by Tom Murphy
The old man at the assayer’s office never questioned where Lily got her gold, and that was the saving of her, for she knew she’d die if anyone demanded an explanation. I sold myself for a hundred and twenty-two dollars and a basket of food. The assayer took her gold and paid her in crisp new bills. Then Lily walked out the door and down the street to Sophie Delage’s El Dorado Hotel.
The El Dorado had never been quite real to Lily before. It had been an accident of fate, an unexpected way station en route to her dream.
Now she walked up those gleaming limestone steps with her eyes wide open, her head held high to hide the numb, cold terror in her heart. How the mahogany doors gleamed, how the brass glittered, just as though this were anything but the devil’s own residence in this city forsaken by God! Shuddering, she rang the bell.
Sophie looked up, only mildly surprised. She was having her usual light breakfast of tea and toast, still relaxing in the big soft bed Lily knew so well from the long fever-struck days she had spent in it herself.
“Well, Lily dear, how nice to see you. Will you take some tea?”
Lily crossed to the bed and bent to kiss her friend. She didn’t know how to make fine speeches, so she came right out with it.
“I came,” said Lily with the beginning of a tremor in her voice, “to ask for work, if you’ll have me.”
There was the smallest possible click as Sophie set her cup down on its saucer and put them on the tray. Then she looked up. “Whoring, you mean?”
“Yes. Whoring. Anything that gets me a lot of money. There is no work for me in this town, Sophie, there isn’t a thing I can do a coolie can’t—and won’t—do cheaper. Except one.”
“There’s plenty and plenty who’d marry you, my girl, young and pretty as you are.”
“That’s another kind of whoring. To marry a man without love? I’ve come too far for that, Sophie. If I’m to be a man’s chattel, then let him pay, and pay.”
There was something shocking in Sophie’s laughter, although it was the lightest ripple of mirth.
“I didn’t want to be the one to suggest it, Lily. But if you are sure, I’ll be glad to help. But don’t think this is going to be easy. It isn’t easy, and particularly not if you are to be something special. And I want you to be special, my Lily, for I have no doubt at all that you can be.”
“If you say so.” Hypocrite! You’ll be the best or die trying, just as you were the best maid at the Wallingfords’. Then Lily asked the question that had doubled her torment ever since she’d resolved to come and work for Sophie. “But,” she said softly, “before I can do anything, I must find someplace for the child. It fair breaks my heart, Sophie, and I pray ’tis only for a short time, but we cannot have her here, then, can we?”
“That wouldn’t be fair to her, dear. What Kate needs is a fine clean home, maybe a bit out of town, where there’s love, and other children to play with, and good fresh food to eat. And…” She paused dramatically. “I think I know just the place.”
For the first time this day, a gleam of real hope found its way to Lily’s stricken heart.
“Oh, Sophie! It would be the saving of me. She’s all I care for, that little thing. Who are they?”
“She’s Mary Baker, a good woman if ever there was such, married to a fine man, too, a farmer, Fred Baker, and they’ve a good little spread just out in San Mateo, and two—no, three!—little ones of their own. We can go see them this very day, if you like, and bring the baby, for I am sure they’ll agree. We go back a long way, Mary and I, and she’s good as gold.”
The afternoon was bright with promise. Sophie’s carriage made light work of the rutted road to San Mateo, and the trip took less than two hours. The Bakers’ farm was just as Sophie had said—small but neat—and the Bakers themselves were obviously a decent and happy little family. Mary Baker radiated her love of children, and when she scooped up little Kate, the baby smiled, and Lily suddenly felt some of the torment of leaving the child slipping away from her. It’s only for a little while, she thought, just until I save enough money to set up my own shop, or even buy a little farm like this one. The Bakers agreed to board Katie for fifty dollars a month. Lily paid two months’ advance and agreed to bring the child back in a few days. Mary held the baby to her ample bosom, rocking Kate gently, and looked at Lily with understanding eyes, eyes that did not judge. Lily met her gaze, liking the woman for her honesty, for the way she kept her house and loved the children.
“What,” asked Mary Baker softly, “will Kate call me?”
Suddenly a new and unexpected terror pierced Lily to the heart. But she held her gaze and did not flinch. “I think,” she said in a voice that faltered only just a little, “that it would be easier if Katie calls you ‘Mother.’”
Sophie and Lily rode in silence for several minutes as they headed back to town, Kate happily asleep between them. It was Sophie who broke the silence.
“From the first moment I set eyes on you, Lily, I knew you were special.”
“Ah, get on with you, Sophie, kind as you are. I’m about as special as a lost left shoe.”
“You are very beautiful, my dear, more beautiful by far than you know, and very much more beautiful than any whore I’ve ever seen in this town. That alone makes you special. You can have men by the hundreds fighting in the streets for you, Lily, if you work it right. And I intend to see that you do work it right.”
“Thank heaven for that, because ’tis little enough I know about…the business.”
Sophie laughed, but it was a kindly laugh. “You haven’t had many men, have you, dear?”
“The boy at the Golden Rooster was only the second.”
“Well, dear, innocence has its possibilities, just like any other condition. You think too clearly about some things, Lily, not to think as clearly about men, and what they want from us, and all the reasons there are to make them pay for it. You should have known, Lily, that no one ever went upstairs in a place like the Golden Rooster to say her prayers.”
“He seemed so kind…and so young, at that.”
“And he bought you like a sack of oats.”
“He said…I thought…he might love me.” Lily tried to remember just what it had been about Luke, but she knew it was not one specific thing that had weakened her will. It had been many things: first, his kindness in a place where no one had been kind. Then the simple fact that he had been young and good to look on, and seemed so true when he told her how much he longed for her love. And his hair, the color, almost, of Brooks Chaffee’s hair.
“Well, Lily,” said Sophie in her gentlest voice, “no one’s saying he didn’t mean it—at the time. They always mean it at the time. And then they’re gone, aren’t they? That’s why they must pay. Gold lasts longer than promises, Lily. Never forget that. You can’t feed little Kate, here, on promises.”
“I know that now. That’s why I came to you.”
“I’ll try to see you never regret it, Lily. Now, then, tomorrow you must rest, maybe do a bit of shopping. On the day after, I’ll send the carriage for you and Kate at ten in the morning to take you to the Bakers’. And after that, you’ll come back here, to the El Dorado. And what Sophie will make of you will take your breath away, mark my words!”
Lily looked at her friend with a mixture of gratitude and despair.
The step had been taken now, there could be no turning back. She looked at the sleeping baby. Kate smiled faintly, happy in some infant dream, as the beautifully sprung carriage gently rocked along the road back to San Francisco.
Then Lily looked away, for she thought that if she gazed upon her baby thus for one more instant, her heart would break into a thousand pieces.
They spoke little more on the remainder of the trip back to town. Lily was lost in her own thoughts, and Sophie was content to plan and to dream.
Finally the carriage drew up at Mrs. Moss’s house. Lily picked up the baby, who was sleeping still, and kissed her friend. “Thank you, Sophie. You’ll see me the day
after tomorrow, in the evening.”
“I’ll see that you won’t regret this decision, Lily.”
Lily stood in the road as the carriage moved off down the hill and wondered how many thousand regrets she would have every day, and every night. Only the warmth and the peace of little Katie in her arms kept the tears back. Whatever the future brings, I will make it bring good things to you, my Katie. You may rest sure on that.
Lily went alone in the big carriage on the day she brought little Kate down to the Bakers’ farm in San Mateo.
The Mexican driver, Juan, came for her at ten in the morning. She had been ready for hours; all of the baby’s clothing and a few small toys Lily had made for Kate were packed in one wicker trunk. The day was cool. Kate rode in her mother’s lap, wrapped in a small blanket against the chill. The baby’s hair was a wisp of pale red, and her eyes were dark brown, more Jack Wallingford’s eyes than hers, Lily thought. Kate smiled and laughed; this was a new adventure. And she slept after a time, lulled by the well-sprung carriage’s gently bouncing motion.
Lily spoke to her daughter as they rode, and knowing that the six-week-old child understood not a word of what her mother said made no difference.
“You’ll have fine times down there, Kate, with the little lambs and the other children—why, there’s a tiny girl only a little older than you, two years, I believe, sure and you’ll be like sisters soon, and you’ll like Mrs. Baker, she’s a sweet kind woman, Kate, the sort a baby might choose for a mother, if babies had their choice…”
Kate dozed, smiling. Lily looked out the window through eyes misty with unborn tears.
“…and there’s a big green meadow with all kinds of flowers growing in it, and such things to eat, Kate! There’s fresh milk all the time, even goat’s milk, and cheese, and fruit, vegetables, you’ll be a fine healthy child, you’ll probably grow so fast we’ll hardly know you when we come down next week, your Aunt Sophie and me, for we’ll be coming every week, regular as clockwork, maybe more often if we can. Sure, you’ll see a lot of your old silly mother, Kate, we’ll play such games, sing such songs, and the presents you’ll have! Fine presents, for I’ll be rich. No old rag dolls for my Katie. Fine French dolls with china heads and real hair, that’s what you’ll have, and they’ll wear silk and lace…”
The carriage joggled on, and with every curve in the road and at the crest of every hill Lily felt the bottom draining out of her world. She looked at the tiny sleeping child and could think of no more words to say. Softly then, Lily sang:
Come all you fair and tender ladies,
Be careful how you court young men,
They’re like a star of a summer’s morning:
They’ll first appear and then they’re gone.
They’ll tell to you some loving story,
They’ll declare to you their love is true;
Straightaway they’ll go and court some other,
And that’s the love they have for you.
I wish I was some little sparrow,
That I had wings, could fly so high;
I’d fly away to my false true lover,
And when he’s talkin’…I’d be by.
But I am not a little sparrow,
And neither have I wings to fly;
I’ll sit down here in grief and sorrow,
To weep and pass my troubles by.
If I’d a-known before I courted,
I never would have courted none;
I’d have locked my heart in a box of golden,
And pinned it with a silver pin.
By the time she finished her mournful ballad Lily was smiling again. Her story was an old one, so old and so common they made songs of it, and somehow the sorrow shared with the sad writer of that song diminished the pain in her own ravaged heart.
The steady rhythm of the carriage soothed Lily. The baby kept on sleeping. Soon they’d reach the small valley that held the Baker farm. Fifty dollars for the month’s board was what the Bakers asked, fair enough at that considering the terribly high cost of things out here. Only Luke’s gold enabled her to pay the Bakers in advance. Lily looked at the small sweet face of her sleeping daughter, and suddenly bent and kissed it.
Kate stirred, smiled in the warmth and security of an unknown dream, and kept on sleeping. And may she always smile, and be unafraid, and never know what it is to have nothing to be at the end of your rope, to be at the point where death or dishonor is a very real question.
Lily could see the white farmhouse now, gleaming at the far end of the rich green meadow. There was a great peace here in the Bakers’ little valley. It seemed to be a magical kingdom, protected by unseen wizards from all the strife and bitterness of the world outside. Lily prayed that it would always be so, that she would find such a place of her own one day, a place of quiet and peace, a place where small dreams might grow into big ones.
But as the carriage drew closer to the farmhouse, Lily felt her resolve melting like butter on a hot griddle. I can’t leave her! I won’t! Kind as they are, she’s my own flesh, she’s the only thing in all this world I care about.
“Juan!”
Lily’s call to the driver was so urgent he imagined she was sick.
“Si, señora?”
The carriage slowed.
Lily looked at the baby. Kate smiled. A new game was being played. Then Lily looked at the Baker farm. They were very close now. Mary Baker stood in the kitchen yard, smiling, waving, immaculate in a crisp new apron. Her four-year-old boy was beside her, and a little dog. Lily thought of the El Dorado, of Mrs. Moss’s house, of the last few desperate months.
The driver’s voice reached her through a cloud of doubt. “You called, lady?”
Lily sank back against the fine mohair upholstery of Sophie’s carriage and sighed. “It was nothing, Juan. Please drive on.”
Lily stayed at the farm only as long as decency required, for the danger of snatching up her baby and galloping back to town was not yet over for her. Finally she said her goodbyes, and kissed the baby, and left. The last things she heard were Mary Baker’s soft endearments to Kate, and Katie’s responding gurgles. Happy gurgles. They stabbed Lily’s heart with the force of a sword thrust.
She rode home in silence as dark and as empty as her abandoned dreams.
Lily moved into Sophie’s house that very night.
Her actual career wouldn’t start for several days, but the thought of one more minute spent under the roof of the forbidding Mrs. Moss was more than Lily cared to contemplate. Leaving Kate with the Bakers had been more painful than she had imagined anything could be after all she’d been through. So Lily held the shining carriage and paid the rest of her week’s rent, and the driver helped her load her possessions onto the carriage. And as he worked, Lily stood outside the mournful gray house where she had never been happy, and hummed a small refrain: “If I’d a-known before I courted, I never would have courted none; I’d have locked my heart in a box of golden, and pinned it with a silver pin.”
Let them try to get her heart now, all those lonely, lusty men. They could try with gold and they could try with smiles and promises, but all they would buy would be her body, and that at the highest price on the market.
I will put myself where no man can touch me, not now, not ever. Not even if he has golden hair and a face like an angel from heaven.
Juan finished his packing and helped Lily into the carriage. She rode off, never looking back at the small gray house or the pinch-faced gray woman who stood unsmiling behind its fraying curtain.
The carriage moved briskly down Broadway to the corner of Montgomery Street. The distance was less than a mile, but in that short time Lily moved from one world into another, from the past into the future. She was solemn as she climbed down to the pavement outside of Sophie’s El Dorado Hotel. Lily looked up at the impressive facade of the big house, so like the Wells Fargo Bank in its newness and grandeur, and by all accounts very nearly as prosperous. She didn’t know how long she’d be th
ere, or what success she might have, and there was a nervous trembling in her stomach at the thought of all the dangers Sophie’s house might hold for her, now and hereafter.
Then Lily noticed that a group of men had stopped their strolling and were staring at her. Demurely she turned to the driver, Juan, and asked him to take care of her baggage.
Smiling just slightly, and with her flaming head held high, Lily Malone walked gracefully down the gauntlet of their stares and into the best-known whorehouse in California.
26
Sophie Delage’s El Dorado Hotel was more opulent than most millionaires’ mansions, and cleaner too, if Sophie could be believed, and Lily was sure that she could be. The prevailing color was a deep burgundy red, and what wasn’t red was lustrous mahogany and walnut, and what wasn’t fine wood was glittering brass and crystal. The air was filled with a combination of sounds and aromas that amounted to a narcotic in itself: good French perfume—for Sophie selected every fragrance herself, for all her girls—and fresh flowers, rare Havana tobaccos, and fine cognacs, whiskeys, and the occasional fruity whiff of freshly opened champagne.
From late afternoon until the early hours of the following day, the rooms on the parlor floor were filled with clients, with the tinkling of Sophie’s rosewood grand piano, with laughter and good talk. For the El Dorado was a club and a restaurant and a gaming house as much as it was a house of pleasure, although in the minds of most clients the pleasure part of the establishment was its soul, and they could have done without the rest.
Yet the luxury and festivity had its reasons, as Sophie was quick to tell her newest protégée.
“It all adds up, Lily,” she said. “A man will pay double the price for the selfsame girl if she’s wearing silk instead of muslin, if she’s clean and smells of lilacs instead of slatternly and maybe diseased, if she smiles and sweet-talks him instead of haggling and using foul words.”