practiced with steely determination. Aided by the melody, she followed along, pointing her right index finger at an imaginary audience and then at herself at the appropriate spots, putting a little enthusiasm into her footwork, even smiling. And she had a swell voice. In fact, we harmonized quite well together. By four, we’d reached the end of the song-“I’ll let you play with mine. I mean it! I’ll let you play with mine”-and Helen had learned a passable three-sound tap called the riffle and slurp. And still the mothers who came through the park turned away, muttering under their breath. So what? I was used to that kind of thing.
We sat on a bench and changed out of our taps. Through the open windows around us came the clatter of dinners being prepared, the whines of musical instruments being practiced-badly-and squalls of colicky babies. Men sat on their haunches on fire-escape landings-drinking tea from used jelly jars, smoking cigarettes, and watching us with expressions that combined disdain and desire. I was used to that too.
After Helen fixed my collar-“so you look nicer”-she led the way to Fong Fong. The streets were lively. Laundry workers and waiters, dressed in their Sunday best, took advantage of their one night off, strutting to poolrooms, burlesque shows, and dime-a-dance halls. Helen said some of those men visited the open-air herb shop to buy deer antler, bear gall, and shaved rhinoceros horn to improve and prolong their potency in case good fortune-in the form of a woman-should shine on them in the coming hours. Other men, in business suits, gathered to blab about politics on corners. Women roamed the shops.
Helen pulled us into Fong Fong and bought three Coca-Colas.
“You two have helped me so much,” she said. “Thank you-”
Grace and I spoke over each other.
“No thanks are necessary-”
“We were happy to help-”
Helen held up a hand. “Listen.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve heard of an apartment close to here. It’s not too big or too expensive. If you two become roommates, the rent won’t be bad, especially if I negotiate it for you.”
“An apartment?” I squinted, doubtful. Hanging around with girls wasn’t my idea of a clambake. Especially with either of these two. Grace was a knockout, but so sweet and innocent she hadn’t yet kenned onto using what she had. And Helen? She was pretty, like I said, but something was off with her. How could she be so swift on the effect Chinese herbs had on men when she supposedly lived such a sheltered life with her family? Beyond that, I wasn’t sure I liked the way she stared at me.
“It’s not the cleanest,” Helen went on, “but it’s not the dirtiest either.”
“In Chinatown?” Grace asked nervously.
“Of course it’s in Chinatown.” Helen sure could be bossy-a regular Miss Know-it-all. “You two need a place to live. The YWCA is full. Cameron House is right around the corner, but that’s not right for you. Donaldina Cameron rescues bad girls.” She lowered her voice. “If you become roommates, you’ll be close to where I live, and you’ll be even closer to the telephone exchange.”
“You won’t be working there much longer,” I said, confident.
“What if we aren’t hired? How will we pay the rent?” People could probably smell Grace’s fear all the way in Timbuktu.
“You’ll be hired,” Helen told her. “You’ll be hired before I am!”
Helen didn’t mention me, but I had to be a sure thing after the little visit I’d paid to Charlie Low in his office. Nothing happened, and he did a bang-up job of acting like he wasn’t thrilled-not with his wife in the building, but she wouldn’t always be there. A man is a man is a man. Yeah, I’d wised up after not getting hired at the other auditions. This time I’d get the gig and the dough.
“Do you want to share an apartment?” Grace asked me.
My mother always said it was rude for someone to be so direct, but I answered anyway. “Why not?” Because, really, why not? There had to be a first time for everything. “Anyplace would be better than staying with my aunt and uncle in Alameda. It’ll be good to get away from my little cousins too.”
I watched as they took in those nuggets of information. We’d bumped gums some, talking a bit about this and that. Nothing serious. Nothing too revealing. It was fine by me if we practiced “Oriental silence”-hanging on to information that was no one else’s business-but things were bound to leak out.
“You’re sure you want to do it?” Grace’s voice rose with expectation.
“I’d love to,” I answered. “And thank you, Helen. Thank you so much.”
“I’m happy to help,” she responded. “It will be good to have you nearby.”
THE NEXT DAY, Grace and I met Helen at the Forbidden City, where we big-eyed the new girls who’d made it through the weekend auditions. We were back up to forty or so girls for the eight spots, which knocked some of the wind out of my panties. We auditioned in groups of six, and we sang something we’d all learned in elementary school-“Oh My Darling Clementine”-which put us on equal footing and made it instantly clear who could carry a tune. A quarter of the girls were gone by noon. Then Walton-no man was a mister to me-introduced us to the tap routine, which was a lot easier than anything we’d shown Helen over the weekend. He wanted to see how we moved onstage. Did we have presence? Could we hit our marks? Did our simple taps sound crisp or muddled? Did we have nice smiles?
“You, you, and you are in.”
Helen, Grace, and I made it through to the next round.
At the end of the day, we found Monroe on the sidewalk. We were physically tired but also exhilarated. We were so close to getting chosen as the Forbidden City’s first ponies… and now the apartment. Monroe walked with us to a run-down building on Waverly, a block from the playground where Grace and I had taught Helen to tap. Mrs. Hua, the elderly manager, showed us the tiny two-room furnished flat, which had a hot plate and a sink. If we got the place, we’d have to take turns sleeping on the sofa and the bed. Showers would be courtesy of the YWCA. We searched the cupboards and found four plates, three cups, a frying pan, and a wok. It all looked good to me.
I was grateful when Helen took charge. She knew the ins and outs of Chinatown-a place where Grace and I were total strangers. And it turned out she was great at bargaining.
“You want to charge ten dollars a week? For this?” Helen asked Mrs. Hua. “Impossible!”
“Nine dollars,” Mrs. Hua countered in heavily accented English.
“It isn’t worth five.”
“Eight fifty.”
“Five. Take it or leave it.”
Monroe regarded his sister with embarrassment tinged with grudging admiration. Grace seemed eager for Helen to accept the asking price.
“Eight dollars. No lower,” Mrs. Hua came back.
Helen shook her head. “Let’s go.”
Monroe, Grace, and I started for the door. Mrs. Hua grabbed Helen’s sleeve. “Six dollars. Okay?”
Helen pursed her lips as she thought about it. Finally, she said, “All right. Six dollars a week. But I’m not going anywhere until I see the contract. I don’t want you changing things after I leave, Mrs. Hua.”
As soon as the manager left to get the paperwork, Grace squealed and jumped up and down. “Helen! I can’t believe you just did that! My hotel room costs a dollar a day. This is a lot better and for a lot less money.”