She said: We’ve lost him.
I gasped.
She said: No, no, no! Not passed away, lost. But lost in the system. He could be anywhere.
She told me she would keep trying to find him. I thought, well, I won’t hold my breath.
I was sweating. I wasn’t even going to cry. I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I’ve been holding it all in. I didn’t cry. I feel like I’ll never cry again.
She put her tiny hand into the ticket booth.
She said: I brought you something.
I put my hand out and she opened hers and dropped a chain of light blue beads into it. I saw the cross immediately. It was a rosary.
I said: I told you this soul’s not yours for the saving.
She said: I’m not worried about your soul. I’m worried that you’re sad. You could just think of this as a pretty thing you could hold on to sometimes that will make you feel better. Sometimes that’s all it is to me. But please, Mazie, don’t tell anyone I said that.
I promised I wouldn’t. My promise is gold. I said she was my friend now, and she agreed I was hers, too.
And it is a pretty thing to hold on to, it’s true. I left it behind in the cage though. It’s becoming a home of a kind to me. I didn’t mean to get comfortable there. I didn’t mean to be there so long. But there I am. Here I am.
3. Excerpt from the unpublished autobiography of Mazie Phillips-Gordon
Heartbreak’s one thing that leads these bums to the streets. But by the time they get there, the bums don’t care about loving nothing but their booze. Coupling up is good for a night or two. It’ll keep you warm, if warming up is what you’re looking for. But when you’re a drunk you never want to share that bottle for too long with anyone. Love requires you to share. To these bums, love looks prettier from afar. They believe they’re better off in their sad lives with just the memory of love — and they’re probably right.
Mazie’s Diary, July 12, 1918
Rosie got word from Boston. Our mother’s sick. I haven’t seen her since I was a little one, Jeanie either. She never came to see us, though I’m sure he wouldn’t let her. We weren’t angry when we left, just scared.
So Rosie’s off to Boston for a few days to check on her. Nobody knows how bad it is, or what’s wrong. It could be anything. Just a telegram from him saying she wasn’t well.
This morning she and Louis were back and forth on whether she’d be traveling alone.
He said: May I remind you about the last time we saw him?
She said: May I remind you you’ve got businesses that need your attention?
He said: I could send a guy with you.
She said: What guy?
That was what I was wondering, too. Since when does Louis have guys he can send out of town?
I said: I could go with her.
But no one even listened to me — when do they ever? So I just smoked another cigarette and watched the two of them hash it out.
It’s been ten years! More maybe. How old are they? I wonder if they’d look the same. I wonder if she was even quieter now, if that was even possible. I wonder if he got meaner.
Benjamin Hazzard, Jr., son of Captain Benjamin Hazzard
So what Johanna told you is true. I did meet Mazie Phillips once. I had this wild hair for a moment after my father died, and I thought I should meet this woman I had heard about. I felt very much that I’d been living my life to impress, or sometimes not impress him. Because he was the kind of man you wanted to impress, either way, good or bad. And I think in my sadness I started to resent that desire. Oh I don’t know…it’s probably even more complicated than that but I can’t even remember my exact feelings about that time in my life, and frankly I’m not even sure if it matters anymore. I only know that I hopped in my car after my father’s funeral — leaving my mother behind, mind you, still wiping her eyes at the loss of my father — and drove to New York to meet this woman my father never stopped talking about, even in front of my mother. He was so brazen, so insensitive. Who talks about another woman in front of his wife and kid? What kind of man is that?
Mazie’s Diary, July 14, 1918
Cat’s away, and this mouse is putting on her dancing shoes. I’m going out on the town after work. Forgetting everything I’ve seen these past few months for just one night. Louis can’t do nothing about it, and he knows it. Rosie knows it, Jeanie, too.
Mazie’s Diary, July 15, 1918
My eyes are green. I’ve been told they sparkle in the sunshine and glitter in the moonlight. Also they look like jewels, emeralds, and tiger’s eyes, too. Captivating, mesmerizing, hypnotic. Every fella’s got a little something they like to say. But they’re just plain green. And the truth is, in the dark you can’t tell anything at all. That’s what I always want to say to these men with all their fancy ways of talking about a very simple thing. You know you won’t care when the lights are out. They’re just green, you fools.
So last night this man starts asking me about my eyes, and I could not give two good goddamns. He sat down next to me, taps two fingers on the bar, like he was announcing his arrival. I was drinking gin, which was making me feel pretty and mean. I should know better, but some nights nothing but gin will do. I pulled out a cigarette and tried to light it myself, but he was quick on the draw. I nodded a thank-you. I wasn’t giving him anything more than that, but I did give him the smallest of glances. He was in uniform. Me and the men in uniform.
He said: Now are those eyes green or blue?
I said: The color of money.
He said: The color of luck.
I said: I wouldn’t hold your breath.
Then he sucked in his breath. His chest was broad and mighty. His uniform fit him snug, fit him bold. There was not a speck of dust on it. He was a handsome, big man. His hair was wavy and slick at the same time. He had worry lines on his forehead and between his eyes. What did he have to worry about? Oh, and his eyes were green, too.
I said: The color of trouble.
He waved his hands at himself, then made like he was praying with them. Begging for permission to exhale.
I said: All right. Breathe.
He was docked at Chelsea Piers, and had wandered through the city looking for a good time, which is not what he said, but what I believed to be true anyway. I asked him if he was a hero. He said everyone serving overseas was a hero. I touched his arm for a second. Oh lordy, it was a nice arm. I went from mean to smitten fast.
He said: I’m a sailor. I sail ships. Big ones.
I said: I run the Venice Theater. I sell tickets, I count the change, I keep the books. When there’s trouble, I kick out the riffraff. I’m the first thing you see when you come to the theater, and the last thing when you walk out the door. You can’t miss me. I’m always there.
I hate that I wanted him to see me in my cage, but it’s the only thing I can call my own, even if it’s really Louis’s place. I know they’re there to see the movies, but lately I’ve been pretending the crowds have been lining up to see me.
He said: You’re a businesswoman then.
I said: That’s right I am.
He said: You run the show.
I said: Yes.
He said: I run the ship.
I said: Yes.
He said: Both of us are used to being in charge. How will we ever get along?
I said: I don’t know. I never give an inch.
He said: Not even one?