Parlor Games

by Maryka Biaggio

  “No, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, determined to test my theory. “But I honestly can’t afford to pay more than twenty-eight hundred dollars for this piece.”

  Mr. Ernst stroked the loose flap of skin sagging from his neck. “I’m afraid I cannot sell it for such a low price.”

  “What a shame. I might perhaps be the perfect buyer. As you know, I’m only stopping briefly in Milwaukee. And am unlikely to ever spend much time in Wisconsin.”

  “Yes, well, there’s something to be said for that.” He wove his fingers together. “Would you consider bringing your price up a bit. Perhaps to thirty-two hundred?”

  I pinched my mouth into a thoughtful pucker and studied the piece. “If you will meet me halfway, at three thousand, I can assure the utmost secrecy in this matter.”

  And so I turned someone else’s sorrow—or knavery—into my own immeasurable delight. Despite the expense, I have never regretted the purchase. That necklace returned every cent invested in it, and more.

  After eleven leisurely days in Milwaukee I received my portmanteau from Chicago, checked out of the Plankinton Hotel, and continued the train journey to my dear family in Menominee.

  In the ensuing months, the compensation I’d received from Mr. Andrews slipped through my fingers as freely as fine grains of Lake Michigan sand. What reason did I have to squirrel away the money? After all, life is a carnival, and I could well afford the price of admission.

  My most satisfying purchase was the Menominee home I bought for Maman, Paul, and Gene. Maman’s gratitude was well worth the fifty-eight hundred dollars it cost. When I brought her around to see it before closing the sale, she exclaimed, “Oh, May, it’s a dream come true,” and threw her arms around me. Paul, of course, inquired about how I could afford the purchase of such a fine house, and I had to explain my heartbreak over Dale’s breach of our engagement and how his father, the cause of the breach, had at least had the decency to recognize the damage he’d done to my reputation. The whole family rallied around me that summer of 1888, and I in turn took delight in procuring Queen Anne furnishings and some lovely oil paintings for their new home.

  Five months after I left Chicago, my funds had dwindled to a dangerously low level, and Menominee presented no means of fattening my purse, let alone affording a modicum of entertainment. How tedious the ticking of the great mantel clock became, how wearisome Paul’s constant prodding about how I should be managing my funds, how musty the house’s shut-in air. I craved new adventure.

  Our family had finished Thanksgiving dinner and retired to the parlor when I announced, “It’s time for me to move on. I believe I’ll go west, to Portland.”

  “Whatever for?” Maman asked, as if I’d proposed joining the circus.

  “To replenish my funds.”

  Paul huffed, “Don’t know why you piddled away what you had.”

  “How I spend my money is my own affair. I have been generous with this family.” What Paul didn’t know or wished not to acknowledge was that his job at the lumber mill couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he and the whole family would be dependent on me, though I knew better than to hurt his pride by laying that reality before him. The kindest course was to let him consider himself the family’s mainstay as long as possible.

  True to form, he said, “Don’t count on me sending you any money.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Like that fool Rob Jacobsen did.”

  Maman’s eyes darted from me to Paul. “Robby Jacobsen? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Maybe May will explain that for you,” said Paul.

  I cleared my throat. “Robby was under the mistaken impression that we were to be engaged, and that if he kept me in an allowance I would become his wife.”

  “That’s not how I heard it,” said Paul.

  “You can listen to rumors from people who don’t know my personal affairs, or you can believe me.”

  “Oh, don’t go, May,” Maman said. “You belong here, with your family.”

  “I don’t want you going, either,” said Gene. “It’s boring when you’re not here.”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear this from an eleven-year-old whose older brother harangued him endlessly about his lessons and chores, though I wished he hadn’t said it in front of Paul, who crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and said to Gene, “It’s probably just as well. Give you more time to do your lessons.”

  Maman said, “But Portland is so far away.”

  I reached for her hand. “But how can I help you in Menominee? It simply doesn’t afford the opportunities of a larger city.”

  Maman pulled her hand away. “I’d rather have stayed in the old house with you than in this new house without you.”

  “Oh, Maman, I’ll visit. I promise.”

  “How can you visit from way out there?”

  “Just let her go,” said Paul. “She’ll do whatever she damn well pleases anyway.”

  I assured all of them, even Paul, that I would hold them close to my heart, write often, and always consider their well-being.

  Before I left, I took Maman aside and showed her my new diamond necklace. “You mustn’t tell anyone about it. It’s one of the secret spoils of my broken engagement.”

  She couldn’t resist trying it on. And then she hugged me. “My goodness, May, I guess you do know how to take care of yourself.”

  THE TRIAL

  THE VALUE OF A DOLLAR

  MENOMINEE—JANUARY 24, 1917

  When Alvah Sawyer called Frank back to the stand on day three of the trial, I prepared myself for more shilly-shallying.

  “Miss Shaver, we haven’t talked much about you.”

  Frank folded her hands in her lap, pretending at a humility we both knew was altogether alien to her. “No, sir.”

  “Can you tell us about your parents and your upbringing?”

  “I was born in Pittsburgh and am an only child. My father was in property development, and my mother’s father was a banker. They ran in circles that hosted dinners for well-off families and served lovely feasts and French wines. You could say I grew up surrounded by generous and wealthy families.”

  I noticed Frank was taking pains to put on the proper parlance of her upbringing, which she rarely used in the parlors or dining halls, to say nothing of the streets, of Menominee.

  “And did you have to worry about money when you were growing up?”

  “Oh, no, I had everything I could want. My parents didn’t show off their wealth, but I knew there was plenty of money and that someday I’d inherit it.”

  “So you believed money would never be a problem for you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You thought it was a bottomless pit, right?”

  “Yes, I always thought there’d be money whenever I needed it.”

  “Did your family pay for your education?”

  “Yes, after I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania they paid for my law schooling at the University of Michigan.”

  “And they helped you set up your practice in the Chicago area?”

  “They helped me buy a home in Highland Park and sent me a three-thousand-dollar allowance until I started making a respectable income from my practice.”

  Where, I wondered, was she going with this—besides showing she could play Little Miss Proper and Innocent? Perhaps Sawyer had encouraged her to strike a virtuous demeanor.

  “So there was never any question that money was there for you if you needed it?”

  “No question whatsoever.”

  “Would it be correct to say that until the events of the last few years you didn’t understand the value of a dollar and thought there was no limit to your family’s resources?”

  “Yes, that would be accurate.”

  I couldn’t keep my jaw from dropping. This was her strategy? To claim that she didn’t know the value of a dollar? That she believed her supply of money was unlimited? I stared at Frank; when she glance
d my way, I rolled my eyes.

  At the judge’s urging, the pace picked up in the afternoon. Still, Frank’s attorney explained that he was unlikely to complete his direct examination of her by the end of the day.

  “Miss Shaver,” began Sawyer, “you traveled with the Baroness to Hot Springs, Arkansas, early in 1913, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this was soon after your reconciliation with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did the Baroness impress you on this trip?”

  “She was decked out in jewelry and a dress fit for a queen.”

  “Can you describe all this for us?”

  “She wore a yellow-diamond necklace that she said was worth a hundred thousand dollars and a ring with two pear-shaped diamonds worth eight thousand. Her dress was royal blue with fancy gold filament woven into the front piece. And Tokyo’s collar was made of platinum and lined with an ungodly number of diamonds.”

  “Who’s Tokyo?”

  “Her French bulldog.”

  The onlookers chuckled in amusement at Tokyo’s introduction into the proceedings. Even I was grateful for the touch of levity.

  “How many diamonds were in the collar?”

  “More than I could count—six hundred and eighty-eight, according to May. She said she’d been offered twelve thousand dollars for the largest one.”

  “Did she make a point of telling you the value of these things?”

  “She played coy at first, but, once I commented, she rattled off a string of high numbers that would’ve made anybody’s head spin.”

  “And what conclusions did you draw about the Baroness’s financial status at the time?”

  “What she probably wanted me to conclude—that she was as wealthy as King Midas.”

  “And did this impression have any bearing on how you conducted your financial affairs with the Baroness?”

  “It sure did. I assumed she didn’t need my money, except for short-term use, and that she’d return everything she borrowed and be as generous with me as I’d been with her.”

  “She led you to believe your friendship was a permanent and secure one, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t see what in the world Frank’s wishes for a permanent friendship had to do with her financial claims, but since the judge called for a brief recess at that point, Sawyer had little opportunity to pursue the matter.

  THE WILDS OF PORTLAND

  PORTLAND, OREGON—DECEMBER 1888–NOVEMBER 1889

  In December of 1888, I took the train to Portland and arrived to find a city redolent of mud, fresh mist, and the tang of fresh-sawed timber. During my stay at Carrie Watson’s, one of the girls had mentioned she’d spent a year at a reputable establishment in Portland run by Emma Black. So upon my arrival I presented myself to Miss Black, who kindly offered me a position, thus assuring me of a healthy income and a comfortable vantage point for learning the lay of the land in my new city.

  Having no idea how long I might reside at Emma Black’s, I set about cultivating my relations with the other girls. One shapely twenty-eight-year-old, Sue Marie Littleton, appeared especially receptive to my sisterly overtures. She was uncommonly tall, a commanding five nine, with almond-shaped eyes, a wide, expressive mouth, and a statuesque neck. She barely bothered to tame her fox-red hair, securing the mass of it at the back of her head and leaving stray strands dangling deliciously about her temples, ears, and neck. Whenever I spied her entertaining in the parlor, be it with other girls or some of the gentlemen, she gamely invited me to join the group, smiling and regaling all of us with the self-assured presence of the actress she had formerly been.

  One April day, when the sun had consented to show its bright face in Portland, I invited her for a walk. As we strolled down Broadway, Sue Marie tilted her hat to shade her face from the sun’s rays. Looking to me, she said, “Such a dainty parasol.”

  “I purchased it in Chicago.”

  “Your wardrobe could turn a princess green,” she said, lacing the words with her homey Kentucky curl. “Chicago must have gone down easy with you.”

  “It’s a fine city. I hated leaving it.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Why else? Heartbreak.”

  Sue Marie cackled. “Not your heart?”

  “A young man broke off an engagement with me. I couldn’t bear the city after that.”

  “Oh, do tell the story.”

  I liked Sue Marie, I truly did, and I sensed that we had much in common, but I wasn’t ready to bare my soul. “It’s not terribly interesting. And what about you? I’ve often wondered why you gave up the stage.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “I don’t doubt you have great talent.”

  “Ah,” she said, tossing her head to the side, “you’d be right at home on the stage yourself.”

  I twirled my parasol. “I prefer to act on the stage of life.”

  “Well, tickle me, aren’t we two peas in a pod,” said Sue Marie, taking my arm. “As for the theater, top billing and good pay only go to the cream of the crop, and, believe me, they have to scrape their way up. Besides, I’m after more money than that.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “I understand altogether.”

  We approached the corner of Broadway and Salmon, and she steered us onto Salmon, under the shade of the trees’ limey-green leaves. “How’d you like to be my partner?”

  “Partner in what?”

  “In finding a pot of gold.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “First by saving enough money to dress like royalty.” Sue Marie flicked her hand, as if to say, the rest is obvious.

  “Ah, my father always said: ‘It takes money to impress money.’ ”

  She tipped her face toward mine. “We’d make a good team.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “As a preacher in the pulpit.”

  “Then,” said I, “two peas in a pod we shall be.” And so began my saga with Sue Marie.

  The clientele at Emma Black’s wasn’t as uniformly distinguished as that of Carrie Watson’s in Chicago, but Sue Marie and I hoped that patience with what Portland had to offer would reward us in the long run. There was one particular fellow at Emma Black’s, however, whom I wish I’d never met, a physician by the name of Dr. Willard Farnhardt. Willard had a clear white complexion such as any woman would envy, but on him it looked sallow and ghostly. His eyes were sunk deep into his sharp-boned face and darted about like bats in flight. Lanky he was, nearly to the point of emaciation. The first evening I ever dined by his side, over the house’s home-cooked dinner, I observed him picking at his beef roast, drawing a few sinews to his mouth, and chewing laboriously. I came to suspect that his preferred nourishment was not meat, nor even liquor, but cocaine.

  By November of 1889, Willard’s attentions had not only turned from amorous to matrimonial but taken on frightening proportions. He had issued an ultimatum: If I did not agree to leave Emma Black’s and become his bride, his life would be unbearable, his actions unaccountable. He expected an answer once and for all on the third Saturday in November. All day I dreaded his visit, and, as if in sympathy, the weather took a turn for the worse. The temperature plummeted to freezing, and arrows of icy sleet buffeted the house’s windows.

  Willard greeted me in the main parlor, his gaunt physique clad in a black suit, scoop-front waistcoat, and stiff white shirt with sharp, winged openings at the collar. During dinner with all the other girls and gentleman guests, his mood remained decidedly dour, despite my efforts to cheer him or, at the least, entice him to join the conversation.

  An Oregonian reporter launched our dinnertime discussion with news of the Nickel-in-a-Slot, a music machine that had just been unveiled in San Francisco; Willard scoffed at everyone’s enthusiasm for the new invention. When talk turned to Jack the Ripper’s depravity, I asked him to venture an opinion on the ripper’s psychical state. He merely snorted. W
hile several of the other gentlemen speculated about whether Nellie Bly—who had just interrupted her journey to visit Jules Verne—really could make it around the world in less than eighty days, I jested he should join their wager. And when Miss Black recommended a book she’d just read—A Study in Scarlet, with the brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes—I inquired as to his reading preferences.

  He took none of this bait and offered only whispered asides to me—about how fetching I looked in my midnight-blue gown, how much he looked forward to our private time together, and how he intended to shower his new bride with gems of all shapes and sizes. After dinner, he declined to join the other gentlemen for cigars over a few rounds of poker and instead approached the maid who collected the evening’s fees and escorted me up the stairs to my bedroom.

  He retracted the wick on my lantern until it dimmed to a dull flicker, removed a flask from his vest pocket, and gulped greedily from it. With a haughty laugh, he said, “That, I assure you, is the last time I will hand money over for the pleasure of your company.”

  In the darkened room I could not read his expression, but my heart galloped at the foreboding in his words. “Please, Willard, let’s enjoy each other’s company and not worry about the future.”

  “But the future is exactly what this is about, my dear. Have you forgotten I asked for your answer tonight?”

  “No, not forgotten. Only hoped that you would understand the impossibility of what you propose.”

  “Impossible? Why ever is my proposal impossible?”

  “Because you’re a gentleman, and it wouldn’t be right for us to consider any other arrangement.”

  “That, my dear, is not your concern. What you consider impossible is within your reach. How can you refuse the life I offer?”

  “I’m not meant for such a life.”

  “Do you dare to refuse me?” He backed up against my window. “Will you cast me out into the cold world by denying my heart’s only desire?”

  “No, I will happily see you every night. But I do not wish to marry.”