The Canary Club

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “Call the doctor,” I say over my shoulder to Rudy, who nods.

  Masie draws me back to her, shaking her head and wincing.

  “You need a doctor,” I urge, but she shakes her head again. Stubborn little thing.

  “Fine,” I relent, for the time being at least. “Rudy, can you have the maid run her a hot bath with some salts?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And fetch whatever you have that might help with the pain,” I add. “And some warm tea for her throat.”

  I don’t have to look back to know he’s gone. Carefully, I examine her. Besides the damage to her face, there’s a red and blue bruise in the perfect shape of a hand forming around her throat, which is also swollen. She’s got a nasty lump on the side of her head, and her shoulder is bruising as well.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, brushing her hair back with gentle fingers. “I should have talked to him myself.”

  She clutches the front of my shirt, shaking her head forcefully.

  “Okay, okay, be still. I’ve got you now.”

  The maid scuttles in. “The bath will be ready shortly. Should I help her undress?”

  “Run along, Patsy,” Rudy says in his no-nonsense tone. “Her guard and I will help her.”

  She shoots a look between us, as if she’s debating commenting on the impropriety of it all, but he silences her before she can utter a word.

  “I’ve been with this family since before she was born. I’ve rocked her to sleep and changed her diapers. I assure you, she’s in capable hands.”

  Patsy curtsies and disappears.

  Once she’s gone, he steps into the room, holding out a brown bottle and a scrap of cloth. “I found this in the kitchen. It should help with the pain.”

  I take the bottle of Laudanum and the spoon with one hand. Masie sees it and shakes her head.

  “Just a little,” I say, “so I can get you to the bath without hurting you.”

  She shakes her head again, and I catch her chin, “It’s this or the doctor.”

  Finally, reluctantly, she nods. I sprinkle several drops onto the spoon and gently part her lips, letting it slide down her swollen throat. She swallows, coughing at first, then I feel her muscles relax as she slumps against me. I quickly hand the spoon and bottle back to Rudy, who watches over my shoulder.

  “Hey, you doing alright there, Masie?”

  Blinking slowly, she nods once.

  Scooping her up, I follow Rudy down the hall to the bathroom, where the large copper tub is nearly filled with steaming water.

  Slowly, and with forced detachment, I strip her down—under Rudy’s watchful gaze—taking stock of every welt, every bruise, every single evidence of Dutch’s abuse. Then, as gently as possible, I lower her into the steaming bath, soaking my shirt sleeves as I struggle to hold her from slipping in too far. The laudanum must be taking hold because her muscles are completely relaxed, and she can’t seem to hold herself up.

  “Rudy, can you grab her a sheet?” I ask, turning so I’m cupping her under the arms from behind.

  He returns, folded linen sheet in hand.

  “Here,” I say, motioning to the front of her. “Just put it in the water over her.”

  He obeys, flicking it open, then soaking it in the water, adjusting it to offer some modesty, at least. Then, lifting her forward, I kick off my shoes and step into the tub behind her, water lapping over the sides of the tall tub as I wriggle in, laying her back against my chest.

  “You’ll ruin your suit,” she manages to whisper, her voice raw and wavering.

  Cupping my hand and filling it with water, I pour it over the back of her hair, repeating the movement over and over. After a few moments, the maid returns, a tray of tea in hand. Rudy, who has taken a seat at the vanity table, accepts the tray, motioning her away. He quickly fixes a cup and leans over, handing it to me.

  “It’s honey and lemon. It will help her throat,” he says as I accept the cup by its tiny handle.

  “Here,” I say, holding it to her lips. She takes a reluctant sip, then another, wincing with each swallow.

  After a few drinks, I hand it back and Rudy sets it on the tray, fixing a cup for himself. As I watch, he pulls a small silver flask from his vest pocket, pouring it into the cup, then drinking it in two long gulps.

  “This isn’t the first time, is it?” I ask quietly.

  He doesn’t answer, but the guilty look that settles across his face is answer enough.

  I grind my teeth, forcing myself to look away. Finally, after a few long moments, he speaks, his German accent heavier than usual.

  “Mister Schultz isn’t a bad man; he just has a very short temper—especially with his children.”

  I bite my tongue against the accusation trying to claw its way out my mouth. He knows—he’s seen Dutch do this before, and probably worse too, and yet he does nothing. While the rational part of my mind understands that to step in at her defense would mean dismissal from his position here, at best, I can’t help the righteous indignation boiling inside me. How can he watch and do nothing?

  “He could have killed her,” I manage through gritted teeth. “And you would have stood there and let him.”

  “It isn’t my place to…”

  I cut him off with a sharp glare. “You aren’t a slave, Rudy. You had a choice.”

  “Spoken as a man who has never truly served another,” he retorts. “As it is, I have risked everything bringing you here tonight. What do you think would happen if he were to return now? To find us like this?”

  My mouth twitches because the answer is simple. He’d kill me, probably with his bare hands. And Rudy, well, who knows.

  “I care for Miss Masie as my own child. But I’m as unable to stem his temper as the late Missus Schultz was.” He looks away, taking a long, deep breath. “We can only do what we are able.”

  A silence passes between us then. What a trip we make, each chained to a life that is little more than a prison of our own making. Desperate to break free, but shackled to the one person who makes freedom impossible.

  “I have to take her away,” I whisper finally, as much to myself as to Rudy.

  I can’t let this forced marriage continue. I can’t let Masie continue to live in Dutch’s cage. I can’t keep risking my family and my freedom and playing both sides.

  Rudy shakes his head. “I didn’t hear that. Because if I had, I’d be duty bound to tell Dutch, and I won’t.”

  He stands then, lifting the silver tea tray and exiting the room.

  The water is no longer steaming, the once heat-pink skin of Masie’s shoulders fading back to its normal alabaster. She turns just a bit, looking up at me over her shoulder.

  “I can’t leave JD, and I can’t leave my father to be devoured by his demons,” she says finally. “He wasn’t always this way. It’s poison, this life. It destroys everyone and everything it touches. It will destroy us all, if we let it. You have to let me go, Benjamin. You can still walk away from all this.”

  Even as she says it, I know she’s trying to do right by me. But I also know that there’s always a way—it’s usually just a matter of being courageous enough to seize it.

  “I think there might be a way,” I say finally, the vague edges of a plan congealing in my mind. “If you trust me, I think we can do it. Can you trust me?”

  For a moment, I expect some sassy retort, but instead, an expression of pure, blissful acceptance settles across her face. “Of course.”

  I mentally map out my plan as the water cools around us, both of us shaking and frigid when I finally lift her from the tub, free her of the wet sheet, and hand her a soft hemstitched damask towel to dry herself with. I drip onto the white tile floor, assisting her first, then releasing her to the seat Rudy recently vacated while trying ineffectually to pat my trousers dry.

  Finally, Rudy reappears with a pair of pants, undershirt, and jacket that must belong to JD.

  “Here, I’ll help Miss to her room while yo
u change,” he orders. “If you leave your wet things here, I’ll see that they are laundered and returned to you.”

  “Thanks, Rudy.”

  I change swiftly, abandoning my own clothes as instructed. While the pants are a little big and the shirt a little tight, I don’t squabble about the fit. As he pointed out, Rudy risked a great deal bringing me here, and I’m not about to be ungrateful about it. Once I’m done, I make my way to her room, taking a seat on the bed beside her.

  “Masie, I’ll need some time to get things into motion,” I say, shaking my head. “But in the meantime, I need to know that you’re safe. I don’t want Dutch to have any reason to lay hands on you—not ever again.”

  She blinks. “What are you saying?”

  I take a deep breath, expelling it with gusto before answering, as if hoping to lessen the bitter taste of what I’m about to say. “Tell him you agree to the wedding. Go forward as if it’s going to happen. Do…whatever he wants. Just for now.”

  She looks down, her chin tucked into her chest. “It will mean engagement parties and announcements—a full social discourse. Are you certain you can handle that?”

  I nod once, firm in my decision. “Yes. If it keeps his hands off you, then yes. We’ll still have our days at the club, finalizing the plans. And then, once everything is in place, we’ll leave this place and never look back. Once the people we love are safe, we’ll go.”

  “It sounds like a miracle, Benjamin. I don’t know if I believe in miracles.”

  I take her hand, kissing her knuckles gently before releasing it back to her snow-white bed cover. “For you, I will be a miracle worker. I just need some time.”

  “How much time?”

  I chew at my bottom lip, running over my plan in my head. “A week, two at most.”

  “Alright then,” she manages, her voice still dry and cracking. “But you have to promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to swear to me that if you can’t do it, if you can’t make this miracle, that you will take your family and leave this city. Because if you can’t, then I’ll be forced to go through with the wedding, and I couldn’t bear for you to see that. I’d rather know that you’re free of this life, safe, far away from my father and his sins. Promise me.”

  I stand, and although I have no intention of leaving her behind, I utter my oath.

  “I swear.”

  Nodding once, she nestles into her pile of pillows and lets her eyes drift shut. I mutter a thanks to Rudy on my way back out the rear entrance. Albert is at the bottom of the elevator, hat in hand, but I wave him off.

  “I’m gonna walk,” I say, sliding on my borrowed jacket. “The air will do me good.”

  I don’t remember Benjamin leaving, only the absence of him, only waking to the cold sheets pulled tight around me, alone in my darkened room. The clock on my mantle suggests it’s nearly noon, but I have a hard time believing that. It feels like weeks have past, though as I sit up and the impact of yesterday’s brawl hits me once more, I know it to be true. The pain in my shoulder is the worst, as if I’ve torn every muscle and ligament holding my arm to my body. It sears through me like molten steel.

  The other pains are less, though still aching. The side of my face, my neck, my tender ribs. I ring for the maid to help me dress, something I haven’t done since I was a child. She bobs into the room, eyes cast downward, asking no questions about my current condition. Once I’m dressed, she holds out a silk brocade scarf, and as I’m about to refuse, she speaks for the first time.

  “A sling for your arm, Miss? It might help with the pain.”

  When her eyes finally meet mine, they are meek and silently hopeful. I nod once, my own voice still raw, and she gently ties it across my body to take the weight off my injured shoulder.

  “Would you like me to help you with your makeup as well?” she asks, emboldened by her success with the sling. I pause, leaning forward to catch a glance of myself in the vanity mirror.

  The dark circles under my eyes are normal, but the wide bruise across my face is startlingly blue and red, the same shade as the handprint perfectly cradling my neck like a string of macabre pearls. My hair is stringy and wild from having been slept on wet, adding to the overall look of someone who has just lost a boxing match with a bear. Or, more accurately, making me look startlingly similar to my mother.

  “No,” I say finally. “Let him see me.” Perhaps his guilt will be enough to earn a reprieve from any further outbursts—at least for the time being. Benjamin is right about one thing, in order to survive, I must pretend to accept Daddy’s decree of marriage. And I will have to play my part perfectly to please him.

  I only hope I don’t have to go through with it.

  Benjamin didn’t tell me the details of his scheme, but I hope against hope it will work. The alternative is nearly unthinkable.

  I hobble my way to the terrace for breakfast. As usual, JD and Daddy are seated at the bistro table near the glass doors. June is there this morning as well, and she sees me first, her eyes flickering over me, a sour grimace on her face.

  “Masie, darling, good of you to join us,” she says, knowing better than to mention my wounds. “Shall I get us some coffee?”

  It’s a code we worked out some time ago. If I refuse, it means I’m not alright and it’s her cue to make an excuse to get us both out of there. If I accept, it means I’m alright and she shouldn’t try to excuse us.

  “That would be lovely,” I croak. “Thank you.”

  She hops out of her chair, bounding to the silver tray service where the coffee sits in a warming pot, and pours us both a cup.

  JD’s eyes drift off the newspaper in his hand and across me, silently assessing the damage. He stands, pulling out the only remaining seat, between him and Daddy.

  “Good morning, sister,” he says, taking his seat once more. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  At his casual mention, Daddy drops his own paper into his lap. “Everyone was disappointed you couldn’t be there for the announcement,” he says, folding his hands across his lap. “I told them that you fell ill.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I manage, taking a drink of coffee when June sits it in front of me, the heat soothing the dry, swollen insides of my throat.

  “Give us a minute,” Daddy demands, jerking his head at JD.

  JD stands, taking June by the hand. He offers me a single pat on the shoulder, the only show of support he dares express, then leads her from the terrace.

  “Stubborn, just like your mother,” he chastises. “I don’t enjoy hurting you, Masie. I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

  “I know,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. With a deep breath, I force the practiced lie from my lips. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have behaved as I did. Of course you know what’s best. Of course I will marry Artie, if you think I should.”

  He takes a long breath, puffing out his chest. “Of course you will. I’m glad you finally saw the error of your ways.” He hesitates, finishing off his own cup of coffee. “I realize I’ve spoiled you, Masie. Given you freedoms most other girls would never be allowed. All this free thinking, I bear the responsibility for that. But you’re about to be a wife. It’s important you behave like a proper lady, that you know your place.”

  The idea is so laughable I nearly break my meek façade. “I will, Daddy.”

  He seems at least placated by my act of contrition. When he stands, sliding his chair from behind him with a scraping sound, I tense. Adrenaline and pain flood through me in anticipation of his touch.

  He pauses, kissing me gently on the top of the head as if all were forgiven.

  “I’ll find a replacement act for the club for the rest of the week. You need to recover before the grand opening.”

  “Thank you,” I manage.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, I think I’ll be alright. I just need some rest.”

  “You have a lunch date wit
h Artie tomorrow. He wants to go over some thoughts he had about the wedding. You should hire someone to help you with the planning,” he says. “Sky’s the limit. We want to show the entire world just how strong our untied families are.”

  I nod. Of course he does. Even my own wedding wouldn’t be about me. It’d be a display, a warning to our enemies and a show to our supporters that we are lousy rich and untouchable. Still, it presents me with an opportunity to smuggle some funds, under the guise of wedding spending, into my secret account—something we will badly need if Benjamin makes good on his promise.

  I make it to The Canary Club later that day, having finally let my maid curl and press my hair and apply enough makeup to keep passersby on the street from staring. If Benjamin is surprised to see me, it doesn’t show. I continue hoping he’ll let me in on his plan, but he keeps frustratingly silent. He does, however, settle me into one of the newly finished private booths, the heavy damask curtains pulled open with braided tassels. The kitchen works me up a nice tomato soup and soft bread, and I watch as Benjamin bounces from place to place, adding final touches and last details.

  The hand-carved spindles arrived for the staircase to the second-floor balcony seats and he rolls up his sleeves, helping the workers glue and hammer them in place. There’s something equally glorious and sad about seeing it nearly complete. On one hand, it’s been my refuge these past weeks, the place I’ve felt most at home. And on the other, it isn’t meant to be my haven, it’s meant to be my cage.

  A pretty cage for a pretty bird.

  I’m not altogether surprised when my guard Thomas arrives, taking up a seat at the bar. Father and his newly imposed desire to prevent me from running free—what a laugh—clearly means to keep me from going back on my word, from doing anything reckless.

  JD comes by soon after, under the guise of bringing a truck of frozen meat for the kitchen, but while it’s being unloaded, he joins me in the booth.

  “You doing alright, sissy?”

  I smile at the nickname I haven’t heard since we were children.