by Jamie Ford
He left the paper in the typewriter like a loaded gun with the safety off, an unlocked cage with something big moving around inside, a lit fuse. Then he grabbed his coat and hat, and headed up the street to Ruby Chow’s to meet his family.
As he walked, Ernest thought about his dear wife—but he also thought about Madam Flora, Professor True, and the other girl he’d been with on that magical day. He wondered what her life must be like now.
He remembered a night a few days after the closing of the fair, all those years ago. He’d climbed out onto the fourth-story escapeway of the Tenderloin, up to the roof, and shared a cigarette with Fahn. They’d taken turns watching through a telescope mounted on a wooden tripod as the sky above the lake was lit up with explosions from a reenactment of both the Boston Tea Party and the sinking of the HMS Gaspee, a spectacular that had been sponsored by a wealthy shipwright a week after the closing ceremonies of the AYP.
Fahn and he hadn’t been up nearly high enough to see the ship’s burning masts fall, but they’d been able to see dozens of shells vault into the dark sky and rain down. He’d seen the flashes, heard the cannons and the grand explosion when the ship burned to the waterline. A cache of black powder ignited in a thunderous eruption that sent pieces of the flaming vessel through the air and rattled windows for miles.
Ernest remembered hearing those on neighboring rooftops who had watched the show shouting “Huzzah!” Then the Wagner Band had begun playing somewhere in the distance, followed by the fierce wail of the Clan Fraser Highland Pipers.
“I wish I could have seen that before it went off,” Ernest had said.
“You did,” Fahn had replied. “The ship they just blew up was redecorated for tonight’s extravaganza. We all saw her laid at anchor at the fair, remember?”
“What ship?” Ernest had cocked his head, confused.
Fahn had flicked her cigarette butt to the pavement below.
“That was the Mayflower.”
—
ERNEST ARRIVED AT Ruby Chow’s, with its gabled roof and round, pagoda entrance, and savored the comforting smell of freshly roasted duck, the sound of cast-iron woks banging in the kitchen. Inside, he found Juju and Gracie seated beneath an enormous paper lantern, next to an ensconced Buddha, who looked out benignly over their table.
Juju kissed Ernest on the cheek and said, “Ah, you made it.” Then she excused herself to make the rounds. He didn’t know who the people at the adjacent tables were, though a few seemed familiar—perhaps he’d seen them on television or on billboards. Ernest knew that Ruby’s was a favorite hangout for businessmen and politicians, so while he was mildly annoyed that his daughter was constantly working, he also marveled, immensely proud of how easily she traveled in such lofty circles.
Ernest sat down next to his wife. “Hello, Gracious.”
She lit up when he called her that. She smiled and said, “Ernest.”
“Our daughter certainly is a busy bee, isn’t she?” He examined Gracie’s curious, childlike expression, hoping for any kind of confirmation that she remembered who he really was or the life they’d once had together. He’d spent these past three years mourning, adapting to a new, benign form of normal. Some married couples his age had separate beds, or slept in separate rooms. He and Gracie lived separate lives.
“Are you happy that Hanny is home?” Ernest asked.
“Oh yes.” Gracie nodded as she slowly looked about the room.
“And you know that she’s bringing someone special to dinner? Someone she wants you to meet.” Ernest hesitated and looked around. “I’ve met him. Juju met him. He’s a decent gentleman, and a lawyer too.”
Gracie said nothing. One of the older bow-tied waiters came by and exchanged pleasantries as he poured tea with one hand and whipped out a silver lighter and lit Ernest’s cigarette with the other—two hands, two separate synchronized motions.
Ernest saw that the lighter featured an engraving of the Space Needle.
“Do you remember much about the AYP?” Ernest asked Gracie, as he noticed the menu featured a special lobster dish in honor of the new world’s fair.
She nodded again.
“Do you remember our friend from those days?” Ernest probed.
Gracie smiled, almost imperceptibly, and sighed. “I’ve been looking for her.”
“You have?” Ernest asked, playing along.
Gracie furrowed her brow as she scanned the room again, going from person to person, face to face. “Where has she…been hiding?”
Ernest shrugged. A part of him knew he shouldn’t ask whether she remembered people from the Tenderloin, but another part was dying to know how many of Gracie’s memories remained. How much could he—should he—hope for? Dr. Luke had stabilized her condition, cured her with antibiotics, a miracle in a bottle. But he said the damage done was irreversible. Gracie wouldn’t go back to the way she used to be, although he also said that her brain might eventually find different ways to remember.
Ernest had often talked with her about their marriage—hoping she would remember him, but he’d never once asked her about her childhood. He figured that, like everything else, those memories were lost forever. But as she smiled he asked, “Do you recall our early days together? The three of us, all those years ago?”
Gracie hesitated, pausing, searching. Then Hanny and Rich walked into the restaurant amid fanfare from the staff—excited compliments about how much Hanny had grown and how beautiful she was. They all wanted to hear about Las Vegas, the celebrities she’d met, run-ins with famous mobsters, and if she really worked topless. They also gushed about how tall and handsome her gentleman friend was. Hanny showed off her engagement ring, and the hostesses squealed.
Ernest watched as Gracie stared at Rich. “That’s Mr. Wonderful,” he said. “He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him, I suppose. Unfortunately, I don’t know him very well.”
Gracie nodded again and patted Ernest’s arm.
After an awkward introduction, Ernest ordered a series of Gracie’s favorite dishes to be shared. The first to arrive was a tureen of steaming melon soup with chicken and water chestnuts. A waiter filled their rice bowls amid the small talk. In the background Ernest heard a jingle on the nearby radio that had been played over and over again to promote the new fair: If you’re going to kiss me…kiss me there.
“Ma.” Hanny spoke as though her mother were hard of hearing. “Rich is my fiancé. We’re getting married. Ma, I’m finally going to tie the knot.”
Gracie looked at both of them, nodding solemnly, blowing on her soup.
Ernest saw the worry in Juju’s eyes as everyone waited for a response.
Gracie smiled and continued eating.
“So, Ernest,” Rich said, to break the awkward silence. “Juju told me that you used to work as a driver for all the famous types who came to Seattle.”
“Oh, my daughter exaggerates a bit. It wasn’t that glamorous, really; they were just nice people who needed a ride,” Ernest demurred. “I was your basic, garden-variety driver most of my life, but I did get special calls once in a blue moon.”
“Dad, don’t be so humble,” Juju said. “Sugar Ray Robinson came to town and got sick. He wouldn’t trust a white doctor, so he found Dr. Luke in Chinatown, of all places. Dr. Luke gave him my dad’s name, and Dad drove the champ all over the place while he was in Seattle. From there, word of mouth did the rest. He ended up driving Floyd Patterson when he was in town, then Louise Beavers, Dinah Washington—the list goes on and on. He’d come home late at night with autographs for us kids, souvenirs. He even drove Billie Holiday.”
“Now you’re just making stuff up,” Ernest said. “That’s how simple stories become tall tales. You might be pushing the limits of your journalistic integrity.”
“That’s incredible. Sounds like you’d love it out in Vegas—you’re used to rubbing elbows with the stars,” Rich said. “Speaking of stars, Juju said that you’re part of a big story for the Century 21 Expo—something about
a mysterious boy who was raffled off at an earlier world’s fair. I’d love to look into the legalities of that. And she also told us how you grew up in and around Seattle’s old red-light district…”
Ernest looked at Juju, who shrugged innocently. He glanced at Gracie, who listened intently as she slurped her soup. Meanwhile, Hanny stared back incredulously as if to say, And you thought my career was bad?
Rich kept talking. “I guess before Las Vegas there was always Chinatown. Bootleg booze and gambling going all the way back to Prohibition, speakeasies, all kinds of glamorous nighttime entertainment.”
“It wasn’t Chinatown,” Gracie interrupted, speaking slowly. “It wasn’t Chinatown or even Japantown, it was a parlor joint called…the Tenderloin.” Then she went back to her soup as though she’d said something obvious.
Rich looked at Ernest, who spoke softly, hoping to leave Gracie out of the conversation. “Yes, the Tenderloin was a…club for gentlemen.”
Juju continued, “My father is being coy. The Tenderloin was a famous sporting house run by Dame Florence Nettleton, over by Pioneer Square. No one knows much about her, and any records of her earlier life were probably destroyed in the Great Seattle Fire. Plus, she’s been lost in the shadow of her more famous predecessor, Madam Lou Graham, the Queen of the Lava Beds, who I believe ran the Tenderloin before her. And then later by Naughty Nellie Curtis, who ran a crib joint out of the old LaSalle Hotel overlooking Pike Place Market. There’s another story there I’m sure…”
Ernest sat back, listening, nodding. His daughter had done her research—he was impressed, again.
“So is that where the two of you met?” Rich asked, smiling. “At this Tenderloin place? I mean, forgive me for being a bit forward with my assumptions, but I do work in a colorful town and I’ve seen a salacious thing or two in my time. Hollywood’s finest come to Vegas to get married or divorced, sometimes in the same trip.” He laughed. “I’m immune to scandal.”
“What can I say? We were just kids, barely in our teens…” Ernest said.
“You were part of Seattle history,” Juju said. “And you, Dad, you’re practically a living, breathing Ripley’s Believe It or Not! I know people of your generation don’t like to talk about themselves very much—if at all—but come on…”
Gracie slowly tapped her spoon on the side of her bowl.
Then she looked about the restaurant—at the lamp, the statue, the diners at other tables and in booths—as though she were remembering where she was. Smiling.
“Ernest is being…modest,” Gracie said. “He was a coachman, and a good one. You had…driving gloves and a leather coat. You looked so handsome. How could I ever forget that?”
Everyone waited, holding their breath.
Then Juju added, “And you worked there too.”
Rich snickered and teased. “Don’t tell me you were a party girl, Mrs. Young.”
Juju frowned at the man. Ernest tried to change the subject, waving to the bow-tied waiter, who was already on his way with a platter of preserved beef, braised chicken, and seaweed salad. All of it served cold.
“Oh no, nothing so romantic,” Gracie said pleasantly. “I was a prostitute.” She spoke as though she might have said, Please pass the salt or How’s the weather?
Rich fell silent for once, addressing his soup without looking up. Hanny laughed, thinking she’d just caught the tail end of a joke; then as reality set in she stared at Juju, mouth agape, her face equal parts shock, confusion, and disbelief. Juju cocked her head toward Ernest, as if to ask for confirmation.
ANGELS IN THE SNOW
(1909)
Ernest pulled his red wool scarf up higher to shield his nose against the wind, which was blowing fat snowflakes in every possible direction. His breath was warm, even as his toes felt like ice cubes in his rubber three-button boots. He leaned into the shovel again and again as he worked to clear the dense, wet drifts of mashed-potato snow that piled up on the sidewalks and the front steps of the Tenderloin. Ernest had always loved the idea of a white, picture-postcard Christmas, even if that meant he had to shovel snow all day long on Christmas Eve.
As he caught his breath and stretched his aching back, Ernest heard the jingling of bells on a harness. He waved a mittened hand at a black-bearded man in a long overcoat, who tipped his snow-brimmed top hat as he talked to his team of draft horses as though they were stubborn children. The man shouted words encouraging them, chiding them, and scolding them as they pulled a metal plow down the street, carving a path through the snow-covered city. Shopkeepers swept and shoveled, businessmen in fine suits took turns clearing the trolley platforms, and dozens of stevedores, hired for the day, worked furiously to clear the rail lines again and again so the streetcars might have a chance amid the falling, drifting snow. It was an effort that, to Ernest, seemed as endless and futile as trying to bail out the Pacific Ocean.
As a group of drunken carolers sang an off-tune, wine-soaked version of “Here We Come A-Wassailing,” men and women completed their last holiday errands all around him, hauling Christmas trees, carrying wreaths, toting presents. Icicles, which hung precariously from the lampposts, slowly began to melt as the gaslights flickered on for the evening. The lamps added a warm glow to the fairy lights that deckled the storefronts, the clothiers, and even the pubs and casinos. Ernest thought that the peaceful street scene was like something out of a painting, as though the clock had spun backward ten years, thanks to the absence of chattering automobiles, replaced by the pleasant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages, Bristol wagons, and the occasional snap of a buggy whip. He watched as another team of bridled horses snorted gusts of steam through flared nostrils as they trotted by, high-stepping in unison, proudly showing the impotent motorcars buried in the snowdrifts that they hadn’t yet surrendered their usefulness.
Ernest stomped his feet to try to warm his toes as he wondered what Christmas morning would be like. With Madam Flora’s erratic behavior, planning anything had become difficult. And besides, Miss Amber had been busy taking Flora about the city to new doctors all month. In their absence, Mrs. Blackwell and the servants had taken charge of putting up a tree and decorating the house. Ernest thought they’d done a yeoman’s job (without Miss Amber’s normal, stern input), so at least it looked like Christmas at the Tenderloin and smelled like a merry holiday. Ernest had learned from the other servants that certain occasions, especially birthdays, were not celebrated—the upstairs girls chose to keep their ages a secret. So he had wondered if the Advent season would be enjoyed beyond the basic trappings.
In anticipation, he’d bought small, hand-painted wooden angels for Fahn and Maisie, and wrapped layered boxes of chocolates and dried fruit, dusted in powdered sugar, to be shared by the maids and the upstairs girls. But would they really get up early and exchange presents? Or would Christmas involve another late night in the casual company of rich, lascivious customers who came and went, and everyone sleeping in past noon, just another day of canoodling, with or without mistletoe?
Ernest worried, because Madam Flora’s bouts of hysteria were getting worse. Her episodes had been draining them of the reserve of hope they’d all built up at the fair.
He closed his eyes and remembered how he’d eagerly returned to the fairgrounds with Maisie and Fahn three days after the closing ceremonies. They’d woken early and stolen away on the trolley to see what remained, yearning to savor one more moment.
But when they’d arrived, the lush greenbelts looked brown and trampled, except for tiny forests of dandelions. It had been sad to see the brick walkways strewn with tickets, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, old newspapers, wads of chewing gum and spitting tobacco. Flights of pigeons and gulls fought over the detritus; the remains of treats that had once seemed magical now sat rotting. And the busiest activity they found were hoboes picking their way through the mess—sad, haggard old men with potato sacks who collected brown bottles for their half-penny deposits.
Ernest recalled that dozens of other kid
s their age had come back as well. Together they gathered at Ezra Meeker’s place, the solitary vendor still open for the week, or until they ran out of beer, whichever came first. Ernest, Maisie, and Fahn ordered a cream soda to share and comforted each other like the living at a wake.
Since then, the only reminder of the fair had been the occasional visits by Mrs. Irvine and her well-meaning, riotous band of puritan do-gooders. Her words seemed like polite cannon shots fired across her widening gulf of disapproval. Each time, she asked Ernest to come back, and each time he declined.
As Ernest finished clearing the latest blanket of fresh snow, he did his best to focus on the bright memories of that last day at the AYP.
All these months, he still woke up each morning wondering if the emotions of that day—that night—had vanished with the fair. Had any of it been real enough to last? Maisie had been warmer to him ever since, in direct proportion to Fahn’s growing restlessness.
Ernest snapped out of his daydreaming when he spotted a figure walking down the center of the snow-covered street, leaving a single trail of footprints in the virgin powder. The fat man in a red suit, fringed with white, was unmistakable even amid the swirling snowflakes, as he laughed heartily and rang a brass bell. Ernest smiled as though childhood stories had come to life. People on the sidewalks waved and cheered, and some even opened their windows and shouted “In dulci jubilo!” in thick European accents. A few ornery teenagers threw snowballs that fortunately sailed clean of their mark.
When the man got closer, Ernest could see this was no ordinary stuffed-coat, department store St. Nicholas. Beneath his beard of white was a very dark face. Ernest recognized Professor True’s eyes behind his spectacles before the piano man shifted his bag of presents to his other shoulder and bellowed a hearty “Ho, ho, ho, Ernest. Christmas can officially begin, because Santa Claus has arrived!”
