The Virgin Cure

by Ami McKay

  “Let’s catch a horsecar,” Mae suggested when we got to the Bowery. “I’ll pay.”

  Cadet didn’t argue with the idea, but I wasn’t so sure about it. The streetcars that ran down the length of the Bowery and all the way up to Central Park were rattling, dirty transports, pulled along by burdened horses. They were generally filled with gentlemen and roughs, strangers from the country, and a few doubtful women. Mama had refused me permission to board one, ever. “Nothing waiting there for you but a groping,” she’d said.

  Remembering what Alice had said about Mae having her heart set on buying a coffin plate for her mother, I asked, “Don’t you think you ought to keep your money?”

  “It’s a long way there and back, and if your feet don’t hurt now, they will.”

  Mama’s warnings aside, I didn’t want some rough to step on my skirts. “I don’t know—”

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Mae bullied.

  Arms folded, Cadet let out a snort.

  “No,” I said, feeling my resolve turn in my gut like a worm.

  Mae arched an eyebrow, knowing she was close to getting her way.

  “Fine,” I said with as stern a face as I could muster. “We’ll ride the car there, but if my suit gets soiled, I’m walking back.”

  When the streetcar arrived, Mae took three nickels out of her pocket and handed them to Cadet to give to the conductor. The sight of the coins passing from her hand made my heart twist with envy. She was so at ease with it, just as she’d been the day she’d taken me to Graff’s for oyster stew.

  BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS, read a sign above the step.

  “For me and the two ladies,” Cadet told the conductor, gesturing towards Mae and me.

  The man let Cadet go by, then leered at Mae as she boarded the car, his gaze going up and down the length of her. “I believe there’ll be a seat towards the back there for ya, miss,” he said, reaching out to touch the small of Mae’s back in an attempt to guide her along.

  “Thank you,” she said, briskly shouldering her way among the standing passengers.

  The conductor tried to do the same with me, but I stuck close to Mae, reaching out to hold her sleeve. I’d lost sight of Cadet in the crowded car and was determined not to be parted from Mae as well.

  The smells of pipe tobacco, liquor and sweat mingled with the occasional waft of horse dung from the bottom of a working man’s boot. As the car began to move, I took hold of the pole nearest me. Grabbing a spot too high for my reach, I stood on tiptoe, hoping to keep my skirt clean.

  A man wearing a sack coat took the spot to the other side of me. His grey beard was streaked with tobacco stains, and I watched, helpless, as he closed his eyes and put his face near my hand, the scent of my perfumed glove sending him somewhere else, someplace he longed to be.

  The businessmen on board were spending a great deal of effort to make as little contact with the other passengers as possible. It was an absurd kind of dance, and Mae, giving smiles and flirty glances to the men around her, looked quite happy to be in the middle of it.

  As the streetcar slowed for the next stop, she stumbled into the embrace of a handsome young man. He was wearing a smart-looking hat and frock coat, his long, sleek sideburns pointing like arrows to the corners of his wide, red lips. There was a mole to the right of his nose, so perfect and round you’d swear he’d painted it there himself. Mae’s face brushed his shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist to steady her. Knowing how Mae felt about Mr. Chief of Detectives and the other men who visited Miss Everett’s house, I was certain she’d made a point of singling the young man out from all the men on the horsecar.

  Clearly enthralled by Mae’s charms, the young man puffed his chest out like one of the birds in Miss Keteltas’ parlour.

  The next stop was his, but Mae wasn’t about to let him get away without giving him a sign of her interest. Glove to the side of her mouth, I heard her whisper, “Personal.”

  When we got off at our stop, Mae rushed to Cadet’s side and slipped her arm through his. “Why, there you are,” she said with innocent eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  He let her take his arm, but the sour look on his face said he didn’t care much for her company. Happy to see this, I paid little attention to the windows of the café or the gentlemen seated there. It wasn’t until we reached the pharmacy that I really took in my surroundings.

  BRUNSWICK APOTHEKE, the shop’s window read, in large, painted letters. MR. WILTON HUBER, PROPRIETOR.

  French imported male “safes” (made from skin or India rubber) are a vast improvement over onanism, yet often shunned by men at the moment of need. Preventative powders are another solution to undesired conception, primarily made of Pearlash or corrosive sublimate. A woman must, however, find the proper moment to implement them (the sooner the better). In the end, womb guards are, perhaps, the most discreet way for a woman to prevent conception.

  As we entered the pharmacy, I looked over the items on Miss Everett’s list. Preventative powders, toilet vinegars, lavender water, Macassar oil, sea sponges, smelling salts, Bouquet de Rondeletia, extract of patchouli, Grosvenor’s Tooth Powder, cherry bounce, anisette. They were the trappings of women, and in this case, of whores. Seeing the list didn’t bring on thoughts of my impending fate—that day still seemed far-off, almost unimaginable. The note did, however, hold a notion I hadn’t yet considered. With the correct choices, it seemed a girl might have success in bending anyone’s will (stranger, friend, or foe) to her own.

  Camphor rub, quinine, milk of roses, love-drawing oil—every useful potion you could think of was lined up on the shelves of the pharmacy, set between yellowed globes and maps of the world, exotic beetles with pins stuck through their shiny middles and bowl after bowl of gold-speckled fish swimming around in circles.

  Mr. Huber’s name was on the shop, but Mr. James Hetherington was the apothecary who ran it. Mr. Hetherington was smart and proper looking, with a short spade beard and eyes so blue it seemed as if their colour had been dropped into them from a twilight sky. The part in his hair was messy and honest, not like the false, straight lines that ran down the centre of so many men’s heads, splitting them in two.

  Aside from the bottles and jars of remedies, soaps and liniments he had for sale, countless shelves and shadow boxes were crowded with colourful dead spiders and butterflies. I figured that maybe Mrs. Hetherington, if there was one, didn’t want the things he’d collected cluttering up her house.

  Wearing a long crisp apron, his shirtsleeves rolled up just past his wrists, Mr. Hetherington nodded to Cadet. Greeting Mae with a smile he said, “Miss O’Rourke, how may I assist you?”

  Mae motioned for me to hand Mr. Hetherington the list, and said, “The usual, if you please.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he replied as he took the list from me. “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “Miss Ada Fenwick,” I said, giving him an awkward smile.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fenwick,” he said.

  “And I’m pleased to make yours as well,” I replied, returning his kindness as Miss Everett had instructed me to do.

  Cadet headed over to study one of the apothecary’s globes.

  Mae hummed a tune as she spun a lazy Susan of perfume oil samples that sat on the countertop. She looked back and forth between me and the whirl of the vials as they went round. “Lavender, no. Cardamom, no. Neroli, no. Hyacinth—yes.” Pulling out the rubber stopper on the glass tube, she waved it under my nose.

  “Try this,” she urged. “I think it’s right for you.”

  I took one sniff and my head went dizzy with the stifling-sweet scent. Backing away, I said, “I’m going to look at the fish.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mae replied.

  As I watched the goldfish swim, their feathery tails gracefully waving in the water, I wondered if the bowl was large enough to please such a beautiful creature. I wished I could box one up and send it to Mrs. Riordan. She would
’ve marvelled at the way a fish never tired of turning round inside its tiny world.

  “You may feed them if you like,” Mr. Hetherington called out as he moved between cabinets and shelves, collecting the items on the list. “Just pinch a few grains from the jar that’s next to the bowl and let it float on the water.”

  I did as he instructed and the fishes swam straight to the surface, nibbling and puckering away at the food. Was their only pleasure swallowing bubbles with every bite?

  Cadet soon came to me and said, “I’m going outside, under the awning. You can join me if you like. I’m sure Mae will be awhile still.”

  My hands went clammy inside my gloves. “All right,” I said, nodding.

  I went to Mae, who was still investigating the perfume display, and said, “I’m going out front for some air.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, dotting her wrist with carnation oil and lifting it to her nose.

  I found Cadet reading a collection of handbills that had been posted on a board in front of the shop. After the way Alice had gone on about his kisses, I was nervous to be alone with him. The only other boy I’d ever spent any time with was John the Witcher. He’d stolen a teacup I’d found in an ash barrel, so I trailed after him calling him a thief. The sooty, flowered treasure was still useable even without its handle and I’d intended on giving it to Mama. John grinned at me when he snatched the cup from my hands but never gave it back, even though we spent the afternoon together, playing.

  “Ever been there?” I asked, pointing to a notice for Dink’s Museum.

  “Many times,” Cadet said with a nod.

  The museum was joined to the theatre where most of the gentlemen who came to call at Miss Everett’s house took her girls for an evening’s entertainment—both buildings were just a short walk from the concert hall Mae liked to sneak out to at night.

  In my days nibbling on the street, I’d caught glimpses of the freakish performers who stood out front of Dink’s to entice passersby, but had been disappointed to find the place was for gentlemen only. Bricks painted in outrageous colours and boasts, I’d wanted to enter the building at first sight. A man with long, stretched-out legs was pictured there, standing as high as the first storey and holding a crystal ball in his spidery hand. MAGNIFICO, THE WORLD’S TALLEST ILLUSIONIST! Next to him was a woman’s head with orange-red flames bursting out of her mouth. LADY MEPHISTOPHELES, MISTRESS OF FIRE! Images and words went up the side of the building and around the corner, melting into the brick. There was a two-headed goat, a woman with a snake wrapped around her body, a man sliding a long silver sword down his throat. LOOK! MYSTERIOUS PEOPLE FROM EXOTIC PLACES! SEE! MAGICAL TREASURES FROM EVERY CORNER OF THE WORLD!

  While I was trying to think of something more to say, Cadet bent down to pick up a penny he’d noticed stuck between the cobblestones. He brushed my skirt with his fingers as he stood up.

  My heart fluttered as I wondered if he’d meant to do it or if it had just been an accident. “Alice told me your father’s a bloodsucker,” I said, making another awkward attempt at conversation.

  Putting the penny in his pocket he replied, “He was, until he died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling terrible.

  “He’s been gone two years now,” Cadet said. “His last words to me were ‘I hope I get to heaven so’s I can bite off Gabriel’s ear.’ That was my pa.”

  Picturing a man tearing off an angel’s ear with his teeth made me want to laugh, but Cadet’s face was sombre when he spoke of his father and I didn’t want to offend him now that he seemed to have more to say. I listened, taking in his every word as he talked of boxing matches, bloodied faces and catching rats.

  After his father had passed, he’d gone to work for a man named Dick the Ratter. Still scrawny and small, he was able to get into all the twisty, tight spaces the ratcatcher couldn’t go. He’d cover his hands with sweet oil to attract the rats, then light a torch and wave it around, flushing out the vermin, right into Dick’s waiting bag.

  “After you’ve got them, you’ve got to keep the bag moving,” he explained as he circled his arm round and round, an imaginary sack of rats hanging from his fist. “If you don’t, they’ll chew their way out so fast you won’t even know they got away.”

  It had been a decent job, affording Cadet and his boss the opportunity to collect pay on the rats not once, but twice. “Fancy hotels need to keep their rat troubles quiet, so there’s good money right there. Then you take the rats straight from the hotel and sell them, either to somebody who wants to put another man out of business, or to a man who needs them for a pit. Mr. Burns used to give the best price when he was still in the game. Good rats were worth ten dollars a hundred to him. He took bets on which of his dogs would catch and kill a rat first. When his best terrier, old Jack, died he had him stuffed and mounted over the bar. That dog caught a hundred rats in less than seven minutes, a true American record.”

  Mr. Burns threw all kinds of things into his pit—roosters, dogs and cats, as well as rats. Once, Cadet watched him put four dozen rattlesnakes down in the pit, the reptiles having been brought in special from someplace out west. “A man named Tinley was paid to walk through the pit between all the hissing, mean serpents while everyone placed wagers as to whether the man would get bit or not, and also, if he did get the fangs, whether he would live or die. You can always count on men to put money down on anything that’s life or death.”

  Just as Cadet was about to recall Mr. Tinley’s fate, Mae came out of the pharmacy with a large parcel in her arms. “Telling Ada about the rattlesnakes, I suppose,” she said, handing Cadet the box. “How many were there this time, four, five or six dozen?”

  Ignoring her, he began to walk up the street.

  I chose to ignore Mae, too, in favour of catching up with him. “Did he die?” I asked, my flesh still crawling with the thought of having that many snakes at my feet.

  “Who?”

  “The man in with the snakes.”

  “No,” Cadet answered, grinning. “And a lot of men still hate him for it, too.”

  October 29, 1871

  I attended a meeting of the New York Committee for Women’s Concerns this evening, Miss Jane Clattermore, the guest speaker. She is the matron for the Home for Wandering Girls, so I was curious to hear what she had to say about the plight of the young women of our city. Sadly, she demonstrated no real understanding of them at all.

  “A girl has no instinct of purity to defend her.”

  “Her body and brain are weak from the start.”

  “She often lacks moral fibre to such a degree that any attempt to reform her presents a troublesome situation that most often turns out to be a waste of everyone’s time.”

  “For the girl there is less chance in every way.”

  Because of these terrible and mistaken assumptions, she refuses to take girls who are over ten years of age into her care. She’s given up on older girls, and proceeded to tell the women in attendance that we should do the same.

  “How did you know where to draw the line?” I asked, anxious to see her try to defend herself.

  She did not reply.

  I’m frustrated too, I wanted to say, but I knew she wouldn’t listen.

  The law is in bed with the brothel keepers, corruption all around. The idea of a girl selling herself horrifies me, and yet I find myself in the middle of that world. Where is the line? How young is too young?

  I believed Emma Everett when she told me she needed a doctor to examine her prostitutes, someone to educate them on matters of hygiene and signs of disease. Seeing Moth Fenwick again yesterday made me realize that things there have gone too far. That girl is too young—and surprisingly, given the world she’s grown up in, still an innocent. Is Emma looking after the girl’s interests, or is she merely in the business of selling virgins?

  “If I turn her out, she will sell herself on the street,” Emma threatened when I put the question to her.

  Confident that the
girl will choose her way over mine, she invited me to say whatever I liked to her. “Given the choice between wooden slats or feather beds, which would you choose?”

  Dr. B_. says the infirmary cannot afford to get involved. Funding is difficult to come by and the words “whore,” “disease” and “prostitution” send benefactors running, their purse strings pulled tight.

  Still, the girls of this city need someone to insist there’s another way. I can’t stop thinking of dear Miss Fenwick. A girl should command attention, not suffer it.

  S.F.

  Face to face and nose to nose

  Smick, Smack, Smuck and away she goes

  Lay her eyebrow on your collar

  Hug her so that she can’t holler;

  Tell her that you’re always true

  Squeeze her till her face turns blue

  Keep it up for fifteen hours

  Then begin anew.

  —J.P. SOUSA

  The private rooms of Rose, Missouri and Emily were located on the second floor of the house. Late nights, upon returning from an evening at the theatre, they’d lead their gentlemen up the stairs, giggling and cooing the whole way. They were, as Mae liked to say, “about to play Cupid’s game.”

  One night, after we’d changed into our dressing gowns, Mae coaxed me into eavesdropping on Rose with Mr. Chief of Detectives, directing me to put my ear to the vent in the hallway of the third floor, warning me not to make a sound. “How else are you going to learn how the game should go?” she teased.

  Remembering Mr. Cowan in bed with Mama, I figured hearing had to be better than seeing.

  I’d spent a fair bit of time with Rose, helping her don her evening attire and mending her petticoats. Seeing to her needs was much like the work I’d done for Mrs. Wentworth, but far more enjoyable. She was the sweetest of Miss Everett’s full-time girls. Tugging gently at my hair while I was adjusting her clothes, she’d measure its length between her fingers and say, “It’s only a matter of time until you’re a full-fledged minx like me.”