L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

“No. That’s my nal answer.” I dumped the tray of empty milk cartons into the trash
to punctuate my decision.
“Coward,” Will teased.
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Foret, that I’ve done a few things this year that would set
your teeth chattering. It just so happens that I know the limits of my courage. And that
means not shaking my tits at a crowd of drunk men.”
The night of the Revue, I was closing the Café for Tracina for the second time that
week. At eight o’clock sharp, while turning over the chairs to do the mopping, I heard
the dancers upstairs practicing one last time—a dozen graceful ponies set loose above
my head. I could hear each “Fille” perform her individual routine for the group to
raucous laughter, hooting and whistling. Those familiar feelings of loneliness and
inferiority returned to me then, along with the thought that I’d be ridiculed if I ever
attempted such a thing. At thirty-ve, almost thirty-six, I’d be the oldest dancer next to
Steamboat Betty and Kit DeMarco. Kit was a bartender from the Spotted Cat, who at
forty-one could still pull o a blue pixie hair-do and denim cutos. Steamboat Betty
manned the antique cigarette booth at Snug Harbor and performed every year wearing
the same burlesque outt she claimed to have worn for thirty-six years in a row, never
failing to boast that it still—sort of—t her. Plus, there was no way I could dance next
to Angela Rejean, a statuesque Haitian goddess who worked as a hostess at Maison and
was a jazz singer on the side. Her body was so perfect that it made being jealous kind of
pointless.
After completing my shut-down duties, I headed upstairs to hand the keys to Kit, who
had oered to lock up after they were done. The review didn’t start until after 10 p.m.
The girls would rehearse up until the last minute, and in the meantime, I wanted to go
home and shower o the day. I had hoped to see Will at the show, but earlier in the day,
when I asked him if he and Tracina were going to attend the event, he had shrugged
noncommittally.
At the top of the stairs, I stepped past a new girl, with blond corkscrew curls, sitting
cross-legged on the oor holding a hand-mirror. She was applying false eyelashes with
expert precision. I couldn’t tell if her hair was a wig or real, but it was mesmerizing. A
dozen more girls in various stages of undress were sitting or standing about, all getting
ready for the big night, coats piled on the old mattress Will kept on the oor and
sometimes slept on. Besides the mattress, the only other furniture up here was a broken
wooden chair, which I’d sometimes nd Will straddling, lost in thought, his chin resting
on the back. The Café was a big empty space, perfect for a temporary rehearsal room.
We closed early, were only a few doors down from the Blue Nile, which was hosting the
event this year, and the bathroom upstairs was brand-new, though still lacking a door.
Several women, one topless, were craning around the bathroom mirror, taking turns
applying stage makeup. Curling irons and hair straighteners were plugged in
everywhere. Bright costumes, feather boas and masks added festivity to the usually dull,
gray room.
I found Kit, in a strapless bra and stockings, tapping out a dance sequence, her
costume hanging on the exposed brick wall like a piece of art. She had had it specially