Forgetting Tabitha: An Orphan Train Rider (14 page)

Chapter 8 Gert

I spent my childhood chewing my hair to keep quiet. I sucked the salty ends and chewed at them, twirling the wad into circles and making nests in my mouth, never swallowing, just chewing and sucking. From behind the closet doors I could hear the men talking with my mother at first, then there were zippers and hushed sounds of laughter, bed squeaks, and my mother’s groaning and grunting. I soon realized I could watch from between the slats if I angled myself just right and from then on this is what I did.

Mother told me to get in the closet as soon as we heard a rap on the door. Once she knew I was settled, she fluffed her hair and the satin pillows, pinched color into her cheeks, and then opened the door and welcomed her client. The clients varied, some were rugged outdoors type men, and others were men who barely spoke English but who were always respectful. Some were older and wealthy, as apparent by their shoes. The wealthy men had shiny shoes with pretty tassels on them, the farmers and laborers, had boots. If the boots had mud or muck on them, mother gently asked the men to take them off at the door until they were regular customers and this was routine.

She often caught my eye between the slats and motioned with one finger to her lips for me to shush and be quiet. No one knew I existed in this room, in this room it was only my mother and her many men.

For thirteen years I observed and learned the ways of a man by watching my mother entertain them as she called it. It provided us with a room and board and I rarely remember feeling hungry. Her work was a means to an end, nothing more.

Mother was a self-possessed beauty; she had dark almond shaped eyes with long come-hither lashes. Her skin was soft and supple because she bathed regularly with rose water, the remains of which she put in her black silky hair and mine so we would smell enticing. She cared very much about her beauty and keeping her appearance youthful. We often went on long walks around the city to take fresh air and stay healthy and trim. Mother handed out note cards on these occasions and I determined this was how she developed her clientele. Her card read “Sarah’s Sweet Delights” on the first line, followed by, “no appointment needed”, then she penciled in our address below. It looked to me like she ran a bakery and that’s what she wanted any non-interested parties to think. Some men were just too dense she said.

Men came at all hours of the day and night, my mother lounged in her silken robes all afternoon waiting for a client. I couldn’t tell whether she liked what she did, the way she moaned underneath a man made me believe she was happy, but sometimes her face looked as if it were in pain. During those times I wanted to burst out of the closet and help her out from under the lunk of flesh crushing her, but she said that meant she was enjoying herself. Why then didn’t she moan all the time, I asked? She explained that different clients liked different things. Some liked her loud, some liked her quiet and still, others had to know she was taking pleasure in the encounter before they could find their own release. These were the ‘real’ men she said, the ones who gave a damn.

I had even seen my mother take a colored man to bed on occasion. With him she really seemed to be enjoying herself, I wondered if it was real or if it was a show for him so he would finish sooner. I asked her when he left and she said “Child, if you are ever so lucky to have a black man wanting after you….take him in. You won’t be sorry.”

One particular evening a man we didn’t know came knocking at her door. He was not a regular and my mother didn’t remember giving him an invitation. He smelled of drink, always an alarming stench. She told him he must be at the wrong address for her husband would be right home. He bolted through the door anyways and said he knew he was in the right place, he had been watching men come and go all week and wanted to see what was so special it had the men whistling when they left.

The man caught sight of me as I hadn’t quite hidden myself all the way in the closet on account of his abrupt entry. My foot was still caught in the door jam and I hoped to quietly bring it in with the rest of me once they began. He walked towards me and opened the closet door all the way.

“Ha” he laughed an ugly scratchy laugh that got caught in his throat on the way out and forced him to cough.

“Now I see what the men are whistling about, come here little darling. Don’t you play coy with me.” His grin showed he was missing several teeth and the rest were so yellow I could hardly imagine what he smelled like up close. He motioned me towards him but quickly my mother stepped right in between us.

“She is not part of the bargain, but I promise, if you’ll let me, I will show you a fine time and have you whistling to your favorite tune all through the week.” Mother was as demure as I had ever seen her, sweet talking this poor excuse for a man.

She never scrunched her face at his vile smell although I could barely breathe it was so rotten. He unclothed right in front of us presenting a repulsive body that gagged me. Mother on the other hand walked towards him like she was impressed and made a huge fuss over his muscles. All I saw was a huge fat smelly rotten man with hairy balls and a poker that went off to the side.

She reached for him, bringing him toward the bed, making him forget all about me. Before long he was moaning and groaning and she was saying, “Yes, that’s right, ooooh you like that don’t you.” She disappeared under the covers for a moment and never wiped her mouth when she came back up. She stared into the man’s eyes and dared him to do anything but think of her. She let him think he was in control, but she and I both new she had him right where she wanted him.

The man laughed as he dressed, whistling away, stumbling as he tried putting his pant legs on. He was a fool, a drunk, and the whole place needed laundering and scrubbing now.

We didn’t mention the man the following day, but we stripped the sheets in unison and set about washing them, along with the coverlets and pillow casings. Soon enough the room smelled fresh again and we went out for our walk. We silently prayed he wouldn’t be back and he wasn’t for a long while.

***

We carried on with our regulars, a few more having seen me because I was growing and it was harder to stay quiet when scrunched into a tiny closet. Many men liked having me watch and offered big money for me. Mother said no, she is not ready, I hadn’t yet had my monthlies and was not yet a woman.

“Tomorrow is going to be your golden birthday, Gert!” My mother exclaimed one afternoon.

“My golden birthday, what’s that mean?”

“Well you are turning thirteen years old on the thirteenth of the month, the numbers coincide and that only happens once in a lifetime. Let’s do something special.” She bounced next to me on the bed.

“Maybe we can get ice-cream?” I asked.

“Surely we can get ice cream, with jimmies too! Maybe we can even shop for a new dress and shoes.”

We settled ourselves in for the night and were woken at about nine in the morning, a quick impatient knock came at the door. Mother hushed me and I went in to the closet before she opened it. It was the rotten man. It had been nearly a year since our episode with him and we prayed he was too drunk to remember where we lived. Not so.

He demanded to see me.

“She is at school, sir. But as you can see I am available.” She reached for his drawers and tugged at his belt.

“Get away you old hag!” He pushed my mother across the room, and she stifled a sob.

I could hear him approach the closet and tried to nestle hidden under a coat, but he simply pulled it off me and grabbed my arm. He glared at me up and down before he began undressing. His pants were at his ankles in seconds and he had me in his grip while he kicked his pants the rest of the way off his feet.

“Your turn, sweet-heart.” He demanded nuzzling my neck, and fondling my buds beneath my clothes, but mother was on her feet and begging him away with her body as payment.

“She is a virgin; surely you don’t want someone who has no idea how to pleasure a man.” Mother used her sultry voice and again grabbed at his hairy balls and stiffening member.

He pushed her away with one hand and grabbed me, pulling me to the bed and under him. Instead of fumbling with my dress he pulled up my skirts and began ripping at my underwear.

I was sweating and couldn’t breathe under his weight, trying to slither out from under him but he was too strong and this time he wasn’t drunk and easily swayed.

I scratched at his arms, and kicked with all my might.

“I love a feisty one,” he laughed out loud, and started kissing my mouth.

I bit his wandering tongue and drew blood, he was about to strike me but my mother hit him hard on the head with our iron pan and he went down.

“Run Gert!”

“Mother, no, I have to stay to help you!” I pleaded with her.

“No, take the money and get away from here, far away, don’t come back.” She motioned toward our coffee jar that held our savings. I grabbed a few dollars and promised to be back, to hell with this man.

Then I took one last look at my mom. She whacked the man on the head again with the pan and blood trickled out his mouth. I ran out of the building and past any section of the city that was familiar to me. I saw a church and ran for it. We had never gone but I thought it was a better place than any to go right now.

Inside it was peaceful. I sat in a pew and stared at the figure of Jesus before me, dripping blood from his wrists. Still I wasn’t startled, rather I was in awe of my surroundings. The stained glassed windows were cut to form pictures, the beeswax candles and red velvet draperies were all so beautiful. I laid my head onto a cushioned pew and fell asleep, not waking until many hours later while being greeted by a woman in a black dress and funny white hat. Sister Agnes was her name.

She reached towards me without question. She bathed me so gently it was if washing away my sorrows. She held up several dresses until she found one that fit properly and clothed me with stockings, shoes, and a shawl. She asked about my family, and then asked about my future. She talked of orphan trains and all the promise that lay ahead for someone like me. Word was sent to my mother that I was with the Sisters of Charity, I waited the appropriate ten days for her to come and lay claim to me, but when she didn’t I gave in.

I sat on that train, staring out the window, sucking my hair until it became wadded together in nests, thinking of my mother. Whether or not it was true or imagined, I believed my mother was growing thinner. I had seen her skin flake and her hair falling out in clumps. I made up a disease, an awful disease that would take her in her sleep. The nameless disease ravaged her mind and body, causing tremors and delirium forcing her to forget she had a daughter, this became the only way I could bear the thought of her apart from me because it would mean a quick death followed by peace. I imagined her light shining above in the brightest star; one day we would meet again, of this I was sure.

I wanted off at the first train stop. The whiny children were too much for me to handle. My thoughts were only on my survival; I had frozen the image and memory of my mother, the murderess, and put it in an imaginary box. I had to find work and I knew of only one way to make money. I ran from the platform and into the city of Binghamton in search of clients.

I lied about my age, the dark charcoal around my eyes helped to make me look older than I really was. I took a job as a bar-maid at a tavern called the Ale House in Binghamton, New York, busing tables, cleaning dishes, making drinks when necessary, and refilling drinks always. I earned my keep with this work, and as far as the towns-folk knew this is how I earned a living. The job came with a room above the bar that had been outfitted with a bed and bath, plus small vanity. It was perfect. I would be very discreet about my real money maker, the only people who knew I was a prostitute were my clients, and given their place in society I doubted they would snitch. I used the mirror to practice my many provocative looks as well as to apply charcoal around my eyes and balm to my lips. I studied my gait and practiced swaying my hips when I walked until I felt certain it was sexy, I fluffed my hair to make it more voluminous and after acclimating to the city and earning some wages for rose oil, I began my business.

I chose my clients, they did not choose me. If I saw someone dapper, or wealthy, I gave him his bill along with an invitation to join me later for a night cap. At first the men were surprised by my age, but soon enough they learned I was worth the money. Besides I always lied, telling them I was sixteen when in reality I was thirteen.

My first client was young and drunk. He kept muttering something about a Mary sneaking out…. He might have been a virgin himself, he fumbled so much between the sheets I grew impatient and did the work, sticking him in me for the thirty seconds it took for him to finish. He apologized profusely before passing out atop me.

“If they were all this quick it wouldn’t be so bad,” I thought to myself. Edmund became a regular. He was a pretty lad to look at, thick curly dark hair and eyelashes longer than my own. He was lithe, didn’t know a hard days work as was told by the smoothness of his hands and his nice dress shoes. He often showed up at odd hours and sometimes only wanted to be held. He never asked about me but always left a large tip and therefore could use my time any way that pleased him.