The Spirit Room (60 page)

“
I am pleased to meet you. I’m Isaac Singer.” He bowed slightly.

Clara pictured Mrs. Beattie’s sewing machine. It was called Singer and so was almost every sewing machine in the whole world.

“
Would you like to come with me and get a drink? I have an awful thirst.” Mr. Singer offered Hannah his arm and led her away saying, “Excuse us ladies.”

In her mother’s silver dress, Hannah looked back over her shoulder with sweet, scared blue eyes at her and Abbie. Clara wanted to run at her and grab her back from this sewing machine fella’s arm, but Hannah was like a leaf falling onto a rushing stream, speeding away with the water.

“
He’s got enough money for the virgins, I’ll tell you that,” said Abbie. “They say he has three wives, three families, three different homes. One of them is a mansion on Fifth Avenue.”

Three grinning men, one old and slender, one red-haired and handsome but a little puffy looking, and one swarthy with big round eyes, approached before Clara could ask anything more. She wasn’t sure she liked Hannah going off with a bigamist, but there was nothing she could do. The three men were all dressed handsomely in satin waistcoats, silk ties, trim coats and trousers, and polished boots.

The old one said, “Hello, Abbie. How have you been? This is my friend Freddie.”

While Abbie offered her hand to Freddie, the redhead leaned toward Clara’s ear.

“
You’re mine tonight, sweet Lizette.”

He sounded like a Brit. He stood back, looked into her eyes, and gave her a half smile.

Blazes and
jo-fire
, what was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to say how happy she was? How charmed she was? How lucky she was? She was supposed to be a little girl. Did she have to speak like one too? She glanced quickly at Abbie for some hint, but Abbie was involved with the old man and Freddie.

Then out of nowhere, she heard herself say, “Merci.”
Tarnation
, where’d she get that? Some book Izzie read to her when she was little, probably.

“
Ah, then you are French? That’s smashing. Mary didn’t tell me you were a genuine French girl.”

Now what had she done. She laughed. “No, Monsieur. I am not from France. My mother was.” She smiled, hoping he would drop this line of conversation.

“
I love Paris. Women there are very interesting. A beautiful city. I trust your French mother taught you some French ways?”

Holy rolling Moses. What on earth did he mean by that? Clara speedily recounted all she knew about France. Napoleon. Bread. Wine. Joan of Arc.

“
She showed me how to bake bread.”

He seemed confused a moment, then laughed. “Of course, ma petite.”

His red dundrearies were long, thick and curly, reaching down to his chin. Leaning toward her again, he whispered, “Come, Lizette, sit on my lap.”

Clara glanced around, spotting the empty throne close by. Why not? She could try. She stepped back away from the others and walked over to the tall, red chair. She didn’t want to be too obvious, so she lightly touched the arm and gave the redhead a piece of a smile, but not too much, as he approached.

“
You haven’t told me your name, sir.”

That might distract him.

“
John.”

As John eagerly fell into the chair, spread his legs out, and reached for her to sit, just as Reilly had done his first time at the Spirit Room, someone called out, “There, John’s in the throne.” The room broke into applause, cheers, and laughter. “Hooray, Lizette!”

As though burned, John hopped up from the chair faster than a darting rabbit. But it was too late. Clara giggled. He stretched his arms out wide toward everyone. “Enjoy your champagne, les femmes et les hommes.”

A sound popped and there was more cheering. At the large round table, Mary Johnson started pouring the champagne into wide shallow-bowl glasses. After she poured two, she handed the bottle to Carlotta, then picked up the glasses she had filled, and with a huge smile, brought them to her and John at the throne to more cheers.

“
On your first night, Lizette. You’ll be very popular, I’m sure.” She kissed Clara on both cheeks, then drifted away into the party.

“
Let’s start again, shall we?” John sat in the chair and took a sip of the bubbling pale drink. He patted his left thigh.

Clara sat on John’s leg, wrapped her right arm around the back of his shoulders and sipped the champagne with her left hand. The fizz was delightful. She smelled John’s cologne water as he began to talk about how he had come to New York five years ago without a penny to his name, how he had landed a job at the Metropolitan Bank, how he was already doing well enough to build himself a new house uptown. As he spoke, and Clara sipped the champagne, nodding now and then as though she were interested in him, it all seemed familiar. There was Weston and his peach brandy. There was Reilly and his plain water, talking endlessly about themselves. All the same.

He paused and looking into the fire, he swigged down his champagne. “Little Lizette, what games do you play with your friends?”

Did he really think she was a little girl? It had been so long since she played with Euphora, or Billy, or even Izzie. Her séances had been like games, though. Guessing games. Guessing what people wanted to hear.

“
I like guessing games.”

And so they went on drinking champagne and talking as adult and child for a long while, he, asking about her favorite this or that, she making things up or recalling them from her childhood. After a while, Clara noticed that seven of the girls and seven of the men were gone. Hannah was gone. Abbie was gone. The others were lounging in pairs and small groups. One foursome was singing a sailor song by the piano. The extra three men must have left because there were just twelve girls, including herself, and twelve gents remaining.

John’s nose and cheeks had gone crimson from the champagne. Permanently grinning ear to ear now, he was thoroughly pixilated.

“
I’m a bit merry. Aren’t you? Let’s go up.”

Clara stood and wavered a moment. The room was fuzzy, voices muffled and distant. She headed for her room on the second floor. He followed closely. She’d never had Reilly or Weston for an entire night. Would he stay until morning? Would she have to do the other thing with him over and over? She counted the handrails on the banister as they climbed the steps. Sixty-two.

When she opened the door to her room, he said, “Ah, yes, Matilda’s room.”

As she walked over to her armoire and opened it, she wondered what had happened to Matilda. Did she not come back after an abortion? John sat on the bed and watched her. Grabbing the bow on the sash at her back, she pulled it around to her stomach and untied it. She thought of Hannah with her Mr. Sewing Machine. He’d better be kind to her. The bigamist.

“
It’ll be a thunderstorm and you’re scared, see.” John stood and took off his jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I’m in bed asleep.” He fell back onto the bed. “Come and get the boots, would you, Lizette? S’il vous plait?” He laughed loud and long.

Tarnation
, he was going to split his sides laughing that hard, she thought as she tugged off one of his boots, then the other.

“
You’re in another room. You’re trembling. You’re crying. The thunder is booming. I’m here sleeping in my long johns.” He patted the bedspread. “You come in through the door. You say, ‘Can I get in bed with you, Mr. Forsythe? I’m afraid of the thunder and lightning.’ But I don’t hear ye, see. I’m too asleep.” He raised his hands as in prayer and rested them against the side of his face, closed his eyes, then guffawed.

Jo-fire
, he had an entire theatrical play in mind.

“
You stand close to the bed. ‘Mr. Forsythe, please. Please. Please. I’m scared.’ I wake then, ye see.” He took off his waistcoat and laid it on the bed. “Go on, undress down to your chemise, everything off but the chemise.”

As Clara followed his directions and he finished undressing, he explained the rest of it. He would wake. He’d say, “Of course you can come in to bed. I’ll protect you.” She was to crawl under the blanket with him and huddle up close to him, as close as she could and pressing and wriggling too. When his prick got hard, she’d touch it and ask him what it was. “That’s how I’ll protect you. If I put it inside you, you’ll be safe until the storm passes, as safe as can be.” Then she would pull up her chemise, take the prick in her two dear little hands and guide it between her legs and inside her. While he pushed into her, she’d say, “I’m safe now. I’m safe now. The storm can’t hurt me. Thank you, Mr. Forsythe,” again and again until he was done.

In the end, Clara only had to act out the play once. She didn’t like it because she had to keep talking and it was hard to drift away from herself. John fell asleep when he was done, his chest rising and falling with a slight snoring sound. While she listened to the songs from those who had stayed downstairs drinking, she used the douche with Lettie’s special mixture of vinegar and alum and carbolic acid the way Abbie had showed her and Hannah earlier in the evening. She liked the cool water rinsing him away into the pewter bowl below her, but it did sting a little. Then she went back to bed next to John Forsythe and fell asleep.

Later, a rapping on her door woke her. The very first light of day had broken. John and his clothes were gone.

Hannah peeked in. “Yours is gone.”

“
Yes.”

“
Mine too.”

Hannah tiptoed in. “Can I crawl in with you?”

Clara threw back the blanket and linen and Hannah slipped in with her. “How was it? Are you all right?”

“
I’m all right, a bit sore.” Hannah lay down on her side, her back to Clara. “It was a mess, though. Blood all over the linens. He left and dear Lettie came and changed the bed. I couldn’t sleep.”

Clara drew the blanket up over their shoulders, then rolled up against Hannah and put an arm around her waist. “Did it hurt much?”

Clara felt Hannah’s body convulse and then Hannah began to cry.

“
Bastards,” Clara said.

“
Swine,” Hannah answered.

“
Pig.”

“
Stinkpots.”

“
Rat face.”

Hannah finally giggled.

“
Skunk.”

“
Beast.”

They kept at the name-calling for a while until there was a long pause between each slur, and the sun had risen and the room was light. Clara noticed several bank notes on the bedside table. It was Saturday. She would use a dollar to cheer up Hannah. She’d take her to see the matinee of
The Colleen Bawn
at Laura Keene’s Theatre.

<><><>

THE PLAY WAS ABOUT A YOUNG BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, a “Colleen”, named Eily who was secretly married to an upper class man who was in financial trouble. Clara was a bundle of tension through the entire play, but entranced with the actors, especially Laura Keene. To Clara’s horror, the man’s servant devised a plan to take Eily out in a rowboat and drown her in Lake Killarney to get her out of the way so that his master could marry his wealthy cousin and be saved from ruin.

As she waited for the drowning to take place, Clara was overtaken by her memories of Mamma and was so sad that she was considering leaving, but then a shot boomed out on stage. Rattled, she flew up and stood.

“
Sit down.” Several voices hissed at her.

Hannah was tugging at her dress to settle back into her seat. The evil servant had been shot, Clara realized, and Eily had been saved. Eily did not have to drown. Her pulse slowing, Clara sat and took Hannah’s hand. At the end of the play, the secretly married couple openly announced their marriage and love and Laura Keene, who played the wealthy cousin, saved the day by taking care of the money that was needed.

When Clara and Hannah went back outside, the sun was still shining. Not wanting to return too soon to the parlor house, they took a long walk down Broadway and sat in City Hall Park until it was dusk. Clara talked about Billy, how he counted everything, how handsome he was, how he never let Papa get the best of him, how she missed him. Then, finally, she knew they had to go back and sit with the hairdresser. She dreaded putting the little girl’s dress back on.

“
It’ll be easier tonight, Hannah. You’ll see.”

“
Promise?” Hannah tried a smile.

“
Yes. I do. Come to my room again when your gent is gone.”

“
All right.”

As they walked across the park’s green lawn, Clara put her arm around Hannah’s waist. “We won’t be at Mary Johnson’s forever. Neither of us will. You’ll see. I want to be an actress like Laura Keene. Do you think I could?”