Ladies In The Parlor

by Tully, Jim

  The doctor sighed and said, “Oh well.”

  Chapter 21

  When another young prostitute was in legal trouble, Selma engaged a lawyer for her. His fee was a hundred dollars. When Selma called at his office to pay the money, the lawyer became amorous. Selma shook her head, saying, “Your price was a hundred dollars and I paid it—mine is ten.”

  Selma might have been of gypsy or Indian parents. She did not know. Her mother had drifted to a small town on the banks of the Mississippi River when Selma was three years old. She was too busy with other things to talk much of her past to Selma.

  She lived in a hovel along the river, the neighbors said for the favors she gave the man who owned it. As she was broken down, her favors were none too desirable. They were at least equal to the hovel in which she lived.

  It was of one room. It contained a chair, a bed, and a rusty stove. The outside was plastered with mud to keep the wind away.

  No other children would play with Selma. The neighbors again claimed that the mother entertained the men who floated up and down the river. If this were true, her entertainment was free, as all her days were spent in squalor.

  Such things made an impression upon Selma.

  Other incidents impressed her more—logs floating down the river, guided by a small tugboat, the crew looking out of the window and waving at her as they passed, the far blue sky with its white-dotted clouds, and the wind making waves of the wheat in distant fields.

  Her childhood, if lonely, was not painful. It might have been an unconscious training for a bigger destiny, had it not contained too many other elements. She learned to know the river, the riffraff along its banks, and the animal life in the water.

  She had marked a turtle which came to the same neighborhood for eight years. One day it grabbed a stick and clung to it. She suddenly discovered a brass ring which some person had put around its neck. In a few more years, as the turtle grew, the ring would choke it to death. She made the turtle a prisoner, and then, with the help of a young hobo along the river, stretched its wrinkled neck and cut the ring.

  They then turned the turtle loose. It hurried away as swiftly as possible, and returned later.

  She was seduced at thirteen by the young hobo who had helped her with the turtle. Her mother had furnished him a cot, and he slept under the eave of the hovel. During the day he would wander about the banks of the river, and around the town, and return with faded magazines and paper-bound books. He remained in the neighborhood for nearly three years.

  He told her that his name was Eddie Ryan.

  “That ain’t my name,” he said, “but it’s just as good as any other. People should change their names, anyhow, like they do their clothes—I mean the rich people.”

  An adept at begging, he would bring food to the house. Having picked up a knowledge of cooking in many jungles, he could prepare it skillfully.

  He had a strange assortment of knowledge. He would tell Selma of far-away places, and of life in large cities. Sometimes he would go away for several days at a time and return with money. As lazy as the river, he did his washing once a week, and allowed his clothes to become smooth, and sometimes even to dry on his body.

  If she talked of other boys, he was indifferent. Jealousy over a girl was too slight for one who had traveled so far. From having lived in red-light districts upon the charity of its citizens, he knew much about women. He told her many things she was never to forget. Like Selma, the young hobo was solitary, and was content to be alone.

  She would spend hours with him in an old canoe. He would tell her about the moon and the stars and how far away they were. Living simply as a dog, he would often talk of riches to Selma. She would listen more attentively than usual.

  One night she asked him more about his life, and where he was born.

  “I wasn’t born no place,” he replied. “All my life I’ve been driftin’ around like the clouds. I don’t want to be nothin’ but a bum—my dad tried to be somethin’ else and all he got was what the little boy shot at.”

  “But suppose,” suggested Selma, “you got to be a rich man.”

  “I’d still be a bum,” was the return.

  “But tell me about yourself, Eddie—how’d you ever come to this town?”

  “On a freight train. The brakie put me off this side of the bridge. I looked up and down the river, and thought it would be a good place to jungle up. I’d been up in Alaska, and I was tired anyhow—then I saw you playin’ along the bank, and I began to talk to you, and here I am ever since.”

  “But don’t you ever get homesick?” Selma asked him.

  “No more than a bird. It don’t pay to get too stuck on people—you’ve got to leave ‘em anyhow when you die; so you might as well begin right away.”

  Some Negroes across the river sang,

  I’m goin’ to libe anyhow until I die—

  I know this kind ob libin’ ain’t very high.

  The hobo boy and Selma listened until the echo of the words were lost along the river.

  “They’ve got the right dope,” said the boy. “They can talk all they want about a rollin’ stone gatherin’ no moss, but a ramblin’ dog always picks up a bone.”

  The friendship between them was broken as suddenly as it began.

  They were picking clams along the river one April morning when Selma said, as if the thought had just struck her, “You know, Eddie, I’m that way.”

  “That way—what?” asked Eddie.

  “You know what I mean—that way.” He still looked bewildered. “I’m goin’ to have a baby.”

  “A baby—what’ll you ever do with a baby—you can’t eat a baby.”

  “No, but I’m goin’ to have one—and what’s more, I want to have one—I’ve been hoping a long time, but nothing ever happened.”

  “So you’re goin’ to have a baby, huh—and you want one—gosh, but women are funny—what do you want all that trouble for?”

  “I don’t know—I just do—that’s all.”

  The hobo boy frowned.

  To placate him, she said, “And we’ll call it after you, Eddie.”

  “All the people’ll laugh,” said the boy.

  “Mother said it was all right with her—she’s glad. Nobody ever knows what we do along the river anyhow.”

  “Well,” said the boy, “you’re the one that’s havin’ it, not me—it ain’t my funeral.”

  No more was said about the coming child.

  In two days the hobo boy drifted down the river on a raft of logs.

  Selma waved at him at the bend in the river beyond her home. For several hundred feet she could still see him waving.

  She never saw him again.

  The baby was born. She called it Eddie.

  That was seven years before. She left home and became a waitress. Consumed with a passion to better the condition of her mother and child, she worked early and late, and often earned as much as two dollars in tips.

  A few men gave her money for favors.

  Young hoboes often begged food at the restaurant. She never failed to give them a few dimes, besides the food.

  The turn of her life came suddenly.

  Three older women sat in the kitchen and soaked their feet in vinegar and hot water at the end of a hard day.

  Selma was mending a white blouse near by.

  Finally a heavy-set waitress said, “If I was as purty as this kid here, I’ll be damned if I’d throw hash all day like she does.”

  Selma looked up as another waitress asked, “What would you do—buy a mint?”

  “No sir—I’d hustle, by God—it beats this all to hell —calloused feet, ugly red hands, fallin’ of the womb—and I don’t know what else.”

  “You’d git a disease, and then where’d you be?” asked the third woman, as she lifted a soaked foot from the water.

  “I’d be all right,” was the answer, “I’d a damn sight sooner have a disease than fallin’ arches. A dose ain’t no worse than a bad cold nowad
ays.”

  Within a year Selma was in a dollar house. In another year she was in a five-dollar house.

  She spent her earnings on her mother and child.

  Besides these two, the dominant things in her life were memories of a turtle that once had a brass ring around its neck and a hobo boy who went down the river on a raft, and never returned.

  Chapter 22

  Upon Mother Rosenbloom’s strict orders, the doors of her establishment were closed at four each morning. Her girls must have rest.

  She had the names of more than a hundred young married women on her list. The hours and days upon which their husbands were absent, and their telephone numbers, the length of time which they could spend with a customer—all was typed opposite their names.

  Mother Rosenbloom would often say, in checking over the lists of these young women, “Dear, dear, what’s marriage coming to?” and shake her head slowly.

  Her six assignation houses were located in quiet aristocratic neighborhoods.

  As many beautiful young women with devoted husbands needed time to make the necessary arrangements, her “matinées” were often arranged weeks in advance.

  It was never proven that Mother Rosenbloom had ever been connected with blackmail.

  Mr. Skinner once had an unfortunate experience in an exclusive hotel room. Two men suddenly burst into the room and caught him in a very awkward position. The girl was supposed to be a sixteen-year-old virgin.

  He paid fifty thousand dollars to the men whom he presumed to be detectives when they suddenly displayed badges. Later, feeling that he had been framed, he complained to the police. The girl was questioned severely.

  In the language of her world, she “stood up” and denied everything. Mr. Skinner had always been a perfect gentleman with her. Being one of “Mother Rosenbloom’s girls” her attitude started the rumor that such girls could be trusted.

  Mother Rosenbloom was said to have received half of the fifty thousand.

  The day after Mr. Skinner complained to the police, a newspaper reporter called upon him.

  He knew the story in detail, and he would like to question Mr. Skinner about certain matters which he wanted to write for the syndicate of papers which he represented.

  Mr. Skinner had become more experienced in such matters. He had the reporter’s claims investigated. To his horror, he discovered that he was the leading feature writer of the city.

  The next day another gentleman called upon Mr. Skinner with an offer of “fixing” the reporter. Fifteen thousand dollars were needed. Mr. Skinner paid.

  For future protection, Mr. Skinner was sent to Mother Rosenbloom. “This is one woman I can trust,” he said. He had nothing further to do with women outside of her house.

  The girl later told her lover the entire story. It was repeated a few times about the city. Fortunately for Mother Rosenbloom, the girl and her lover were killed in an automobile accident soon afterward.

  Mother Rosenbloom went to the funeral. Two days before, a gigantic bouquet of flowers had preceded her.

  Mother Rosenbloom would sit motionless in her favorite chair for many moments. With her hands resting on her immense paunch, which rose and fell several inches with her breathing, she would stare straight before her.

  Only once did she ever mention her husband. It was a quick eulogy to Leora. It was followed as quickly with, “And never get married, dear.”

  If she had emotion at all, it was buried deep in her tremendous body. She was more kind to such girls as Leora, Alice, and Mary Ellen. But a serious expression followed her lightest caress. It was as if she were suddenly warned of an unseen danger.

  Many years before she had become interested in a twelve-year-old orphan boy. He was dark and handsome, and was said to have resembled her husband. She engaged a woman to play the role of mother to him. Mother Rosenbloom visited him once a week, and lavished money and affection upon him. When the boy was sixteen, he ran away and was never heard of again. Mother Rosenbloom had given him money the day before.

  Weeks, months, and years passed. Finally Mother Rosenbloom put away the gold-mounted miniature of him.

  Mother Rosenbloom was more variable than April. When the man of all work nearly died, she was deeply concerned, and hurried him to the hospital.

  He returned in two days.

  Mother Rosenbloom looked at him in amazement and exclaimed, “My God, here you are again, and after all the damn trouble you caused me.”

  A girl came to the house and was given a room. After a month she developed an intense drowsiness from which she could, with difficulty, be aroused. As in the case of the janitor, she was sent to the hospital, where she died. “She’ll get her sleep out now,” said Mother Rosenbloom, as she paid the hospital and funeral expenses.

  Never an ignorant woman, she had no strong convictions. She did not believe in hell; though she clung tenaciously to the hope that all mortals would have a glorious resurrection, where a God would judge them.

  She believed in a whole group of gods, on the theory that if operating one house of prostitution was so much trouble, that surely one world was enough for one God.

  She was never more contented than when listening to discussions on the mysteries of life and death, and the riddle of the stars.

  The easiest way to get her to buy liquor was to start a conversation on a subject which had no earthly solution.

  She would lean forward in her chair, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, her eyes intent on the speaker. She would not voice an opinion. If the conversation lagged, she would ask another question.

  One of the secrets of her popularity with men may have been that her curiosity made her an intense listener.

  She cultivated the young man who whipped “Crying Marie,” until he came to her house regularly after the girl had gone. Her amazement always remained unbounded that a man would rather whip a girl than have sex relations with her.

  For all the other sexual aberrations she had the utmost tolerance. It permeated the entire house, and no girl was allowed to discuss openly anything that happened in her room.

  She set an expensive table. It was laden with choice fruits, wines, and pastries. She was not a heavy eater, and often lectured the girls on the dangers of sweets. The table was always covered with the rarest of linens.

  She would sit at one end, and the girls remained standing until she had been seated.

  A maid stood at her elbow. If a girl wished another helping, she asked Mother Rosenbloom. She commanded the maid.

  Men of finance trusted her judgment. She believed in two commodities—steel and rubber. She invested ten thousand dollars in one of Everlan’s ventures. It grew to three hundred thousand. She then sold half her stock and invested the money in United States bonds, saying, “If the country goes, we all go with it.”

  Many stories were told of her wealth. As nearly as could be computed, it was beyond a million dollars. A confidential secretary came every afternoon.

  Her ramifications in sex reached over the city. She had young women on call at any hour of the day or night. It was sufficient for a man to know that a girl came with a recommendation from Mother Rosenbloom. She once sent six girls across the nation as entertainers for a banker and his party.

  Though her name was never mentioned by the leading men among more orderly women, she was a power among them.

  Taxi drivers worked for her on a percentage basis. If a man spent a hundred dollars in her house, the taxi driver received ten. Mother Rosenbloom’s word was never doubted.

  Pay day was every Saturday.

  Chapter 23

  One night it was announced that Judge Slattery was in the parlor. When Mother and the girls hurried down stairs, they found him in the kitchen explaining a new way to cook a turkey.

  Mother literally dragged him to the parlor. Leora and Doris stood together near the piano. Mother, good as her word, led him to the girls.

  Leora was confused, for the first time in her life, before a man.
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br />   He touched her shoulder and said, “Lovely girl, Mother—very lovely.”

  “She’s been waiting to meet you.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He turned to Doris. “And how are you, Doris—it’s been how long now?”

  “Over a year,” was the answer.

  He turned to Mother Rosenbloom, saying, “It’s all very strange—it was done by a telephone message—otherwise they’d have hunted her for years—and for what?”

  The women did not answer. The judge scanned both girls. “But it’s lovely to be young, eh, Mother?”

  “But, Judge,” said Mother Rosenbloom, “you are always young, and your power is greater than your youth —why the very house blooms when you come.”

  “It should,” said the judge, “it takes me so long.”

  The women laughed merrily, and Leora patted his strong, florid face, and said, “You giant,” and cuddled close to him.

  The girls were never so charming as when entertaining great men. It was a rule in Mother’s house that all men were considered great who spent freely.

  They gathered about the judge, and Selma said, pretending to pout, “It’s the first time I’ve ever been jealous, Leora.”

  The judge held Leora close to him and petted her, saying, “Don’t let them tease you, dear; you know a man when you see one.”

  Leora’s heart beat too fast for words.

  “How old are you?” the judge asked her.

  She started to say, “Sixteen.” The words stopped in her throat.

  “Never mind,” he said, “We’ll call you seventeen.” He smiled at Mother Rosenbloom—”Where do you get these beauties?”

  “They grow like flowers,” replied Mother, “and I picked this one for you.”

  The judge’s arm went about Leora. A current went through her body.

  She held him closely for a moment.

  He moved slightly from her.

  “When is her night off?” he asked Mother.

  Both looked at Leora.