Last Night at the Blue Angel Read Online Free Page B

and the postman shows up with a delivery. Look . She lifts a blue dress from a giant box on the floor. The dress is the color of sky with navy beading and silver sequins. Isn’t it the most delicious thing you’ve ever seen?
    I step toward it. I want to touch it but I don’t want to get it dirty.
    Jim shrugs. Nice dress .
    Well, the peculiar thing is this , she says, handing Jim a small, square card.
    â€œWear it tonight,” Jim reads. He turns the card over to see if anything’s written on the back.
    Who on earth could it be? she asks.
    Jim’s eye twitches. Well , anyone actually .
    Mother glances at him like he just tried to steal her cookie. She grabs the dress, holding it to her like they’re going to dance. Then she floats down the hallway to her room, saying, We’ll have to see if it fits .
    Jim takes me into the kitchen and sits me down at the table. I want you to get to work on your homework right away . I’ll make you a snack .
    I don’t want to do my homework .
    Well , I know that. But it’s what’s going to happen .
    I’m not a child .
    Oh , yeah , he says. You’re Lady Bird Johnson. I forgot .
    I open my math book and try to look serious. Don’t be mean. It’s unbeakening .
    It’s what? says Jim.
    Unbeakening , I say with some uncertainty.
    What’s the definition of that again?
    Well , if you’re mean , and you’re a bird , your beak would fall off. For punishment .
    Jim’s eyebrows lift.
    Mom said it .
    The word is unbecoming, he says.
    That doesn’t make any sense .
    M iss Rita shows up calling Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! down the hallway. I run to hug her.
    She takes my chin in her gloved hand and tilts my face up so she can study it. Good , she says.
    Good what? I say. It’s our little game.
    You’re still you . She bends over me. I study her face—the heavy pancake makeup, the line she draws just around the outside of her lips. Her eyelashes like little black fans. Her big twist of hair that she calls platinum instead of blond .
    You’re still Miss Rita , I tell her.
    Well, now that that’s settled , where’s your mother?
    Mother appears then in the dress. She is one curvy line after another, hugged in sparkly blue, hugged in the sky.
    What on earth? says Miss Rita, circling Mother like she’s the maypole.
    It was a gift , says Mother.
    I hate to think what ghastly favor inspired this , says Rita.
    Mother waves her hand at Rita and glances at me. For heaven’s sake .
    Was I crude? Rita asks Jim.
    But Jim isn’t listening. He’s just looking at the dress, trying not to look, looking some more.
    I have new music for you , says Rita. They sit. I know you love the old songs and God knows I do , too , but, darling , your audiences get older every night. We’re going to have to start pouring Geritol at intermission. Do you listen to the radio? “Chapel of Love”? “My Guy”?
    Mother shudders. Horrible , vulgar little songs. No talent whatsoever .
    Jim takes a picture of all of us at the kitchen table.
    All I’m suggesting is that we perk up the act a bit . Rita stands and brushes her skirt. I would say take your time but we’re not getting any younger , darling , are we?
    Rita hugs me and says, Show business is a barbaric life. Promise Miss Rita you’ll be a . . . nurse. Or a teacher like Sister!
    I promise , I say.
    She hugs me again. Usually four times. Enough that I smell like her perfume for the rest of the day. Who’s my favorite little bastard child?
    I am , I say.
    Yes you are , yes you are , she sings.
    Mother tosses the music on the table and goes back to admiring the new dress. She poses in the doorway of the kitchen. Dazzling us. Like a glove , she says, half turn to the left, half turn to the right.
    Jim lifts his camera from around his neck and shoots another picture.
    Oh, stop , she says, posing anyway just in case he shoots again. Which he