The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

by Ariel Lawhon

  She bristled at this but hid her frustration behind a cool smile. “It’s inevitable, you know, women in politics.”

  “I don’t care if that constitutional amendment did pass last year. You’ll never see a woman in government. Mark my words.”

  “You are hopelessly old-fashioned. It might be fun, you know, to see a woman on city council.” Stella needled him with her grin. “Or even on the bench one day. Could you imagine that? A Miss So-and-So for a judge?”

  Joe brought his fork down with a loud clank. For a moment, she thought he might have broken the plate. “You can’t mean that,” he said. “And you mustn’t say anything of the sort in public.” Joe’s view of women’s suffrage was not one of his finer points, and this line of talk always irritated him.

  “Maybe I’ll start the campaign myself. Go down and buy one of those bloomer girl outfits. You know the ones—those militant suffragettes wore them when they’d picket.”

  “Stell!”

  “Oh, come on, Joe. I’m only teasing. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

  “It is serious! Every bit of it. Wagner says he’s got me on a fast track for the court. Everything you say and do is serious. The length of your hem is serious. Your neckline, it’s serious.” His voice rose until it was almost a shout, but when he saw Stella with her hands in her lap, spine pressed against the chair, he controlled himself. Joe took a sip of water from the crystal goblet next to his plate and forced a laugh. “You’re not like those girls.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re intelligent. Well bred. Proper. Not like those dames who get off the trains or the boats and end up onstage with low morals.”

  “That’s an unfair comparison, don’t you think? Being an activist doesn’t make a woman a floozy.”

  “There’s more than one way for a woman to whore herself out.”

  Stella gaped, appalled. “I can’t believe you, talking like that.”

  “Oh, come off it, Stell. You aren’t the type.”

  “And what exactly do you know of that type?”

  “I know a lot of things. Chief of which is that you need a good spanking.”

  Exasperated, Stella threw her dinner roll at him, and he flashed his old mischievous grin. For a few seconds he was the Joseph Crater she met on the dance floor all those years earlier. But then he realized that the French roll had left crumbs on his new suit. He swept them from his lap with a stern look and devoured the rest of his dinner in silence.

  MARIA and Jude slid into the velvet-covered seats as the lights dimmed. She took his hand and moved closer, flushed with excitement. The lower floor of the Morosco Theatre was full, and all she could see were heads bent and whispering, the final rush of conversation before the curtain drew back. Only a smattering of empty seats remained in the balcony, and those stuck out like missing teeth, black spots in the theater’s red velvet mouth.

  “This is amazing,” she said.

  Jude grinned. “The show hasn’t even started yet.”

  “The entire night has been amazing. Thank you for dinner.”

  “You deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve got to stop apologizing.”

  The same shadow of sadness that had hovered around him for weeks returned. “I’ll get your rosary fixed. Promise.”

  “I know.” Maria tilted her chin and kissed Jude just below his ear. She smiled, dark eyes full of mischief. “I hear this show is scandalous.”

  He slipped his arm around her lower back, hand resting on her hip. “It has quite the reputation for loosening the corset.”

  “No wonder you didn’t argue when I asked to come.”

  “The only corset I’m interested in is yours.”

  “Pity I don’t wear one.”

  Jude made a show of tugging at the neckline of her dress and looking down it. “Even better.”

  Maria swatted at his hand. “Behave yourself. We’re in public.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “And it’s crowded. You’ll get us kicked out before the opening number.”

  Someone shushed them from behind.

  “See,” Maria whispered.

  The crowd gasped as the dim lights dropped into total darkness. The entire theater was temporarily suspended in blindness, and then a single trumpet note lifted from the orchestra below, followed by a French horn. A honeyed glow rose from behind the still-drawn curtain, and the rest of the orchestra began to fill in and complement the melody as the curtain swept aside. And there onstage stood twenty women, linked at the arms, in pink gossamer gowns split right up the thigh. Each dress was fitted with a sequined bodice, and the matching sequined top hats had plumes that swayed in the air as the women kicked in time to the music. They wound into a tight circle, each dancer holding the train of the girl on her left, moving faster and faster until Maria could not see any individual face, only a blur of legs and flashing smiles.

  Maria leaned forward, eyes round and lips pressed in concentration. She did not take her eyes off the dancers once during the number, not even as they swooped and spun across the stage, a streaming, orchestrated whirl of pink.

  As the circle broke and the dancers spread across the stage in a tightly choreographed routine, Maria saw a familiar face. Her eyes remained fixed on the curvaceous woman, as though tracking her through an elaborate shell game. At the end of the number Maria stood, along with the rest of the crowd, but she did not clap. She rested her hands on the rail in front of her and leaned as far over the balcony as she dared. Yes. She was certain. The young woman on the far left with the sand-colored hair and hazel eyes was the girl she’d come to see. Sally Lou Ritz, pregnant with the bastard child of Joseph Crater.

  STELLA spent much of her evening making phone calls and pacing the wall of windows in her living room, waiting for Joe’s friends to call her back. Her husband once said that he bought the cooperative apartment—at a mind-boggling sum of $14,000—for the view. A manicured garden belonging to the Church of the Ascension sat right beneath their windows and, depending on the season, guaranteed a bevy of color unmatched by many of the city parks. The groundskeeper for the church was a small, arthritic man of indeterminate European descent. Joe insisted he must be Dutch. Look at the tulips! he’d say every spring when the garden exploded in white and pink blooms. But Stella wasn’t sure. They had never exchanged words, but she’d often see him bent over some bed, pulling weeds. On days when she left the windows open, his voice drifted up, a soft and lonely melody that translated only in emotion. Stella did not know where he came from, yet she was certain he was a man acquainted with grief. But the garden lay in darkness now, flower beds rounded into shadow. Somewhere below was a cobblestone path dotted by stone markers engraved with the names of generous members of the congregation, but she could not see them from this distance. In the three years that Stella Crater had lived in this apartment, she’d never once set foot within the church. Until tonight, it had not seemed important. What would she do in there? Light a candle? Say a prayer? She might as well turn a cartwheel in her underwear for all the good it would accomplish. And yet she understood the compulsion of the devout right then, the need to do something.

  The phone rang and Stella leapt for it, banging her shin on the coffee table. Bleeding hell, that hurts! “Hello?” She swallowed. Blinked back the pain.

  “Stella, it’s Martin Healy. I got your message.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Her breath came out in a rush. “I can’t seem to get through to anyone. Please tell me you’ve seen Joe.” The phone sat on a secretary desk along one wall, and Stella rifled through the top drawer looking for something to write with, the receiver cradled between her chin and shoulder.

  “No. I haven’t. I’m very sorry. I just wanted to return your call. Make sure you’re all right,” he said. She could hear laughter in the background. Glasses clinking. Slurred voices. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, when he shows up?”

  She mumbled assent as he hung up, returning to th
e festivities. Stella slumped into the ladder-back chair next to the desk and rubbed her shin. She could feel the lump rising against her palm. Soon the calls began rolling in, each more unhelpful than the last.

  “Stella, such bad news. Wish I had something to tell you. Do keep me posted.” Jimmy Walker.

  “Nope. Nothing since we last spoke. I’ve been asking around.” Simon Rifkind.

  “Term started four days ago. Things can’t continue in this manner.” Justice Valente. He added a stern warning, as though it were her fault: “It’s imperative we find Joe. We have work to do.”

  She methodically worked her way through Joe’s address book, but many of the calls she made went unanswered. Others resulted in messages left with various staffers. She tried three times to call Joe’s legal secretary, Joseph Mara, but the line was busy all evening.

  It went on like that, call after call, until she had only one number left. And he wasn’t in. William Klein. Attorney for the Schubert Association. Joe’s closest friend and a theater aficionado. Stella couldn’t imagine that Joe would return to the city without visiting Klein. She knew exactly where he’d be, although now was hardly the time to pay him a visit.

  It was almost nine o’clock when Stella made her decision. She quickly showered, chose a dress appropriate for the errand, and fixed her hair and makeup.

  The city showed no signs of resting as she walked from her apartment building and hailed a cab. “To the Morosco Theatre,” Stella said, sliding into the backseat and tucking her dress around her legs.

  By the time she arrived at 217 West Forty-Fifth Street, the show was almost over. Stella bought a ticket anyway. Once inside, she approached the nearest usher.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I need to have a word with William Klein. I know he’s backstage.”

  The young man twisted the cuffs of his jacket and looked away. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’ll go tell him that Stella Crater is here to see him. He knows me.” She pressed a dollar bill into his palm and watched him debate for a moment. He shrugged and then hustled through a side door that led into the bowels of the theater. She waited, gripping her small clutch, for five minutes. She was beginning to wonder if her bribe had worked when he ducked his head back into the lobby and beckoned her to follow.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Stella could feel the throb of the orchestra. It rose through the floor and shimmied up her legs. While walking that twenty feet of hallway, she understood how those girls went onstage and threw themselves around. It was hypnotic. And then the usher opened another door and stepped aside so she could enter the madness backstage. A roiling mass of bodies and ropes and costume racks danced together in a rhythm that she instantly disrupted. Stella fumbled her way across the throng until she reached the far wall. Standing there, behind the curtain, was William Klein. His back was to her, and he watched a string of girls performing a carefully choreographed routine. Their legs bent, lifted, and kicked in seamless motion.

  The entire stage was transformed into an elaborate aviary, and the dancers were peacocks, swirling in a show of blue and green feathers. From where she stood behind William Klein, the nearest dancer was only six feet away. Stella was close enough to see sweat drip down her temples. Watching the swirl of movement made her dizzy.

  She grabbed Klein’s forearm. “William.”

  “Stella!” He drew her in for a hug. “So good to see you.”

  “Where is he?” The sound of her voice was startling. Panicked.

  William set his hands on her shoulders and leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?” And then, “What are you doing here?”

  “Joe.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s missing.”

  William Klein looked at her with dark, mud-puddle eyes, surprise registering a few seconds late. When he finally spoke, the question came out forced. “What do you mean?”

  “Joe never came back to Maine. I haven’t seen him in weeks. No one has.”

  A raucous blast of music leapt from the orchestra pit, and the crowd cheered. The swarm of dancing girls gave a final bow and then festooned around them backstage.

  “Show’s over,” Klein said, the young women pawing at him as they passed. They petted and kissed and rubbed him in ways that made Stella’s lips part in astonishment. He tried to appear uncomfortable with the attention but could not fully hide his lecherous grin. Klein shooed them away and pulled Stella a step deeper into the shadows.

  “I just had dinner with Joe,” he said.

  “When?”

  “A few weeks ago, I guess.”

  “When. Exactly.”

  He scratched the side of his neck. “Dancing Partner had just opened at the Belasco. That’s where he was headed afterward. So it must have been”—he rocked his head back and forth, summoning the playbill from his memory—“the sixth.”

  Over three weeks earlier.

  “You had dinner. Then what?”

  “Then we all said goodbye outside Billy Haas’s Chophouse, and Joe went on his way.”

  “All?”

  “Me and Joe and …” He hesitated before adding, “Ritzi.” There was no need to explain who she was, so he didn’t. But Klein did glance over Stella’s shoulder. Then back to her face. And back again at someone in the crowd.

  Stella’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. “Have you heard from him since?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

  “Of course.” He gave her an awkward side hug, mumbled a goodbye, and then shifted his attention to a patiently waiting brunette.

  When Stella turned away, she almost tripped over the showgirl behind her and had to step back with a jerk. The girl was tall and curvy and beautiful—the sort that would catch Joe’s attention. Stella locked eyes with her for no more than a second. She wore a towering feathered headdress and a sequined costume. Her eyes and lips and cheeks were exaggerated with heavy makeup. Still, she looked familiar. Before Stella could get a good look at the face beneath the makeup, the young woman dissolved back into the crowd.

  Stella didn’t belong backstage, clearly had no idea how to avoid the traffic that rushed by on all sides, but she stood there anyway, overwhelmed. A stagehand asked if he could help with anything. “Ladies’ room?”

  “That way.” He pointed to her left. “Off the stage and down the hall.”

  RITZI stood against the wall, breathless. Her chest heaved, heart dancing staccato against her ribs. Around her hummed the orchestrated chaos of Ladies All, the last swell of frenetic activity after the final number. Applause surged and then diluted into the rumble of conversation as the audience collected jackets and purses and nudged one another into the aisles. Her legs trembled, and she drew a deep breath through her teeth.

  Beneath the feathered headpiece, her hair lay plastered to her scalp. Sweat ran in trickles down her temples and the back of her neck. For the final number, the entire chorus line wore elaborate peacock costumes, complete with sequined bodices and tail plumes. The effect was spectacular when the girls spread across the stage kicking and spinning. But after hours spent in various costumes, Ritzi’s lower back ached, and her feet were swollen inside the three-inch heels.

  Once Ritzi was certain she could get to the dressing room without stumbling, she peeled herself from the wall and pressed into the sea of performers and stagehands celebrating another successful night. Farther backstage, her stomach lurched. William Klein stood beside the curtain. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in his office—had gone out of her way to avoid him, as a matter of fact. Her first thought was that he came to collect payment for his silence. But then she saw that he leaned into conversation with a woman. Tall and blond and …

  Ritzi stared. The woman was a stalk of grace. She carried herself with an assurance that was unnerving. Radiant in a knee-length navy dress with a scoop neck, her clavicles like the prow of a ship. Pearls twiste
d around her neck—exactly the way they were in the photo on Crater’s bedside table. A wedding ring. Even from this distance, Ritzi could see her eyes, pale blue and startling. Ice water eyes. And then Klein looked up, right at Ritzi. His gaze whipped back and forth between them.

  Stella Crater. She had come looking for her husband. Ritzi could read that truth right there on Klein’s face.

  As usual, he was swarmed by showgirls, vultures in bright plumage picking at whatever scraps he threw them. Some poor girl would end up in his bed tonight and likely be forgotten by lunch tomorrow. Her hatred for Klein was matched only by her fear at the sight of Crater’s wife.

  After another short burst of conversation, Klein stepped away from Stella and moved toward one of the dancers. Ritzi was not prepared when Stella turned around and their eyes met. She could see the search for recognition scrolling across Stella’s face. Yes, you know me, Ritzi wanted to say, but she forced herself to keep a neutral expression beneath her mask of stage makeup. Then she turned and walked away. Once their gaze was broken, Ritzi rushed toward the dressing room.

  The twenty girls in the chorus line shared a large room backstage for makeup and costume changes. Shorty guarded the door. None of the stagehands made it in or out without his knowledge. For good reason. It was a scene of mass nudity.

  “What’s the rush?” Shorty asked as Ritzi pushed by him.

  She knocked the bowler hat off his head with two fingers and darted through the door.

  Elaine Dawn, one of her fellow dancers, laughed as Ritzi pushed the door shut. She was a busty blonde with powder-blue eyes and full lips. She had the look of a Ziegfeld girl and a permanent spot at the front of the chorus line. “You’d think being so close to the ground, he could get that hat a little quicker,” Elaine said.

  “He’s so strange,” Ritzi said, resting one arm against the door. “I don’t know why Owney keeps him around.”