by Tully, Jim
“Have the trunk here taken to the basement,” she ordered, “and telephone the girl whose number I gave you yesterday.”
When the housekeeper had gone, the heavy woman adjusted a curtain more nearly to her satisfaction, then said half aloud, “Oh well, they come and they go; dear, dear.”
Scanning the room again, she started to close the door as Leora passed. Mother Rosenbloom glanced at her quickly and said, “It’s you, dear.”
She pushed a lock of hair from Leora’s forehead before saying, “Well, Marie’s gone. I wonder what will happen in this room next?”
Leora stepped inside the room.
Mother Rosenbloom glanced downward, but could not see the floor for her breasts. Her head went slowly from side to side.
“Do anything as you get older, Leora, but never run a house. There’s nothing in it but sorrow. One gets used to a girl and away she goes again.” She shook her head dolefully. “You were a baby when the first girl went to bed with the first man in this room.” She pulled at the watch chain around her neck. “It’s a long time ago. It was a two-dollar house then—I was the first to raise it from a dollar on this street, and all the other girls thought I’d go broke.” She sighed. “They didn’t know men like I did.” She shook her head impatiently. “The idea of a woman selling her body for a dollar! It’s shameful!”
She wound the watch chain around her fingers. “Why, they’re little more than sluts—and they’re always in heat.”
Mother Rosenbloom’s mood was as heavy as her body.
Leora asked, “Mother, where is the first girl who was in this room, do you know?”
Mother smiled forlornly, “Yes,” she answered; “I wish I didn’t—and I know who the first man was too—and where he is.” She loosened the chain about her fingers. “The man was,” she stopped, “well, you’ll see him, so it doesn’t matter—he was Judge Slattery. He’s the biggest man in the state—and hard as a wedding tool if he doesn’t like you—and a regular baby if he does. We’ve known each other a long time—came up in sin together, God have mercy on us both.”
The radio could be heard down stairs. “Shut that damn thing off,” Mother Rosenbloom called. “It’d wake the dead in London.”
It stopped suddenly, while Mother Rosenbloom continued, “The damn things are like drunken whores in church—always chattering and saying nothing. If some one sings a good song, some idiot talks about pills right after.” Again Mother Rosenbloom wound the chain around her fingers. Leora could hear it scraping against the diamonds on Mother’s hand.
“I thought Santa Claus brought you that radio, Mother,” said Leora.
“I guess he did—and no one ever yet shot Santa Claus, but I feel like it every time I hear that damned noise box—why I’d sooner have an auctioneer in the house.”
It was a full minute before Mother caught her breath.
Leora smiled. Mother looked at the beautiful girl, and smiled back at her, saying, with a sad note in her voice, “What a lovely thing you are, child—you’re only fit for the Pope—damn it, that’s sacrilege—but,” she sighed, “if I were a man I’d rather spend a wedding night with you than go to heaven in the morning.”
The gigantic woman’s eyes rested upon her. Leora did not know what to say. Finally she asked, “What about the first woman in this room, Mother? You didn’t tell me about her.”
Mother looked around the room. “There’s nothing much to tell, dear child,—Judge Brandon Slattery kept her a long time. He was nice to her, as he always is to everybody—then she ran away with a dago the judge introduced her to. The judge was hurt in his pride—they found her dead in a few months, and the dago was dead beside her. The papers made a lot of it for a day, and then it died down—as Judge Slattery says, ‘as dead as yesterday’s headline.’ No one ever knew who killed them. When they told Judge Slattery he just said, ‘Poor girl—that dago got her no place fast.’”
“You don’t mean the judge had them killed?”
Mother Rosenbloom twirled her watch and smiled, “No indeed—the judge wouldn’t do that—he’s always able to pick up three women if he loses one—most any man is—the judge really felt very bad about the whole thing— It’s just possible that some one did it thinking they were doing the judge a favor—people love him so much they’d kill for him— I’ve never seen the like of it in all my born days.” With a bewildered expression, Mother Rosenbloom took Leora by the arm and left the room.
“You’re meeting Judge Brandon Slattery soon,” she said to the girl. “He’s a very dear friend of mine. He’s the only one like him ever born, and they broke the cradle he laid in. He likes to be rich so he can give things away—and he can do more with a fist full of words than another man can with a whole dictionary, and if he ever saw the inside of a college it was when he went to loan a student money. As I often say, he can charm a bird out of a tree—the dogs follow him on the street, and he runs the state—if I didn’t believe in God—I’d believe there was something—that made a man like him.
“There’s no politician like him in the world—he really likes people, and he likes to do favors—he’s sad when people are sad, and he’s hungry when they’re hungry there’s something eating at his heart—but he’s always laughing— One time when he was here with a half dozen big men they all got to talking about the people—one man—he as the Lieutenant Governor then—said that they were a lot of cattle and they’d stamp you to death if you didn’t watch them—and the judge said, `Maybe you’re right—I often get blue myself—for in my heart I’ve always wanted to give them my best, and they take my worst—but it’s no use to blame them—what chance have they had—it’s a wonder to me they’re as fine as they are— I heard a line in a play about a moth flying toward a star—it stuck in my mind ever since,—for that’s what they are—only they don’t get very far till the sun comes up and burns their wings off—and the birds eat them before they reach the ground.’ I knew he meant it—he’s that way. He could be a millionaire fifty times over if he wanted to be—and I suppose he’s worth a million now—no cloud ever threw rain like he throws money. He has his own doctor and dentist take care of all the poor people he sends to them—and he pays them by the year—one time I asked him why he did it and he said he’d had a toothache once when he was a kid and he didn’t sleep for a week.”
When they reached the door to Leora’s room, Mother Rosenbloom paused in her walk.
“He’s often told me that a woman in a house like this could keep a secret closer than any man—and he’s really the kindest listener in the world— I’m sure he was meant to be a priest.” Mother sighed deeply. “But I’m glad he wasn’t—for I’d never know him like I do now—and he’s the richest thing that’s ever come into my life—and to think that a woman left him for a Dago —but, oh hell—women have no sense—look at the men they marry.” Mother Rosenbloom opened Leora’s door. “Well, dearie,” she said, “you’ll have to dress for the evening—and it’s getting late.” Holding her watch in her hand, Mother Rosenbloom went very slowly toward her own quarters. Leora watched her for a moment, and then went into her room.
She sat on the edge of her bed for a long time. Mother Rosenbloom’s words about Judge Brandon Slattery still echoed in her brain. She repeated the name—Brandon Slattery.
She had remembered hearing it several years before, when her father, after reading a newspaper, said that grafters like Brandon Slattery would all be put in the penitentiary. “It’s men like him what’s wrong with our country,” she remembered hearing him shout to her mother.
Certain stray things always remained in Leora’s mind—especially if they were something unusual about a person. The unusual thing this time was the name—Brandon Slattery.
There may have been perhaps another reason. She would naturally lean toward anyone whom her father wanted to punish.
As on the day she saw the coffins dangling from a tree, she could now see millions of people with the wings of moths. All were valiantly flying tow
ards the sun.
The old days when she attended the shows with her aunt and Alice returned to her.
With a mind too hard for the usual day-dreams, she was now in fancy at the theatre with Judge Slattery.
She smiled grimly in the mirror. Here she was dreaming about a man she had never seen.
A knock came to her door. It was Mary Ellen. “My, aren’t you dressed yet—it’s about dinner time. The professor’s brought the mail.”
She handed Leora a letter. It was from Dr. Farway, and enclosed was a certified check for one hundred dollars. He explained that he would send her a check each month, realizing as he did that her salary while learning to be a model would not be a great deal.
He believed all the lies she had written.
Seeing her set expression, Mary Ellen said, “You look like you’ve heard from the one and only—tell me what he looks like.”
“Oh, he’s a man,” smiled Leora.
“So is mine—he wants me to come back and marry him.”
As the girls gathered about Mother Rosenbloom in the parlor, Leora took her aside and said, “Please, Mother—will you do something for me?”
“Yes, Child—what is it?”
“I would like to meet Judge Slattery.”
“I’ll arrange it. That is why I told you about him.”
Leora had never been so pleased before.
There was a soft light in Mother’s eyes.
“Why, Mother,” she said, “I’m afraid you’re in love with him—is it possible that you’re having an affair—.”
Mother never sighed more deeply, “No, Leora,” she at last said, “I’m sorry—I wish it were true—but there’s never been but the one man—there’s something inside of me that’s always kept me from sampling what I sell.”
“Why, Mother,” and Leora kissed her heavily painted cheek impulsively.
“Yes, dear—it’s the truth—but if I had to pick—his name would be Brandon Slattery.” She smiled, “He’s not a judge—he just looks like one ought to look—so the people call him that.”
Chapter 17
Though Mother Rosenbloom conducted an exclusive establishment, she belonged to the old school of madams. She believed in the “parlor system.”
A gentleman caller in many exclusive houses saw only the girl he visited. In Mother Rosenbloom’s house all the girls not otherwise engaged went to the parlor each time there was a visitor. The caller made his selection from among the girls. It was the custom for the caller to buy liquor before taking the girl “up stairs.”
Mother Rosenbloom believed it was bad luck if a man left her house without spending money.
She clung to her old method for the reason that she believed the minds of men varied. The man who wanted a blonde one night might prefer a brunette the next.
Mother Rosenbloom tried to eliminate jealousy among the girls who stayed at her house.
“There is a man in the world for all of us,” she used to say, “and naturally a man cannot take all of you to the room at once.”
As a consequence there was a friendlier spirit in her house. A girl with a man guest in her room would praise one of the other girls, and, if possible, create desire in his mind. This method was successful in Mother Rosenbloom’s house and often the same caller would take a different girl upon each visit.
Mother Rosenbloom’s rule was rigid, but never unfair. She commanded obedience and affection at the same time.
To her, love for men was useless. She tried in every manner possible to crush it out of the hearts of her girls. If she did not like men, she liked women even less. Sex was an eternal war to her, covered by smiles and deceits—but a war in which a truce was always dangerous. If the enemy were too kind, he was considered a fool by Mother Rosenbloom.
She was proud of her girls and protected them at all times. “There’s no nicer group of ladies anywhere,” she would often say to gentlemen who bought liquor. She selected them with care, and only once was she ever completely disappointed.
A mild-mannered girl came to take “Crying Marie’s” place in the house. Though Mother Rosenbloom considered her too flamboyantly dressed, she still had confidence in her judgment that the girl would fit well into the establishment.
Within two weeks the girl became so imperious that Mother Rosenbloom decided to reprimand her. She went to the girl’s room.
Before she could say a great deal to her, the girl broke into a torrent of abuse. Mother Rosenbloom clutched her watch with perfect poise and waited for the storm to subside.
She had allowed a canary to be placed each day in the girl’s room so that the morning sun could shine upon it.
While the girl still raved, Mother Rosenbloom gazed at the chirping yellow bird.
At last, unable to say more, the girl stood gasping, while Mother Rosenbloom still gazed at the canary.
“Sure, I can leave your damned house,” the girl screamed; then rushing toward the canary as if it were to blame for the scene, she grabbed it out of its cage and flushed it down the toilet.
Mother Rosenbloom never moved more quickly. She was too late to save the bird. Trembling with rage, she slapped the girl twice. The girl slumped to the floor.
Mother Rosenbloom looked at the empty cage and sighed.
Then, calling the housekeeper, she said, “Miss Revel has decided to leave.”
She remained in her rooms all the rest of the day. Late that night Mary Ellen, becoming anxious about her, timidly rang the chimes at her door.
“Come in,” Mother Rosenbloom called.
When Mary Ellen stepped into the room she saw that Mother Rosenbloom’s eyes were red. She sat, a crumbling mountain of flesh, on the edge of her bed.
“It was nice of you to come to see me, Mary Ellen—do you girls know that damned little whore killed my canary?”
“No, Mother, we didn’t. We just knew she left.”
“Well, damn her hide,” exclaimed Mother, “it’s a wonder I didn’t kill her—that poor innocent bird to be killed by a crazy whore.”
Mother Rosenbloom sobbed, while Mary Ellen consoled her.
Chapter 18
Mary Ellen came from a long line of farmers. Her great grandfather had taken up a thousand acres from the government more than a hundred years before.
He built a huge brick house on the farm. It had two stories, a great attic, and was surmounted by a cupola of ten windows. The rooms were all large, high ceilinged, and square. There were deep porches on three sides of the house. The lawn occupied about two acres of ground. Across the drive was a grove of several hundred large native oaks, while around the house were many more.
A flagstone walk led from the house to the roadway.
The house was finished all through in black walnut.
Her grandfather and father were born in this house. “It’s a place that has lived,” Mary Ellen told Leora, “so many people were born and married and died there. I used to lie awake at night and listen to the wind in the trees and imagine it was their ghosts talking to one another.”
When Mary Ellen’s grandfather was fifty he married a girl of eighteen. She had ten children.
She would become hysterical and throw herself on the ground each time she discovered herself with child. It would require several people to keep her in bed before the baby was born. Five of her children died in infancy.
“I must take after my grandmother,” Mary Ellen said to Leora. “There were bees in her bonnet too.”
All in the house were fond of Mary Ellen. She was cheerful, generous, and kind by nature.
She would take long walks in the country at every opportunity and would stop to pat the heads of the horses in the meadows and the dogs who ran toward her.
Her mother was a widow with three children when she married Mary Ellen’s father.
They made a compact between them. He would provide a home for her children and be a father to them on one stipulation—that she would have a child for him. They married and settled in the large hous
e.
Mary Ellen was born a year later.
Her childhood was happy.
On summer evenings she would go up to the cupola and remain alone. The farm and the ancient oaks, softened by the moonlight, were very beautiful. The child could see the shadows of the leaves on the “carriage house” and the white road stretching by.
The “carriage house,” its ancient glory departed, was now the garage. It was always called the “carriage house.”
She would often walk down the road on moonlit nights and call; then wait for the echo of her voice to return, while the crickets and the owls, and other revelers of the night, would make weird noises.
In the early morning the child could hear the cooing of doves in the quiet neighborhood.
Her home was a haven for birds. Her father would not allow a gun on the farm. They nested everywhere in the wide trees and at dawn the place was alive with song.
Each spring the scent of apple blossoms would be heavy in the air. There were rows of apple trees behind the house and when the earth became warm they were a mass of pink and white bloom.
It was Mary Ellen’s self-appointed task each year to fill the house with apple blossoms.
The wind would howl on winter nights and the snow would scud against the windows and give the child a feeling of security.
Whole weeks would pass in which the trees were weighted with snow. The sun shining upon them made them gleam like myriads of diamonds.
During the winter there were many entertainments at the school-house, and Mary Ellen, who read well aloud, would always be one of the principals.
As the ground was generally covered with snow, the family would go to the school in a bobsled, the runners creaking over the snow-crusted road.
Christmas Eve was gay in the large house. The family would rise in the morning before daybreak and go down stairs together. A loaded Christmas tree stood near the window.
Each year the threshing machine came to her house, accompanied by a dozen men. It would remain about a week. The air would be full of flying chaff as the grain was threshed. The women of the house prepared food for the men.