My Notorious Life (52 page)

—It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other day, I said. —Now, what can we do for our friend Lily, to amuse her, and convince her to stay longer?

—We could have a recital, said my daughter, clapping her hands. —May I please?

—What kind of recital? Dutch asked.

—Annabelle’s a musical child, I could not help bragging. —A young Jenny Lind, with the voice of a nightingale.

—What do you like to sing? Dutch asked her.

—Lieder songs and Irish songs and Mendelssohn, and whatever my teacher Miss Pearson brings me to learn.

—I like to sing all that too, said Dutch.

—So, we’ll have a recital, Annabelle cried, and ran off to invite her audience of china dolls.

—You have a lovely daughter, said my sister.

—And so shall you have, some day, I feel sure.

She bit her lip, and her face was blanched with sorrow. As I left her room, I noticed that she lifted the bottle of tablets by the side of her bed and examined it. My heart stumbled then, and I did not know what to hope for. If she took the tablets, she would be free to return to her old life, with her husband none the wiser. But if she did not take them, perhaps she would remain here with me. For a moment, I considered replacing the tablets with sugar pills. Dutch would have her child then. And I might keep my sister.

I
n the morning Greta found me in my office brooding over Dutchie’s predicament. Her knock on the door was strangely timid, for Greta was usually thundering and German, barging in.

—Axie? she said, entering in a cloud of misery.

—What’s the matter? I cried, for her face was gray and drawn.

At my question, she began to cry. —It’s my husband.

She shook her head and collapsed on the couch and I had to put my arms around my old friend and coax the story out of her but I was distracted and did not pay proper attention. Greta was wailing.

—My husband is
volltrunken,
a drinker and a lout und I hate him. He has broke us. He has drunk all of everything in the house und he is a cruel man mit a bad temper and he has hit me chust last night, Axie.

She showed me a welt by her ear that her hair had covered. Then out came a sorry tale about how Sprunt had drunk his own wares from the brewery and drunk his own salary plus all the great savings she had hoarded from her years of work. She related how he turned mean with a drink, how his nose got red and how he called her ugly and stupid and threatened to tell her secrets. —He says I need to get him one thousand dollars to pay off his debts. He says if I don’t get more money he will . . .

—What?

—He will . . . tell Willi all of my past.

—You told Sprunt? Greta! You were never going to tell. Not anyone.

She put her face in her hands and wailed. —He made me tell. He . . . forced me. Don’t ask me about it, please. She shuddered. —Now he says he will tell Willi that I was
eine Hure
and that his father was not a sailor who did not die at Cape Fear like I told him. Sprunt will say, Willi how does it feel to be the son of a hoor? And yourself a sin walking the street? So I must try to find the money somewhere. If I don’t he’ll tell.

—Are you asking me to give you a thousand dollars? I said, seething at how the evil troll Sprunt now had the baubles to try to extort money from me.

—Axie he has took all my savings! Greta wailed. —I’m no better off than the day you met me in the street.

I had to hold the bridge of my nose with two fingers. A headache was starting in the backs of my teeth, like ice applied to raw nerves. —Tell Mr. Sprunt to go to the devil, I said. —Tell him if he don’t pay his rent and take care of his wife like a cove worth his onions then you’ll move in here permanent.

—He won’t pay. He hasn’t the money.

My head throbbed. Pain was a long contraction in my skull. —Greta, don’t you hear the doorbell ringing out front?

—Axie, but—

—We can talk about it later, I said, for I would at least be paid to discuss the troubles of the stranger knocking.

Greta got up to answer the door, her eyes still wet. —You will be sorry Madame High Attitude, she said, in a German Humph, and left. Then after a moment she came back and said, very clipped, —There’s a gentleman here for your advice.

She ushered in a portly middle-aged article. He had ginger-colored side whiskers, with the chin clean-shaven. His black suit was rumpled but his white shirt was crisp with starch. A black bow tie gave him the air of a failed dandy.

—Madame DeBeausacq? he said, seeming nervous. Another poor fellow who’d got a lady in a jam. His small eyes glanced about the room with something like panic.

—Yes, come in, come in, I said, and smiled around my headache to make him comfortable. —Please have a seat, and I’ll see what I can do for you.

—I am Mr. Cameron. He sat down, uncomfortable as they all were, and looked about the room, everywhere but at me.

—How can I help you?

He pulled the hairs of his mustache. He picked at his trousers and looked at the ceiling. —You see, me and the missus are in terrible debt, Madame. I have been unable to work because of a war injury. We have three children now, more than she can handle. And her health is not what it should be for . . . well, you know . . . ahem, a certain condition. I wonder do you by any chance sell articles to prevent, ahem . . . You understand, I’m sure, Madame, to prevent ______?

—Indeed.

—Another child would be . . . The poor fellow pulled at his top lip and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. —So might you help me? Please?

He was just another sad sack with a mustard stain on his lapel. Anyone would feel sorry for a cove like that, what with the war injury, the sick wife, and the sweat of nerves that slicked his brow.

—I can provide you with several articles, I said. —The French have a device called a
baudruche,
for one thing. Do you know it?

He quirked his eyebrows in a question mark.

—It’s for a gentleman’s use.

He blushed quite profoundly. —I meant for a lady.

It always aggravated me to see how the men, most of them, did not want to be bothered for themselves. They wanted the lady to have all the bother.

—For a lady I have a preventative medicine. The instructions would be included in any packet you purchase.

—Is it reliable?

—It must not be used in . . . certain delicate female conditions, as it might have disastrous results, if you take my meaning.

—So, these articles will prevent, ahem . . .

—Conception, you mean?

He nodded, like the words pained him. —Is it sure?

—If you don’t follow the instructions it’s no more use than chalk. But it works most times, for prevention, with proper use.

—And if it doesn’t do?

—If it doesn’t, your lady can come to me for further treatment.

—And the price?

—Tablets are five dollars. Powders to unblock a suppression are ten dollars. The syringe apparatus to apply them is seven dollars. A procedure especially with overnight boarding is a considerable sight more.

—If I may purchase whatever you have, one of each.

—Certainly. Just a moment. I went to the back room and got him two bottles. One of powders, one of tablets. Also, a syringe. —She must apply a sea sponge prior, I explained, —soaked in honey. Following relations, she must remove it, then mix a paper of this powder with a cup of vinegar, fill the syringe with the solution and administer it to herself immediately. If she is obstructed, she will take these tablets as indicated.

The man winced and blushed and looked away as I spoke.

—Excuse me, sir, if I offend you, I said, mild as a librarian, —but the information must be conveyed accurately. If she uses this remedy precisely as instructed, a lady may operate with great confidence and will enjoy immunity from danger. It is, however, not fail safe. For that, you would need the
baudruche
as well. You will note that to protect privacy, the medicine is not labeled, and can be put away as tooth powders. The syringe is quite useful also to water the plants. The cost is fifteen dollars for the works.

My visitor got out his billfold blushing and cleared his throat with a great gargle of noise. He paid me and went away with his remedies. Our encounter was so ordinary as to be instantly forgotten.

*  *  *

Before dinner the next evening, Dutch dressed and came downstairs for Annabelle’s recital. My daughter had spent the day charming my sister, and they’d passed the time practicing music. It appeared that Dutch was something of an accomplished pianist. Annabelle jumped about, arranging chairs around the piano, and handing out programs she had written in colored crayon for the audience—which was only me and Charlie, with Greta and her son Willi. Maggie was there, and her sweetheart Corrigan the policeman, and John Hatchet the coachman, who properly refused a seat despite Annabelle’s begging. And Dutch, of course, the guest of honor.

—Take your chairs, ladies and gentlemen, Annabelle said.

—I am not a gentleman, said young Willi.

—No you are a stinkbug, said Annabelle. —But take your seat anyway.

He stuck out his tongue at her, and Greta scolded both of them, but when Willi sat in the chair next to his mother, she caressed his head and doted on him like he was a prize. He leaned toward her when she smoothed his hair and lifted his angelic face to gaze into her eyes. The son was as smitten with the mother as the mother was with him, and I was glad to see it, for Greta’s troubles weighed on her. The lump on the side of her face had purpled and she fussed at her hair to cover it over, self-conscious and distracted. I had not given her any money and I wouldn’t, not for that lout Sprunt.

Annabelle curtsied and announced, —I will play Prelude Number Fifteen, Opus Twenty eight, in D flat major, by Frédéric Chopin. When she sat down on the bench, her feet in their patent leather pumps only just reached the floor. My daughter was ten years of age, a pinkeen in skirts, except when she played. Then she became possessed of the music. Her eyes closed, and her little form moved into the keyboard as if the melody pulled and pushed her. The music was stormy, with the high notes very sharp and the low notes rumbling.

—She plays extremely well, Dutch whispered.

Annabelle finished with a flourish and took a bow. We all clapped and cheered, whistled and raised a racket that embarrassed me, because of how it disturbed my sister. She applauded quite proper,
clap clap clap,
her hands together like she was praying. She gave a sidelong glance at Charlie who drummed his feet and beat his hands on the back of the seat in front of him. Perhaps Dutch thought we should behave like our own parlor was the symphony hall, and applaud with white gloves on so as not to make too common a noise.

—Hooray, said young Willi, —it’s over.

Annabelle stuck out her tongue at him again, and Dutch again looked affronted at the manners of my household.

—Willibald, now, behave yourself or Mr. Sprunt vill heff a word with you, said Greta to her son.

—Sprunt runt grunt, said Willi, and Annabelle snickered.

—We have a little surprise for you now, my daughter said, very theatrical, splaying her hands. —Me and Mrs. Lillian. We are going to sing the song
L’invitation au voyage,
by Mr. Charles Baudelaire.

Dutch and Annabelle smiled at each other like old conspirators, and the
dark Irish resemblance between them warmed the cockles of my heart. It was a family scene such as I dreamt about long ago, peering through the windows of Washington Square.

—Ooh la la, I said, —French music.

—It’s a poem by Baudelaire set to lieder music, Dutch said. —I learned it when I was a girl. This morning, Annabelle said she’d like to learn it too.

The two of them sat together and began to play and sing a melancholy little tune. Though the words in French was Greek to me, their voices were true and clear.

Mon enfant, ma soeur . . .

They played and sang while we listened, till my husband, who never did have no refinement, cried out, —Sing it in English, why don’t you? so a fella can understand it.

Annabelle laughed at him, but not my sister. A stricken expression crossed Dutch’s face. She whispered something in Annabelle’s ear. It seemed Dutch did not wish to sing in English, but there was no stopping my showoff daughter when she had the stage. A born performer like her father, she was. Without waiting Annabelle began to sing the mournful song again in English. Dutch joined in, but reluctant. As I listened I knew why. They were singing a song about ourselves, me and Dutch, how we was parted.

My child, my sister, dream,

How sweet all things would seem

Were we in that kind land to live together . . .

When they were done it was very quiet until Charlie and young Willi broke the moment and resumed their boisterous cheering. I went to whisper in Dutchie’s ear, the song haunting between us. —Dutchie, I didn’t know you missed me at all.

—You’ll never know how much.