The Cure for Dreaming (28 page)

I grasped Frannie by the shoulders. “I'm here early because of a plan.”

“A plan?”

“I need to go to the theater and speak to Henry.”

“But—”

“Wait before you try to talk me out of it. Gerda quit yesterday. Father won't let me go to school anymore.”

“What?” She reached up and gripped my elbows.

“Father hired Henry for a second treatment that was even worse than the first, but Henry is helping to alter the effects. Father got himself invited to an election-night party hosted by the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage—” I involuntarily covered my mouth and belched a horrid, gagging sound.

Frannie grimaced. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I let my hand flop down to my leg. “Anyway, at this party, in order to receive Father's payment for the hypnosis, Henry is supposed to hypnotize me in front of everyone and prove there's a cure for suffragists.” Again, I smacked my hand over my mouth, and I hacked like a cat.

“Why are you gagging?”

I rolled my eyes. “It's all a part of the hypnosis.”

“Livie! This is terrible. Are you still seeing terrifying sights, too?”

“Oddly enough, that's the least of my troubles.” I clutched her hands. “But never mind that. Here's where I need your help. First, please let me borrow your cloak.”

“But—”

“Second, talk to Kate on Monday at school. Let her know that the antis are congregating for some election-night hoopla at the Portland Hotel at seven o'clock. It would be splendid to have a team of suff”—my right hand slapped my mouth again—“ragists,
ack
”—I spat up another foul sound— “standing out front, singing anthems, wearing yellow ribbons. But tell them they must leave the hotel grounds no later than seven fifteen. That part is vital.”

She stared at me with unblinking eyes.

“Please, Frannie.” I pulled her against me and squeezed my arms around her.

“Livie, what's going to happen to you when the party is over?” she asked into my hair. “How in the world can you keep living with your father?”

I closed my eyes and pulled her so close, her shoulder dug into my throat. “I'll likely leave for New York Tuesday night.”

“What?”

“My mother lives there. Near Barnard.”

“Your mother has been an absent fool all these years.”

“But she doesn't want to transform me into a creature who doesn't even resemble me.” I pulled free of our hug. “Please,
Frannie. Help me. I need you. Genevieve needs you, too. I've seen her in her room in the Hotel Vernon. She's fading. The cancer will kill her if it's not removed soon.”

Frannie's nose turned red and sniffly, and her chin shook. “I don't want to see you escape clear across the country.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “But . . . if you genuinely believe you need to endure all of this rubbish to save this person's life, then, my goodness”—she heaved a heavy sigh—“let's help that girl.”

he stage door was locked. At first all I could think to do was grumble and pace about the sidewalk while holding the brown hood of Frannie's cloak over my head. Just as I was about to run to the theater lobby and spin a story about needing to deliver an urgent item to Henry, fate intervened in the form of a few small beasts.

The side door opened. The middle-aged dog trainers and their half-dozen curly-haired poodles burst from the theater in a gust of high-pitched barks.

“Let me hold open the door for you,” I said over all the
yipping, and I sprinted up the stairs, nearly tripping over my skirt.

“Thank you, dear,” said the man of the group with a tip of his hat.

The flurry of fur and leather leashes and pitter-pattering feet traveled down the stairs, and I slipped inside the theater.

A heart-seizing note from the organ beyond the curtains soldered my feet to the ground. I stood there in the half dark, rooted to the floor, while the force of a loud waltz reverberated up my calves and knees. Laughter boomed from the audience. Lights poured through the black curtains separating the stage from the wings, luring me over . . .
Come see, come see
.

I rounded a small table topped with a pitcher of water and a bowl of peppermint-scented candies and came to a stop in the wings.

My eyes widened.

Three couples were dancing a waltz on the stage, but the women—not the men—were leading, with their hands on the gentlemen's waists. The gentlemen followed, their left fingers lifting invisible skirts off the ground. The peculiar pairs glided around the dusty floorboards with silly smiles on their faces, paying no heed at all to the wild shrieks of laughter from the audience.

“Mesdames et messieurs”
—Henry strutted into my view, his red vest shimmering in the stage lights—“let us give a warm round of applause for the Reversed Portland Dancers.”

The audience clapped and chortled, and I slithered farther into the backstage shadows. The silhouettes of stagehands in caps and suspenders rushed toward the wings.

Henry guided his subjects out of their trances, and an even grander applause swelled for the great Monsieur Reverie. A smoky-smelling fellow showed up a few feet away from me and pulled on a long rope that clattered the main curtain closed.

I held my breath and crept out of my hiding spot.

Henry staggered off the stage, and my eyes beheld him falling apart. Literally. The bottom half of his coat unraveled at astounding speed, and the seams of his pants stretched and ripped from his ankles up to his knees. He grabbed hold of one of the wings' black curtains and rested his forehead against the cloth, inhaling deep breaths that made his shoulders rise and fall.

“Henry?” I unclasped Frannie's cloak from my neck and approached him. By walking and blinking I stopped the illusion of his fraying garments, but he still hunched over as if he might collapse. “Are you all right?”

He lifted his head. “Olivia?”

“I'm sorry I snuck backstage . . .”

“No, it's fine.” He let go of the curtain and took my hands. “It's nice to see you back here. Is everything all right?”

“I'm fine, but how are you?”

“I didn't sleep well last night.”

A stagehand brushed past us, so Henry led me away from the wings and toward the table with the water and candies.

He poured himself a glass with shaking hands. “Genevieve has a fever.”

“Oh, no!”

“The doctor thinks it might just be a regular cold, not her illness, but she's supposed to take a pill and stay in bed.”

“Does it seem like a cold?”

“She's sneezing and coughing, but I don't know . . .” He guzzled the water like a man downing whiskey.

I wriggled Frannie's coat off my shoulders. “I'm so sorry, Henry.”

He came up for a loud breath. “It reminds me too much of the typhoid—and my mother's illness. I really hate this. Why can't she just be healthy?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” He shook his head and wiped his lips. “Nothing besides what you're already doing.”

“If it's of any comfort, I have an idea for Tuesday evening.”

“You do?”

“I—” I held my tongue, for the substitute organist lumbered toward us from the wings with stacks of sheet music poking out of her carpetbag.

“Here.” Henry gestured with his head toward the back of the theater. “Let's go speak in private. There's something I need to give you, anyway.”

He set down the glass, popped a candy into his mouth, and took me by the hand again, while the organist frowned at us and fished her hand into the candy bowl.

Henry and I wound our way through a dark maze of set pieces and sawdust and down an echoing stairwell that smelled of fresh paint and cigarettes. We arrived in a large underground space crammed with props and extra stage pieces packed onto shelves and crowding the passageways. Bare bulbs dangled from the ceiling, casting a yellow light that produced hulking shadows shaped like masks and trombones and Wild West pistols.

Henry led me down a narrow walkway, toward the opposite end of the room, and the feathers of a dangling pink boa tickled across my cheek, making me think for a moment we were walking through a labyrinth of spiderwebs.

“The wardrobe mistress isn't here today,” he said. “We all wear our own clothing for this show, but we've been allowed to come back here in case we want to add anything to our outfits.” He opened a back door and pushed a switch on the wall that illuminated a room filled with costumes on coat hangers, bolts of fabric, sewing machines, bobbins, and millinery head blocks. He let go of my hand and walked to a rack of clothing both colorful and drab. “I received Mr. Gillingham's approval to give this to you.”

My stomach leapt. Henry pulled something off a hanger and returned to me with a pair of garnet-brown trousers.

Bicycle bloomers.

For me
.

I dropped Frannie's cloak, covered my mouth, and burst into tears.

“What's wrong?” he asked, but all I could do was hurl my arms around him and tip us both off balance.

He grabbed hold of my back. “Are you all right?”

“They're beautiful. I'm sorry . . .” I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I don't know why I'm crying. I love the bloomers. But it's so hard. Oh, criminy, I love them so much.” I blubbered like a madwoman against the soft lapel of his coat.

“Here, sit down with me,” said Henry, and he lowered us both to the floor, which was scattered with threads of blue and white. He fetched a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gave it to me.

I blew my nose and watched tears rain down on the glorious trousers. Henry stroked my arms until my breathing slowed, and his face gradually grew less hazy through my drying eyes. My scratch marks on his cheek were but thin, hidden streaks beneath a covering of greasepaint.

I hiccupped. “I'm so sorry. I don't know why I reacted that way. It's hardly the behavior of a modern woman with bloomers, is it?”

“Don't worry about how you reacted. Who cares? Now”— he bent his head close—“tell me your idea for Tuesday.”

I cleared my throat and drew a long breath. “Well, at the election-night party . . .” I coughed into the handkerchief.
“Tell the audience you can cure more than just one rebellious woman. Tell them you can cure a whole crowd of us.” I spread the bloomers across my lap and toyed with the buttons on the hems. “When we first arrive, there will likely be women singing and chanting about the vote outside the hotel. Ask the men to go fetch them to prove your abilities.”

“All right . . .”

“If all goes well, when the gentlemen come back, they'll say the women are gone. Inform the audience you'll use the ladies at the party as an example instead. Invite them all in front of the crowd, with me included if it helps”—I met his eyes—“and hypnotize them all into silence. Take away their voices.”

His face went still. “Permanently?”