The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Need help with your costume?”

  Ritzi turned so her friend could release the small clasp on her back and slip the tail feathers off. “God, that hurts. Why’d we sign up for this again?”

  Elaine fluttered her eyelids in an expression of mock surprise. “For the fame and fortune, of course.”

  “Really? I signed on to this gig so Shorty could get his jollies peeking through the keyhole.” Ritzi smacked the door with the flat of her hand.

  He cussed on the other side of the door.

  Ritz peeled her headpiece off and hung it on the doorknob. Now that her plumage was gone, she shrugged out of the bodice and stood topless, letting the cool air dry her wet skin. Half of her companions did the same. They walked around the room in varying stages of undress. One by one, the girls slid out of their costumes, collected the pieces, and set them on hangers. The ensembles then went on three long garment racks arranged by number.

  “You look awful,” Elaine said.

  “Gee, thanks.” Ritzi wiped an arm across her forehead. It came away slick with sweat.

  “Seriously. Do you feel okay?”

  “I just want to go home.”

  Elaine eased into her slip and pulled a snug cocktail dress over her head. “Suit yourself. I’m off to Club Abbey.” She wiggled her eyebrows for effect. “I hear Owney’s in a good mood tonight.”

  “How’d you hear that?”

  Elaine pushed up her breasts and shook them a bit so they settled into her dress. “I have my sources.”

  “June?” Ritzi asked, looking toward the far wall, where June Brice, the vixen of the group, rolled stockings onto her legs and secured them with a black garter belt. “I thought she was with Owney?”

  “She’s moved on to some uptown guy. A lawyer or something. Which means”—Elaine turned around so Ritzi could zip her up—“there’s a job opening.”

  “You don’t want to mess around with him,” Ritzi said.

  Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “You jealous?”

  “No. I want you to be safe.”

  “And I want off this chorus line.” She looked at the three racks of plumage. Leaned in and whispered, “I’m following your lead. Owney’s my ticket to something better.”

  He’s your ticket to the morgue. Ritzi winced at the thought. “Not a good idea.”

  “You’ve had him, right?”

  Ritzi caught a flash of shame as she saw her reflection in the mirror. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Well. It worked for you.” She gave an impish grin. “And Mae West. Look where she is now.”

  Until recently, the very mention of Mae West would have made Ritzi quiver with hope. Four years earlier Owney Madden had financed her highly controversial Broadway show Sex. After 375 performances and ticket sales of over three hundred thousand, the show had been raided by the police and the entire cast and crew charged with obscenity. West spent ten days in a prison workhouse and emerged a legend. Since then, her star had only continued to rise. She’d already abandoned New York for Hollywood.

  “So,” Elaine said, undeterred. “Any pointers?”

  “Stay away from Owney. Find yourself a decent guy.”

  Elaine looked in the mirror and applied a coat of deep red lipstick. She smacked her lips twice, assessing her reflection. “I think I’ll give him a shot. Wish me luck.” She kissed Ritzi on the cheek and then left the dressing room.

  The knot in Ritzi’s stomach tightened as she watched Elaine leave. She pulled on her undergarments and stepped into her dress. Fumbled with her shoes.

  Her cheeks were clammy and her palms damp. She felt dizzy. Ritzi grabbed her purse and ran down the hall to the public bathroom. A line of women waited, but she pushed by them and darted into the first open stall and vomited right into the toilet bowl.

  MARIA unlaced her fingers from Jude’s. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  She had spent the entire three-hour performance searching the chorus line for Ritzi. She appeared in each act, but never so prominently as in the opening. Maria paid little attention to Jude as he commented on this number or that, or even when he jumped to his feet along with the rest of the theater after a particularly elaborate routine. Instead, she kept her gaze on the young woman, mesmerized by her poise and grace. Nowhere could she detect the panicked and embarrassed girl she’d surprised in Crater’s bedroom or the desperate woman at the doctor’s office.

  “You should have gone at intermission,” Jude said, “with everyone else.”

  “The lines were too long. Besides, I didn’t need to go then.”

  Jude led her from the balcony and down the stairs into the lobby. “There.” He nodded toward a sign. “That way. But be quick. I want to get you home.” He traced the curve of her jaw.

  “You’re insatiable,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Be right back.”

  Maria took her place at the back of the line and searched the faces around her. It took five minutes to get inside the restroom itself and then another five for a stall to empty. No sooner had she gotten situated than she heard a rumble of discontent as someone cut in line. And then the door of the stall next to hers crashed open. Angry comments ricocheted around the bathroom until the poor girl began to vomit. Several toilets flushed at once, followed by the rush of faucets, as women hurried on their way. Those remaining in line tried to ignore the retches, and the bathroom hushed into an awkward silence.

  When Maria left the stall, the girl was bent over the sink, splashing water on her face and rinsing out her mouth. Maria plucked several paper towels from the nearest dispenser and held them out to her.

  “Thanks.” The girl lifted her face to offer Maria a wan smile, but it quickly slipped away. As she reached to take the towels from Maria’s hand, her face twisted with concern. “What are you doing here?”

  They stood elbow to elbow at the sink, Ritzi drying her hands and Maria primping her hair. They looked at one another in the mirror as women swirled behind and beside them, adjusting makeup, necklines, and stockings. Ritzi, no longer in costume, with smeared makeup and tangled hair. Her street clothes and pallid skin went a long way to mute her role as the temptress she’d been in Crater’s bed and on the stage that evening.

  “My husband brought me to see the show,” Maria said.

  “He brought you to my show. Just because?”

  “I asked him to.”

  A smudge of crimson lipstick marred Ritzi’s chin, and she rubbed it away. Her eyes were heavy and tired-looking beneath the stage makeup. The false eyelashes and glitter did little to hide her exhaustion. “Why?”

  It was a simple question. And Maria had prepared for days to answer it. But she found herself unable to utter the words in this place, surrounded by strangers. She took a deep breath. Shook her head. Closed her eyes. “I—”

  A toilet flushed behind them, and when Maria looked up, she saw Stella Crater swinging a stall door open. Ritzi stiffened beside her.

  Ritzi let out a huff of air and bent her head toward the sink. She did not watch as Stella approached the mirror, pale eyes on her own reflection, but rather swayed for a moment and then clapped a hand over her mouth and darted back into a stall to retch again.

  “Mrs. Crater.” Maria forced her eyes away from Ritzi’s hunched form and nodded at her employer in deference. Whatever rules of etiquette applied in this situation were unknown to her.

  Mrs. Crater’s expression shifted from fatigue to recognition to relief when she saw Maria. She took in the familiar embroidery of her gown. “You look lovely in that dress.”

  “Thank you,” Maria stammered. “You gave it to me.”

  “I remember. Joe hates”—she paused, a note of uncertainty in her voice—“hated it on me. Always said I didn’t have the bosom to fill it out. Clearly a deficit you need not worry about.”

  Maria turned her eyes to the tiled floor, self-conscious. Crossed her arms over her chest and then dropped them to her sides. She eased her question out without ever m
eeting Stella’s penetrating gaze. “How is Mr. Crater?”

  Stella shifted closer as a patron sidled up to the empty sink and ran her fingertips beneath the faucet. “I was hoping you could tell me. Have you seen him?”

  Maria stared at Stella, trying to word her response. How to tell her that she’d seen more of Mr. Crater than she ever wanted to? That she knew more than she could speak aloud? Especially in this place, with so many within earshot. But as she struggled with her words in the brief silence, Ritzi returned to the sink. She washed her mouth out again, spitting politely into the bowl.

  “Disgusting,” someone muttered behind them.

  A number of women hurried from the restroom without looking at Ritzi. Some whispered on their way out.

  “I really know how to clear a room.” Ritzi offered a shaky laugh.

  Stella pulled a box of mints from her purse and offered one to Ritzi. “Are you all right?”

  “Just dizzy.” Ritzi twirled her finger in the air. Took the mint. Placed it on her tongue. “All that spinning.”

  “I only saw the last number,” Stella said. “It was quite impressive.”

  “I wasn’t properly trained,” she explained. “As a dancer, I mean. The others know how to balance and keep a point of focus. I just muddle my way through.” Ritzi sucked on the mint and then hesitantly met Stella’s eyes in the mirror. “You’d think I’d have a stronger stomach by now.”

  “Strong enough for what you need to do, though, right?” Stella asked.

  “For my part. Yes.”

  “You do put on a good show.” Stella nodded, approving. The clasp of her necklace had slid down, and she moved it back to the nape of her neck. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have business to attend to.”

  “Will I see you this week,” Maria asked, “at the apartment?”

  “I’m leaving Sunday. No need for me to stick around, given the current circumstances.” She glanced at Maria and then at Ritzi. It seemed as though she wanted to say more but felt vulnerable in that small room with so many others around.

  “I’m sure they’ll find Mr. Crater,” Maria said.

  “Let’s hope so. It would be nice to know where he is. For certain.”

  Maria lingered as Stella swept out of the bathroom. Ritzi gave Maria a desperate sort of look and, lacking anything else to say, grabbed her purse and left. Even in this, the pecking order remained intact. Wife first. Then mistress. Leave the maid behind to clean up the mess. Without thinking, Maria wiped down the counter with a paper towel and then stepped into the stall to flush the toilet Ritzi had forgotten.

  STELLA climbed from the cab shortly before midnight. There was no sign for Club Abbey over the set of concrete steps that descended below street level. She paused and looked around. The location of this establishment was strictly word of mouth, considering its numerous illegal proclivities. The street was lined with cars and the sounds of jazz. Laughter rose from the bar below, but she was the only person in sight. Stella smoothed the creases from her dress, pulled her gloves up, and squared her shoulders. She gripped the rail in one hand and her purse with the other and began her descent. Eighteen steps. Each slow and measured, the heel of her shoe pressed against the riser. She took a deep breath at the bottom and reached out to push the heavy wooden doors.

  “Password?” A man stepped from the shadows. He was a good foot shorter than Stella. Stocky. And had the heavy brow ridge of an Eastern European. “No one gets in without a password.”

  She snorted and drew a five-dollar bill from her purse. Waved it in front of him with two fingers.

  “Works for me.” He took the money and swept one arm toward the doors.

  They parted easily beneath her hand. Stella had expected resistance, but instead she almost stumbled into Club Abbey. The bar smelled of smoke and whiskey and floor polish. Perfume. Sweat. It was intoxicating. So immediate, even with one foot still on the threshold.

  Laughter.

  A ruckus somewhere in the back.

  The ceiling was low and dark and warm, with its embossed copper panels and mahogany trim. The speakeasy beckoned her to come in, come closer, get pulled into the fray. Stella stepped inside.

  The doors eased shut behind her, and with them went the last hint of fresh air. She almost turned and left. Almost. Instead, she steeled herself and took a step forward, then another, purse clutched in front of her as though she were afraid it would be stolen. With each inch of movement, Stella felt a little bolder, a little more purposeful. Intent on her cause.

  A jazz quartet played in the corner, massaging their instruments, almost impervious to the crowd. Notes floated up and around and mingled, cohabitating in the air. She could practically taste each chord change, that little pause in the air before she inhaled and then the new swell of music. The piano player sat tall and straight, his elbows at right angles. So serious. So intense. On the bass was a short black man, barely taller than his instrument but almost as wide. He plucked at the strings with intention and feeling and a sort of reverence that she could feel twenty feet away. Drums and saxophone lifted and bled between the notes, an instrumental game of tag. For years Joe had told her that he visited Club Abbey for business purposes, but she now understood his reasons were far more varied than that. This was a place he must have loved.

  In the middle of the room was a large dance floor filled with couples leaning into one another and swaying to the beat with slow, sensuous movements. Stella could feel the heat coming from them. Women with their arms slung over men’s shoulders. Men with hands dangling low in the small of a back. A face buried in a neck. Heads tipped back in laughter. All of it beneath the swirl of cigar smoke and dim light.

  Booths lined the wall, and the dance floor was circled by tables of men with loosened ties and women with flushed cheeks. Stella pushed her way through the crowd and slid up to the bar between two men. She did not sit down. The bartender, a young man with startling red hair, poured a drink for a woman who leaned forward a little too suggestively, almost begging him to look down her dress. How did he do it? she wondered. How did he look at her eyes, so clouded with booze that one drifted off to the side, instead of taking her up on the offer of a free peep show? The bartender’s gaze shifted to Stella, and he threw a towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her. The bawdy woman almost fell off her stool as she leaned after him, and the men beside Stella stepped over to catch her. They positioned themselves on either side, each with an eager hand to steady her. They flashed glares back and forth. Marking their territory. Marking their prey. Stella halfway expected one of them to pee on the poor woman and make it official.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “My husband is a regular.”

  “Ah. One of the wives.”

  Stella lifted one neatly plucked eyebrow in question.

  “We get your type in occasionally. Uptown girl looking for her lowbrow husband.” He lifted a glass from the shelf and set it on the bar in front of her. “You want a drink, or do you want me to rout out your man?”

  “My husband isn’t a tosspot.” Stella recognized Stan from their phone call, that voice with the faintest trace of puberty still audible. “But he is in here a lot.”

  “Name?”

  “Joseph Crater.”

  She enjoyed the discomfort that swept across the bartender’s face as he made the connection. His youth showed then in his embarrassed smile. “Which would make you the judge’s wife?”

  “Hello, Stan.”

  “I know Joe. Good man. Good customer.” He motioned to the barstool. “Have a seat. We don’t bite. Most of us, anyway. But you might want to stay away from that one,” he said with a wink, and nodded at some unidentified patron behind her.

  Stella gave him a closer look. Baby face. Probably couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. His voice had solidly changed, but likely it still broke if he got excited. “How old are you?”

  “Not old enough to serve liquor.” He poured a shot. “Much less
drink it.” He knocked back the glass and shuddered a bit as the whiskey went down.

  “You can’t fool me. Bravado aside. You’re a virgin.”

  He choked.

  “With liquor, I mean! Liquor.”

  Stan shifted a little closer, one corner of his mouth twisted into a cockeyed grin. “Neither, miss. But don’t tell Owney. He’d have me fired. Or shot. It’s my job to protect the booze and the girls.”

  “So that’s the trick, is it? The way to keep a joint like this in business? Liquor and women.”

  “We take a head count every night,” he said proudly. “How many broads you see in here?”

  She gave him a scolding look before she turned and rested her elbows on the bar. “I see fifteen women. Maybe twenty. Hard to tell. They won’t sit still.”

  “And men?”

  “Two or three times as many.”

  “Try five. For every gal that comes in that door, you can bet five men will follow her. All of them eager to buy her a drink. And it’s not even midnight yet.”

  “I imagine the number will go up significantly?”

  “Owney hired a bouncer. He only lets in the ones with looks or money.”

  “Well, it cost me five bucks. So I guess I know my category.”

  “You ain’t the usual customer, I’ll concede that. But I’d have to argue with the looks issue. You’ve already got admirers. I count seven making eyes at you right now.”

  A few men did have their eyes on her. Some looked confused. Others intrigued. “Drunk. Every one of them, I’d wager.”

  “Only three.” He raised the bottle of whiskey. “I do keep count, after all.”

  Stella looked over Stan’s shoulder at the bottles of whiskey behind the bar. It occurred to her that very little probably got past his keen eye. “Did my husband come in recently?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I just need to know where he is.”

  Stan leaned over the bar. “Joe comes in, right? But he’s not all that regular. Not an every-nighter like some of these guys. I’m not sure the last time I saw him. It’s been weeks.”