Lair of Dreams
Jericho winced. “It’s pretty dreadful, isn’t it?”
Mabel wrinkled her nose in agreement. “But the blintzes are good.”
Jericho escorted Mabel to the dance floor, where they stood facing each other, awkward and uncertain. The orchestra struck up a tune whose notes were laced with old-country drama—blood feuds and doomed romance, survival and reinvention.
“May I?” Jericho asked nervously.
Mabel nodded. Jericho placed his hand at the small of her back and she jumped just slightly.
“Sorry. Did I…?”
“No! It’s… it’s fine. I’m just… it’s good.” Her cheeks were bright red.
Jericho rested his hand on her back once more, and this time Mabel put her left hand on his shoulder and raised her right hand to meet his, trying to ignore the heat suffusing her cheeks. Slowly, they moved around the dance floor—one, two-three, one, two-three—the older folks looking on approvingly, shouting encouragement in Russian and English. They managed several passes around the floor without incident. At the end, the old folks applauded, and Mabel was both proud and embarrassed.
“We should quit while we’re ahead, I think,” Jericho whispered.
“Agreed.”
On the walk home, the conversation was all about the Diviners exhibit and the brilliance of Charlie Chaplin. By the time they returned to the Bennington, fifteen minutes ahead of Mabel’s curfew, they’d made plans to go to the Strand to see a Buster Keaton picture.
Mabel strangled the strap of her pocketbook as her stomach fluttered. “Well, good night, Jericho.”
“Good night, Mabel,” Jericho said. He wasn’t precisely sure about the protocol of ending a mostly-but-not-entirely-disastrous first date. A handshake seemed too formal. Kissing a girl’s hand seemed like something only swashbuckler matinee idols could get away with and not feel like a complete fool. And so, rather impulsively, Jericho kissed Mabel sweetly and briefly on the lips and then took the stairs up to his own flat.
Mabel slumped back against the wall feeling summer-light. And even the sight of Miss Addie roaming the halls, trailing salt from her dressing-gown pockets and mumbling about the dead coming through the breach, couldn’t dampen her spirits.
The moment Mabel went inside, she bolted for the telephone, ignoring her mother’s pleas for information. She grinned as Evie’s voice came over the line.
“Sweetheart Seer residence. How may I direct your call?”
“Evie, it’s me.”
“Mabesie! How do you like my secretary voice? Do you think it gives me an air of mystery?”
“I knew it was you.”
“You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it!”
“I… I’m still pinching myself.”
“Mabel Rose! If you don’t stop torturing me and tell me this instant, I’ll… I’ll… well, I’ll do whatever clever threat I can’t think of just now.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Pos-i-tute-ly prone and ready to hear this story already!”
“Jericho kissed me.”
There was such a profound silence on the other end that Mabel was afraid she’d lost the connection. “Hello? Evie? Operator?”
“I’m here,” Evie said quietly. “Jeepers. That’s swell news, honey. How… how did it happen?”
“It was after our date this evening and—”
“Wait a minute—you had a date? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, Evie, you’re awfully hard to catch these days,” Mabel said, hoping Evie caught her drift: You’ve been too busy for even your best pal.
“No. Just the once. What happened was—”
“Did he say anything to you first?”
“Not… well, he—”
“What was his expression? Could you read anything in his face?”
“Evie! Will you please let me tell the story?” Mabel pleaded into the receiver.
“Sorry, Mabesie.”
Mabel continued. “We went to the Kiev Tearoom—”
“Ugh. They have such sad little blintzes. If blintzes could frown, those would.”
“And in the beginning,” Mabel said, without stopping for Evie, “it wasn’t going terribly well, to be frank. But then, then he asked me to dance, and, oh, Evie. It was so romantic. Well, to be perfectly honest, it was terrible until we got the gist of it. Why, oh, why didn’t I let you teach me how to dance?”