After many rings, Rosie’s father picked up.
“Who’s calling after midnight?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hughes.” He always made her nervous. “I need to speak to Rosie.”
“You can talk in the morning.”
“Please. It’s my birthday.”
She heard the phone click down on the counter. A few minutes later, Rosie got on the line.
“I’m going to New York,” Eleanor said.
Eleanor could imagine her friend’s face. Rosie always twisted the cord around her arm when she talked, until it left a red mark on her skin. She’d endured countless hours while Rosie giggled with beaus on the phone, then hung up and rolled her eyes. But she wasn’t giggling now. Eleanor knew Rosie would take this seriously.
“On Tuesday, there’s an audition for a Don Mannheim show.” There was a pause. Eleanor could feel her future hanging in the balance. What if Rosie tried to talk her out of it?
“I’m coming,” Rosie said.
“Rosie, it’s expensive.”
“If you think I’m going to wait here while you have an adventure in New York, you’re batty. How much are the tickets?”
Eleanor told her. Rosie hissed in her breath. “I’ve got thirty in savings.”
“There’s a train at ten a.m. on Sunday.”
“Daddy’s home all day Sunday,” Rosie said. “He’ll notice.”
“It’s the only train that’ll get me there in time.”
“Are you chewing?”
“Pickles help me think.”
“Sunday it is.”
“I love you.” She jumped up and down as quietly as possible.
“You’d better.”
Eleanor hung up. The thought of her parents upstairs brought an old sadness over her, like homesickness. She could handle that later; she couldn’t allow herself to lose her grip on her decision. The audition was too important. The war bonds waited on the living room floor. She replaced the ones in her parents’ names and took the rest.
* * *
In the morning, Eleanor wore her best dress and swept her hair back from her face. Even so, her heart accelerated when she arrived at the bank, as if she were about to rob it. Eleanor was shown to a desk, the name placard reading “Mr. Paul Farrell.”
A gray-suited man with a pinched mouth approached.
“I heard you’re thinking of cashing your war bonds.”
“Yes, sir.” His eyebrows were raised. Eleanor deepened her voice. “In twenties, please.”
He put on his glasses, shaking his head. He held out a hand. Eleanor scrambled for her pocketbook and retrieved the bonds. When she gave them to him, along with identification, she felt nervous, as if, for some reason, he might tear them up.
He examined each one. “You know, dear, your parents saved for these. The money should go to something important.”
Eleanor nodded, but he looked up, wanting more information.
“It’s very important, Mr. Farrell.” She took care with her tone; without a bank account, she feared he wouldn’t relinquish her money at all.
He glanced at her left hand. Eleanor regretted not slipping on a dummy ring before leaving the house. “Many parents save these for their daughters’ husbands.” Eleanor kept her mouth shut. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
Sweat gathered under her arms. It took a long time. Three customers received service from a teller. She wondered if there was more she needed to do to receive the money. Then Mr. Farrell returned. He spread the bills on the desk.
Eleanor’s neck prickled with shame, but she refused to buckle. She reached out.
“Ah, not just yet—I need to count it for you.”
Eleanor bit down on the side of her cheek. The money could get her to New York and keep her there long enough to figure out her next step. Without the open call, she’d never have the nerve to go. It felt like Don Mannheim had reached through the newspaper with a personal invitation. All she needed was a train ticket.
“Two hundred.”
Before Mr. Farrell could inquire after her plans, she snatched the stack and clicked closed her pocketbook.
“Be careful with that, now,” he said. “Go straight home.”
When she walked onto the street, she was reminded of the first time she’d driven, or when they took the sleds out in winter and skimmed across the icy fields. But this time, it wasn’t a taste of freedom, it was real, and with that came an awareness of all she’d leave behind. Her house, Lou, the farm, even the pigs—she couldn’t yet imagine her parents. But, she reminded herself, she wasn’t only leaving home. She was going to a new one—and not coming back.
* * *
When she told Pat her news, he went to the back of the store. At first, she feared she’d made him angry. But when she followed him, she saw his hand pressed to his eyes. She embraced him. He patted her head, extricating himself as he cleared his throat.
She recalled again Pat’s time in New York, how he’d left, how it wasn’t for him, despite the draw of the theater. What kind of place was she going to?
“Pat.” She felt doubt and gripped the counter. “Pat, I can’t.”
He met her eyes. His mouth was set in a line, the corners falling, his brow pulled down and heavy. “You must, Eleanor.”
He took her by the hands, pressing paper into her fist. “Off you go.”
When she got to the street, she looked. Pat had given her one hundred dollars.
* * *
By ten o’clock on Sunday, Eleanor and Rosie were exhausted and pale. They’d packed all night, then snuck out just before sunrise, Eleanor’s heart pounding as she carried her suitcase a quarter-mile down the road. There, far enough from the house to hide the headlights, John Plutz picked her up—he couldn’t be counted on for secrecy but loved the idea of a heist—and drove to the Dells. By the time they started to see the winding river passages for which the city was named, the excitement had worn them raw.
“My father is going to kill me,” Rosie repeated for the third time since leaving. Eleanor had already asked her to stop whining; Rosie was coming by choice, and there was no theft on her part. Eleanor had left a note for her parents saying that she had to follow a dream and would write from New York. I’m going to be on Broadway, she’d written, boosted by the mischief of running off. Hours later, she felt sick imagining their reaction.