Then she said, in far too many words, that there were but two want advertisements requesting female applicants in the Herald that day, and that all other solicitations went through the YWCA, and that the YWCA placed women of good reputation only. Thus, there existed a need for job placement services for bad women, because, otherwise, who would hire bad women? And who would write their letters of recommendation?
Anna thought of the many respectable men who frequented the brothels and might write very nice letters of recommendation—the mayor, Detective Wolf, Edgar Wright, her father . . .
It was time for Anna to usher Charlene up to the podium. The prostitute wore bright coral ruffles on her tall, generous frame. The frock looked appropriate for vaudeville or even the circus, but not a ladies’ club meeting. Her hat burst with multicolored feathers. She pivoted to face Anna and whispered anxiously, “How do I look?”
Anna squinted at the gown just so, until Charlene blurred into something perfectly lovely, though perhaps not a lady. Perhaps a lifesized balloon animal or a giant tropical flower. “You look beautiful, like a hibiscus,” Anna said.
Charlene beamed.
Anna led Charlene to the podium. The tight-lacer moved aside, curling her lip at Anna in a look of disdain. Anna accidentally stepped on the lady’s white silk train. It left a gum mark. The lady didn’t notice. Anna accidentally did it again.
Charlene began her speech quietly, mumbling to the floor. Even Anna, standing at the side of the stage, could barely hear her.
The tight-lacer returned to the podium. “My dear, you must speak up.”
Charlene began again, louder this time. She told how she had been an innocent child bride—just fifteen—and how her drunken husband beat her. Worse yet, he had whipped her baby children.
Rows and rows of decorated ladies listened attentively to Charlene’s testimony, clucking in dismay at her suffering. Their sympathy and approval filled the room like perfume. Charlene bloomed under the attention of these decent ladies—glowed even. She stood up straighter and drew out her story, louder and more passionate with each moment granted her by the rapt crowd. She relayed how she had run away under the cover of a moonless night, two babes in tow, penniless and afraid, how Madam Lulu had taken them in, and how Charlene boarded her children with a family in the country. She talked about shame and humiliation, and how she would do anything for a different occupation, so she could hold her head up high again, because deep down, she was still just an innocent girl. How she longed to be respectable for the sake of her children.
Charlene absorbed their sympathy with the holy countenance of a martyr. She went on to praise the ladies for their goodness with a flowery speech that grew into a veritable garden. “I honor thee, and thee, and thee for thy beautiful mercy and thy love, plenteous like the ocean fish . . .”
Anna hung on her words, utterly mesmerized. Charlene should be in sales or religion or something.
Then, it was time for questions and gloved hands went up. The tight-lacer pointed to a lady who repeated her question three times before she could be heard. “Are you willing to work hard?”
Charlene, hands modestly folded, replied, “Yes ma’am. I do work hard.”
The tight-lacer called on another woman, who bellowed, “Don’t you trust our Lord for his provision?”
“I trust our Lord for your provision.” Charlene pointed at the lady, which was rude, but effective.
The tight-lacer closed her eyes and nodded. She nodded and nodded, like a patient, knowing sage. Then, she raised her arms in a grand gesture of benevolence. “My dear, we have prepared for this moment and would like to offer you a position.”
The room erupted with ladylike clapping, muted by gloves.
Charlene’s eyes widened. She lifted her own arms as if to embrace the crowd and pronounced solemnly, “I accept. I hereby leave my life of sin.” The ladies rewarded her with furious applause.
“Do you see what good there is to be done?” said the tight-lacer. “How simple it is. But we require your financial support. We will open a home for fallen women, guide them, train them as domestics, musicians, stenographers, and bookkeepers, and find them positions. But you must open your hearts and your purses—”
“What is the position?” Charlene interrupted.
The tight-lacer’s brow line rose and her lips pursed, as if the question were irrelevant or Charlene ungrateful for asking it. “Selling musicale tickets at houses. A respectable occupation, and good exercise.”
“Huh,” said Charlene and scratched her elbow. “Selling door-to-door. How much does it pay?”
The ladies laughed as if the question were funny, but Charlene’s expression was stone serious.
“Well, that depends on your work ethic. It’s on commission.”
“Well, what can I expect?”
“Perhaps six dollars a week, if you try hard.”
The ladies clapped. Anna, who knew how much prostitutes earned, cringed.
“Six dollars a week, my ass. I can make that in an hour.” Charlene snapped her proud head and marched off the platform, through the crowd, and out the door, like an angry giant hibiscus.
Anna politely swept through the dumbstruck ladies, in pursuit of Charlene, making her apologies. “Excuse us. Pardon us.”
The tight-lacer tracked Anna with a hard glare, as if society’s ills were all Anna’s fault.
Outside, Charlene stomped up the sidewalk, her bright hat feathers shaking. Anna jogged to her side. Charlene trembled like her plumes. “I’m sorry, but six dollars a week, my ass.”
“My ass,” said Anna in solidarity. Who could blame Charlene? Six dollars a week wouldn’t keep Anna in Cracker Jacks.
Charlene wiped an angry tear. “I’ve saved some money. I’m going to open a business. I just need to know how.”
“A hat shop, maybe?” Anna asked.
Charlene glanced at Anna with cautious hope. “Maybe.”
“Well, I’ll buy a hat, and then we’ll show them.” Anna considered Charlene’s bright feathers. She would buy a hat, but she didn’t promise to wear it. But maybe other prostitutes would. Anna had an epiphany.
Charlene could start a business supplying prostitutes.
CHAPTER 6
When Anna returned to Central Station and opened her desk drawer, to her consternation and delight, there lay another bottle of Canadian whiskey, this time bound with tussilage. The flower was not native to America and must have been very hard to get. It was scraggly and looked rather like a dandelion, but it smelled like heaven, and Anna liked its meaning—justice shall be done you.
Wouldn’t that be nice? To be dealt with justly. For the men to give her credit. For the unfounded rumors to subside. For her father to own her again so she wouldn’t be all alone.
The dapper rich man had struck once more and very close to her heart. If it were just up to Anna, she would happily receive anonymous whiskey from him until the end of time. She couldn’t see the harm in it. Clearly, he could afford it. And wasn’t it more blessed to give than to receive? Anna would be blessing the man. But if Joe found out, he would get mad. If Matron Clemens found out, Anna might get fired. She suspected God wouldn’t like it either. Anna scribbled a note.
Dear Unknown Man,
Please desist in giving me whiskey. I insist, unless you absolutely must.
Sincerely,
Anna Blanc
Now no one could fault her, not even God. She reluctantly gave the note to Mr. Melvin to deliver to the man the next time he appeared with a bottle. “And please, get his name. I’m dying with curiosity.”
He shook his head and whispered, “I’ve tried. He won’t say.”
“He’s very odd.” She sighed. It grieved Anna to cut off her free supply given the state of her personal finances. She hadn’t had much time for whiskey, but she might need the benzene to console herself once Matron Clemens heard about the mishap at the Friday Morning Club.
It occurred to Anna that if she were the first to
relate the events of that dreadful meeting to Matron Clemens, she could perhaps spin the retelling in her own favor. She looked about to assure that the coast was clear, took a swig of the whiskey, and headed for Matron Clemens’s office.
“Hello Matron Clemens,” said Anna, her neck stretched like a defensive yet beautiful ostrich, her voice tinny and tight. “There was an interesting development at the Friday Morning Club. The ladies, though well-intentioned, were previously misguided and had misconstrued the plight of the parlor girl. Luckily Charlene was able to help them see—”
Matron Clemens sat at her desk rubbing the skin above her pale, sparse eyebrows. “I heard. It’s not your fault, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
“I know?” Anna chirped, cocking her head. She was surprised by the verdict though she agreed wholeheartedly. Of course it wasn’t her fault. Even Charlene had done nothing wrong, really, if you pardoned her French. And club ladies would do far more good teaching the prostitutes skills, like saving and accounting and how not to swear in front of ladies, so prostitutes could open their own lingerie factories or hat shops or something. But realizing this didn’t make the ladies of the Friday Morning Club any better disposed toward Charlene or Anna.
Matron Clemens continued. “The clubwomen are somewhat sheltered, but they are resourceful and well-intentioned. There wouldn’t be police matrons if clubwomen hadn’t pushed for them. They care about girls who are unprotected. And there are fallen women who would work for six dollars a week.”
“I suppose so,” said Anna, feeling glad for her own position. If she were ever to lose it, she would have to marry Joe Singer right away. And they would be up all night making love. She could sleep all day, but he would have to go to work and would never get any sleep at all. And then what? He might fall asleep on the job, which might be okay, as he was the police chief’s son. Likely, the captain would simply send him home to sleep, but he wouldn’t sleep. Not when they could be making love. Then he would fall asleep on the job again. And what if the police chief was replaced because of a corruption scandal, which seemed to happen every six months in Los Angeles, and God knew that Joe’s father was overdue. Without his protection, Joe would get fired for falling asleep on the job.
It was a quandary—one she did not have to face. Not yet. She should focus on her own job, so as not to lose it.
“Assistant Matron Blanc, are you listening?”
“Sorry. Yes. I think the club would do better to help the girls open businesses. Many of them have savings.”
Matron Clemens tapped her lips three times in thought. “Very good, Assistant Matron Blanc. I’ll propose it.”
While Anna basked in the cool glow of her superintendent’s approval, Mr. Melvin appeared in the doorframe, a young girl at his elbow. She looked about fifteen and as fair as a snow goose. Her mouth was hard-set.
Mr. Melvin stared down at a jail-made rag rug on the oak floor. “Excuse me Matron Clemens, Assistant Matron Blanc. I heard about the Friday Morning Club meeting today, and this girl is looking for employment. Can you help her?” The shy clerk slipped out of the office without making eye contact or waiting for an answer.
“Please have a seat.” Matron Clemens gestured to the rocking chair.
The girl plunked herself down and began to rock—back and forth, back and forth, the wood clicking with each oscillation.
Matron Clemens seemed unperturbed by the girl’s odd behavior. “And you are . . .?”
“Matilda Nilsson,” said the rocking girl softly, whispering to the floor with the hint of a childish lisp. “I want honest work.”
“We were just discussing that it’s hard to find a job that pays well.”
“I’d take anything.”
“You are a prostitute?” Anna saw no need to beat around the bush.
The girl’s eyes remained on the floor. “No. I mean, I was bewitched into it, and then it was too late. And I have nowhere to go.” She looked up at Anna. “But if I had a position . . .”
Anna leaned closer. “Who bewitched you? Because I don’t think that’s legal.”
“Officer Snow already told me the LAPD won’t help.”
Anna wrinkled her nose. Matron Clemens’s face remained neutral. “So, trouble has found you, has it?”
“Yes. I met this woman, Mrs. Rosenberg, at the train station—”
Matron Clemens leaned closer. “So, you’ve just come to Los Angeles?”
“Yes, from Iowa. My father’s wife bought me the ticket. She raised me, but I’m not her child. She has other children—a daughter my age.” The girl’s pale face colored. “I’m . . . illegitimate . . . It was Christian of her to raise me, but I lost a sewing needle, and that’s wrong so she put me on the train to LA, so I wouldn’t freeze, but so I wouldn’t come back either.”
And Anna had thought her father overreacted. She patted the stiff, rocking girl’s shoulder. “But, of course, you have relatives here? Your father’s sister, or—”
Matilda shook her head. “I don’t know anybody. Mrs. Rosenberg said she would help me find work and brought me to her boarding house for professional ladies. She was very kind and invited me to dine in the café next door as her guest. I’m willing to do any kind of proper work, and I hadn’t eaten since Iowa. But then she wasn’t kind.”
“Oh?” said Matron Clemens.
“She introduced me to men. And one man seemed very keen to know me. I tried to be polite because he was Mrs. Rosenberg’s friend, and because he was a guest on our planet.”
“Pardon,” said Anna.
“He’s from Mars.”
Anna cocked her head. Matron Clemens said evenly, “Go on, Matilda.”
“I didn’t like him.” The girl rocked some more. “He came in a space ship and wanted to see how we slept on earth. He kept waving his spindly green hands. The next thing I knew . . .” She stopped rocking abruptly and made a single, sound of despair. “I woke up with no clothes in a hotel.”
“I see,” said Matron Clemens.
Matilda leaned back in the chair and began to rock once more. She lisped, “He left eighteen dollars on the table, but it was Martian money, and he left a note. It said he wanted to see me again and that I should wear my hair down. After he left, Mrs. Rosenberg came to bring me home. She took the money. She said I had to split it with her, but she kept it all because half was for room and board. Of course, I left her establishment, but a gang of boys started following me, and they dragged me into an alley and ripped my frock, but some people came, and I got away.
“So, I came back to Mrs. Rosenberg and I’ve been staying there ever since. I ate at the café, because I have no other means of eating. The man from Mars came back and he wanted me to go with him again. He waved his spindly green hands, but I closed my eyes, so he couldn’t bewitch me. He keeps leaving me notes. I can’t find employment, and now I’m going to have to leave if I can’t pay my rent. I’m afraid of the boys.”
“Where is this apartment building?” asked Matron Clemens.
“The Jonquil Apartments. They’re on South Hill Street.”
Anna didn’t know the place. Matilda continued to rock back and forth, back and forth. Anna’s eyes followed her until she felt dizzy—or was it her story that made her dizzy? “Do you have any of the notes?”
Matilda produced one from her pocket and handed it to Anna. It was on plain stationery with no monogram and read:
Dear Matilda,
You may as well go with me as you have no other option. Am I really so odious?
The answer was yes. Anna felt sick. She put the note in her pocket. “Will your father take you back?”
“I won’t go back there.” Her pronouncement sounded final.
“Well, then,” Matron Clemens said in her matter-of-fact tone. “You can stay here in the women’s department tonight, if you don’t mind sleeping in the jail. Then, we’ll see what is to be done.”
Matilda’s mouth curved slightly, briefly, and her dim eyes registered . . . not hope exactly. Perh
aps relief.
“Can you sew?” asked Matron Clemens.
“Yes ma’am,” said the girl.
“Then you can help sew linens for the inmates. If you’re quick, maybe you’ll sleep on them tonight.” Matron Clemens winked. It was the first time Anna had ever heard her make light conversation.
The older woman continued, “Assistant Matron Blanc, please get Miss Matilda situated.”
“All right.” This seemed like a rather large task. A green man from Mars? The girl clearly belonged in the giggle-giggle ward of the bat house. The question was, did the girl’s insanity conjure the man from Mars, or did that bewitching man at the Jonquil, and the harm he did the girl, cause her to crack?
On that particular day, there were no empty cells in the women’s ward or the juvenile ward. As usual, several women had sought shelter to avoid sleeping on the streets. A woman with a broken nose hid from a violent husband who she would not turn in. Others had been arrested for public drunkenness and couldn’t make bail. Still more awaited trial for a variety of crimes—one for shooting her husband, one for forgery, and one for leading a shoplifting ring. Four were badly behaved socialists. Anna rather admired their verve. In total, forty ladies crowded the women’s department. A few of these ladies came with children, and some children came on their own, being lost or having run away. Two women, who had failed at committing suicide, recovered in the women’s ward of the receiving hospital. Any more women and they’d spill over into the men’s department, which meant Anna would have to spend the night guarding them to protect them from the jailer, who was known to make advances.
The only place left for Matilda was the “cow ring,” a locked steel box with barred windows where up to twenty women shared cots that had been added to accommodate the overflow. The unfortunate nickname had been coined after the “bull ring,” the largest cell in the jail, which had cots for thirty-five men imprisoned for minor offenses, though it routinely housed up to fifty. Like the bull ring, the cow ring held prisoners who weren’t too terribly evil. They could possibly be trusted with scissors.
The Body in Griffith Park Page 4