The Cure for Dreaming (33 page)

Father hurried back to my side. “He hasn't been feeling his best, but he assured me that everything will go as planned. He's going to ask Mrs. Underhill if we should start soon.”

“Did he say anything about his sister?”

“No, and please, just sit here and stop fretting about everything. All will be well once we start the demonstration.” Father tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead.

I rubbed the tops of my legs through the purple sheen of my skirt. “Show me Henry's money.”

Father blinked as if he hadn't heard me quite right. “I beg your pardon.”

“Prove to me you intend to pay him if I go up there and let him hypnotize me again. I won't play nicely until you do.”

His jaw stiffened.

“Please,” I said.

He rustled an envelope out of his breast pocket, gave me a quick peek at the cash inside, and then tucked the envelope straight back into the folds of his coat. “He had better remove every last shred of your sass tonight, young lady. I'm getting tired of this.”

The orchestra's song dwindled to a much-needed end, and the room slowed its pace and settled to a stop. Mrs. Underhill climbed aboard the stage in a royal-blue gown with a long train that swished behind her like a cat's tail. She waved at the conductor to keep the music at bay and walked to center stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our election-night ball, sponsored by the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage to Women.”

I gagged over the word
suffrage
, while everyone else applauded and cheered.

“To the Republicans in the crowd,” continued Mrs. Underhill, “a hearty congratulations. It looks as though President William McKinley and his running mate, Theodore Roosevelt, will be helming the country as we sail into this glorious new century.”

Fewer than half of the attendees smiled and slapped their gloved hands together, while the anti-imperialist Democrats folded their arms across their chests and sat there with a wilted air of defeat.

“What we can all celebrate together as a group, however”— Mrs. Underhill lifted her index finger and waited for the applause to fade—“is the continued tradition of men alone voting for president while we women devote our attention to more ladylike pursuits.”

An astounding abundance of women and girls clapped at this sentiment, including bold Sadie Eiderling, who seemed far too despotic to be opposed to female empowerment. I ground my molars.

“My sincerest apologies,” said Mrs. Underhill, folding her hands together in front of her waist, “for the unpleasant display that greeted your arrival at the hotel this evening. More than ever it seems we need a remedy for the growing
army of loud, obnoxious women who insist they are the same as men.” She shifted her royal-blue bosom our way. “And I have good news for you on that account. Some wise men in our very own community have used their innovative brains to create such a remedy.”

Silence befell the mesmerized crowd.

“My dear friends,” continued Mrs. Underhill, “you may have noticed a few extra people at this party whom you may not have expected to see tonight. Dr. Walter Mead, a local dentist.” She stretched out her hand in Father's direction. “And Monsieur Henri Reverie, the talented young hypnotist from Montreal, Canada.” She extended her right arm to Henry, who stood in front of the opposite side of the stage from us. “Together, they have invented a cure for female rebellion, using the astounding power of hypnotism. Young Monsieur Reverie is going to demonstrate this revolutionary antidote for wayward women right here, right now, in front of all of you. Please welcome to the stage Henri Reverie and his subject, young rabble-rouser Olivia Mead.”

The audience's applause walloped me in the face like a sack of rocks, and I couldn't even think to stand on my own. Father had to yank me out of the chair to get me to come to my senses and move.

“Go up, go up,” he said, spinning me toward a small staircase at the side of the stage. “He's waiting for you.”

I tripped over my skirt and petticoat on my way up the steps, for the whole room spun, and all I could see were
crystal chandeliers whisking over my head. A warm hand slipped into mine and helped guide me to my feet.

“It's all right, Olivia,” said Henry, putting his other hand around my waist. “I'm here. Just keep breathing.”

With his assistance, I regained my balance and found myself wandering with him to the middle of the stage. Unlike the last time I joined him in such a way, it was the audience below us that resembled devils, not he. No matter how hard I blinked, I couldn't shake the sight of sharp teeth, anemic skin, and hungry stares in that sea of sky-high pompadours and slicked male hair that glistened with greasy spiced oils. Sadie Eiderling stood in the front row, peering at me with a viper-toothed grin, her hair a huge and untamed nest on the top of her head.

Henry slid his hand out of mine and turned to face the monsters. After a deep inhale, he rolled back his shoulders, lifted his chin, and with the magic of a metamorphosing butterfly, transformed into the performer version of himself.

“Good evening,
mesdames et messieurs
. My name is Henri Reverie, and I have been studying the arts of mesmerism and hypnotism with my uncle ever since I was twelve. I use a combination of techniques from the great masters, including animal magnetism, deep relaxation, and the remarkable power of suggestion. As you heard from our lovely hostess, Madame Underhill, I recently received the fascinating challenge of curing this young woman”—he half turned toward me—“of her dreams to vote for president.
Un remède pour des
rêveries
. A remedy for daydreams.” He rubbed his right fingers together in the air and seemed to taste the phrase on his tongue. “The cure for dreaming. A beguiling possibility, no?”

Spellbound, the rapt devil faces in the audience watched him walk toward them across the stage. “Over the past five days,” he said, “I have administered two separate treatments to this young woman. When I first came to her, just last Thursday, she was participating in scandalous rallies for the vote and scrambling to finish her high school diploma so she could attend a university.”

“You actually met her last Wednesday,” called the gaunt and long-toothed version of Percy from the crowd, his hands cupped around his mouth, “when you stood on top of her at your Halloween show.”

“Yes,
merci
. Thank you for reminding me, Monsieur Acklen. I first saw Miss Mead the very day she attended the rally, and I subdued her in front of the eyes of Portland that very night. Now she cannot even hear certain words related to the vote and higher education without getting sick to her stomach. Shall I demonstrate?”

The audience, at first, seemed taken aback by his proposal. They darted skeptical glances at one another, chuckled, and shook their heads. My eyes stopped seeing them as monsters. Now they were a crowd in white summer dresses and suits, gathered to witness a miracle maker at a county fair.

Sadie, decked out in a straw hat and red gingham, lifted her hand and asked, “Will this demonstration be disgusting?”

“Only if we badger her with the words too long,” said Henry. “Go ahead, Mademoiselle Eiderling. Say something to her yourself. Try the word that starts with an
s
—the one those singing women out there adore.”

Sadie shrugged. “Song?”

“No”—Henry helped her along—“s-u-f-f . . .”

“Ohhh.” Sadie balled her hands into fists and drew a large intake of air through her nose. “Suffrage,” she said with the breath of a birthday-candle wish.

I covered my mouth and made yet another gagging racket, and I glared at Henry out of the tops of my eyes.
Do not prolong this part of the demonstration
, I mentally willed him.
Do not
.

“Susan B. Anthony,” called Mrs. Underhill from her new position down below the stage, and I coughed into my hand until my throat hurt. “Votes for women,” she also added. “Women's rights.”

“Merci.”
Henry held up his hands. “Thank you, ladies, for helping me with that particular demonstration. I am proud to say that with the subtlest of commands”—he circled around me with solid thumps of his soles—“I have also instilled in Miss Mead a higher moral standard. This virtuous girl before you now possesses a hatred of higher education, bicycle bloomers, and dalliances with the wrong sorts of boys.”

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from grinning at those last parts. My nerves settled a tad, and the audience shifted back to its regular appearance. Rich folk in ball gowns and evening suits.

Henry stopped right beside me and clasped hold of his lapel. “However, as Madame Underhill so eloquently stated, one of the most pressing problems with these suff—” He cut the word short. “The problem with these young ladies is that they are loud. They certainly want to have a voice, don't they?”

“They certainly do,” shouted a red-cheeked gentleman in the midst of the nodding male and female heads.

“Wouldn't it be
magnifique
if we could silence these girls?” asked Henry in a tone that worried me a little with its seriousness. “Simply take away their voices and make them as quiet and gentle as women ought to be?”

Another round of applause echoed across the room.

“Would you like me to prove to you that the silencing of wayward young women is a genuine possibility in this modern era of hypnosis?”

The applause strengthened in volume—its vibrations trembled in the soles of my shoes and the surfaces of my teeth.

“Monsieur Conductor . . .” Henry whisked around to face the orchestra. “Would you kindly have your orchestra play a soothing piece of music for me? A lullaby, if you please.”

The conductor and the orchestra flipped through their sheet music, and Henry peeked at me for the swiftest of moments. His gallant stage voice and mannerisms failed to conceal the dark circles beneath his eyes or the fact that his bottom lip was so dry and cracked, it now bled almost as much as when Father had gagged him. I wondered when
he last took a sip of water, and I sealed my mouth shut so I wouldn't feel compelled to ask.

The conductor must have raised his baton and signaled to his orchestra to commence, for the strings played a lullaby that filled the room with the delicacy of the fog settling over the roofs and the pines and the big-leaf maples of my street.

“Miss Mead.” Henry faced me with his side to the audience. He bumped his fingers against my wrist so that I would position myself the same way.

I hesitated. A spark of fear shot through me. Before I could even think to try the tongue trick, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him.

“Sleep!”

My face smashed against his shoulder blade, and I dropped down, down, down, until the orchestra's lullaby folded over me in black sheets of musical ecstasy. Henry turned me toward the audience and tipped me backward, dragging me with my heels skiing across the stage. My arms flopped below me, and my fingertips skated along the wood.

“Olivia,” said Henry with his mouth behind my head. The strings of the orchestra nearly swallowed up his voice, but I heard him say, for my ears alone, “You no longer feel compelled to cover your mouth and make a gagging sound when you hear the words
suffrage, women's rights, suffragist, votes for women, Susan B. Anthony,
or
college.
You can argue with your father as much as you'd like and be as angry as you'd like.”

He draped my body in a chair in front of the gentle purr of the violins. My utter lack of control over my limbs sent my legs falling open and my head tipping backward, and I could feel him hurrying to close my knees and reposition my torso.

“Stop.” He took his hands off me. “Wait, wait, wait. Stop the music. I'm sorry, but this particular feat seems ridiculously easy. Hypnotizing one girl into losing her voice means nothing to the giant world outside those doors. Hundreds to thousands of suffragists are busily working away right now, spinning their webs, making their next plans to slap another referendum onto your ballots. If we want to rid this state and this country of suffragists, I need to prove to you that I can hypnotize an entire stage full of women into silence.”

Henry's hand cupped my forehead.

“Awake,” he said while sitting me upright. “Please stand, Miss Mead, to allow room for more chairs.”

I let him help me to my feet, even though my legs bent and bobbed at all sorts of odd angles.

Henry readdressed the audience. “Would some of you gentlemen kindly fetch at least five of those singing women from outside this hotel? And then I'll need a few more volunteers to help bring some chairs upon this stage.”

The young men and their fathers just stood there and stared as if they had never been asked to carry a stick of furniture in their lives. Before long, the poor waiters were setting down their trays, lugging around chairs, and running out to the street to wrangle women.

I pulled at my lace scarf and pleaded to Frannie and the other girls,
Please be gone! Be gone!
My grand scheme for the evening suddenly struck me as ridiculous and selfish, and I hated myself for convincing Henry to conspire with me.

A curly-haired waiter ran back inside from the lobby. “The women left.”

I covered a relieved smile with my hand.

“They left?” asked Mrs. Underhill, and other disappointed murmurings and snorts shook loose from the crowd.

Henry held up his hands. “Do not worry,
mesdames et messieurs
. I am still able to show you how to tame a roomful of tigresses into docile, silent kittens. I simply need some of the beautiful ladies in this audience to temporarily stand in as the rebels.”

The women froze.

Henry clasped his hands together in the direction of Sadie's bloodstain of a dress. “Mademoiselle Eiderling, would you care to be one of our volunteers?”