19 Purchase Street by Gerald A Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

opened and a man came out. He hardly glanced at them, stepped over their legs and went down the stairs. A girl was in the doorway. She had on wrinkled pink cotton, a two-piece nightie with panties like bloomers and a brief gathered top. Her face was nearly hidden by too much overcurled hair.
    â€œI’m looking for Dolores Hart,” Norma said.
    â€œNo one here by that name,” the girl said.
    â€œWe’re from Mount Loretto,” Norma told her.
    â€œChrist, come on in.”
    The apartment was one long room made into two by a bookcase and drapes that were tacked up. There was a bed at the windowless end and at the other end an old sofa with fat arms. The two windows above the sofa had roller shades with little nude plastic dolls tied to their draws.
    Norma explained quickly how she and Gainer happened to be there.
    â€œI’m not Dolores Hart,” the girl said. “I used to be but now I’m Vicky Harris.” She proved it with a social security card.
    A gray and white calico cat jumped up on the table for the single purpose of rubbing against Norma’s hand. It was encouraging.
    Vicky used a length of red Christmas ribbon to tie back her hair. Her face was round, her features indefinite, as though they hadn’t yet completely emerged. Her mouth promised to smile more than it did. “I’m eighteen,” she said, “actually … almost seventeen.”
    Gainer hadn’t said a word, not because he was timid or apprehensive, but because everything was talking to him. An emaciated geranium in an aluminum saucepan, an empty Modess box in a metal wastebasket that had on it a dented hunting dog holding a pheasant in its mouth, an ashtray used for a bowl to contain foil-covered Easter candies.
    Vicky made tea.
    The stove and refrigerator were in a closet that had no door. Vicky italicized the word borrowed when she said she’d borrowed tea and cups from where she worked. Substantial cups that clanged against one another when she handled them. “I have to be at work at four,” she said.
    Norma didn’t have to ask if they could stay.
    Vicky didn’t have to ask if they wanted to. She made up the sofa with one of the sheets and two of the pillows from her bed. In tune with Norma’s thoughts, she volunteered that the fellow who had been there was no one special. In other words, don’t worry, he wouldn’t be back that night.
    Norma and Gainer went to bed earlier than usual. With their heads at opposite ends, the sofa was roomy enough and its high back reinforced their sense of security. Norma lay there with tomorrow in mind. No matter what she tried to put into tomorrow it seemed empty. Gainer propped his pillow against the sofa’s fat arm and thumbed through magazines, recent issues of Harper’s Bazaar and an August 1933 National Geographic . When the light was turned off he scrunched down and hugged Norma’s feet.
    The following day Vicky had more vitality, more to offer, as though she’d been regenerated. She gave advice like an old-timer who’d been through it. She told Norma: “The worst problem is age. You can’t be sixteen.”
    â€œBut that’s what I am.”
    â€œEveryone thinks a sixteen-year-old out on her own is an easy hustle. Can’t have experience, can’t be reliable. You got to be eighteen at least, not just say you’re eighteen but look it.”
    The transformation took three days.
    Norma, at Vicky’s suggestion, went down to Thirty-fourth Street to a school for hairdressers. The students needed practice. Norma managed to get with the swishiest one there, a young man who at once became a confidante and conspirator. Norma didn’t understand all that he chattered on about and none of the jargon, but she made it seem that she did. He snipped her plain long hair away a little at a time, using a style in Harper’s Bazaar for reference. He also insisted on doing Norma’s