A LETTER FROM FRANK
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 23, 1917
Upon joining the breakfast table before day two of the trial, I found Frank had delivered a letter to the house.
Dear May,
My attorney advises me not to speak to you, and I know I shouldn’t even write. If he knew, he’d ask me what in tarnation I’m doing.
But damn it, May, you and I both know this trial isn’t only about money. I still can’t believe it’s come to this. Don’t all the years we’ve known each other, the visits with each other’s families, and all those highball-charged train rides and transatlantic crossings mean anything to you?
I know what you’re thinking: You started it. Why’d you have to get up a lawsuit against me?
Do you think I wanted to resort to this? That I enjoy sitting across the aisle from you in a courtroom? I detest seeing you under the gun, my own damn attorney smirking every time he calls you Baroness. You think I like old man Sawyer digging through our private affairs and scrounging for dirty linen?
But you’ve backed me into a corner. When you discovered the well was dry, you threw me down it. Oh, no, my dear Baroness, I’m not going to let you get away with it. You and I were in this together until you decided you were only in it for yourself.
You know there’s a way to stop this confounded trial. My lawyer claims it’d be foolish to negotiate with you at this point. But you and I never played by the rules. Why should we start now?
All you have to do is turn over the stocks and the money you owe me. I’d even settle for a promissory note. And then we could get back to enjoying life together. How about celebrating big? We could take the train to Los Angeles and escape this wretched cold weather.
Consider my offer, May. You can allow Sawyer to ruin your reputation one day at a time and pretend I never meant anything to you. Or you can open your arms to your Frank again.
Here’s to good times,
Your devoted friend,
Frank
Perhaps Frank believed the first day of the trial had given her an advantage over me, but she had miscalculated. In the spirit of fair play, I didn’t even surrender the letter to my attorney. Nor did I respond to it. After all, my attorney hadn’t yet delivered our opening statement.
THE TRIAL
MY LAWYER’S STATEMENT
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 23, 1917
Finally, after Alvah Sawyer had taken up hour upon hour with his litany of claims, my counsel took the floor. I must say I very much like my attorney, George Powers from Iron River. He’s hardworking and willing to dig for just the right evidence to construct a compelling argument. George is a dapper, fortyish man with high cheeks and a narrow-lipped mouth. And can that mouth talk.
“If it pleases the jury,” said Mr. Powers, flaring a palm in my direction, “I invite you to consider my client, the Baroness May de Vries. She is of humble beginnings. You know her family: her dearly departed, widowed mother and her two upstanding brothers. She grew up among you and went on to become a well-educated and well-traveled lady. In 1892, at the young age of twenty-three, she married a wealthy Dutch nobleman, Baron Rudolph de Vries. Although the Baron is now deceased, the Baroness is still welcomed in the courts of Europe. She is, to put it simply, accustomed to the world of wealth and royalty.
“Frank Shaver has had a long association with the Baroness, dating back to 1901. On occasion, Miss Shaver chose to travel with the Baroness, and traveling the world is an expensive undertaking. She spent her money during these trips. From time to time she bought gifts for the Baroness. And now, fifteen years after she met the Baroness, she claims she was cheated. After all these years of knowingly spending her own funds, she says she doesn’t know what happened to her money. After keeping close company with the Baroness and her family, even living in their home, she contends she was hoodwinked.”
Powers paused and swept his gaze over the jurors. “My client will fight these patently ridiculous charges. They have no basis in reality. They are designed solely to coerce the Baroness into paying out a large sum of money by harassing and distressing her with this lawsuit.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Frank shift in her chair. As I turned to look at her, she pursed her lips and shot me one of her you’ll-pay-for-this looks. Apparently, she was disappointed I hadn’t acceded to the request in her letter.
Powers pulled a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his pin-striped suit. “Miss Shaver would have you believe that her friendship with the Baroness was a one-way street, that she showered the Baroness with loans, gifts, and living expenses and got little in return. The reality is quite different. In preparing for this trial, the Baroness took great pains to recall the cost of some of the many gifts she gave Miss Shaver over the years—gifts for which she never expected compensation.”
The insinuation in Mr. Powers’s last statement seemed to hit home. Frank’s jaw dropped and she swiveled her head about, looking at me, her attorney, and the jurors as if to declare this suggestion of pettiness on her part completely absurd.
“To wit,” continued Mr. Powers, reading from the list, “a brooch costing $1,500; a mesh bag valued at $450; a gold ring for $150; a fine evening coat of sealskin valued at $500; a diamond set for $3,000; a bedroom set costing $550; linen for $350; a tea service for $300; a historic prayer book, which Miss Shaver hinted she would like for a gift, purchased for $150; a mantel clock—Miss Shaver has a fancy for historic and artistic objects—valued at $1,700; and a fine marble statue for $2,000.”
Mr. Powers folded up his paper, returned it to his suit pocket, and faced the jurors straight on. “Furthermore, while Miss Shaver resided at the Menominee residence owned by the Baroness and her brothers, the Baroness expended $17,500 on the remodel and upkeep of this residence, even though she herself visited Menominee infrequently.
“I ask you, gentlemen of the jury,” said Powers, chopping the air with his stiffened hand, “is this the behavior of a person intent on fleecing another?
“Yes, it is true that Miss Shaver gave gifts and money to the Baroness. But the Baroness did the same. Was Miss Shaver only ingratiating herself to the Baroness, a woman of wealth and means, all this time?”
Powers gripped the railing of the jury box and pitched forward. “Is Miss Shaver now trying to take advantage of the Baroness’s station because she has spent herself into penury?”
A collective gasp escaped from the onlookers, followed by whispered commotion.
Alvah Sawyer bolted upright. “Objection, Your Honor, these are insinuations with no basis in fact.”
Judge Flanagan brought down his gavel. “Order, order.”
The courtroom, populated mostly by women, hushed, and the judge directed his attention to Mr. Sawyer. “It’s an opening statement, Counsel. You had yours.” Looking back and forth between Sawyer and Powers, he added, “I trust both of you will adhere to the rules of evidence when examination of witnesses begins.”
Mr. Powers efficiently outlined additional points to shore up our strategy that this suit was a nuisance without basis and thanked the jurors for their time. I breathed a sigh of relief. His argument cut to the core of the matter. He had challenged the very foundation of Frank’s claims. I believe he even bested Sawyer’s opening statement.
The judge leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Sawyer, you may call your first witness.”
Sawyer stood. “Your Honor, I call Miss Frank Shaver to the stand.”
A DELICATE JUNCTURE
CHICAGO—OCTOBER–NOVEMBER 1887
I hadn’t bargained on Robby’s tracking me down in Chicago, especially at this delicate juncture—so soon after taking up residence at Carrie Watson’s, and with my grand plan just beginning to unfold—but love can lead any of us to commit acts we find foolish in retrospect.
Robby, the very picture of puzzlement, rushed up to me and then halted abruptly, perhaps trying to decide whether to embrace me or shake me. He proceeded to unleash a torrent of questions, right there in th
e expansive post-office lobby: What was going on? Why didn’t I look six months pregnant? Why hadn’t I written in weeks?
I took his hand. “Please, not here. Come, let’s find some nice place to talk.”
We went to Robby’s hotel, the well-appointed Hotel Davenport, around the corner on Dearborn. (He’d no doubt selected it for its proximity to the post office, which I learned he’d been frequenting for hours on end with the express purpose of intercepting me.) He wanted us to go to his room, but I insisted on the dining room. Hoping to set the tone for a civil conversation, I ordered tea and a plate of cakes, all the time begging Robby to cease his questions until our order arrived.
He pressed his lips together, trying hard to contain what I imagine was months’ worth of frustration now laced with confusion and possibly indignation.
“I do owe you an explanation, I certainly do,” I began as I poured his tea.
He nodded and moistened his lips, clamping the dainty teacup handle between his chunky fingers and thumb.
I could think of no better explanation than that which I had penned in the letter now stuffed in my purse. “Three weeks ago, I lost the child and became quite ill. Helga attended me. On her orders, I have been confined to bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You look fine to me.”
“Yes, I’m much better now, thank you.”
“I mean you don’t look like someone who’s been ill.”
“Oh, Robby, I don’t know what you expect. I’ve lost the baby. There’s nothing either one of us can do about that.”
“That’s obvious.” He smacked his hands down on the table. “Do you think I’m some numskull?”
I raised my brow and softened my eyes. “No, of course not.”
“Why didn’t you write earlier? Didn’t you think I’d want to know right away?”
“The fact is, I hated the thought of distressing you.”
“You think not telling me makes it easier?”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.” I met his gaze straight on. “Robby, there is simply no way to spare your feelings. I’m afraid I must break off our engagement.”
“Why, you …” His face ignited to bright pink. “After all this. How dare you.”
Poor Robby. He took it quite hard, shaming me for subjecting him to months of waiting and torment, for spending his money under the circumstances, and for keeping him in the dark about the baby.
I allowed him his say, and then I told him that he was wrong about being kept in the dark, that I had in my possession the letter which I had intended to mail that very day to prove it.
Unfortunately, that did not placate him. He shoved back from the table, sprang to his feet, and leaned threateningly over me.
“I hope you get what’s coming to you, May Dugas,” he said, and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me to pay the bill.
And that concluded my affair with Robby. I learned that soon afterward he married the most darling girl in Menominee, and I’m certain he’s far happier with her than he ever would have been with me.
Chicago was quite a city in those days—booming, boisterous, and gleaming with newness, as if it’d sprung up overnight on the shores of Lake Michigan. Soaring buildings dominated the streets south of the river, turning Chicago’s downtown into the most modern and imposing of any American city. Fashionably attired pedestrians strutted along the sidewalks and wove their way among stylish carriages and streetcars jammed with workers and shoppers. And the Michigan Avenue district—such shops as I had never before set foot in: Marshall Field’s, The Fair, and Carson & Pirie; dressmakers and tailors from Europe’s capitals; a fur store as big as an auditorium; and apothecaries with every imaginable potion and personal item.
And the jewelry stores! It was in Chicago I first fell in love: with sparkling diamonds; radiant gold; lustrous, graduated pearls; and the pure gleam of platinum. Chicago was where I belonged, with all its commerce, excitement, and entertainment. Why, you could practically see the money changing hands between bankers and builders, shopkeepers and fashionable ladies, and rich men and their consorts. I only wish my memories of it weren’t marred by the man who became the burr in my boot. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My employment at Miss Watson’s enabled me to afford new attire, and the gifts of hair combs, bracelets, and necklaces my admirers showered on me lent the finishing touches to my ensembles. Now I found myself prepared to mingle with Chicago society. In my French class I met two delightful sisters, Melody and Melissa, whose father happened to be a well-to-do carriage manufacturer in Detroit. Against their parents’ wishes, they had moved to Chicago to enjoy its social set and parties, and within weeks of meeting them I found myself whisked along in their adventures.
On my day off from Miss Watson’s, one November evening, I convinced Melody and Melissa to attend a widely publicized lecture on psychophysics by Dr. Joseph Jastrow. We took the roundabout route to Athenaeum Hall, driving down Michigan Avenue at sunset in a handsome carriage. I wore my newest dress, an emerald-colored gown with scalloped patterns on the sleeves, and Melody and Melissa—no strangers to high fashion—complimented me on it and the new citrine and gold brooch I had recently acquired from Mr. Hall, one of my regulars.
Athenaeum Hall held an audience of well over a hundred, but it still felt intimate with its fan-shaped seating arrangement and the delicate swan-necked lamp sconces gracing the walls. Dr. Jastrow, a slim-shouldered man with a coarse gray beard, opened the lecture, which was billed as a demonstration of his new automatic-writing technique, by inviting three people to come up to the stage. (Melody, Melissa, and I raised our hands from the third row, but he passed us over.) “Please take your writing stations,” he said, directing the two women and one man to chairs behind desks with pencils and paper.
He instructed them to close their eyes and then intoned, “Pay attention to my voice, only my voice. You are entering a state of calm and relaxation. All your focus is on my voice. Let all other sounds and sensations drop away. Relax; let your shoulders drop. Release any tension in your face. Now find the pencil on the desk. Take it up; lower it to your paper. Turn your thoughts inward. Write, write whatever comes—perhaps words, or pictures, or maybe squiggles. Let your hand take over.”
He turned to the audience and, placing a finger to his lips and sweeping an open palm before us, signaled for quiet. For several minutes he stood stock-still before us. Just as I began to wonder if he was hypnotizing us, too, he silently twirled around and said to his volunteers, “You may put your pencils down now.”
One by one his volunteers surrendered their writing implements.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Now I will count from five to one, and when I reach one you will open your eyes. Five … four … three … two … one.”
He snapped his fingers, and his three charges popped their eyes open and gazed at him with the placid, wide-eyed expressions of surprised cows.
“Thank you, you’ve all done well. Now, if I may see your work.” He walked to his first volunteer, a gangly woman of about thirty dressed in a peach-colored gingham dress that served her lean figure as well as could be expected. Picking up her paper, he studied it for a moment, and then, offering his hand, invited her to stand. “And you are?”
“Emily Shapiro.” Her complexion colored, and the stiffness of her physique betrayed nervousness.
“Miss Shapiro,” he said with the slightest bow of his head. “It is miss, I assume?”
Some in the audience tittered, but I had already observed that she wore no wedding ring. Her nails were trimmed to blunt squares. She was obviously dedicated to pragmatism, to the point where she had subjugated any matrimonial aspirations. Perhaps she lived with a sole surviving parent and worked to help out the household.
“Yes,” she said and, apparently mustering her mettle, added, “Did you gather that from my writing, Dr. Jastrow?”
Melody, Melissa, and I chuckled at the prospect of some sport.
Dr. Jastrow grinned. “No, M
iss Shapiro, politeness dictated that I ask. But I can see from your writing that you are a competent person. Other people depend on you. You have little time for nonsense. I imagine you hold a position of some importance, though you may not get the recognition you deserve. Does that accord with your circumstances, Miss Shapiro?”
“Yes, I suppose it does. I assist my father in his jewelry business.”
It dawned on me at that moment that I could just as easily have accomplished what Dr. Jastrow was doing—reading people’s personalities by the way they dress, carry themselves, respond to challenges, and, with some training, perhaps even how they write. It wasn’t so much an education I experienced that night as an awakening—an awakening to my own innate talents in the art of influence. Like Dr. Jastrow, I possessed the ability to peer into people’s minds and glean their fears and dreams. I’d been selling myself short; truly, I possessed my father’s cunning and only needed to apply my talents.
And with problems brewing in my own place of employment, I needed all the cunning I could conjure. Two days earlier, Miss Watson had summoned me to her parlor for a meeting with her and Rose.
“Pauline,” Miss Watson began, “Rose has requested that the three of us have a talk, and from what I can gather, such a meeting is long overdue.”
Taking my cue from Miss Watson’s stern pose, I asked, “Have I offended someone?”
“Yes, I should say quite a few people.” Miss Watson leaned over her desk and steepled her fingers. “Rose says you’ve been standoffish with the other girls. That you put on airs around them.”
Parlor Games Page 6