by John Jakes
“Oh, I do.” He shed his robe and flung it down, then clawed open the knot of his pajama trousers and let them fall. “I understand fully, you gutter bitch. Now will you undress yourself or shall I do it by tearing those things from your back?”
Elstree reeled out the door. Blood streaked the right side of his face, leaking from a wound at the hairline. When he’d tried to have her a second time, rolling her onto her belly and pulling her up into position, she’d groped for a lady’s mirror, smashed it, and fought him with a scrap of silvered glass.
He’d knocked the mirror fragment out of her hand. She’d jumped off the bed, cracking him on the forehead with the stool from the dressing table. For a few seconds he was too groggy to fight back. She shoved him to the door and pushed him out.
He stood shivering in the sitting room area. He was naked, bleeding at the temple; a large bruise was already purpling over his right kidney, where she’d kicked him, crying out that she wouldn’t be used again the way he used her the first time. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe their wedding night had degenerated into a physical struggle, consummated by what amounted to rape.
The train clicked and rattled; the car rocked. His hand groped for the clean starched cloth Melton had laid on the dining table. He swabbed blood from his face, then threw the stained cloth under the table and returned to the rosewood door. She’d locked it.
“Juliette, unlock this door. I’m your husband, I demand you let me in.”
“I don’t know what you are. You’re not what you led me to believe. I thought we’d have a calm life, if nothing else. What a dreadful, awful mistake. You’re some kind of wild animal.”
He beat on the door. “Let me in.”
“And have you do what you did before? Oh no,” she sobbed.
He pounded the door with both fists. She had cheated him, deceived him, denied him the respectable virgin-wife he wanted for a showpiece. She was a fraud, her damned old mother was a fraud … he found himself almost baying with rage, cold and naked in the swaying car.
“Mist’ Elstree?”
He whirled; Melton’s head was poking from the galley. The cuff of a worn flannel nightgown showed where Melton’s black hand clutched the galley curtain.
“You damn nigger, what are you looking at? Get back in there—no, wait. Where’s the dog? Bring me the damn dog.” He lurched to the window nearest the bedroom door, twisted the catches, wrestled the window all the way up. A typhoon of night air blew in.
Trembling, Melton brought Rudy out on his little sapphire-studded leash, a wedding present from Elstree to Juliette even though he loathed the animal. The Pomeranian recognized Elstree and wagged. Elstree grabbed the dog, jammed it under his arm, quickly looped the leash around the dog’s body.
“Now go to bed and don’t come out for any reason or I’ll flay your hide.”
Melton bowed his head and retreated behind the curtain.
Elstree ran back to the window. God help him, he was stiff as an iron pipe again. And shocked to see the discoloration of the kidney bruise. He’d never imagined the girl had such backbone. But then, she’d been defending herself; his lovemaking had not been exactly gentle.
The next time would be less so.
He raised his voice to be heard above the roar of wind and track noise. “Juliette? Are you listening?”
The wheels rattled and banged; the locomotive’s mournful whistle sounded twice.
“You’d better let me know you’re listening, I’ve got your shitty little dog right here in my arms. Speak, Rudy.” He gave the Pomeranian’s neck a vicious pinch. Rudy yelped. “Did you hear him? If you did, tap on the door.”
She tapped the door.
“That’s better. Now you listen to me.” Rudy started to writhe in his hands and kick frantically, trying to scratch free of his captor. Elstree held him tight. “I’m standing by a window. It’s open. I’m going to put Rudy out the window and hold him there. If you don’t let me in, I swear I’ll drop him. There’s only one ruler in this marriage, and it isn’t you, you slut.”
No answer.
Elstree grasped the dog’s neck with both hands and thrust him through the window opening. “I’m holding him outside now. One more second and I’m going to throw him under the wheels.”
The key turned in the lock of the rosewood door.
Trembling with the excitement of victory, Elstree yanked the dog back inside and slammed the window. He practically threw Rudy to the other end of the car. Yelping, Rudy flew into a leather chair, peed all over the chair cushion, then jumped to the floor and raced up and down, barking.
Elstree laughed. This felt good.
He opened the door and grinned at the sight of his young wife, her body rounded into a ball under the satin bed sheet, her black hair tangled over her shoulders, her gray eyes watching him with something close to mortal terror. The right eye was already puffy.
“Now that’s better, Juliette. Submissive. Like a proper female. Like a proper whore.”
He shut the door and gave her a moment to drink in his bloodied face, his bruised belly, his mammoth erection. Then he jumped on the end of the bed.
Outside, the Pomeranian ran up and down, chewing at a cigar stand, peeing again … frantic. He crouched under the dining table, trembling, making whimpering noises. Another sound, not dissimilar, came from behind the rosewood door.
77
Rose
BY THE LATE SUMMER of 1896, Rose’s intimate relationship with Paul Dresser was over. But they remained good friends and still slept together occasionally. He’d helped her find a small and affordable furnished flat on East Eighteenth Street. Following his advice, she now called herself Rose French and had a small bank account in that name.
Also at Paul’s urging, she’d begun to read regularly. Mostly the gossip newspapers and women’s magazines. From them she was gaining a knowledge of fashion and learning how to recognize and find inexpensive imitations of French styles at the department stores.
She worked hard to purge grammatical lapses from her speech. It made her feel better about herself. She owed a lot to Paul, including her job at Tony Pastor’s New Fourteenth Street Theater. Paul had spoken personally with Mr. Pastor, “the king of variety,” and helped her prepare two songs for an audition. Now she was “Rose French, the International Soubrette.” Fourth from the top of the bill, typically just above the trained-dog act or the balancing artist who performed headstands and handstands on barrels and chairs, and just below a team of Irish comics, Jewish comics, blackface comics. Sometimes Mr. Pastor himself topped the bill, warbling sentimental ballads and humorous numbers he had composed.
Pastor ran two shows a night for his chosen audience of tourists and ribbon clerks, their frumpy wives and gap-toothed brats. The burly, mustached Pastor, a refugee from the circus, had cleaned up the traditional variety bill to encourage family patronage. There was never so much as one racy song or skit in his theater, and prominently on the doorkeeper’s booth backstage was a placard warning the artists not to take the Lord’s name in vain on the premises.
Despite the moral constraints—they were only superficial anyway—Pastor’s was an exciting place to work. It was in the heart of New York theater, just off Union Square on the north side of Fourteenth Street, near Third Avenue. The famous Academy of Music was a short walk to the west, and outside the Morton House on Union Square, in warm weather, you could mingle with a flock of unemployed male actors who hung about hoping to pick up odd jobs, onstage or offstage. That section of the block was affectionately called the Slave Market.
Pastor’s theater was a handsome, well-kept house tucked into the first floor of an office building of red brick trimmed with white marble. White Corinthian columns decorated its portico, and bevel-glass doors and white marble floor tile enhanced its lobby. The imposing proscenium arch featured a large bas-relief of the goddess Terpsichore.
The building itself was owned by New York’s Tammany Society. Many an evening Tammany�
�s most important sachems, sleek portly men with glittering finger rings and sly eyes, would lounge in unsold boxes, courtesy of Pastor, who was a pal to all of them.
Of late, to clear the house, Pastor’s had begun showing a short program of the new living pictures at the end of the bill. This was in direct response to similar programs at Koster and Bial’s on West Twenty-third. Rose found the flickers a mildly diverting novelty, but nothing more. She was far more interested in the prosperous gentlemen who occasionally bought a five-dollar private box.
Rose’s act consisted of fast and slow numbers. “Clementine” and “Annie Laurie.” “Little Brown Jug” and “Old Folks at Home.” “Just Tell Them That You Saw Me” was always good for a big hand. For her finale she did a military medley that closed with “Maryland, My Maryland,” a song that drew a standing ovation if there were some old Rebs out front.
Even at a house as successful as Pastor’s, however, Rose’s pay wasn’t enough to support her as stylishly as she wished. Her salary covered the rent but not the little extras. Lace garters. Dark red pumps. Bottles of good wine. She earned money for the niceties by sharing her favors with those gentlemen in the five-dollar boxes who sought her out afterward. An insurance broker from Rahway, New Jersey. The owner of a farm implement store in central Indiana. Married men, most of them. Dull and harmless, but smart enough to catch on to small hints she made when she was intimate with them. Most left twenty or thirty dollars in the morning. Left it on the empty pillow if she was still asleep, or tucked it in her garter if she got up to brew coffee. She did that for the ones she guessed to be very well off.
She took their money, but only as a gift, an appreciation. She wasn’t a whore—and would have fought anyone who said she was—because whores had no chance of attracting the right gentleman. One who was rich and well-bred, who wanted a pleasant, steady arrangement in New York and was willing to pay for it.
So far that paragon hadn’t shown up. She was beginning to feel discouraged. That was her mood as she walked through noisy, bustling Herald Square toward the Howley, Haviland offices on West Twentieth Street one warm and cloudy afternoon in August.
She had dressed with care; she and Paul were having supper before the first performance at Pastor’s. Her light summer dress was a respectable gray, set off by a white jabot trimmed with lace. Her summer cape was black taffeta, accordion-pleated. Her hat, worn with a rakish tilt toward her left ear, was black-dyed straw with fans of gray taffeta on top. With white kid gloves, a black silk umbrella, and shiny black shoes, she was a picture of respectable young womanhood.
To the music of several pianos pounding at once, Rose climbed the stairs to the lately expanded offices of the music firm. Howley, Haviland was booming, as was the sheet music business generally. For people still mired in the lingering depression, a fifty-cent piece of music was cheap entertainment if they had a piano at home.
Howley, Haviland had added a full-time song plugger to its staff to demonstrate the firm’s latest numbers at lodge halls, political clubs, and the piano departments of large stores. The firm had also branched into publishing of a different kind—Ev’ry Month: An Illustrated Magazine of Literature and Popular Music. Price, ten cents. The magazine included theatrical reviews, information on the latest styles, gossip about members of the Four Hundred, all written by Paul’s younger brother Theo, with an occasional assist from an outside hack.
Paul made no secret of the reason he’d urged that his brother be hired: “He’s quick. Been a news reporter, a good one, in Chicago and other places. But he’s never made more than pocket change from writing. Probably never will, either. He’s happy to be in New York, drawing a regular paycheck. Theo’s kind of stiff but he’s a good sort, we’ve always gotten along. He helps me with a lyric once in a while. I like having him around.”
Theo was about twenty-five, fourteen years Paul’s junior; Rose thought him a homely, buck-toothed, gangling fool. But he was a regular writing machine and turned out all the copy necessary to surround the centerpiece of every issue of Ev’ry Month—an insert of three or four Howley, Haviland songs.
“Three numbers for a dime instead of a dollar and a half,” Paul said. “That’s why the magazine’s a hit.”
The office was musical bedlam, as usual. Paul came out of his cubicle to clasp her hand, kiss her on both cheeks, and tell her she looked smart. From another cubicle Theo sidled forth. Rose said hello, striving to keep from showing her distaste. She could hardly hear his shyly mumbled greeting. A simp if ever there was one.
Paul pulled some sheets of yellow foolscap from his back pocket. “Here’s the copy for the Reflections column. I made one small change.”
Theo blinked like a nervous owl. His fingers were long, white, trembly. Over Theo’s shoulder, Rose was startled to see a pair of intense blue eyes staring at her from behind the glass of the plugger’s booth. The pale young man in the booth had thick black hair full of cowlicks; his pallor made his eyes all the more vivid. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He wasn’t the regular song plugger.
Obviously taken with Rose, he smiled. She lifted her nose and turned her back.
“What did you think of my short story, Paul?” Theo was saying.
“Haven’t read it yet. You know I’m against fiction in the magazine, Thee. But my partners outvoted me. You having any luck with that lyric?”
“None,” Theo said dolefully. “I’ll keep working on it. Good day, Miss French.” He shuffled away.
Paul put his arm around her. “I’m trying to write a new home number, about the place where Thee and I grew up. It’s a great idea but we haven’t pulled it off. Thee’s been working on the verse for three months. I have just the beginning of a chorus—”
Leading her into his office, he played a few notes one-handed and then sang. “Oh, the moonlight’s fair tonight along the Wabash—so on. It’s still rough.”
“It’s pretty, Paul.” That was about all she could say; she didn’t think a song about a place where farmers slopped pigs and shoveled cow shit could ever be popular. He was just letting his sentimental side show again.
“Have a chair for a few minutes, Rose, then we can go.”
Rose took off her gloves and sat decorously on the wooden chair. Every office at Howley, Haviland had a large window into the central reception area. Thus, conscious of eyes on her again, she glanced over to the plugger’s booth. There was the frail young man, staring and grinning. He wore a red-and-white-striped shirt and sleeve garters.
She didn’t mind men being friendly, but not with a man like that. Correction—boy. She gave him a scowl and looked the other way.
Paul finished his work, squeezed into his smart tan coat with black velvet lapels, snatched his topper from the coat tree, and they were away to supper.
Crossing the reception area, she glanced into the plugger’s booth. The kid was gone, leaving a great litter of printed songs, music writing paper, pencils and erasers on the top of the upright. Thank God she didn’t have to make eye contact one more time. She hated Jews.
After supper, Paul said he’d be at her flat soon after the second show at Pastor’s. “For a little warmth and comfort,” as he put it. Rose was pleased. She was feeling hot, and not from the weather.
After the second performance, a pleasant surprise was waiting for her in her small but well-maintained dressing room—a large wicker basket brimming with yellow roses. She searched for a card, found none. She rushed through the backstage area to the doorkeeper’s cubicle.
“Zachary, when did those flowers arrive?”
“During your turn. Wasn’t no delivery boy, either, a gentleman brought ’em. Must have seen your first show.”
Another out-of-towner looking for a companion. Still, it was an unusual approach. “What did he look like?”
“Don’t remember his face, it wasn’t anything special. But he sure had swell clothes. An evening suit, topper, cane—the works. He was a real polite gent. Well-spoken. I asked if he wanted to l
eave a card; he said, ‘Perhaps another time.’ That word ‘perhaps,’ it struck me. Around here it’d be ‘maybe.’ ”
“Yes,” Rose said, suddenly excited. Back in her dressing room, she counted the yellow roses. There were twenty-four.
She said nothing to Paul about the flowers. After they’d been to the races once and were lying pleasantly spent in the airless dark of her flat, she remembered something.
“Say, Paul, at the office—who’s the kid in the plugger’s booth?”
“Our new plugger. Business is getting so good we need two. His name’s Harry Poland. I heard him down at Nigger Mike’s, in Chinatown.”
Rose had been there. The actual name of the saloon was the Canton Café, and Mike Raines, the proprietor, was actually a bearded, swarthy Russian Jew with an unpronounceable name. Because of his dark complexion he’d gotten the name Nigger Mike. All his waiters had to sing; it was a condition of employment.
“Funny-looking Jew boy,” Rose said.
“Yes, but a nice kid. Good voice. When I found he could play as well as sing, I hired him right away. He’s a pretty damn good musician. Self-taught, like me. He wants to compose. When I interviewed him, I told him the pay was nothing, but if he wrote something, we’d look at it. Maybe even publish it. I thought he’d say go to hell but he said sure, it was better than giving songs away for tips every night. Only problem with Harry, he likes that raggedy-time crap. I told him to keep that opinion to himself.”
Paul reached for the champagne bottle on the floor next to the bed. Tonight he was pouring into a tumbler, not a fluted glass. He’d been pounding the bottle harder lately, she’d noticed. Paul always had a good appetite for drink, but now he started earlier in the day and consumed more.
She wondered if he was afraid of something. Afraid he’d never have another hit as big as “Just Tell Them”? Afraid of that fast-time, raggedy music, played mostly by Negroes? She’d heard it once or twice. She kind of liked it.
“Well,” she said, “that Harry was sure looking me up and down today.”