"I want to take a ship and go
Abroad, but whereI do not know:
It isn't Paris, London, Rome
Nagasaki, Naples, Nome
Honolulu, Teheran,
Servia or Afghanistan;
And yet I want to take a ship
And give the place I'm in the slip -
Lord, tell me where I want to go;
Give a man a decent show!"
- Samuel Hoffenstein, "Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing"
There's this book bound in baby blue, and it's tucked under the bed between a two-dollar mystery novel and a dusty teddy bear. She keeps it hidden like a secret, like a stolen treasure, because really that's what it is, a treasure slipped into her pocket one cold Chicago day, held tightly in her lap on the train ride home.
There's this book bound in baby blue, and sometimes when her sisters are sleeping she'll crawl out of bed and crouch by the tiny window waiting for the first few drops of sunlight to shine through and dance on the pages. She mouths the words, one by one, testing their shapes on her lips, tasting them on her tongue. Even if some of them are difficult to understand, she likes the way they sound, warm like a song, almost.
There's this book bound in baby blue written by a Jew, and it's her own personal Bible. But she's not a disciple, she refuses to tell a soul.
She wants to think that she could be a book bound in baby blue, someday, because right now she knows of life is of an empty page. She is a dancer on a dark stage waiting for the curtain to rise and the lights to turn on, and she closes her eyes and she is beautiful and wise and has seen many things, and she wishes, wishes, wishes...
(In the end though, it's all the same. A rooster crows. Her sisters stir. Amelia opens her eyes and snaps the book shut, sixteen and ordinary again, and hungry for something she has yet to taste.)
- The Finder -
Chapter 1
29 March 1934
Waydale, Oklahoma
6:59 Central Standard Time
"Hurry up, Jodi, we're going to miss it!"
"Keep your hair on, I'm trying."
"Turn it up a bit, I can't hear."
"Shh, you gotta be quiet, else my Ma'll hear you."
"Turn it up anyway, it's not like she doesn't know what we do up here anyway, and I wanna dance."
"Pipe down, both of ya, I can't hear myself think!"
It's a warm night for spring. The floor of the attic is filthy. Amelia sighs in something like contentment and draws squiggly patterns in the dust, tic-tac-toes and smiley faces. Roxanne sits perched on the arm of the old upholstered chair behind her, while Jodi fiddles with the wireless dials, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, waiting for the moment when static turns into something comprehensible.
"Oh, what if we missed it?"
"Don't be in such a tizzy, Roxie, it's not like it's going anywhere for the next hour or so."
Roxanne just grins, twisting a strand of wheat-colored hair around her finger. "You never know, Mia, something could've happened. Then how would you be able to go to confession tomorrow without being able to admit to your usual sins?"
"You're forgetting, jazz and liquor ain't a sin anymore. And if all the angels are playing in Heaven is harp music, I think I'd rather go to Hell."
"Got it!" Jodi interrupts happily, pulling her hands away from the set just as the room is suddenly filled with lively intro music. Her two best friends cease their bickering for a moment to listen to the gentle crooning of a man's voice through the radio.
"...everybody, this is Rudy Vallée and company. We've got a marvelous show for you tonight, what with our wonderful returning guests, Bebe Daniels and Ben Lyon, the world's most perfect couple performing a comedy sketch about domestic strife, as well as..."
"Gosh," Jodi sighs dreamily, stepping across the room to sit on top of an old worn travel trunk, resting her forearms on her knees and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt.. "Rudy's voice is about the closest to Heaven I think anyone can get."
Roxanne laughs. "You and me both, kid, but face it, this is the closest we're ever gonna get. So enjoy it."
Amelia lets an easy grin slide across her face, lifting her head to look over at her best friends, a sweet and easily remembered tune warm in her throat. "Oh, oh, if you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy, nothing else would matter in the world today, we could go on loving in the same old way..."
The giggles that erupt from Roxanne momentarily drown out the radio, whilst Jodi sputters incomprehensibly, her face a marvelous shade of red.
"I - you - shut up, Mia!"
"Oh, come on Jodi, imagine if Rudy sang that to you, wouldn't you just die?"
The only response is an old baseball thrown in the direction of her head, and though Amelia mock-gasps and falls forward dramatically, she cannot help but continue to grin, propping herself up on her elbows and glancing back at the wooden wireless case.
"But really though, if you could just get to New York City, you could get to Rudy, wouldn't you?" She rolls over onto her back, lacing her fingers together over her stomach and staring up at the rafters. "That's where it's all at, you know. New York City."
"Where what's at?"
"Everything. Now shh, I wanna hear."
"Tonight, we'll begin with one of my personal favorites, the ever-talented Mr. Armstrong. He performed this song in Copenhagen last year, and I sure hope he's having a grand time across the Atlantic, and comes back soon, we all miss him here, don't we, boys? But while we wait, here's Louis and his trumpet with 'I Cover the Waterfront'."
The light melody of an easy jazz number and Louis Armstrong's gravelly yet rich tones fills the room, takes them from Oklahoma to Copenhagen, transforms their worn-out Mary Janes into dancing shoes. Amelia lets her eyes flutter shut for a moment, her head swaying back and forth as the music seems to crawl it's way towards her, settling somewhere inside her, a secret place that makes her chest ache. It's as though the music has fingers with which it reaches out and gently brushes against her soul.
It's like the music burns and heals her, both at the same time.
"That Mr. Armstrong's really something, huh?"
"And how!" Amelia sits up a bit to respond to Jodi. "I don't even care that he's a Negro, I'd listen to him play all day if I could!"
"No one's questioning that, Mia, trust me." Her friend holds up her hands in mock-surrender as the song ends to muffled canned applause, a hesitant smile playing at her lips. "We're not your folks, you don't gotta defend yourself to us."
She scoffs. "I know that."
I know that. I know. Yet sometimes she gets so tired and so used of fighting and defending herself that sometimes she doesn't know how to turn it off.
("Pa, listen to me, please, you don't understand - "
"It's for your own good, Mia, you'll see that. You're just in the wrong frame of mind, that's all, and we love you and want you to get better."
"But I'm not sick, can't you see that?")
Careless people, the whole lot of them.
She sits up a little straighter as a new song begins, this one much faster, one that gets her blood pumping and her heart singing. It floats through the air, the trumpets and saxophones blaring, brassy and hot and wild.
Amelia pushes herself up to stand, stumbling a bit on her uncertain feet for a moment. It's a new tune, one that she doesn't recognize, and harder to sing along to, but she doesn't care. Once she catches the beat, she's gone.
Jodi and Roxanne watch and laugh and clap along as she kicks her feet forward and back, swinging her arms from side to side in time to the music. It's an easy enough step, one that she's practiced for a long time until it's become almost second nature, and a-one, two, three four, one, two, three four...
"Come on!" She pulls Roxanne by the hand off of her armchair, bouncing up and down on the toes of her feet in excitement. "Charleston, okay, ready, two three..."
Out of the three of them, Roxanne is definitely the best at cutting the rug, and she catches on to the beat quickly. Clasping their hands palm to palm in front of each other, they kick their feet back and forth, hearts pounding in perfect time, Jodi's laughter a welcome background track to the jazz getting louder and louder as the song reaches its climax.
Impulsively, Amelia lets go of Roxanne's hand and spins her out. Her friend takes center stage, holding her arms out at her sides before twisting and kicking out in a series of wild steps that make her friends' jaws drop. It's crazy and improvised and looks like so much fun that it makes Amelia's heart jump.
"What the hell was that?" she asks breathlessly once the song comes to an end and Roxanne slows down, staggering around with quivering legs and a wide-eyed grin. "That was the zaniest thing I've ever seen!"
"It's called the Lindy," Roxanne sinks into the worn cushioned chair with a sigh, her feet still tapping along to the last few seconds of the beat. "Jacob Goldman told me its the hottest thing at the Savoy, right now."
"What would Jacob Goldman know about the Savoy, that boy ain't ever been anywhere farther than Little Rock."
"He swore up and down after church last Sunday that his Pa took him out on the railroad two months ago."
"Baloney, two months ago he was sick in bed with hay fever. You so much as breathe on that boy and he falls over, I swear."
The radio is momentarily forgotten as laughter colors the air, painting the room with warmth and light. They used to play up here as children, building forts and castles out of old furniture, constructing stories with old sheets and exploring all the worlds that could be contained in this tiny room. And now Amelia watches her friends, still children but dancing somewhere on the edge of adulthood, and she thinks to herself, here are the people I love the best.
Oh.
("It won't be forever, dear, just til you're...well..."
"Til I'm married to some nice man with a nice house filled with nice children, is that right? I won't."
"Now, listen here -"
"You can't send me away!")
This room is still her entire world, right now.
"Mia? Amelia, are you all right?"
She blinks for a moment. Someone's hand is on her arm.
Roxanne's face is tanned from days of working in the sun, of flying in the sky high above her family's fields. Yet her blue eyes are so light, whether they're sparkling in wonderful mockery or heavy with concern, like right now, glancing up at her from the chair. "We lost you for a moment there, kid. You okay?"
"Huh? Oh. Mhm. I'm fine."
The radio has long since switched to its commercial breaks, something about the corrective properties of Fleishmann's Yeast. Jodi is still sitting on the old trunk, her long legs crossed daintily at the knees, long dark hair falling over her shoulders. There's something about the two of them, Roxanne with her carefully trained mind and soft kindness, Jodi with all her sharped edged beauty and endearing gracelessness. Amelia wants to commit the two of them to memory, sear them into her brain.
She shrugs off Roxanne's comforting hand and takes an uncertain step to towards the radio, in front of the two others. Her heart is pounding, her head is spinning. There's the taste of something bitter in her mouth.
Amelia grins and holds out her arms. "Fleischmann's Yeast Hour is proud to present, an all new sketch performed by the one and only, Amelia Blattson!" Pause for applause. There is none.
It doesn't matter. She almost wants to laugh.
"Time - last night. The scene - the living room of the Blattson family home, in Waydale, Oklahoma. The reigning matriarch of the family, Mrs. Blattson, presiding. A crisis has just broken out, even worse than the one befalling our dear President Roosevelt. She sits attentively at her post by the empty fireplace, going over the budget and expenses of last month and figuring out which child of hers requires the most maintenance. Suddenly, her eldest child, Amelia, sixteen and frightfully pretty, enters the scene."
She mimes sitting down by the radio, which is still buzzing with the slightly garbled advertisements that she subtly turns down to muffled noise. She can feel her friends' eyes on her, watching her every move, and therefore acts accordingly. Spine straight, not touching the back of the imaginary chair, squinting at a nonexistent piece of paper in her hand before looking up again.
Amelia can do her mother's voice in her sleep; soft, slightly husky, not used very often but possessing just the slightest twang in the vowels. "Amelia, darling, come here please."
She jumps up, running a hand through her wavy dark auburn hair to rumple it ever-so-slightly. Stands with her feet slightly apart, arms stiff at her sides, jaw clenched and eyes lowered. So different from the carefree dancing before, and she uses her own voice when she answers.
"Yes?"
She switches back into her mother's persona like slipping into a new jacket, like flipping on a switch. It's a game she's played for a long as she can remember, making up stories all by herself and acting them out in this tiny attic, recreating radio sketches. It's a game that used to leave her friends laughing themselves into stitches, begging her to do their favorite voices and favorite characters.
No one's laughing now.
Her mother carefully sets down the paper, narrowing her eyes at the imaginary girl in front of her. "Your father and I have been talking. About what Pastor Frank told us last week."
The daughter shifts her weight from one leg to the other, looking at the ground and almost spitting out her words. "He's a liar."
"What you did after church that day was not right. It's a sin, Mia. You know that."
"So? It used to be a sin to drink, too, and we all know what Grandpaw puts in his Coca-Cola on Saturdays."
"Amelia!"
She stands up again, letting that easy smile spread across her face once more. It's so easy, it's like being someone else for once. She's always liked being someone else.
This time she squares her shoulder, deepens her voice, places her hands on her hips as she mimics loud footsteps making their way in. Her father is endearingly late, as always. "What's going on in here?"
The mother: "I was telling Amelia why she's going away for a while."
The daughter: "What?"
The father: "Oh. Well, what appears to be the problem?"
The daughter: "I won't!"
The father: "Now, listen here, young lady, you've put us in quite a predicament here. We don't really have a choice, do we? We want what's best for you, and if sending you to your mother's family means curing this...ailment of yours..."
The daughter: "Pa, listen to me, please, you don't understand -"
The father: ""It's for your own good, Mia, you'll see that. You're just in the wrong frame of mind, that's all, and we love you and want you to get better."
The daughter: "But I'm not sick, can't you see that?"
She doesn't have to look at her audience to know their expressions. Jodi and Roxanne cannot tear their eyes away from their friend, watching her play out this painful scene with almost twisted fascination. They know all too well the sudden strikes of madness that can come over her, know better than to intervene when she gets this way.
One final character enters the scene, footsteps heavy, clunky, slow. Dragging his feet and the sounds from his throat, the words thick with that German accent Amelia grew up hearing. Her grandfather threatens to steal the show when he announces his entrance. "Was ist das?"
The daughter appeals to the elder, the immigrant son who came to America in search of a better life. "Grandpaw, please, I can't go. Not like that."
He grunts. "Why not?"
"It's not fair!"
"And what you did was neither fair nor right, was it?" The anger and shame is ever-so-carefully concealed beneath the gruffness, but not well enough. "What kind of example are you setting for your sisters, eh? Are we supposed to accept your mistake and do nothing to correct it? Your mother's cousin will be good to you. The old country will remind you of your roots and what is good, and besides. You've only been talking of leaving Waydale your entire life, richtig?"
"I made no mistake!" The daughter, her eyes furious, hands shaking into fists. "I'm not going to apologize for it! I won't!"
"Then you'll live with the shame for the rest of your life. I wash my hands of you."
"I never asked your hands or responsibility in the first place." The daughter can barely speak, her voice beginning to choke off as angry tears fill her vision. Oh, dear, this isn't good, there's still a few more lines to go.
Her mother, who has been silent for a while, tries to break the tension, reaching out a hand to touch her daughter's elbow. "It won't be forever, dear, just til you're...well..."
"Til I'm married to some nice man with a nice house filled with nice children, is that right? I won't."
"Now, listen here -" The father, with a voice rumbling like thunder.
"You can't send me away!" And oh God, here are the tears, pouring like rain, drowning out her voice and leaving her unable to breathe. "I won't go!"
And for a moment, that's all there is. The quiet noise of a girl crying in a dusty attic, her friends frozen where they sit, not sure if they should comfort her or not. It is a minute more before she holds up one finger to pause and wipe her face with her sleeve, to look up once again.
Amelia arranges her face into her mother's passive, gently beautiful one. "Yes. You will. Next week."
The play is over.
Suddenly, she finds she cannot stand.
When she slowly sinks to the floor, crossing her legs Indian-style and taking deep, shaky breaths, that's when Jodi and Roxanne jump out of their seats and rush to her. They don't say a word, just envelop her in their arms and smooth her hair as though she's a mirror about to shatter to pieces any second.
It isn't until sometime later that she lets out a hollow, brittle laugh.
"Oh. It's really funny, isn't it girls? Grandpaw was right. I have wanted to leave my entire life, I really have. It's just..."
Her lip quivers ever so slightly, and Roxanne murmurs, "It's okay. It's gonna be okay, Mia."
"It's just I thought I would get to choose it. Not like this."
Never like this.
She cries then. And her friends hold her, for a long time, until her tears dry, and then for a long time after.
Amelia boards a train the next week. It'll take her to New York, you know, where everything's at, including a plane across the Atlantic, and please don't cry Roxanne, I promise I'll write.
How could her family afford it? Oh, Pastor Frank is a generous soul. A community collection to help this wayward lamb find her way, even in these hard times. Christ is always working His miracles.
What's this? This foreign chancellor? Nonsense. Newspapers sensationalize everything, and besides. In spite of her appearance, her mother's family is as Aryan as they come. There will surely be no problem.
The town sends their blessing, Mia, and promise you'll write. You'll be good, won't you? Go to church every Sunday. Meet a nice German boy, maybe. Anyone can be redeemed, remember that. Have faith.
She accepts their kisses and their blessings, clutching her valise between her hands til her knuckles turn white. When Roxanne and Jodi give their final good-byes, she does not want to let go.
But she does. Amelia sits in the window and watches as the platform slowly pulls away, her family becoming smaller and smaller. Soon her entire town, tiny as it is, disappears into the Oklahoma dust.
Just like she always dreamed.
The man sitting next to her wears a grey suit and opens his newspaper with a snap. The tracks rumble under their feet. Someone in the car laughs.
Amelia closes her eyes and imagines the oak tree just behind the church. The spring sun warm on her cheeks, reflecting off of the white paint. She can almost taste the honeysuckle and feel the sweetness of a kiss she doesn't think she'll ever get again.
"...next week, another Fleischmann's Yeast Hour brings you another group of interesting people with something of interest to say and do. This is Rudy Vallée bidding you all good night."
.:to be continued:.
Hello! Happy New Year!
I apologize for the wait, and the lack of any nations in this chapter. This is more of an introductory to Amelia's character, which I'm actually kinda excited to share, hahaha...
Not that much history this time, except for a few tidbits on American life during the Depression.
- Fleischmann's Yeast Hour was radio show sponsored by Fleischmann's Yeast every Thursday on NBC from 1929 to 1936. Hosted by Rudy Vallée, it was a variety show incorporating the era's most popular music, skits, and interviews. Rudy was what you might consider now to be a pop idol - women LOVED him. The best analogy I can think of is a 1930's Elvis. The crooning voice, the adoring female fans. Can you blame them though, I mean wow. There's a few clips of audio from the Yeast Hour floating around on the Internet if you know where to look.
- The Charleston and the Lindy were both popular dances of the age at the Savoy Ballroom in New York City. Both would eventually help develop the dance style known as swing, which will also be making its appearance in this fic. The Charleston is hella fun and really easy to do. The Lindy is very improv and also looks great, look it up online.
- Most people know who Louis Armstrong is, of course. His voice is...oh gosh. Like concrete on glass, but so appealing. I love it. And people didn't really seem to mind his skin color, which was great. Overall, he's THE jazz artist of the age, and he is amazing. Go listen to his cover of "I Cover the Waterfront" in Amsterdam, it's FABULOUS.
- By 1934, Prohibition was over in the United States, hence all the references to 'liquor no longer being a sin'. Waydale (a made-up town, by the way) is still, however, a highly religious community.
- Adolf Hitler did not become Führer until the death of President von Hindenberg. Therefore he's 'chancellor' here, and not considered too much of a threat even though by now the Enabling Act has been been passed and he's technically dictator. The New York Times described him as "having more power than a President ever will" or something. Terrifying stuff. Time Magazine even made him Person of the Year to try and raise awareness of the horrible things he was planning to implement. Problem is, America was so busy with it's own problems (Prohibition, Depression) that it didn't really pay attention. Even then, Amelia's family isn't all that worried about the political climate. They're too worried about their daughter.
- Samuel Hoffenstein. I found a book of his poetry by accident in Powell's bookstore one day. Best accident of my life. Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing was published in 1928 (my edition was printed in 1947 though, but its still really old and cool!) and is seriously so witty and oh my gosh. Hoffenstein is a genius. He also wrote screenplays, so parts of movies like The Wizard of Oz can be attributed to him (no one's sure which lines, though which is a shame). His book will play a HUGE part in this fic.
- Amelia, Roxanne, and Jodi are all my creations. Hopefully, they'll each get their chance to shine. Amelia's story is this one, and I hope she's an interesting enough character with enough depth to seem real. I especially want to get her right.
- Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed this story! It means a lot! :) the next chapter should be coming soon, and that's where the action will really begin.
Again, sorry for the wait. On a related note, part of my procrastination was because my friend introduced me to K-POP; namely, EXO, so if anyone happens to be a fan, feel free to PM me so we can cry about EXO together, haha! Just a warning, I have a habit to ramble about the perfection of Kim Jongdae's voice, soooo...
Anyway, happy 2015, and Mischief Managed!
