Tracy Del Campo
February 1948
Des Moines, Iowa
“Goodnight, Delores.” Her coworker secured her headscarf as they stood on the stoop of the brick-clad office building. “See you on Monday.” The woman descended the stairs and melded with a crowd of pedestrians.
Delores. Would she ever get used to the alias? After buttoning her coat, she shuffled down the slush-covered sidewalk, her rubber galoshes squeaking as she eyed the low-lying clouds overhead. More snow was on the way. Another thing to get used to.
Five months had passed since she’d left Las Vegas, the desert city notorious for its slot machines, neon lights, and mobsters. Five months spent looking over her shoulder. Biting her nails. Losing sleep.
When she caught sight of herself in the plate-glass window of Woolworths, she paused. The peroxide blonde waves she once sported were now chestnut. And the satin garments with fishnet stockings? Gone. Swapped at a thrift store for conservative dresses and sensible shoes. Fetching cigarette girl Stella Osborn was now mundane office assistant, Delores Mueller.
It was her “pretty face” and “nice gams” that had landed her the job at the Flamingo. Acting as eye candy for the male patrons, she’d worked the casino floor and adjoining nightclub with a tray of Chesterfields strapped around her neck. The money was good, if you could stomach men pawing at you incessantly. Unable to make ends meet waitressing at a greasy spoon, she’d chosen to grin and bear it.
Things had taken a turn when she and a loose-lipped hat check girl had overheard a group of mafiosos discussing their nefarious activities. Days later, the police had found Hazel “swimming” in Lake Mead, and not for leisure. Fearing the same fate, Delores had sold her old jalopy and stuffed her belongings into a second-hand suitcase. At the Greyhound depot on South Main Street, she’d purchased a ticket for the only bus with an available seat. The destination? Des Moines.
A sigh escaped her. “Enough recollecting, Delores.”
After retrieving a grocery list from her pocket, she entered the adjacent market. She spied her next-door neighbor at the register purchasing a jar of instant coffee. Tall with nice features, he was hard to miss. He straightened when he saw her, a smile on his face. With a polite nod, she disappeared down an aisle, determined to stave off any attempt at small talk. Conversations inevitably lead to questions. Which was why she kept him, and everyone else, at arm’s length.
Balancing a bag of groceries on her hip, she made her way across the street and into her apartment building. Said neighbor was in the lobby, collecting his mail from one of the many brass-and-glass boxes that lined the wall. She scurried past and stepped into a waiting elevator, which he boarded soon after.
“Hello, neighbor.” He tipped his fedora.
He was a handsome fellow. She’d give him that. Donning a tweed suit and polished wingtip oxfords. In one hand, a leather briefcase. Under an arm, the latest issue of Life magazine. She pegged him as the dependable, nice-guy type. They were hard to come by. Louses, on the other hand, were a dime a dozen. A fact she knew all too well.
Additional passengers boarded the car, forcing them closer, their shoulders eventually touching. She fidgeted. You’re acting like a nervous schoolgirl, for Pete’s sake. Desperate for a distraction, she attempted to fetch her keys from her purse, only to struggle with the bag of groceries.
“Allow me.” He took the bag from her arms. They shared a smile when their fingers brushed during the exchange, sending her heart racing.
The car shuddered to a stop on the third floor, where they exited and proceeded down the hall to her door.
“Thank you.” She retrieved the bag, their fingers meeting once again.
“You’re welcome.”
She felt his gaze as she inserted her key into the lock and closed the door behind her.
***
Delores slid a meatloaf into the oven and poured herself a cup of coffee before perching on the narrow windowsill, staring at the busy street below. Couples strolled arm in arm, and families milled about. Chatting. Laughing. As she sipped her coffee her thoughts wandered, envisioning such a life. A brick bungalow with a wood-paneled station wagon in the drive. A husband in a club chair reading the paper, teeth clenched on the stem of a pipe. Children playing underfoot. She pulled her sweater tight as a sigh slipped past her lips.
“What’ll it be this weekend?” She stood and crossed the room, sifting through a stack of library books on the coffee table. “Christie, du Maurier, Steinbeck…” She stilled when she heard Mr. Tall-and-Handsome humming, and pressed her ear against their shared wall. The melancholy tune struck a nerve. Tears ensued as loneliness descended. Despite her actions to the contrary, she yearned for human connection. Longed for conversation. Companionship. “You’re merely existing, not living.”
She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her sweater, and smoothed her hair before giving her pale cheeks a pinch. Upon entering the hall, she knocked on his door and held her breath. Wringing her hands as she waited.
“Hello, again.” He leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. There’s plenty if you’d like to join me.”
He flashed a dimpled grin. “I would indeed.”
Minutes later he appeared at her door, sporting a fresh shirt and smelling of Old Spice. “Typically, I bring flowers.” He offered her two plastic-wrapped dessert cakes. “This was the best I could do on such short notice.”
“Moon Pies.” Her cheeks lifted. “My favorite.”
“A girl after my own heart.” Their eyes locked. “We’ve never properly introduced ourselves.” He extended a hand. “I’m Will.”
She placed her hand in his, relishing its warmth and strength as their palms met and fingers embraced. “I’m…Stella.”
Fond of history, Tracy also fancies old houses, classic movies, museums, road trips, rainy days, and a good cup of coffee. Born and raised in the Midwest, she now resides in Southern California with her husband and is the mother of two.
Connect with Tracy on Instagram.
Spark Flash Fiction 