My Notorious Life (53 page)

—But you’re here now, and we’ll never be apart.

—If only it were that simple, my sister said.

*  *  *

At the supper table Dutch picked at the turbot en sauce blanc and took bird bites of the poppyseed roll. She smiled at Annabelle, who adored her quite plainly, and who would not leave her side.

—Is it true? my daughter asked Dutch. —Papa told me when you and Mamma were at school long ago, he taught you to moo. Is it true? Did he?

Dutch blinked. —Pardon me?

—Remember when you were a schoolgirl? Charlie said, very quick, guilty at the evidence he had talked perhaps too much to Annabelle about our guest. —I taught you to moo, and I could teach you to bark, too, couldn’t I? I could teach you to speak dog.

—Oh do it, Papa! Please Papa, teach Mrs. Lillian. He’s very clever at barking, Annabelle said to Dutch. —He can make real dogs answer to him. He does it in the park, whether it’s a terrier or a hound, and they speak right back at him. Please Papa, teach her.

—Not at the table, I said, nervous of my sister’s disapproval.

But Charlie barked, exactly like a Labrador. It was true that real dogs had been known to answer him, he was so authentic in his mimicry.

Annabelle laughed, and Dutch suppressed the smile on her rosebud mouth.

—Charles, please, I said, embarrassed. —You are scaring our guest.

—Like to try it, Lillian? Charlie said. —It’s a simple skill.

—Charles!

—I’m offering lessons.

Dutch grinned, a flash of imp in her eyes. —Woof, she said, very proper.

Annabelle laughed out of control and I was filled with happiness.

—No, no, not like that at all, Charlie said, and demonstrated again. My sister answered him once—Woof!—convulsed with laughter all of a sudden, her cheeks pink, so that Annabelle got up unexcused from her chair and ran around the table to sit on her aunt’s lap.

—Oh, Missus Lillian, I do wish you would stay here with us, she said, almost like I had coached her.

And my sister put her arms around the girl’s neck and smiled at me over her dark head and said, —Oh Annabelle I wish I would, too.

With my hopes now high as a cathedral ceiling, we passed the rest of the supper without no more barnyard noises, thankfully. After dinner we went to the parlor, where Dutch lingered near the piano. —Dutch—Lily, I said, —I wanted you to know that I have hired a detective, to find our Joseph. I thought you’d be glad.

—Oh, Ann, yes, said she, mournfully. —But. I fear . . . disappointment. Mother explained to me long ago that it would be impossible to find him, since he was adopted so young, he won’t remember us. Most likely the Trows don’t wish him to know. Most families prefer the anonymity.

—Not our family, I said. A shadow crossed her face, and I saw the subject was closed off now. —I’m sorry, I said, —perhaps you would like to rest in the conservatory, or play for a while, to relieve your thoughts?

—Thank you. She smiled. —I’d like that very much.

I left her at the piano, but for a long time I stood outside the door as she played and sang. Her songs were melancholy. Despite our reunion, Dutch plainly felt herself to be all alone. She missed her friends and her so-called parents, the life of a Chicago society lady. She was heartbroken over her faithless Pickering, that bunger. Listening, I knew somehow that she would ask for my assistance after all, despite her reservations. She’d take the pills or go through with the procedure, and then go back to Chicago. I wouldn’t see her again. The Palace of Jones, no matter its fine appointments, was not to her taste. We were all common bogtrotters to her, barking at the supper table. So it was not a surprise, after the household had gone to bed, when she came to find me in the library, where I sat brooding and reading.

—Tomorrow, Axie, I will come to your offices.

—All right. For what reason?

—I am feeling unwell, she said, but wouldn’t say more. We sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence, before she made her excuses and went upstairs to sleep.

A
t nine a.m., there my sister was at the office door in a beautiful green dress, heavily veiled.

—Lily, please come in. Let me take your hat.

—I don’t wish anyone to see me.

—There’s nobody here. Greta is out with her son to take him to school.

Dutch sat on the sofa cushions, silent behind her veil. She reached her handkerchief beneath it to dab at her eyes.

—Dear Lily, I said, and sat next to her. —Please let me help you.

—I cannot go through with it.

—With which?

She lifted the veil off her face. The blue of her eyes was shot through with red lines, but she looked at me very clear and steady. —I do not love Eliot. But I cannot leave him. Mr. Pickering is . . . I cannot have him. And I . . . I cannot have . . . She swallowed and struggled to continue, but before any words came from her, somebody rang the front bell.

—Oh, mercy, said Dutch, and lowered her veil in haste.

—Shh now, no one will see you. Sit tight while I answer the door.

When I opened it there was the same gent as had been there some days before, with his rumpled coat and his gingery whiskers. Mr. Cameron.

—Why hello there, sir, I said, quite friendly. —You were here several days ago, weren’t you?

—Yes. And now I have brought my friend.

—Please bring her in with you if she doesn’t mind, I said, very mild, for often the ladies are frightened. —There’s no need to be afraid, I called softly, to the lady outside.

My visitor stepped back, but with his handkerchief in hand, he did something with it beyond the door, flapping it briskly, as if signaling his lady it was safe to enter. Then, to my shock, in stepped not a lady, but a large hairy policeman, his mustaches waxed and his nightstick at the ready.

—Well I see you have quite a friend with you, indeed, I said.

Five more men entered. Two officers in uniform, and then still two more, in plain clothes, carrying notebooks. They stared at me frankly, scribbling all the while.

—Ho, it’s quite a party, I said. —Why don’t we get out the spirits?

—I am Anthony Comstock, declared my whiskery Enemy, brandishing a badge, —Special Agent of the Post Office and the Society for the Suppression of Vice.

—I’ve heard about you. You like to collect naughty pictures, isn’t that right?

One of the traps covered a snicker.

—You won’t find any smut here, I said.

—I have a warrant to search the premises, said my Enemy.

—For what purpose?

—You know yourself, he said, puffing up his chest.

—I’m not a clairvoyant. Pray enlighten me.

Then in his voice full of mucus and sanctimony, Mr. Comstock read me the warrant for search and seizure. —I will confiscate any articles designed for the prevention of conception, or any obscene material, or any instruments for the purpose of causing an abortion.

—There are no such articles in the house.

—We’ll be the judge of that, madam, said one of the traps.

My sister had quietly stood up and was edging toward the door when one of the policemen politely stopped her exit. —Not so fast.

—Oh have mercy, she cried, from under her trembling veil.

The men with notebooks now appraised her, scribbling, recording what we said and did. They even scrutinized the titles of the books on my shelves,
some which they removed and opened as if they might reveal the dark spells of witches.

—Who are these fellows? I demanded to know. —What are they writing?

—They are Mr. Sinclair of the
World
and Mr. Tibbetts of the
Tribune,
said Mr. Comstock of the Bungstarter News.

—The nerve! I said. —To bring the press along when you bust down a door.

My sister made a sharp gasping noise under her veil.

—Allow me to interview your caller, Comstock said, with interest.

—Please, said Dutch, tearfully. —I have nothing to say. I am only here on behalf of a friend. I am a married lady. My husband is a prominent merchant in another city. I cannot—

And here she broke down completely.

Mr. Comstock put the steak of his hand on my sister’s shoulder. —There, there, dear. We are not monsters. There is the monster. He pointed at me.

—Please, do not take me to the police court, I beg you, Dutch said to him. —The mere mention of my name in conjunction with— She turned her head in my direction and cut me with her judgment. —The shame is too awful. I couldn’t bear it.

—All right, now, dear, my Enemy said, pulling his whiskers. —But we must take down your name as we will require your testimony later.

—No, no, no, no, Dutch cried. —Please don’t ask my name.

—Otherwise, he said, —we’ll have to take you in.

There was a loaded silence while Dutch considered his lowdown threat, and then in a voice barely audible and filled with dread, my sister said, —I am Lillian VanDerWeil.

The fool. Ever obedient, she spelled out VanDerWeil for him, helpfully, thus spelling her own fate. As she did, she could see me behind Mr. Comstock’s back, shaking my head.
No,
I said, silent, just moving my lips. Perhaps it was this signal that cued her to lie when the Crusader asked, —And where do you live?

—The Astor House, Dutch replied, and never mentioned anything about Chicago, or her extended stay at One East Fifty Second Street.

—Write the address here, he said, and gave her a notebook.

As she wrote, her pen was shaky. —I am so nervous, sir. So nervous, please understand.

—Go, then, said Comstock just like he was Jesus himself. —Go and sin no more.

—I beg you do not break faith with me, she said. —Please kind sir. It will kill me to be exposed.

My sister hastened out the front door, gone in a swish of velvet. She would be lost in the city, I thought. She would perish. But more immediate concerns distracted me. The police were now lifting the papers on my desk, reading them, while the reporters peered over their shoulders.

—Search this room, first, said Mr. Comstock to his henchmen.

—You can’t, I cried. —I ain’t done anything. You can’t force your way in here like a troop of goats and do as you please.

—We have a warrant and must perform our duty, the Vice Hunter said. —It’s God’s work. He headed sniffing toward the back hallways that led into my very house.

—Let me go ahead of you, I pleaded. —Let me go straight to my little daughter so she will not be frightened by you.

But the terrible officials did not care about little girls. Or respectable female physicians. Or society ladies living on Fifth Avenue. Only their own brimstone and fire and righteousness. They began Comstocking around the office, opening drawers, pulling up the sofa cushions, looking under the furniture, ransacking cabinets. They was nothing but a parcel of armed curs operating under the guise of Justice.

—Don’t neglect the waste bins, Mr. Comstock cried.

They smelt blood but so far they had only found little china figurines, and the spare lace doilies and antimacassars that kept the sofa back clean of hair oil. —Mind you check for hidden compartments and false bottoms, said the Grand Inquisitor.

There was nothing false about his bottom, I can attest to that. The man had appetites which was apparent in his waistline. In the heat of the chase he removed his coat, sweating like a beast, and before he tucked his shirt into his pants you could see a flash of red flannel above the top of his trousers. I suppressed a smirk. So! The Vice-hunter wore long scarlet underdrawers beneath his rumpled suit. What his other secrets were I could only guess. I must remember to tell this detail to Charlie, I said to myself. He
and his philosopher friends would say the man had tastes more common to the bordello than the courthouse.

—Ahem! Sir! Come take a look at this, said one of the traps. From a sideboard he withdrew several bottles of medicines and held them aloft like trophies. Comstock in great pomposity of excitement inspected the labels. Removed a stopper. Sniffed.

It was all I could do to stifle a laugh. —What you’ve found is nothing. Gripe water for infants. Those are only such nostrums as you can find in any chemists. Go to my druggist Hegemann at the corner of Broadway and Walker Street and he’ll tell you what they are. Woman’s things, is all.

My Enemy’s face was cold. His expression dismissed me. To him I was no more than a housefly buzzing about his balding pate. Him and his bloodhounds now went along out of the office into the back passage to the kitchen, where they surprised Cook and Maggie and the houseboy Robert having lunch. My own staff was then prevented from leaving the premises as the intruders went from storeroom to larder, looking for evidence. They did not find anything but sacks of flour and the apple barrel. But then at last they came to the wine cellar, where beyond the bottles of Haut Médoc, behind the port and sherry, the mongrels found boxes stacked full of pills and powders, medicines, a package of female syringes, several dozen French Letters, and many copies of Charlie’s circulars. We’d done a bad job hiding them, not believing this day would come.