The Chaperone

by Laura Moriarty

  “Ladies,” Winnifred continued, “I’ve invited you here today because I’ve been told that each of you is well connected and respected in the community. It’s my hope that you’ll each sign your name to a petition against these sorts of displays and advertisements, and that you’ll work with me to create a decency code for downtown.”

  Up and down the table, there were murmurs of agreement and nodding heads. Cora fidgeted with her napkin, unsure what to do. She’d just enjoyed all that fresh melon and a glass of tea at Winnifred Fitch’s expense; she couldn’t very well excuse herself now. But she hadn’t dreamed this brunch would be a call to arms against condoms. Really, Cora thought, the druggist’s displays weren’t so very startling. For years, McCall’s had been advertising Lysol as a “feminine hygiene aid for nervous wives,” and everyone knew what they were really promising: no pregnancy and no disease. Cora’s doctor warned that it was all nonsense: Lysol wouldn’t stop a baby and could likely do serious damage to a woman. That warning was fine for Cora, who, as a married woman, had the alternative of a prescription diaphragm—once she worked up the nerve to ask for it. But what about someone like Greta? Cora was actually relieved that these days a girl, or at least her beau, could walk into a drugstore and find what was needed. It wasn’t that she wanted Greta to have intimate relations at seventeen—Cora didn’t think much of the boyfriend. But young people would be young people, whether the druggists got rid of the displays or not. Just the week before, Cora received a solicitation letter from two Wichita doctors hoping to start a charity home for unwed mothers. The doctors wrote that some of the girls they wanted to help were very young, and that they came from good homes and bad.

  So during Winnifred’s speech, Cora was quiet. She listened to the ticking of her watch and focused on the feel of the theater’s cool air against her skin. There was no point in arguing with a table full of women who seemed as certain of what was acceptable and what was not as Cora herself had once been. Cora wouldn’t be able to change their minds, certainly not over brunch. She would only be ostracized. All she could hope was to manage her escape without actually signing anything.

  Ethel Montgomery cleared her throat. “We might do better to stand against all types of immorality,” she offered. “Did you know there’s a current movement to legalize beer in Kansas so long as it’s of a certain weakness? They aim to do away with Prohibition here, too. Winnifred, I’m certainly sympathetic with your concerns, but I think we could work to uphold temperance as well. It seems to me these two issues are two sides of the same leaf.”

  Cora worked not to sigh. The rest of the country had already deemed Prohibition a failed experiment. But Kansas hadn’t yet budged. Still, the Wichita Eagle estimated that the city’s inhabitants drank two hundred gallons of illegal alcohol a day. So much for enforced temperance. Two sides of the same leaf indeed.

  The caterers were quietly filling glasses with water, and Cora recognized one of them as Della’s youngest son, who was around the same age as Howard and Earle. She smiled, but he either didn’t see it or pretended not to.

  “I like your thinking,” Winnifred said. She took her seat, whispering a thank you as her own glass was filled. “But that’s a more expensive fight. The wets are well funded and well organized. I know most of us are hard pressed right now.” She paused with a wry little smile. “If we want to take on alcohol, we’ll have to get creative. Is anyone here related to a millionaire? A shipping magnate, perhaps?”

  There was polite laughter. Viola, sitting at Cora’s right, gave her a friendly nudge. “Cora knows Louise Brooks.”

  Cora turned and stared at her blankly.

  Ethel Montgomery rolled her eyes. “Somehow I doubt she would support a ban on obscenity.”

  “She doesn’t have any money anyway,” added Virginia. “She declared bankruptcy, I thought. She told the papers she had nothing left but her wearing apparel.”

  Someone else clucked her tongue. “All those furs. Poor thing.”

  Cora looked at the ceiling, the sandbags and ropes, the dark stage lights. When Louise was still living in Wichita, when she was just a pretty black-haired girl performing anywhere her mother could book her, she may have twirled and jumped across this very stage for applauding classmates and neighbors. Cora looked over her shoulder, at the rows of empty seats.

  “How could she be bankrupt?” Viola shook her head. “I knew she’d divorced, but she got married again, didn’t she? Some millionaire in Chicago?”

  “She left him,” said the woman who’d clucked her tongue. “That marriage was even shorter than her first.”

  “If she’s bankrupt again, she might go back to him. That’s what her mother did.”

  Cora lowered her eyes. Myra was back in town. Her children were all grown, but she was living with Leonard again—just the two of them in that big house on North Topeka. Cora heard she’d simply run out of money, and that her health wasn’t good. Everyone thought it was generous of Leonard to have taken her back.

  “Louise Brooks won’t have to go back to anyone,” Virginia said. “If she divorced another millionaire, she should be set up nicely.”

  “I hope so for her sake. What is she now, thirty? Already twice divorced. That would make a man think twice. And Hollywood seems to have tired of her. She hasn’t been in anything in years.”

  Winnifred smiled faintly. “Perhaps even Hollywood doesn’t want to hold up as an example a woman who takes marriage so lightly. Now regarding the fundraising—”

  “It was the talkies,” Virginia said. “That’s what I heard. She didn’t have the voice for them. A lot of the people who were big in the silents just looked good. Now you’ve got to sound good, too. It’s a whole different style of acting. That’s why she had to make those films in Germany, to try to get a little more mileage out of her face. She didn’t have a voice for sound.”

  “She has a fine voice,” Cora said. “There’s nothing wrong with her voice.”

  Every face turned toward her. Viola raised her brows.

  “And she’s been in talkies,” Cora added. “It Pays to Advertise was a talkie.”

  “I forgot she was even in that,” said Viola. “That was the last one she was in, wasn’t it? And that was four years ago.”

  “Which one was that?” Ethel asked. “I don’t know that I saw it.”

  “Carole Lombard was in it. She was the lead. Louise Brooks just had a side part.” Viola turned back to Cora. “So what was it? If it wasn’t her voice, why did she go bankrupt? Used to be you couldn’t go to the theater without seeing her face, and now you don’t. Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know,” Cora said. “I’m not in contact with her.” She looked at the center of the table and raised her voice. “Sorry. I only know she has a good voice. I don’t know anything else.”

  No one replied. Cora realized she’d perhaps spoken more forcefully than she’d planned. She didn’t want to keep sitting at this table. She scooted back her chair.

  “Cora?” Viola touched her knee. “You’re not leaving? Don’t. We were just asking. Are you upset?”

  Cora shook her head, tight-lipped. She was upset, but she wasn’t yet sure she had a right to be. They weren’t asking her anything about Louise that she hadn’t wondered herself. But then, she had been wondering without any glee, while these women were clearly pleased that Louise, once so high above them, seemed to have fallen so fast. Now they wanted the story, details. Cora had none to give.

  “I just need to be on my way,” Cora said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for the brunch, Winnifred. What a treat to dine in this cool air.” She forced a smile, pushed in her chair, and started toward the stairs to the right of the stage.

  “Before you go, you should sign the petition.” It was Winnifred, calling after her.

  Cora moved down the steps, watching her feet in the dim light. So much for her quiet escape. But maybe a little honesty was called for.

  “No. I think the drugstore displays are fine.” She
paused, pulling on her gloves. “But thank you for brunch, anyway.”

  Without looking up, she opened her purse, took out six quarters, and dropped them into the mason jar at the edge of the stage. There was no sound but coins against glass, echoing through the theater, and then her clutch snapping shut. A little dramatic, maybe, but that was fine. This was, after all, a theater. As she made her way up the carpeted aisle, the women behind her were quiet, waiting. She breathed deeply, taking in all the cool, clean air that she could, knowing she’d soon be outside.

  She might have left the brunch early anyway. It was a Friday, and Joseph would be home by noon. He’d long ago arranged to get to work early every morning so he could have Monday and Friday afternoons off. He’d told the lead engineer he was an early riser, and that he liked those solitary hours, just before and after dawn, when he could tinker with the engines and wings and landing gear in silence. He was good enough at his job that this preference was indulged without much inquiry. No one put together or cared that Della only came to the house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If a widower wanted to get off work early twice a week so he could relax at home while his married sister kept house, that was no one’s concern.

  When she walked in, the house was silent and, with the fans running and the curtains in the parlor closed, almost comfortable.

  “Hello?” She stood in the entry, brushing off her skirt. “Joseph?”

  “I am here.” He appeared in the front room’s doorway, wearing trousers and a clean T-shirt. His hair was still wet from the shower, which he’d built onto the bathtub earlier that year—he didn’t like the dust in the bathwater. Now everyone in the house took showers instead of baths, mostly to save on water, though Cora didn’t miss scrubbing the beige waterline from the tub.

  “How was the ice-cold brunch?” He moved toward her and leaned in to kiss her, smelling of mint. “Did your tea freeze in your cups?”

  Instead of answering, she stepped away, glancing into the parlor and then the dining room.

  “No one is here,” he said. But he didn’t move toward her again.

  “I’ll just go round to make certain.” She unpinned her hat and smiled. “Have you eaten?”

  She wasn’t always the cautious one. Sometimes it was Joseph who had to remind her that their privacy was never certain. A friend could stop by. A neighbor might glance through a window. And there was always the possibility of their greatest fear—Greta coming home early. But the high school was far enough away that if Greta ever fell ill in the middle of the day, she would need to call for a ride home. And for the last two summers, she’d worked part-time in Alan’s office, filing and answering the phone. Cora had asked Alan to call at once if Greta ever left the office early, especially on a Monday or Friday. Alan, always the gentleman, had agreed without question or comment.

  Over the years, Cora and Joseph had spent a good portion of their limited private moments anguishing over whether or not to tell Greta the truth. But it always felt too dangerous. When Greta was twelve, she and her friend Betty Ann Wills had a terrible row after Betty Ann, left alone in Greta’s room while Greta finished chores downstairs, read enough of Greta’s diary to become upset with the way she’d been described. The girls exchanged angry words, and after Betty Ann left, Greta was inconsolable, tearfully insisting to Cora that her diary was for her private thoughts, and that what she’d written hadn’t been meant for Betty Ann’s eyes. Even as Cora agreed and comforted her, she was relieved Greta hadn’t been able to write anything far more damaging in her diary. Joseph and Alan agreed it was proof they had to keep lying to the girl they all loved. Betty Ann Mills might have held all their lives in her grubby, ten-year-old hands.

  But the longer they waited, the less likely it seemed they would ever be able to tell her the truth. Now she was almost an adult, and she’d grown up believing Cora was her blood relation, her aunt. Greta didn’t look anything like Cora; she was blond and tall and still so thin, which caused her great distress, as curves were back in fashion. But she once pointed out, quite happily, that she and Cora had similar noses and hands. “I know from pictures I look like my mother, at least in the face,” she told Cora. “But it’s nice that I look like you, too. And your mother died when you were a baby. You and Papa both know how I feel.”

  There was no telling what the news would do to her, or what she would do with the news. Every other member of the household mistrusted Greta’s boyfriend, Vern, as he had made a long but as yet unsuccessful campaign to convince Greta to abandon her plans to go to university after graduation. Joseph had made the strategic decision not to get into a tug-of-war with the young man, and so no one overtly voiced his or her dislike for Vern. Greta still considered herself very much in love, so it seemed likely that if and when she learned the truth about her aunt Cora, she might confide in Vern, even if they asked her not to. Vern seemed to Cora capable of great spite, and they would all be in that much more danger.

  And so they’d kept on with their secret, even at home. They knew they might be making a terrible mistake, and that if Greta discovered them by accident, she might be irreparably wounded. Then again, as of now, she appeared happy, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that if they didn’t tell her, she might very well stay that way. After all, Howard and Earle had grown up with a lie.

  But it was fair to say that year after year, Joseph and Cora’s happiness was compromised, keeping their secret not just from Greta, but from almost everyone. They could go on walks or to movies or to the theater together, anything a brother and sister might do. But they couldn’t hold hands, or use each other’s names too often. They might have gotten away with dancing, but they didn’t try. She once complained to Alan how wearying it all was.

  I’m sorry, Alan had said. I’m so sorry.

  It wasn’t what she’d wanted or what she’d meant. Alan was still her great friend, and now, her only confidant. She didn’t blame him. On the contrary. She meant to say she understood.

  “You are upset? The brunch was not good?”

  Joseph reached over and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. They were sitting on the couch in the parlor, the heavy curtains shutting out the sunlight. There was a time when these afternoons alone always began with a rush upstairs, to his room or hers. Sometimes they still began that way. But more often than not, they just wanted to spend their time sitting close and talking, his hand free to rest on her leg, her head free to lean on his shoulder.

  She turned to him and smiled. She was upset, but she’d tried to hide it. They only had a few hours together, and she didn’t want to waste them complaining about Winnifred Fitch’s brunch. But she was still thinking of Louise. In truth, she was worrying, which seemed as silly as it always did. Louise was likely fine. She could be moving on to another marriage to another millionaire. And perhaps she’d grown tired of Hollywood, and not the other way around. That seemed entirely possible.

  In any case, Cora hoped she was fine. It occurred to her, just then, sitting next to Joseph on the sofa, that this hope for Louise was something to be proud of, proof she hadn’t belonged at that brunch. A thought came to her. It was just an idea, a wild thought. But already, the annoyance and confusion she’d felt that morning shifted into a restlessness that didn’t feel bad. A grasshopper, undistressed by their presence, moved slowly up the opposite wall.

  She lifted her head. “I got a letter from some doctors the other day.” She saw the worry on Joseph’s face and took his hand. “No no. Nothing about me. I’m fine. I just know one of them from the club. He and another doctor, and a donor who wasn’t named… They’re starting a home for girls in Wichita who are… well, who are pregnant and not married. They’re trying to get a board of directors together.” She watched the ceiling fan spin, Joseph’s hand warm in hers. He was a patient listener, which was so helpful at a time like this, when even she didn’t know where she was headed. “They’d like to have a woman on the board. Mostly fundraising.” She smiled. “They said they wanted a woman o
f good repute, which was why they contacted me.”

  He reached down and squeezed the flesh of her hip. “Good repute,” he said.

  She pretended to fluff her bobbed curls with the flat of her palm.

  “They only write you?”

  “I don’t know. No one mentioned it at the brunch this morning. But then, unwed mothers aren’t a popular cause.”

  He drummed his fingers on her leg. As clean as he was, as hard as he scrubbed when he came home from work, his nails were usually lined in black. Oil from the engines.

  “You are wanting to do this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She stared up at the fan. It would be taking on so much. But then, Greta would leave for college next year. Already, Cora spent most of her days reading. Howard and his wife had a new baby, but they lived in Houston. Earle and his wife had no children yet, and in any case, they were in St. Louis. “I’m forty-nine years old,” she said. “I’m not sure I should be starting up with something I don’t know anything about.”

  He smiled. “I have felt this way.”

  She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Of course. She’d forgotten. She rarely thought of all he’d lost, how he’d had to start over, following her out here with nothing but his daughter. He’d not only climbed back up—he’d climbed higher. Prohibition was still alive and well in the state of Kansas, but he was free to go back to New York, or just about anywhere, and start brewing again. But now he loved working on the planes, the constant puzzles and challenges each plan presented. He didn’t want to go back to brewing, he said. If Kansas legalized alcohol tomorrow—they both knew this was unlikely, but if it did happen—he might stop at a bar and have a beer now and then. Otherwise, his life wouldn’t change.