Seattle, April 1935
Pearl Sweeney met Walter Fischer during her senior year of high school. One day after school, she went to the library with her girlfriends, then they stopped at Klugman’s for ice cream sodas. They perched on bar stools facing the window, watching the street. Broadway was always busy at that time of the afternoon, with people getting off work, shopping for dinner, the newsstand on the corner a hub of activity.
Pearl was popular in school. Quiet, too, but her friends never minded that. They were perfectly capable of carrying on a running commentary without her help, on their teachers, schoolwork, movies, the latest fashions, and boys. Boys pursued Pearl too, but she never knew what to make of them.
She sipped her soda, making it last, knowing soon she’d have to go home to her quiet house, and her quiet parents. Their conversations at the dinner table were always brief. Her parents each seemed content to live their own separate lives. Mother, with her dinner parties, and bridge games. Father, with his insurance company, the causes of death and actuarial tables.
For her sixteenth birthday, her mother gave her a diary that locked with a tiny key. Her father disapproved, saying she was far too dreamy-eyed as it was. He gave her a crucifix.
In fact, she never wrote in that diary. She sketched. Always on the lookout for something interesting to see, watching for what was going to happen next. Waiting for her life to begin.
As her friends in Klugman’s talked of this and that, she drew the only thing in front of her that wasn’t moving, a lamppost with a flowing filagree design that caught the light in an interesting way. At a restaurant two doors down, she noticed a man come out and stand on the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He didn’t hail a cab, or buy a paper, or check his watch. She admired the clean lines in his profile. After a moment, he moved to her lamppost and lit up a cigarette. She grinned and added him to her sketch.
As he puffed on his cigarette, he noticed her through the glass. He had deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and light sandy hair. Dimples when he smiled at her. He was a young man, not a schoolboy. Sharply-dressed, in a dark blue suit with blood-red pinstripes. He never looked at the other girls, only at her. At one point, a friend of his came out of the restaurant looking for him, but he sent the guy away. She boldly continued sketching him. After all, it was a free country. Perhaps, he too was waiting for something to happen.
By and by, her friends gathered their things and headed home. She dawdled a few minutes more. Then she closed her book and went out into the street where he stood waiting for her, arms crossed.
“May I see?” he asked.
“It’s not finished.” She was dazzled by his eyes, how intensely he gazed at her.
“Then maybe you’d like me to pose for you again,” he suggested, removing his fedora. “Tomorrow, same time?”
“If you like,” she said, turning for home.
“My name’s Walter,” he called after her.
She turned. “Pearl.”
They met every day after school let out. Sometimes they went to the movies; on fine days they took walks or picnics by Lake Washington. If her parents were concerned, they never remarked on her absences. They accepted him, and why shouldn’t they? Although Walter was older, twenty-six, he was always the perfect gentleman. He treated Pearl like a grown-up.
After her graduation, she put a few things in a suitcase and said goodbye to her parents. There was no talk of marriage, at least not yet. Although Pearl knew she would never be able to return, they weren’t upset with her. If anything, they seemed relieved to be rid of her. She moved into Walter’s elegant apartment on Queen Anne Hill. That was when her life truly began.
Chapter 2
February 1936
Richard Cole left the big house on Capitol Hill in such a hurry he had no idea where to go. Stomping down the street, lugging two hastily packed suitcases, he wracked his sore head to figure out what to do next. At first, he headed for the corner drug store, where he could call a taxi from the payphone. When he got there, though, he didn’t even stop, he kept on walking and thinking. He considered going to one of his friend’s houses but rejected that idea. They would want to lark it up, try to get his mind off his troubles. Then he might never leave. Naw. Had to be a clean break. Now or never.
He decided to head downtown to look up train and boat schedules to book his passage. Passage to where? He’d figure that out eventually, but first, he needed money. He paid a call to the family solicitor, Eli Rosenstein, who was none too happy to see him. Mr. Rosenstein was quite familiar with Richard’s record of boyish delinquency and heavy gambling debts.
“I appreciate your loyalty to my father, Mr. Rosenstein, but the fact is, I’m of age and have a right to my trust fund.” Richard paced, rubbing his unshaven chin.
“Very well,” Rosenstein admitted reluctantly. “I suppose it would be possible to advance you an allowance off the interest in your account. Shall we say $100 per month? You’ll have to trim your sails a good bit, but that should keep a roof over your head.”
“The thing is, Mr. Rosenstein, I’m leaving, and I’d just as soon have the whole thing now.”
“Twenty thousand dollars, right now?” If Rosenstein had feathers, they’d be ruffled and floating around his bald head. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. Impossible.” His chin jutted in and out as he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “It would take days to liquidate your account, and even then, you can hardly travel with that kind of money. If you would provide me with a forwarding address or the financial institution of your choice, I can have the money wired to you, but you simply cannot travel with a bankroll. That would be much too risky. But son, please consider,” he settled himself in his chair like a broody hen, “your money is safely invested, why withdraw the principle? Why not try to live within your means?”
Richard could feel his face redden. He had never considered where his money came from, it was just always there. He was ashamed to admit he knew very little about financial matters; principle, interest, liquidation of assets or wiring of funds. Was $100 a month a lot of money? Seemed like he could throw that much away on a night on the town, but those days were clearly over. How much would a roof over his head cost?
Richard removed his hat and smoothed his hair. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “If you say I can draw an allowance from wherever I am, I suppose that makes the most sense.”
“Where are you going?”
Richard twirled his hat. “You’ll be the first to know.”
With five crisp twenties in his pocket, he went down to the train station to scope out his transportation, although he still had no idea where he wanted to go. He felt like a damned fool. The idea of riding the rails, seeing the world, going on adventures, was the stuff of his boyhood imagination. The actual fact of booking passage, picking a destination without any idea of what he should do when he got there, was daunting. He was feeling queasy from last night’s festivities, his head pounding.
He felt a hand on his elbow.
“Are you in line?” asked the gentleman.
“Oh,” Richard said, shaking himself. “I guess not.”
He hoisted his bags and went out onto the street, walking south along the waterfront. Imbecile. What had he done? He’d left his home without planning or preparation. And for what? Because his head hurt. and he was tired to death of fighting with his father. He stopped in his tracks.
“Aw, Poppy.”
He was her big brother. He was supposed to look out for her. Instead, he was letting her down. He’d always figured they’d be close, whatever happened, but now that was impossible. He needn’t worry about her. He knew she was an intelligent, capable young girl who happened to have their father wrapped around her little finger. She’d be the lawyer in the family, not Richard. She’d be all right, of course, but for his own sake he would miss her terribly. Even so, his pride would not allow him to go crawling back to his father and admit his mistake.
He’d rarely spent time down by the water. The winter air was heavy with a combination of diesel, creosote, and fish. As he wandered the unfamiliar streets, he noticed some agitated men gathering in groups down by the docks. There was a line of policemen, nightsticks out, preventing their passage to the pier. The men were shouting insults, challenging the blockade. Most of the signs they were holding were facing the other way. The only sign Richard could read had one word in large print: UNION.
There was another line of people, mostly men, in front of St. Vincent’s, stretching around the block. It was early February, and that wind off the water was biting. They had their thin jackets pulled tight, hands in their pockets, shoulders hunched. Their faces seemed as gray as their clothing. Numb to everything around them. It must have been a breadline. He’d only heard of them. When newsreels came on at the cinema, that was Richard’s cue to get snacks. Sure, hard times had come to his city, but they’d never entered his world. Richard pulled the collar of his cashmere overcoat tighter and kept walking.
He continued on through Pioneer Square, another area he’d never had occasion to visit. It was astounding to think he’d grown up in Seattle, yet he knew so little about the ragged edges of his own city. There were a lot of people around, plenty of shops, restaurants, and nightclubs, but nothing fancy or expensive. Not particularly clean either.
Beyond the business area, he discovered a huge tent city on the mudflats which stretched down to the water. Hundreds upon hundreds of rough sheds made of cardboard, wood, and corrugated metal, propped up and leaning against one another like a jumbled house of cards. Smoke rose from dozens of barrels, burning whatever trash the people could get their hands on. The temperature was starting to drop. It would be below freezing overnight. How could they live like that? With a sickening feeling came the realization that if he wasn’t careful, he might end up just like them.
He was tired. He needed to find a place to spend the night. He and his friends liked to whoop it up at the luxury hotels and clubs along Fifth Avenue, but he wasn’t going to head up there. He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. Plus, since his lodging was going to be coming out of his own pocket from now on, he thought for once he would be frugal. He found a room at the Olympic Hotel on Yesler.
Nothing so grand as the name suggested, but at two bucks a night, ninety-eight more in his pocket, he was starting to feel like a rich guy again. The room was small, but relatively clean. That is, as far as he could tell from the illumination of the single dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The bed sagged a bit in the middle, but it was comfortable enough. The main thing was it was warm.
His stomach had settled enough to allow for food, so he entered a coffee shop next door and ordered the Blue Plate Special for forty cents. It turned out to be an unappetizing minced meat concoction swimming in greasy gravy, but he was hungry, so he ate it. It wasn’t all that bad, so long as he didn’t look down.
Instead, he watched the people go by the window. It seemed to be a mad, mishmash of society, like the blue plate special of humanity. There were well-dressed high-fliers, dodging ragged bums and prostitutes. There were businessmen, couples in love, tourists pointing at the sights then pointing to their guidebooks. And there were cops. A whole lot of cops.
He turned around and regarded the other patrons in the coffee shop. It was past the dinner hour, but the place was still busy. He couldn’t help but admire an attractive woman sitting by herself at the end of the lunch counter. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had longish dark hair pinned up in back. Coiled strands of hair escaped their confines and caressed her pretty neck. Her long, manicured nails tapped the counter as she perused her magazine and sipped her coffee.
He’d noticed her when she came in, but that was more than an hour ago. Her red wool coat was draped over the stool next to her. If she was waiting for someone, he or she had failed to materialize. A man tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she paid him no mind. Still, the man lingered. He must have thought she was a prostitute and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Idiot. Of course, she was no prostitute. She was attractively dressed, but nothing provocative. Her skirt came below her knees but sidled up when she crossed her long legs. Her fitted jacket was not too tight, just enough to emphasize the charms which lay beneath. Richard considered whether he should come to her aid and get rid of the clod for her, but she dismissed him herself, without ceremony. Atta girl.
He watched her pull out her cigarette case. With a cigarette dangling from her rosy, red lips, she rummaged through her purse. It was an old trick, but an effective one. Richard smiled. He knew for a fact she had a lighter. He’d watched her light her own cigarette an hour ago.
She was playing it coy, but she’d glanced his way before. He knew that look. He’d noticed early on that girls fancied him, but it wasn’t until he became involved with an older woman that he developed the skill of seduction. That woman taught him that sex wasn’t a mad dash to the finish line, clumsy fumbling, and a lot of heavy breathing. It was more akin to climbing a mountain. Patience was rewarded with a spectacular view. Richard was a fast learner.
Older women fascinated Richard because they had felt things, love and loss, joy and sorrow, loneliness, and longing. They’d lived life, for better or worse, and they weren’t silly about it. And since they usually had boyfriends or husbands, they made few demands on him. It was a mutually satisfying state of affairs.
Click.
Richard’s lighter glowed before her. Looking up, but only with her eyes, she thanked him.
He sat down with his back to the counter, leaning on his elbows. “My name’s Richard.”
She gave him the once over, as if she’d only just noticed him. “How do you do?”
“And your name?”
She paused. “Penny.”
“Oh, Penelope?”
“No, just Penny.”
“My sister’s name is Penelope. We call her Poppy.”
“And where is she?”
“Ah, back home.”
“So, you’re not from around here?”
“Nope. Just passing through.”
“On your way to…?”
“Don’t know. Alaska, maybe? Maybe San Francisco?”
“Oh, California, definitely.”
“Do you know it?”
“No. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s warm.”
“Or perhaps I’ll buy an automobile and see where that takes me.” Richard lit his own cigarette. He looked at her, but only with his eyes. “Wanna come?”
She laughed. It reminded him of wind chimes in a garden, sweet, but far away. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Old enough.”
“Hmm. But are you old enough to know better?”
“Oh, hell, I hope I never get that old.”
She gave him a long, languid look that made him tingle. “I think I envy you.”
“Me?”
“Your freedom. To be able to go anywhere you want, be whomever you want.”
“Where would you go?”
She considered the question, looking down into her empty cup. “Someplace else.”
“You know,” he said, “I passed by a club on my way here. I could hear the music from the street. It was sizzling. I was thinking of heading over there now. Would you care to join me?”
