Lillian and Dash by Sam Toperoff Read Free Book Online Page A

affectionate nicknames—Lillushka, Lillia, Lilletta—the tenderness he displayed in bed when he knew she needed attention. He loved her of course. Of course. But, no, clearly their fidelities were not equivalent. If that were so, Lilly concluded it could not be love.
    She’d heard the statement uttered as truth her entire life. Men were just different. Constitutionally. She’d heard it first at the Demopolis dinner table even when the pseudo-aristocratic Marxes and Newhouses and the far more plebeian Hellmans thought she was too young to understand. Even then it was all too clear that the banter about uncles and cousins who visited those “certain ladies” was perceived one way by the gents at the table and very differently by the ladies. It was something men did, a need they had, this one should understand. The women, of course, knew what was their business and what was not their business and opted tolook askance, a small price to pay for their privileges and protection. Yes, Lillian understood the subtleties at an early age. She was merely young, she wasn’t stupid.
    New Orleans life in the Hellman sisters’ boardinghouse significantly furthered her sexual education. Her aunts often joked quite openly about who was visiting whom after the lights went out. But that was unnecessary. From her room on the fourth floor, Lillian could hear and discern the treads of different gentlemen calling on Amanda Sweet—this time the name is not fictional—next door in 421. Sometimes three different treads on the same night. Prepubescent Lillian thrilled to the ghostly sounds, the repressed squeals, the moans, the occasional growl, that came through her flocked wall.
    She enjoyed seeing the participants at breakfast the next morning playing their public parts. Invariably Miss Amanda was the first one up, sitting proudly by the bay window, sipping coffee, teasing a croissant, perusing the
Picayune
, ready with a welcoming “Maw-nin’ ” for all who entered. The gentlemen, some of whom came in with their wives and children, more or less acknowledged their breakfast companion with polite smiles. Really, what else could they do given Amanda’s charming civility? The women were even more guarded, perhaps only because Amanda was so darkly beautiful, perhaps because she was so completely free to be herself—and dangerous to them if only for that reason. Lilly appreciated Amanda’s breakfast room performances.
    The Hellman aunts—neither of whom was ever to marry—were of two minds where Miss Sweet was concerned. Aunt Jenny wanted the woman spoken to and her activities in the house curtailed; well, spoken to at least. Aunt Hannah cherished and protected Amanda as an older sister would, deeply appreciative of a strong, self-made woman who made her way proudly in a man’s world with what she called “admire-able a-plum.” Aunt Hannah, Sophronia, the maid, and through them, Lillian, those three were the only ones in the house who knew Miss Sweet owned a short row of buildings down on Bourbon Street. “Beat the hypocritical bastards at their own game” is how Hannah Hellman put it over some late-night cognac, which Lilly was allowed to sip. Beating the bastards at their own game made perfect sense to Lillian too, even when she was twelve.
    Lillian had been in New York for those two weeks trying to beat the bastards at their own game. Rehearsals finally over,
The Children’s Hour
was working its way to Broadway for its premiere. Everyone who had read it knew it could be a hit. Word spread quickly, expectations grew—good things—but now Lillian felt more pressed than ever to deliver something special on opening night. She was polishing dialogue, even rewriting some very delicate scenes between the schoolmistresses—indeed, Drumsheugh and the nineteenth century had been left far behind—working with the director, the actors, trying to get the damned thing absolutely perfect. She was working so bleeding hardshe honestly