The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (32 page)

That was an hour ago. She’d gone back to the waiting room twice in search of an update, only to be reassured that Dr. Godfrey knew she was there and would be down any minute.

She was stretched out on the exam table, deeply asleep, when he finally arrived. Maria jerked awake at his touch. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. I’m very sorry to make you wait so long. My patient delivered breech, and that’s always”—he pinched the bridge of his nose—“a hard time for everyone involved.”

Maria almost asked about his patient but decided not to. Perhaps she didn’t really want to know. “I got your letter,” she said. “I didn’t realize I’d have to come in for another appointment.”

“I didn’t either. When I thought your case was straightforward.”

There was a look of such sadness on his face that Maria sensed the heartache coming. Her first instinct was to avoid it, even if it meant hearing someone else’s tragedy. “Your patient—”

“Will be fine,” he interrupted. “As will her son. After a great deal of rest.”

Maria wanted to be relieved but couldn’t quite summon the emotion. “What about me? Am I going to be fine, Dr. Godfrey?”

“I have news for you, and I wanted to give it to you in person.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know why you are unable to conceive.”

All the hope rushed out of Maria. She wilted into the exam table. “Does it really matter why?”

“I’m afraid it does,” Dr. Godfrey said. “It matters very much.”

RITZI’S
toes tapped against the stage in time with the orchestra as she spun in a tight pirouette. The music swelled, the audience roared, and then she was gone, running backstage. She jumped the gun a bit, ducking behind the curtain a few seconds early, but the crowd wouldn’t notice.

“Hey!” one of the stagehands yelled as he stumbled backward, dropping a coil of rope after she pushed him out of the way. “Watch out!”

His voice was drowned out by the audience. They’d moved on to the next scene. The other girls would naturally fill the gap in the chorus line and buy her a few minutes. She fled into the dressing room and locked the door behind her. There was no time to get help with the corset, so she cut it off with a pair of scissors they used for trimming lose threads. When it fell to the floor, she bent over her chair panting, expanding her crushed ribs.

One last number and the show would be over. She would be expected onstage for the final bow. Perhaps an encore.

Not tonight.

Not ever again.

Owney and
The New Yorkers
be damned. It had never been worth it. She knew that now.

The elaborate headpiece took a chunk of hair with it when she ripped it off. She tossed it in a corner and grabbed her dress from a hook on the wall. Ritzi was in and zipped up in less time than it usually took to put on her shoes. She buckled her heels and grabbed her purse and reached for the dressing room door.

For one moment, that split second it took for the door to swing inward, she thought she might make it out of there.

And then she blinked.

Shorty Petak filled the doorframe, arms crossed. “Going somewhere?”

IT
was almost midnight when she heard Jude’s key in the lock. It turned and clicked and the door swung open on rusty hinges. She sank a little lower in the bathtub, the water lapping at her ribs. Maria squeezed her eyes shut as Jude’s feet scraped over the hardwood floors in a weary shuffle. She pictured him on the other side of the wall, eyes half closed and head slumped in exhaustion.

What would he think, standing beside their empty bed? Would he see an impression on the left side—her side—little more than the suggestion of shoulders and hips recently pressed into the mattress? Perhaps run his hand along the shape of her? Maria imagined him rummaging through the cool sheets, searching for the warmth of her body, wondering at her pillow wadded into a ball on the floor. A moment later, Jude eased the bathroom door open.

The bathroom had the hot, damp smell of a summer afternoon, and steam hung from the ceiling. It clouded the mirror and ran in uneven lines down the wall. She’d been soaking long enough to pucker her fingers and toes. Maria rested her head against the edge of the porcelain tub, her arms draped over the side, limp. Wet curls clung to her neck.

Jude crossed the room and sat on the edge of the toilet. She pulled her knees up to her chest and shrank away.

He inhaled deeply and ran his thumb along her forearm. “It smells like you in here.”

Every Christmas, Maria’s mother gave her soap imported from Spain. The box held twelve bars, one for each month, and she made them last all year, whittling each bar down, never wasting so much as a sliver. It was made of olive oil, lemon peel, and lavender that grew on the hills outside Barcelona. It was her scent. It settled into the strands of her hair and the pads of her fingers and the soft patch of skin beneath her earlobes. She smelled of earth and citrus and rain, and Jude often leaned into her when she stroked his face and when she lay across his chest at night. The perfume clung to her clothing and her side of the bed, and it hung so heavy in the air right then that she could taste it when she took a long, slow breath between parted lips.

Maria heard him strip off his clothes and dump them in a dirty pile beneath the pedestal sink. The claw-foot tub was deep but not long, and she couldn’t pull away from his touch as he climbed into the water at her
feet. It wasn’t their usual position, but she couldn’t tolerate
that
at the moment. Jude slid his toes along her shins, tentative, then stretched his feet until they rested at the end of the tub, on either side of her waist. Their knees rose from the water like mountain peaks from mist, and she was locked between his legs.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” Jude set his palm on the top of her knee, and she stretched her legs, pushing against his rib cage with her feet.

Maria shrugged, sending a wave across the tub. “Couldn’t sleep.” Her voice quivered with repressed tears.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked at him with swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I went back to the doctor today.”

“Ah, shit. Your appointment.” Jude pulled himself under the water and stayed there so long the surface stilled. When he came up for air, Maria was chewing on the corner of her bottom lip, tears dripping off the end of her nose. “I forgot.”

Evidence of Maria’s anguish was plain: the bruise-like circles beneath her eyes and the chapped skin under her nose.

“What did he say?”

Maria pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She choked on the words like a hard-to-swallow fact. “That some women can’t. And I’m one of them.” And worse. Dr. Godfrey said much worse. But she could not bear to speak those words aloud right now. How he explained that sometimes a woman’s ovaries failed to work correctly. How they became diseased.

Jude collapsed beneath the news. “Come here.”

She lifted her feet off his chest and wiggled in the tub until she was in his lap, her body limp, emotions spent. Maria stared at the ceiling and let him draw her close. She didn’t return the embrace.

“We don’t have to do this anymore,” he said. “It’s okay that we … can’t.”

“No. It’s not. Not for me.” She thought of Ritzi and their agreement.

Jude tried to hold her together. Her bar of precious soap lay dissolving on the bottom of the tub, unused. He chased it around with his free hand and dropped it to the floor in a softened lump.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” His hands explored the small of her back. “A baby could never top this.”

She took a long breath, air catching in her throat, and let it go, exhaling years’ worth of hope. “I’m going back to bed.”

Maria crawled from the tub, dripping water. She stood there naked, all arms and legs and breasts. Jude reached for her, but she stepped away. Maria pushed at the tears with the back of her hand and shook them at him like an accusation. “It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

Maria wrung her hair out on the bathroom floor, then shoved a towel around with her toes, soaking up the water. She grabbed her cotton nightgown off the towel rack and slipped it over her head. It clung to her wet skin.

Jude stepped from the tub and ran two fingers through the vines of wet hair that hung against her neck. She ducked her head and laid it against his collarbone.

“I should have been there with you.” Jude scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. He retrieved her pillow, tucked her in, and slid beneath the covers beside her. They lay like spoons, separated by a thin film of cotton and years of infertility. He was asleep before she had even lost the edge to her grief.

OWNEY
was waiting when Shorty pushed her through the stage door. They each took an arm and forced her down the alley to the Cadillac.

“You can’t do this,” Ritzi said.

“You are not in a position to tell me what I can and can’t do.” Owney shoved her into the backseat. “I don’t appreciate you trying to skip out on me.”

“I don’t appreciate being kidnapped.”

“Escorted.”

“Coerced.”

Shorty didn’t look at her, even though she stared at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were locked on the windshield, hands lazy on the wheel.

Owney patted the space next to him, inviting her to slide over.

Bloody scally!
Ritzi tried to think of every insult for someone from Liverpool that she’d ever heard.
Scouser!
She scooted against the door and glared at him.

“Don’t look so sour, Ritz. We have to do it this way.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. Like you been doing all this time? Paying your own bills? Earning your spot on the stage? Yeah, you’ve done one hell of a job taking care of
yourself
.”

“Can’t a girl have some dignity?”

“Not your sort. Not on my dime.”

They drove through the theater district and then Midtown. Through the money and the glitz, heading toward the West Side Highway and the Chelsea Piers. And all the while, Ritzi stared at the three inches of Shorty Petak’s face that she could see in the mirror. Daring him to look at her. To acknowledge his part in this.

After threading the Cadillac through a maze of backstreets, Shorty rolled up to a five-story brick warehouse. There was no sign on the door, but the lights on the top floor were on.

Owney swung his door open. “This is costing extra. After hours.”

“I never asked you to pay.”

“My property. I pay.”

The street was empty, darkness punctuated by a single puddle of light cast by an anemic streetlamp. Owney was at her door, tugging her from the car even as she gave Shorty one last stare. Pleading. For what, she didn’t know. But anything was better than what awaited her inside.

Owney didn’t knock; he simply shoved the door open and steered her down the narrow hall. There was an occasional door off to one side, marked with numbers but no names. No elevator, just a dark stairwell. Owney motioned her to go first. They climbed all the way up, Ritzi looking over her shoulder at the malicious grin on his face, and her heart pounding by the time they reached the fifth floor. The lights were on in the long, dirty hallway, but they felt sinister, flickering in the stillness and sending sputtering shadows across the faded linoleum floor. She grasped her purse strap with both hands.

“You’re on the end, room twelve.” Owney gripped her elbow, gave her a shove. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her thoughts raced, desperate for some argument that would change his mind. “
Ladies All
wraps in three days, Owney. And then
The New Yorkers
starts. You set that gig up. You wanted me to do it.”

“They already found your replacement. A Hollywood actress named
Kathryn Crawford. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She’s a real talent, Ritz. Not a whore like you.”

Ritzi stumbled before him, shaking with fear and hatred and trying to match his stride. The door to room 12 creaked open, and a man stepped into the hall. He wore gloves and a stained medical coat. His skin was pale, his nose flat, and his voice an emotionless monotone. “You’re late.”

“This is John. He’ll take care of you.”

Not Dr., just John
.

“I ain’t got all night.” John held the door open and motioned her in. Ritzi tucked her purse under one arm and wrapped the other around her stomach.

Owney pushed her into the room.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said as he shut the door behind them.

John unrolled a white towel filled with surgical implements. He lay them on a side table, one by one.

“You don’t have a choice,” Owney said. He whispered something to John.

“I’m not your property anymore.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ritz. You can’t go back on our arrangement. You came to me, remember? You wanted this. Time to pay up.” If Owney had ever planned to let her walk away, she had missed the chance. Now she’d angered him to the point where he wasn’t willing to pass the job to one of his thugs. He would see this through himself.

“I know what you did to Crater!” she shouted in desperation.

He stopped.

“I was there,” she said. “In that hotel in Coney Island. Stuffed under the bathroom sink. I heard everything. Heard Crater begging for his life and heard you and your guys beating the hell out of him.”

“I don’t believe you.” Owney’s eyes narrowed.

“You asked him about the safe-deposit box and then you dragged him out of there. I wrote it all down, you know. Every detail goes to a reporter if I disappear.”

Owney tugged at the end of his tie and looked at John. The man ignored their conversation. “No one would believe you, Ritz. Say what you want. Can’t be proved.”

“I’m ready to start.” John nodded toward a long, bare table.

“Make it quick.” Owney tipped his hat. “Let me know when it’s done.”
He turned and walked out the door, leaving them alone in the makeshift operating room.

Ritzi stepped away from John and backed up to the wall.

“Listen, he’s already paid me. So no matter how long you stand there, this is going to happen. It would just be a hell of a lot easier if I don’t have to come after you.” He rested one hand on a stainless steel scalpel.