The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  “How did you end up behind the bar?” It was a reasonable question. A good bartender is a prestigious position, not usually attained by the kitchen help, and never, in my experience, by a man of any color other than white. Bert cocked his head and nodded, understanding the essence of my question.

  “One day a few years back, I carried in a keg. It was middle of the morning, not a soul around, so I set it up, tapped it. Manager at the time came in, and I think was ready to tear into me, and I asked him if he wanted a beer. Nice and gentlemanlike. “Can I draw you a beer, sir?” And he looked surprised, like he didn’t know I could speak beyond ‘Yassuh, Mr. Boss-man.’”

  He broke off with a rueful laugh, but I did not join him. In that single fragment of speech, he’d transformed himself from the elegant man behind the bar to something unrecognizable.

  “The power of vocabulary and syntax,” I said, knowing my own past was riddled with simpering, cooing phrases.

  “That, and a perfect pour. And silence about havin’ a drink before noon. He advanced me five dollars to buy a suit, get a good shave and a haircut. Told me if a single customer ever had reason to complain about having a Negro behind the bar, I’d be fired.”

  “And what,” I said after a beat, “do you think he would say to finding you sitting alone, late at night, with one of your more desirable guests?”

  He shrugged, letting me know he appreciated the humor of the question. “What do I care? He died years ago. Then Sylvan came, and he and I haven’t met but twice.”

  “He doesn’t drink.”

  “Not a drop.”

  “And he leaves you to yourself.”

  “I have it well under control.”

  “I envy you.” My guard dropped enough to let a hint of wistfulness come through. His brow furrowed, and he reached a hand across the table. Close to mine but not touching. We both knew better than that. The inch of space between us carried the burden of centuries.

  “Why are you in here, Mrs. Krause?”

  I tapped the rim of my cup. “I wanted a drink.”

  “You can drink in your room.”

  “I can’t—I wasn’t ready yet to go to my room.”

  “Why? Tell me.”

  At that moment, everything that should have been a barrier between us dissolved, washed away by waves of tears. I wept as I hadn’t since my husband’s last breath, when I wept not only for the loss of him but because no one would truly believe my mourning. I wept then too as I did in this moment, for the woman I’d become. Lost, alone. I wept for what I couldn’t face the night before, for being frightened to the core and having no one to protect me. To soothe me. To reassure me that I was safe. I brought my hands up to cover my face, as if that alone could hide this horrific emotional display, and then I felt them—his warm hands wrapped around mine, tugging them away.

  “Mrs. Krause? Did something happen?”

  I opened my eyes and took in our grip. His finger grazed across my knuckles, stopping before touching my wedding band. The sight was mesmerizing, like a tiny ballet. My pulse eventually slowed, matching the pace of his touch. My breath grew steady, my eyes dry. My sleeve had hitched up, exposing the rash. This too he touched, a sensation as featherlight as the one that brought it.

  Regaining my senses, I took my hand away and answered his silent question. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, Mrs. Krause. I don’t know everything, but I do know that. Something happened.”

  The way he spoke made it seem as if we had a history of confidence between us. So I told him. Everything, starting with the scratch on my door, the invisible touch, the voice. When I tried to replicate its sound, however, the chill of memory overtook me and I grasped my throat, unable to continue.

  “What did she say?” Bert prodded.

  “She said, ‘Something for you, Hedda Krause.’” Then a thought nudged. She? “It wasn’t a woman’s voice.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never heard a woman’s voice like that before.”

  Bert steepled his fingers and propped his chin on them, waiting. For what, exactly? For me to remember, to recall, to bring back the voice. A woman? Certainly not. But then—

  A memory. When I was a young girl, my mother still alive, we lived in a house populated by many other women. There was one, much older than my mother (so I thought at the time), whose voice carried the same quality as that of my visitor. I conjured it, right there at the table across from Bert. I heard her speaking, beckoning, even laughing. Some of the younger women called her “Froggy,” and I did too, once. But Mother chastised me, telling me that she’d been badly hurt years ago at the hands of a bad man, and that was why her voice sounded broken. It was broken. And so was she.

  “I suppose …” I left the conclusion to trail. “But that doesn’t tell me who she was. Or why she would want to inflict such torture on me.”

  I may have imagined it, but I would swear I saw a hint of a smile tug the corner of Bert’s lip. “So, no one’s told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  Now he did smile, broadly and engaging. “Are you telling me the whole time you’ve been here, nobody’s said anything to you about Sallie?”

  Without knowing why, only that his levity brightened me, I found myself smiling too. “No. Who is she?”

  Bert made a small, secretive sound. “Finish your coffee.” Then he stood, hand outstretched, waiting. By now the drink had cooled to where I could take it down in a few satisfying gulps. He took our cups to the bar, set them behind, and came back to help me with my chair.

  “Now, Mrs. Krause,” he said, placing my hand in the crook of his arm, where it felt instantly at home, “if I were any other man, I would escort you right to your room. But I know neither of us wants that kind of trouble.”

  My latent tranquility vanished. “I can’t—”

  Bert pressed my hand. “Trust me when I tell you this is not a conversation to have tonight. Not at this late hour. And not with so much…coffee.”

  “Please,” I said, not even sure what I beseeched.

  “Just walk yourself right up there. Keep your eyes focused on the floor. Walk like you can’t stop, and then—” We were at the door. He looked out into the lobby, checking the path to be clear before dropping my arm, taking my face in his hands.

  “Bert,” I said right before he placed a single, soft kiss directly on my waiting lips.

  “Think of it as a charm.”

  I had nothing in me. No response. No words. No breath. My feet, numb with disassociation, stepped into the hall, but at his voice I turned.

  “One more thing, Mrs. Krause?”

  “Yes, Bert?”

  “Once you’re in your room, shut the door. Lock it. She don’t like to go inside.”

  Chapter 5

  Excerpt from

  My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause

  Published by the Author Herself

  I shall now pause in my own narrative to tell you the story of Sallie White. What you are about to ingest in only a few minutes’ time is the product of hundreds of hours of conversations on my part. Idle chat with the chambermaids along with brandy and cards in the lobby with guests who have been patrons of the Menger Hotel nearly since its opening day. I never exchanged a word on the subject with Mr. Sylvan, but I’d taken to the more than occasional hot toddy with Bert in the late evenings. I could tell how reluctant he was to share details about Sallie White, and he did so only at my insistence.

  “It’s never a good idea to plant a ghost in someone’s mind,” he said, wiping the cherrywood bar with a clean white towel. “Muddles it all up if there’s an expectation.”

  As for you, Dear Reader, if you are faint of heart, if you are profoundly disturbed by stories of violence and murder or fearful of tales of an otherworldly nature, I invite you to bypass the rest of this chapter and go to the next. I intend to spare no detail, nor shall I embellish beyond what was told to me. There are lessons to be lear
ned in the most tragic of lives, and none could be more tragic than that of poor Sallie White.

  Death of a Chambermaid:

  The Sad Fate of Sallie White

  Sallie White arrived in San Antonio a free woman. Independent. Alone. A mixed blessing to be sure, as there has never been a time when such was advantageous for a woman. Her place of birth, her origins, her people—none of it is known, nor is there a path-print to tell us how she happened upon the bustling streets of this city. She comes to historical life established as a chambermaid at the Menger Hotel.

  By all accounts, Sallie White loved her job and took great pride in performing it well. She was always fastidious in her appearance—dark hair tucked neatly into her cap, her face and hands always scrubbed clean. Guests said she moved in and out of rooms like a whisper, leaving everything neat and tidy with no disturbance to their presence. She fielded requests with a soft-spoken “Yes, ma’am,” or “Certainly, sir,” and then tended to the matter with all required discretion.

  If history could rewrite itself, Sallie might have fallen in love and settled down with a man well-matched to her work ethic and good nature. No doubt there were shopkeepers and livery drivers and carpenters who would welcome a woman with her heart to share their own. Instead, she fell into the arms of Henry Wheeler, and later would die at his hands.

  Little is known of Henry Wheeler either, other than he had a jealous nature and a violent temper. Of course, that could be because he is known only as the man who murdered Sallie White. Before that, he must have had some quality to attract her to his side. Perhaps a sweet tongue or a slick charm, a gaiety that promised respite from long hours of hard work. After a time, she moved herself into his house. Theirs was a common-law marriage; such arrangements are more common among the poor. Nobody cares to scrutinize the morality of the powerless. She loved him enough to entrust him with her life, but there is always a precariousness to a union without marriage. After a matter of years, the balance of trust tipped—and not in Sallie’s favor.

  The Menger Hotel continued to grow in reputation, attracting an increasingly wealthy clientele who knew no boundaries to their privilege. Men of business, high-ranking officials, wealthy tourists—all were frequent guests, and while most were probably perfect gentlemen, there were the occasional few who thought her services should extend beyond turning down sheets. Wise enough to understand the importance of their favor, Sallie laughed off their advances, and if the occasional tussle occurred—a door closed behind her, a strong hand gripping her arm—rest assured Sallie would emerge unsullied and victorious.

  Through the gossip chains of kitchens and streets and taverns, word of Sallie’s popularity reached Henry Wheeler, and his rage enflamed. At first he seemed ready to confront Sallie’s would-be molesters himself, but like most bullies, Henry had a sense for finding a suitable victim and soon turned his violence on Sallie herself.

  “I don’ want you goin’ back to work at that place no more,” he’d say. To this Sallie would argue that her wages were good, the work steady. She was given two meals with each shift, and she often brought home covered plates for Henry too. She’d pet him and kiss him to ease his fears, reassuring him of her devotion to him, and him alone. This worked for a while, until the stories continued, his fellows laughing at his expense, and the quarrels between Henry and Sallie rang in the streets.

  Soon evidence of Henry’s anger began to show on Sallie’s face. She often had deep shadows, which she attributed to fitful sleep, but then came the day her left eye was swollen shut—the bruise lasting for more than a week. She took to a particular way of carrying stacks of folded towels, balancing them on a swollen wrist. The light faded from her countenance, her smile all but disappeared, showing itself only when politeness demanded. She aged twenty years over the course of her time with Henry Wheeler, and why she did not take advantage of the freedom she so desperately prized and walk away from him is a question for the ages. She did, however, give an account of his violence to the courts, and enjoyed a few nights’ respite while Henry slept in their custody.

  It was, perhaps, this action that sealed her fate.

  Henry’s rage roared from the moment the cell door opened to release him. He stormed into the street screaming Sallie’s name with strings of unflattering epithets. He found her at home and took to beating her with such severity, neighbors finally came to her rescue. Henry fought the grasp of four men, screaming all the while, “Set my hands free! I’m go’n kill the slut for who she is!”

  Sallie took nothing with her, only seized the opportunity to run straight to the police station to beg for refuge.

  “He has sworn he will kill me,” she said to the officer on duty. “He has sworn so, and I believe him. Please, arrest him and protect my life.”

  The officer had no reason to inquire her name, or request his, as the turbulence of Henry Wheeler and Sallie White was well-known and documented. Still, he insisted, he could not arrest Henry for such threats. After all, if every man who threatened such murder upon his wife were arrested, there’d be no room in the jails for those who actually followed through. As a compromise, the officials agreed to take Sallie herself into their custody, to let her sleep the night in the courthouse, safely locked away while Henry’s temper burned itself out.

  In the early morning hours, Sallie asked to be released and made her way home. Did she hope to bring Henry to his senses? Or, one might wish, she meant to leave him once and for all, preferring a life on the street in peace over the weight of his constant fury. Whatever her thoughts, they galvanized into one of heart-stopping fear when she saw Henry on the sidewalk.

  “Sallie,” he said, and only this as he approached. Whatever hold he had on her all those years kept her feet planted to the sidewalk. His hand reached for her, and she stepped into the familiar embrace, raising her lips to his for a reuniting kiss.

  “I promised to kill you,” he said, breath sour with whiskey, “and so I will.”

  She felt the gun pressed into her as he held her tight against it. The shot was muffled by the closeness of their bodies. Sallie stepped away and looked down to see her uniform—that which she wore with such pride and care—blossoming red with blood. She instinctively doubled over in pain and, calling on a strength supernatural to her own, turned and ran. There were men and women aplenty in the streets, but none gave aid. It was only Sallie and Henry, after all. Rather, they took to sheltering themselves once Henry gave chase.

  Where could she run? Sallie felt her body growing weaker with each step and heard Henry’s shouts closing in. To the police? But they’d shown her such disregard. She paused long enough to take into account her location. Steps away from the Menger, her first home. If she could only get inside—Henry wouldn’t be allowed, a black man not in their employ. If she could only—

  Two more shots, and a third that brought her down right outside the brewery’s entrance.

  Not close enough.

  Trusting the strength of her Creator, Sallie grasped what she could and brought herself to her feet, calling out for help, shocked at the weakness of her voice. How could she be calling and calling and hear no sound?

  That’s when she realized she hadn’t brought herself to her feet at all. He had—Henry—and he held her now, his hand to her throat, her back against the wall, her feet kicking free in midair. She wanted to free herself, but one shattered arm dangled helplessly, the other was pinned behind her. Sallie felt life streaming out of her, like a towel wrung out in the wash, Henry speaking words of hate into her face until everything went dark.

  It would take three days for her to die. Three days during which her spirit hovered between her life in this world and whatever lies beyond it. Thus, she remained. A spirit. It is, perhaps, this restlessness of waiting that so unsettled her. There are those who have told me that she haunts this place because she fears to leave, lest Henry be waiting to kill her again. Others say her spirit stays because she fears she will fall under his spell and forgive his murderous cr
uelty. One minister told me she is simply evading judgment for her sin of an unsanctioned union.

  I learned I was not the first to receive her attention, and that the hotel was earning a reputation for her presence. Nothing to be discussed in polite society, thus I had to experience the presence of Sallie White before ever knowing her name. Little by little, over the course of several weeks (and by now, of course, years) I heard testimonies of sightings—mostly shadows and whispers and otherwise softness of apparitions. A twisting doorknob, a snuffed light in the hallway. A spoon dropped from an ice-cream dish. One maid told me of a time she went to deliver towels to a room only to find a stack, clean and neatly folded, waiting at the door. No one else on staff would attest to having left them.

  Her scratches on my door (for I never sought any other explanation) recurred, sometimes multiple nights in a row, sometimes with more than a week in between. I would hear an occasional odd footstep in the hall during the hours when no one should be about, but I refused to open my door in the slightest. We had a silent agreement, Sallie and I. She stayed in the hall, I stayed in my room. From time to time I would awake to the sound of my name, Hedda Krause, floating through the keyhole. The first time (after that first time), I opened my eyes only to remain frozen in fear, even as a wave of heat rolled through my body. Oh, how she teased. How she beckoned with that broken throat. I’d reason that I must have been dreaming, since I heard nothing once I was fully awake and aware. Or perhaps it was merely the growing sounds of winter, bare branches and dead leaves scratching against the sidewalk beneath my window.

  Once, when I awoke to hear her call me three times in succession, I clutched a pillow to my breast to break the fear-formed ice in my lungs and answered back, speaking, “Sallie White,” into the darkness. We went back and forth a few times, she and I, calling to each other until she emitted a sound so awful it could only be laughter.

  I did not sleep again that night, nor did I tell Bert. The public might not doubt the sanity of one who claims to hear a ghost, but I’m not sure such grace would be extended if one admits to speaking back. Already I sensed a certain aura—a marked change in how the staff attended to me. Whispers, sidelong glances—I wasn’t sure if Sallie’s attentiveness made me a favorite or a pariah. Mr. Sylvan ceased to send my bill to my room; rather, he called me to his desk every Friday evening to present me with the charges for my meals and for the coming week of lodging, should I choose to stay. I felt myself becoming more and more withdrawn, preferring to dine alone, to keep my eyes trained to a novel or magazine as I sat in the lobby or along the second-floor landing. I still accepted the occasional invitation to the theater or to dinner, but those invitations became frustratingly infrequent.