Grand Central Noir

Mary Mulligan – by Jen Conley

MARY MULLIGAN, NINETEEN, walked confidently through the station halls, her strappy black one-inch heels clicking, her small beaded pocket book on her wrist, her skirt just below the knee in the latest fashion. She was meeting Mr. Gilbert, or Harvey, as she called him, for a late supper at the Oyster Bar. He lived in Connecticut but worked on Sixth Avenue, and sometimes, after he left her room on 13th Street, he offered to meet her later for a meal before he caught the train home.

She touched her short light brown hair with her gloved hand, ignoring the leers from the suited men as they passed by. Usually she’d smile at them (men were like trains: there was always another one coming and she had to keep her opportunities open) but she was on a mission. Mary, with her tiny waist, fair skin, and bright blue eyes, was beautiful enough to be an actress, although Dick Grasso, the stage manager she auditioned for a week earlier, told her she didn’t have the skills to make it in theater, never mind the pictures. “You can’t dance, you can’t sing, and you can’t act.” This wasn’t true – maybe her dancing skills were weak but she could sing and she could definitely act. Sometimes Mary dreamed of going to California but she never had enough money.

Making her way across the concourse, her heels clicking, faintly echoing in the great marble station, Mary felt her stomach grumble. She’d paid the landlord but it had left her with nothing else. That afternoon, Harvey had forgotten to leave her cash and the only thing she had eaten was a buttered roll for breakfast.

She stepped into the ladies’ room and powdered her nose in front of the mirror. She applied red color to her lips, lipstick she’d lifted from Woolworth’s, and patted her cheeks. Afterward, Mary stood against the wall in the Main Concourse, waiting, salivating as she watched a nearby child eat a sandwich. She was so famished, weak, dying for anything to eat. She’d never been to the Oyster Bar, and she wasn’t sure she would like oysters, but at this point, she’d devour anything.

A man stood near her reading a newspaper and she caught the word “Roosevelt,” but he folded the paper and walked away. Mary could read because the nuns who ran the orphanage had made sure of it. “If you can’t read, what good will you be?” Mary had been lonely in the orphanage. Throughout her childhood, she often dreamed a long-lost relative would come rescue her, but one never did. The Home, as the orphanage was sometimes called, wasn’t a terrible place, though. At least there was always something to eat. The sisters had even taught the girls how to grow and tend a garden in the plot behind the Home’s building. “So you’ll never go hungry,” they said. The nuns hovered over the girls like large birds, constantly dropping life advice: eat vegetables every day; drink milk; stay away from booze; wash regularly. “You’re never too poor for soap,” the nuns said.

When Mary finally saw Harvey, her skin tightened because she realized he was drunk. He stumbled down the marble steps of the station, his suit and tie disheveled. Mary did not like drunk men, even though lately it seemed they were all drunk. But Harvey had money and it was amazing what a girl will put up with for a few dollars.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary!” he called, causing people to turn their heads. Harvey was a balding man, very tall, and in his thirties. When he reached Mary, he fell against her. She pushed him away and straightened her skirt.

“I’m hungry, Harvey.”

He rocked forward and nuzzled into her neck. “Mmmm.”

Mary pushed him off again and stomped her foot. “Harvey, please!”

“Now, now,” he said, chuckling, blinking his eyes at her. “All in good time.”

“I’ve had nothing to eat all day. You didn’t leave me no money.”

“That’s why I’m taking you home,” Harvey said. “We’re going to have a late supper in town.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“Boston!” Harvey cheered and then grinned. “With her dear mother.”

Mary sighed, glanced around the great marble station, at the tall windows. “How long is the train ride?”

“Thirty minutes. There’s a lovely place in town and then you can stay overnight.” He pinched her behind.

Mary jumped back and caught the eyes of a well-dressed woman walking by, staring disapprovingly at them. “Harvey. We’re in public!” Mary said.

Harvey laughed. “Public schmublic!” He took her hand and kissed it extravagantly. “Let us depart, my beauty. Let us leave this Titanic. Sail for calm seas.”

Mary rolled her eyes. He was such a lush, absolutely intolerable when he was drinking. Last week, he’d come to her room three sheets to the wind, and he kept throwing her over his knees so he could spank her. He got her good, too, because a couple of purple and gray bruises flowered up on her behind that night. No, Mary did not want to go to the country with Harvey, or to wherever he lived. She wanted to go to the Oyster Bar. Unfortunately, Harvey was so drunk, surely the maitre d’ would not admit them.

She stared up at Harvey, at his reddened cheeks, his dark five o’clock shadow, and an idea suddenly sparked in her mind: she’d go with him, he’d sober up on the train, take her to supper, they’d go to his house and when he passed out, she’d take his money and anything else worth having. That should keep the rent paid for the next month.

Mary brushed her skirt with her gloved hands and agreed to accompany him. “You have to buy me a ticket because I got no money.”

“With pleasure,” he said, holding out his arm so she could hook hers through his. When they began walking, he stumbled a bit and she had to catch him. “Whoops a daisy!” he slurred.

The ride lasted an hour and when they arrived at his town in Connecticut, the platform was deserted. During the ride, Harvey had pulled out a flask and drank from it, and then, right before they arrived at the station, he had passed out in his seat. It took both Mary and the conductor to get him off the train.

Harvey led the way to the road and in the moonlight, the two walked, Harvey stumbling here and there.

“Where’s the restaurant?” Mary asked, her feet sore in her strappy pumps. Like the platform, the road was deserted, and there was no town or building in sight.

“Around the bend,” he muttered.

She could see no bend and they walked for ten minutes before they came upon a large house. “Home,” Harvey said.

Mary’s stomach grumbled. “You were supposed to take me to supper.”

Harvey laughed and blessed himself. “Forgive me, sister. For I have told a lie.”

Mary stopped and unhooked her arm from his. “I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll make you steak. Step into my castle, my lady.” He bowed and waved his arm.

The house was magnificent – Oriental rugs, Windsor chairs. The kitchen was large and as Harvey went to the parlor for a drink, Mary placed her pocket book on the counter, took off her gloves, and searched for something to eat. There was no meat, no steak, or anything to make a proper dinner, but there was bread in the breadbox, eggs on the counter, and a half-eaten chocolate cake under a glass dome on the kitchen table. She located a pan and a bowl in the cupboards and quickly went to work preparing herself French toast. There was even cinnamon and sugar and within minutes, Mary had made herself a meal. She sat at the table, eating, all while eyeing the chocolate cake. As a child she’d only seen chocolate cake in a bakery window. She’d never had a piece until the year before, when Mr. Parker gave her a slice after he took her to his apartment. Mary liked cake, especially chocolate, and when she was done with the French toast, she found a cleaver, lifted up the glass dome, and hacked off a slice.

She was thirsty and poured the rest of the milk into a large glass and drank it. She did not clean up after herself – just left it for Mrs. Gilbert or her maid to take care of, if there was a maid. Most likely there was.

Afterward, Mary wandered through the large rooms with their draped gossamer curtains and porcelain lamps. She eventually went upstairs where she found Harvey, still dressed in his suit and tie, asleep in his wide bed. A clock sat on the night table and the time read 12:15. Beautiful glass doors faced the road and when Mary opened them, they led onto a small balcony with a low railing, something she hadn’t noticed when they arrived. She stood in the chilly air, the full moon shining down on her, glowing like a stage light. She blew kisses to an imaginary audience, curtsied, smiled, posed, blew more kisses, and then returned inside. She studied Harvey, splayed on the bed, and rolled her eyes. She fetched her purse from downstairs and returned to the bedroom.

Mary ruffled through Harvey’s pockets and found thirty-five dollars, a windfall considering her rent was $4.00 a week. “Good boy,” she muttered, taking the cash. Then she went through his dresser drawers, locating another five dollars. Mrs. Gilbert’s jewelry box was on the bureau, and out of curiosity, Mary perused it. She found a pearl necklace and held it up to her throat. She tried on the garnet ring and the Egyptian bangle. Mary glanced at Harvey on the bed and guilt overcame her. She didn’t want to take Mrs. Gilbert’s things. The poor woman was married to a schmuck – having nice jewelry was probably the only good thing about being tied to Harvey Gilbert. But Mary did find a silver hatpin with a lady sitting on the moon and because it was so pretty, she took it, sticking it in her beaded pocket book. She opened a drawer and found two tubes of lipstick: a coral color and another red. She leaned toward the mirror and applied the coral. It looked nice.

She returned downstairs and searched the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen. She found $1.26 in a jar.

The time was 12:45. Mary knew there were no trains back to the city at this time of night – earlier she’d asked the conductor – but there would be at dawn. She decided to have another slice of chocolate cake.

The noise of clinking glass woke her. She had drifted off in the parlor on the sofa, her pocket book in her hands. Harvey was in the corner of the room, near the sideboard, pouring himself a drink. A small clock sat on the fireplace and it read 4:10.

“Dollface, wakey wakey,” he said. “I need you.”

Mary sighed and closed her eyes, shifted and faced the back of the sofa, her pocket book tucked safely against her stomach. She was not interested in what he had in mind. “I’m sleepy, Harvey.”

She heard his footfalls and felt the cushion sinking underneath her body as he sat down. Booze permeated the air like a factory stink. He put his hand on her behind and caressed it. “Now, now,” he said softly. “Upstairs, my beauty.”

“Leave me alone, Harvey.”

She felt him get up from the sofa and she let out a breath of relief. But then he slapped her on her backside. “Get up!”

Mary twisted around and shot up. “Harvey, there’s no slapping! I told you that.”

“Haha! Playing hard to get!” He grabbed her and she pushed him away.

They stood looking at each other and he winked. “Come on, dear. Please.”

Mary thought quickly – she had all that money in her pocket book. Her best bet was to get out of the house. “Harvey, go up and I’ll be right there. I just want to freshen up.”

A smile crawled on his face and he cocked his head. “Very good.” He turned and made his way up the staircase.

When he was safely upstairs, Mary pulled off her strappy heels and tiptoed to the front door. With her shoes and pocket book in one hand, the other hand on the door knob, she quietly opened the door. Then she took a breath and made a run for it.

“Hahaha!” Mary heard Harvey laugh as she raced across the yard, the dewy grass making it slippery. She looked behind her, stopped, and there, in the moonlight, Harvey was standing on the balcony in his white skivvies and dress shirt unbuttoned. Harvey held something in the air that jangled. “I have a car and I’m gonna come get you!”

She hadn’t seen a car but there could be a garage in the back of the house. All the same, it was best to believe him, and she turned and started to run across the yard. However, when she reached the road, the rough terrain hurt her bare feet and she had to take a moment to put her heels back on.

Harvey was still on the balcony, his hand in the air with the keys, his other hand holding a liquor bottle. He was so tall, the railing reached below his knees. He took a drink. “Where are you going, peach pie?” he called into the night. “Mary, Mary, you got a job to do!” He thrust himself forward, back, forward. “Get back here, Mary!” Harvey rocked harder – thrusting, hooting, hollering, climaxing: “Mary! Mary! Mary!” And then suddenly, on the final thrust, he lost his balance and just tumbled over the balcony. Mary watched him flop to the ground.

She stood still, listening for a moan, a reaction, but there was none. She thought about walking across the grass and checking on him, but decided against it. He could be pretending. Mr. Parker used to pretend he’d had a heart attack and when she would check on him, he would holler like a bear, grab her with both arms, and tackle her down.

Mary got the second shoe on her foot and began to run down the road the best she could in her heels, checking behind her for Mr. Gilbert. But he never came.

She had to wait on the platform for another hour and a half, the chilly air putting goose bumps on her skin until it was light. She worried that a squad car might pull up but one never did. Eventually, men in their suits and black hats arrived and they stood with her waiting for the train. When the train came, Mary sat in a seat and paid the conductor for her ticket with Harvey’s money. She wondered if Harvey was dead. She worried about fingerprints in the kitchen. Not that she’d ever been caught stealing and been brought to jail, or had ever been in trouble. The cops didn’t even know she existed, she told herself, and most likely she had nothing to worry about.

An hour later, Mary was walking through Grand Central, her gloves on her hands, Harvey’s money and Mrs. Gilbert’s hatpin in her pocketbook. When they found Harvey, and if he was dead, there would be men that would say they saw a woman with light brown hair and strappy heels at the station that morning. Mary realized she would have to dye her hair. She had the cash to do it.

Red, she figured. Apple red.

She walked out to 42nd Street and because she had Harvey’s money, she took a cab back to 13th.

Mary realized that if Harvey wasn’t dead, he knew where she lived and he’d come after her.

Damn. She’d have to move, too.