“Try douching with olive oil,” Ida recommended. “That’s what I do when Ray comes to town.”
“I prefer Coca-Cola,” Irene said. “It’s fizzy, and Jack doesn’t mind the taste.”
The idea made my head swim, but the other girls laughed.
“You could try spreading pomegranate pulp down there,” someone else suggested.
“Or fresh ginger.”
“Or tobacco juice.”
“You’re making me sick,” I said.
The girls stared at me sympathetically. Ida voiced what they were thinking. “That probably means you’re knocked up for sure.”
Which made my eyes go black with dizziness.
“If you are knocked up,” Ruby said, “none of those things is going to help you. They’re only good if you use them before you do it.”
“A friend of mine has a trampoline,” one of the girls suggested helpfully. “I heard that if you jump a lot, the baby will come loose.”
“You could throw yourself down some stairs-”
Ida said, “I know a man who can take care of it-”
“Stop, all of you,” Helen ordered. “You’re frightening her half to death.”
Literally, because death from exsanguination or sepsis was what I was looking at if I got a back-alley abortion. My father had accused me of being a whore, and now I burned with shame and fear. All this from a few minutes with some kid…
“I’ll help you,” Helen vowed. And she did, although I probably shouldn’t have put my faith in her when she herself had gotten pregnant and ended up with Tommy. Helen put me in a bathtub with steaming hot water. She sat on the floor and kept me company while I massaged my stomach and prayed for whatever was in there to come out. About a week later, while I was dancing the Chinaconga through the club, something warm and sticky leaked between my legs. My period had arrived… right on schedule.
“You were lucky this time,” Helen lectured. “You and only you will have to suffer any mistakes you make in connection with one of our boys.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I promised. “I’m never going to do it again.”
Helen took me to a doctor anyway. “Just to be on the safe side.”
The doctor-as white as his coat, but not nearly as judgmental as I expected him to be-fitted me with a diaphragm. When he was done rummaging around in there, he said, “This isn’t all up to you. Our boys have seen films and they’ve all learned the slogan: Don’t forget-put it on before you put it in.”
As crude as what he said was, at least now I was prepared. And even though I’d vowed never to do it again, over the next few months I sometimes got caught up, once again, in the moment. Making love got a lot better too. Fun! I wasn’t the only one to see it that way. Young women, whether at our club or working as waitresses near munitions factories or in bars outside bases, came to be called Victory Girls, although some people dubbed us Khaki-wackies, Cuddle Bunnies, and Good-time Charlottes. We were doing our part for the war effort-even if that meant we had to deal with a lot of busy hands. And when the boys shipped out, we presented them with signed photographs-“Dreaming of you, forever yours, Princess Tai,” “To a swell guy, love always, Grace,” or “May you stay as sweet as you are, love and kisses, Ida”-so they’d have something to hold when they got lonely. We gave them our address at the club so they could write to us, and many of them did-sad, homesick notes. Sometimes we never heard from them again, and we wondered if they were dead, injured, or had just forgotten us. But the next day, a new batch of boys would come through, and the cycle would start over. I didn’t get pregnant, and no one got too rough. (That doesn’t mean I didn’t count the days each month, though. One mistake would destroy my life.)
As for Ruby, she’d gone fourteen months without being identified, and either her fears had vanished or she did a great job of hiding them, because Princess Tai was the most popular of all the girls. The ponies complained that her gardenias intoxicated the men in the audience. And they did seem intoxicated, but it wasn’t from her gardenias. You should have seen the way they leaned forward in their chairs, waiting for Princess Tai to drop her fans or her bubble. She never did. They bought her dinner and drinks. They sent flowers to the dressing room. She showed the youngest ones how to dance. She taught them how to use chopsticks. When some smart mouth would tease her with the old myth about which direction an Oriental girl’s privates went, she’d laugh merrily. “Oh, sweetie, you should try it. It’s just like eating corn on the cob.”
One night at the beginning of March ’43-a full year after Joe went to Southern California for training-a wiseacre in dress blues popped Ruby’s bubble with the tip of his cigarette. People went crazy! After that, Ruby deliberately stayed in the middle of the dance floor, sashaying only once a night close enough to some lucky boy, who’d paid to have the honor of popping her bubble. “It’s all in good fun,” Ruby always said after she’d scampered Eve-style back to the dressing room. The new showstopper made Charlie happy too, because he could put an inflated price for the bubble on the patron’s check.
Through it all, Ruby remained true to Joe, but the more risks she took and the more daring and flamboyant she became, the more I lay awake at night, anxious that one slip and it would be all over for her.
GRACE: A Succulent Dish
“Cripes! Get a load of this!” Ruby beamed as she held a telegram out to me. “It’s an offer to be in a movie!”
I read the telegram inviting Princess Tai to dance in a Paramount Studios film called Aloha, Boys!, starring Deanna Durbin, with music by Kay Kyser, who’d recently had a big hit with “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” These were not top-top stars, but the ponies in the dressing room flipped their lids. It hadn’t even been four weeks since that guy first popped Ruby’s bubble and already she was reaping big dividends.
“It’s beyond exciting!” Ida said.
“Stupendous!” Irene whinnied.
“Can I take your place while you’re gone?” asked Esther, a new girl, who, it now became apparent, had bigger ambitions than any of us realized. “I’ve been working on a routine.”
Ida jabbed Esther with her elbow. “Stop it already. We’ve all heard about your girl-in-a-gilded-cage act. Charlie doesn’t want it. This is about Ruby, not about you trying to steal her spot in the show.”
Ruby and I left the gals to their arguing and went to Charlie’s office so she could call the casting director. She held the phone to her ear and repeated pieces of the conversation so I could hear. She’d be required on the Paramount lot for a day, but with train travel and time for her to relax before and after filming, she’d be gone for five. As I listened, I grew angry with myself. I’d become lazy. I’d forgotten ambition. I’d let Ruby jump far ahead of me, because it was easy to float through as a pony, earning $150 a week with my extra powdering-and-gluing job and living on the edges of her bounty.
By the time she got off the phone, Charlie had opened champagne and was pouring it for everyone-from the lowliest dishwasher all the way up to his prized princess. “I promise a raise to anyone else who gets a part in a film,” he proclaimed as he lifted his glass.
“I’d kill to be in your place, Ruby,” I confessed, truthful as can be.
She flushed with joy as she announced, “They told me I can bring someone with me. You and Helen are closest to me. I wish I could bring you both.”
I’d sat through enough of Reverend Reynolds’s sermons back home to recognize that the greed and covetousness raging through my body were sins.
“I can’t go. I’ve got Tommy,” Helen said, giving me the best gift of my life.