The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

by Ariel Lawhon

  “So that’s who he called.” She changed into trousers and tucked the business cards into her pocket. Then she grabbed her raincoat and galoshes and marched into the storm.

  “I DON’T know what you were playing at the other day,” Donald Smithson said, laying an invoice on her work table. “But it clearly worked. He paid in advance.”

  Maria lifted the sheet of paper and saw an order for five suits, along with a check for $750. “Owney Madden?”

  “I will grant that your tactics were effective with him—perhaps due in part to his own lack of breeding—but it’s not a strategy that I want you to employ in the future. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Smithson placed his clipboard next to the invoice. On it was recorded all of Owney Madden’s measurements and his choice of fabric for each suit. “He will be back in two weeks for his first fitting. Let’s begin with the classic cut in charcoal wool. You know what to do.”

  Maria watched Smithson return to his office. That was the closest he’d ever come to paying her a compliment. But the joy of being vindicated was dulled by the uncomfortable fact that she would have to see Owney Madden again.

  IRV BERN’S general store sat at the bottom of a wooded inlet a little over two miles away. But he had a telephone, which at the moment was the most important thing. Despite endless promises from the public works department, phone service had not yet made it to the Craters’ end of the lake, and they were forced to make the trek into town to use the phone. Normally, this was not a problem, given the services of Fred Kahler. But Stella had something to say that she did not want him to hear. So having sent him away, she had no choice but to walk. What would have usually been a lovely trip beneath a heavy canopy of oak trees proved a lesson in misery. Although the branches protected her somewhat from the stinging rain, the little that made it through drenched her head and neck until rivulets of water ran down her spine. It took her an hour to hike down the hill, head bowed and hands tucked beneath her arms. The lights were on when she rounded the last turn in the gravel road. Sodden and dispirited, Stella trudged up the wide plank steps and pushed against the door with her shoulder. The shop bells above her clattered in alarm.

  The store was empty, save for Irv himself, stretched out behind the counter on a stool with his back against the wall and his mammoth feet near the register. He had the look of a man lulled to sleep by the sound of rain on a tin roof. Arms crossed. Head tipped to the side. Slack mouth. Scratchy snore. Stella let the door snap closed behind her, and the racket of bells jerked him from slumber.

  “I need to use your phone.” She gave no other greeting as he stumbled from his perch and blinked the sleep from his eyes.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Joe never came back from the city.”

  He pointed a long, knuckled finger at the wall. “Phone’s over there.”

  Stella wove around the barrels of apples and crates of Sunkist soda toward the back wall, where, partly hidden behind a shelf of canned goods, a box phone hung. She waited until Irv was out of sight to lift the business cards from her pocket. Owney Madden first. She lifted the receiver and turned the crank until static crackled onto the line, followed by a tired-sounding voice, then requested an operator in Manhattan. Stella read the Greenwich Village exchange and the five-digit number that would connect her to Club Abbey.

  Irv was silent behind the counter, most likely straining to hear her conversation, and she bent closer to the wall. A metallic ringing erupted in her ear. One minute stretched into three before someone answered. He sounded young and half asleep.

  “Abbey.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Stan.” A yawn, and then, “The bartender.”

  “I need Owney Madden, please.” Stella was surprised at the authority in her voice.

  He laughed. “Listen, Owney ain’t awake right now, much less here.”

  “Then give me his home number.”

  “I ain’t got it. And even if I did, I ain’t stupid enough to hand it out.”

  “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

  “Then you can do like all the other broads. No shortcuts. Come by around midnight and show Owney what you got.”

  “What I’ve got, Stan, is a missing husband.” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice, mindful of Irv’s affinity for gossip. “And seeing as how your employer’s card was in his pocket, that’s a matter I’d like to discuss with him. Unless he’d rather I take my questions to the police.”

  She paused, waiting for his reply. He had none.

  “So you tell Mr. Madden that Joseph Crater’s wife needs to talk. Can you remember that? Or do you need to write it down?”

  Stan’s voice took on a decidedly more respectful tone when he said, “Joseph Crater. Got it.”

  “He knows how to reach me.” Stella set the receiver back on its cradle, picked up the other card, and gave her instructions to the operator.

  This time the phone was answered on the first ring. “Have you seen Joe?” she demanded.

  Simon Rifkind did not sound pleased to hear her voice. “Stella?”

  “He was supposed to be back last Wednesday, and I’ve not heard from him.”

  “Slow down. Tell me what happened.” He sounded small and distant on the other end, as though he spoke through a culvert, and he listened in silence as she explained the urgent phone call that had lured Joe back to New York City and how more than a week had come and gone without word. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Rifkind finally said.

  “You would let me know if Joe got himself into trouble?”

  She wondered what he was thinking in the long pause before he answered. “No need to worry. I’m sure all is well. He likely got caught up with business. You know how Joe is.”

  “You have to find him.” She looked around the shelf and looked back at Irv, who was studying an inventory sheet with exaggerated interest. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I need money.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up, Stella.”

  “You don’t understand. There is Fred’s salary to pay, and a lot of other things as well.”

  “Can’t you—”

  “You know he takes care of all that.”

  “How about I go by the courthouse and collect his check. I can deposit it for you. Would that help?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Which bank?”

  On Joe’s insistence, they held accounts at several banks. She had to think of the one for their personal checking. “New York Bank and Trust.”

  “I’ll ask around. You stay put, and I’ll be in contact the moment I find something out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, Stella?”

  “Yes?”

  “Best not to talk about this in public just yet. Joe’s spot on the bench is still so … tentative. There’s his reelection to consider. You wouldn’t want people to think him unreliable.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Right, then. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  A puddle had grown around her feet by the time she slid the cards back in her pocket. When she returned to the counter, Irv stared at her with the sort of curiosity that turns to gossip if left to marinate long enough.

  “Your floor.” She pointed at her muddy galoshes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “This isn’t exactly Saks.”

  Irv looked out the window at the ropes of rain coming in sideways. “Let me get my coat. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  The tree limbs hung heavy with rain, brushing the windows of his flatbed as they bumped along the back road toward the cabin. He was quiet, eyes locked on the windshield, and Stella did not attempt conversation. Irv dropped her off with some trite words of sympathy that she quickly forgot, and then Stella walked through the door of her cabin—the one piece of property in her name—and took in the magnitude of Joe’s disappearance.

  Cha
pter Seven

  COLUMBIA PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL, MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1930

  THE obstetrics waiting room at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital overflowed with women who spoke only their native tongues. Spanish. Portuguese. Italian. Hebrew. A handful piecing together questions in German and Polish. All of them straining against the weight of round bellies or looking weak and pale with nausea. All of them except Maria. They sat on benches against the walls or huddled in clusters, whispering and rocking from side to side, supporting their stomachs. A number of them had small children in tow or infants asleep at their breasts. Maria stood apart from them, arms wrapped around her waist, keenly aware of her emptiness.

  Seven nurses sat at the reception desk in white uniforms and crisply pointed hats. Each spoke English and at least one other language and attended to the patients she could most easily communicate with. As names were rattled off, the nurses would direct the women to see a doctor. Maria assumed they served dual purposes of attendant and translator. The numbers in the waiting room never seemed to diminish. No matter how many names were called, more women trickled through the door.

  Maria inched forward with the line until her turn at the reception desk arrived. The sign in front of her read CASTELLANO. A dark-haired nurse with chocolate-colored eyes waved her over.

  “Nombre?”

  “I speak English,” Maria said.

  The nurse smiled with relief. “Well, that’s nice. You’re the second one today.” She slid a pen and paper forward. “Please fill this out. Name, age, address, and how far along in your pregnancy.”

  Maria de la Luz Tarancón Simon. Thirty-two years old. Ninety-seven Orchard Street, apartment 32. She scribbled the information and pushed the clipboard back across the counter. It always seemed strange to her, that mouthful of a name. Though she had been born and raised in New York City, her parents had stayed true to their Spanish heritage and endowed her with surnames from both sides of the family. Jude found it charming. She’d always thought that she would abandon the tradition when she had children of her own. But now that the very possibility was cast into doubt, she felt sentimental about the custom.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Maria looked up, startled. Was her barrenness that obvious?

  “You left this blank.” The nurse pointed to the section of the form that Maria had not filled out.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not.” Her entire struggle was summed up in the white space on that page. Empty form. Empty womb.

  “Let’s hope the doctor can help with that.” The nurse reached out and placed a warm, wrinkled hand on Maria’s wrist. Her eyes were bright with kindness. “Now go through that door and wait on the bench outside room number eight. Set this in the slot on the door. He’ll call you in when he’s ready.”

  Maria took the clipboard from her outstretched hand, gave her a grateful smile, then passed through a stark white door to the left of the reception desk. The corridor was long and narrow, with a gray-tiled floor and harsh white lighting. She found room number eight, set the clipboard into a metal bracket attached to the door, and dropped to the wooden bench to wait. She was alone in the hallway but could hear voices rising on the other side of the door.

  “We don’t provide that here, miss.” The doctor’s voice, insistent.

  “But I won’t be able to perform pregnant.”

  “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  A wild sob. “They’ll kick me off the show. I’ll lose everything.”

  The sound of compassion in his voice and his choice of words were at odds. “Perhaps what you need is a lifestyle change, not that garbage. It’s not even medicine. It’s dangerous.”

  “Can you at least tell me where to go?”

  Tense silence, and then, “No. I can’t. What you’re asking for is illegal.”

  Her rage was almost palpable. “You think I did this to myself? You think I had a choice?”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a man. You’re all the same.”

  The door flew open and Maria jerked. She recognized the young woman at once: soft brown hair and hazel eyes and a panicked, shamed expression. The girl from Mr. Crater’s bed. She slammed the door behind her and stood in the hallway trembling. Their eyes met.

  Maria eased onto her feet. She extended a hand in sympathy, but the girl knocked it away.

  “Don’t.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she swiped them from her cheeks. The smile she offered was bitter and no words came with it. She rushed off down the hall.

  Maria took a hesitant step after her. “You’re pregnant?”

  For one short moment, Maria thought they might have been friends, that perhaps they had an understanding. The feeling quickly dissipated when the girl said, “Just leave me alone.” She pushed through the door and back into the waiting room.

  Maria stood there wondering whether to run after her, but then her name was called.

  “Maria de la …” The doctor paused, tripping over her name, and finally added, “Simon. This way, please.”

  She followed him into the room. It was small and sparse and neat. Bare walls. An exam table covered by a clean white sheet that still had creases from being folded.

  “English?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God. I get so tired of bad translations. No fault of my nurses, of course. They do the best they can, but still. So many people. So many languages.” He patted the exam table. “Hop up.”

  Maria sat on the end of the table and dangled her feet off the edge. She felt like a child.

  “I’m Dr. Godfrey.” He studied the blank space on her chart. “How can I help you today?”

  A blush spread across her cheeks, and she felt foolish for being there at all. Pregnancy should be a simple thing. God knows she and Jude had perfected the art of trying. “I’m not exactly sure,” she said.

  “Are you pregnant? That is my specialty, you realize.”

  She tried to smile but the effort fell short. “I can’t seem to get pregnant. We’ve tried.”

  “For how long? Sometimes it takes a few months. Perhaps a year.” He scribbled on the chart.

  “My husband and I have been trying for several years.”

  His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “Is this your first time visiting a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I do a quick external exam? I’ll need you to lie down.”

  Maria turned and lifted her legs onto the table. She lay on her back, arms at her side, as Dr. Godfrey probed her stomach with two fingers.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the waistband of her skirt.

  She nodded, and he simultaneously lifted her blouse and folded her skirt down so that five inches of bare skin was exposed around her navel. He scrutinized her face while he prodded. Maria winced as his blunt fingers pressed into sensitive areas farther down.

  “Can you tell me about your monthly cycles. Are they regular?”

  “Rarely. They come and go as they please. It makes me hopeful that I’ve finally gotten pregnant. But I always start.”

  “Do you have pain or bloating throughout the month?”

  Maria pondered. That was like asking a woman if she had breasts. Pain and bloating seemed to come with the territory of being a woman. “Yes. But it usually doesn’t stop me from working.”

  “You’re quite thin. Any troubles with appetite? Or fatigue?”

  “I work two jobs for very demanding employers,” she said. “I don’t have a choice but to be fatigued.” The expression on his face was troubled enough that she asked, “Is something wrong with me?”

  “Not necessarily. But I would like to do an internal exam just in case.”

  Maria tugged at her waistband. “Will I have to …?”

  “Yes. I’ll need you to disrobe.”

  “My husband is the only man who’s ever seen me naked.”

  “Would you like me to get a nurse?”

  “If you don’t mind.”r />
  In many ways, Dr. Godfrey looked like her father. His hair had once been dark but was now run through with silver and receding, and his eyes were a translucent gray. He looked kind and tired and old but truly concerned.

  “That woman just now …”

  “You heard that?”

  “I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Yes. I suppose it must seem horrible for a woman in your position to hear another ask me to induce miscarriage.”

  She looked at her feet and whispered, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  Dr. Godfrey opened his medical bag and set it on the table next to her. “It rains on the just and the unjust, Mrs. Simon. That’s the first thing you learn in my profession. There is no fair. Nor is there the ability to help everyone.”

  “You wouldn’t help her.”

  He sighed. “Have you ever watched a woman bleed to death?”

  “No.”

  “Or die of sepsis?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I have. And apart from the health risks, I’d lose my medical license just for writing the prescription—not that she could even get it filled. Fem-A-Gyn induces a severe uterine hemorrhage. It’s unsafe. And illegal. I sympathize with her. Truly, I do. But I am forced to pick and choose every day who I am able to help. Besides,” he said, “I have no doubt she will find what she’s looking for. They usually do.”

  “Can you help me?”

  He drew a stethoscope and a small metal contraption from the bag. “I hope so. But I’ll have to do that exam first. Are you comfortable with me performing it today?”

  His clipboard sat on the empty chair. It held a thick pile of forms. Hers rested on the top. “Yes.”

  “Good. Why don’t you undress, and I’ll go fetch the nurse.” He pulled a sheet from the shelf on the wall and handed it to her. “You can cover up with this.”

  The moment Dr. Godfrey left the room, Maria jumped off the table and grabbed the clipboard. She found exactly what she was looking for on the form beneath hers: Sally Lou Ritz’s personal information. She took the paper and stuffed it in her purse. Then she set the clipboard back on the chair.