JOHN DOLL

      ...Victoria walked toward Rosen’s Department Store, where Santa Clara and Market Streets intersected in the heart of the city. The lights from within the store still glowed brightly, but one of the clerks had just turned the sign, signaling Rosen’s was now closed. Another clerk had come out to help an elderly lady with her purchases into a waiting sedan. Victoria hurried by them and toward Lightston Alley, an odd afterthought of a street that served as a one-lane exit from Rosen’s parking lot, which was tucked behind another building and reserved for esteemed customers. She turned into the dim alley, since it also served as a shortcut to the trolley she needed to take to get to the Gumina residence.

 

      There was one car in the lot. Someone was walking toward the driver’s side of the vehicle. His outline was unmistakable. There he was. The scion of San Jose. Michael Rosen. The heir apparent to Rosen’s Department Store. The man who owned the place was an immigrant of Jewish descent who through decades had transformed his dry goods and clothing store into an extensive emporium filled with everything a workingman might require and a fawning capitalist might want. The father, Alexander, was decent. His son, Michael, was something else. Raised in luxury. Rejected by Stanford University because he was deemed insufficiently Anglo-Saxon. Rejoiced over by the Jesuits at the all-male University of Santa Clara. Michael had graduated months earlier and was now employed at his father’s department store, learning the ropes of his eventual destiny.

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      When Michael was young, there was a rumor that when St. Joseph’s needed remodeling, the archdiocese hired an Italian artist to paint biblical scenes, and Michael had been selected to pose as one of the cherubs that now adorned the church’s ceiling. Every time Victoria attended Sunday mass, she would look up trying to figure out which one was Michael.

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      The former cherub was still blond and curly-haired but had a flair for the cards and the booze and the women who enjoyed those pursuits. He was a regular on the society pages of the San Jose Mercury-Herald. In short, Michael Rosen represented the privileged. Nobody should be that spoiled. Especially these days.

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      As she approached, the younger Rosen was about to climb into his Studebaker roadster. Victoria was ten yards away and despite the shadowy light could not help but notice his patented smile. The smirk that would melt the hearts of most of the females aged thirteen to eighty in this town, though Victoria was not swayed by such antics.

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      He noticed her and only slowed slightly. “Victoria, it’s been a while. Good to see you this evening. I’m sorry, but I must be off. I must pick up my father.”

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      “Really? I thought you’d be going elsewhere,” she said.

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      “What? What do you mean?”

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      “Are you going to your dance?”

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       Michael laughed. “The dance will have to wait,” he said. He gave her a quick nod. “Unless you’re interested in joining me later for a quick one?”

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       He didn’t wait to get her response, but quickly climbed into his sedan, closing the door behind him. Victoria spared him an annoyed glance before continuing her quick march to the trolley, where she joined the throng of boarding passengers. That was the last time she ever saw Michael Rosen.