by Jamie Ford
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She didn’t say anything as the festive music continued to play and the world of Luna Park orbited past their field of vision. That’s when Ernest saw people in uniforms. No one in particular, a group of men, sailors. There were plenty such men to be found on a sunny day. They were pointing to an exhibit where a bear was drinking from a baby bottle. Then one of them glanced over and tipped his cap and leered.
When Ernest turned back, Fahn’s horse was empty. He glimpsed a blur of yellow as the carousel kept spinning. He jumped off and orbited the ride until he found the direction he’d seen Fahn running. As he slipped through the oncoming crowd, he caught another glimpse of her dress and realized she was heading back toward the ferry landing. When he caught up to her near the entrance, she was standing still, staring at the ground, her shoulders rising and falling as she caught her breath.
To Ernest she looked like a rock as a river of people flowed around her. He smiled wanly at the children who passed, laughing.
He took her hand and tried to look into her downcast eyes. “We don’t have to leave so soon,” he said. “Why don’t we just take a break, grab a lemonade and go for a walk?”
Her eyes darted as she glanced up at him and then out toward the ferry, which arrived every thirty minutes. “I’m sorry, Ernest. I know we just got here, but I can’t stay. I don’t think I belong here…”
Ernest didn’t know what he could say to make things better. She had all the confidence in the world within the confines of the Tenderloin, but out here, in the sunshine…“I don’t belong anywhere.” He shrugged. “But here I am.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I was hoping to tell you in a better way. But Mrs. Blackwell sent a telegram to Miss Amber, care of the Great Northern Railway. She told her about how Maisie had left and how I’d come back.”
Ernest imagined the mixed reactions to those bits of news.
“She got a reply this morning,” Fahn said. “Amber didn’t mention Maisie at all. But she insisted that if I stayed at the Tenderloin, I would have to earn my keep by working upstairs. I know I once told everyone I wanted—”
“You don’t have to,” Ernest said. “Surely, Mrs. Blackwell—”
“I won’t put her job at risk.”
Fahn pulled her hat down lower, shading her eyes. “I’ll manage somehow. Let’s just go home.” She walked out of the park toward the incoming ferry.
Before Ernest could argue or convince her otherwise, he heard the steam whistle blaring from the inbound vessel. And then he heard the peculiar, yet unmistakable strains of collective voices, singing. The song wasn’t from one of the operatic divas featured at the amusement park but was coming from a choir that had assembled on the forecastle of the ferry West Seattle. Even from a distance Ernest recognized the dour countenances of ministers in black robes and ladies bearing signs condemning drinking on the Sabbath. Evidently Mayor Gill’s opponents, the Mothers of Virtue and a sister group, the Forces of Decency, hadn’t been willing to submit. The election had stirred up the hornets’ nest.
Fahn buried her face in her hands.
“Follow me.” Ernest took her arm and spirited her across the parkway to a nearby trolley platform for Seattle Electric Railway’s Alki line. He hastily bought tickets and they boarded the car just in time. He sat Fahn with her back toward the ferry. The protesters disembarked and they began their parade into the amusement park as the trolley rolled away. He held on while they cruised down toward the tidal flats and across the muddy trestles of a bridge that would take them in the direction of home.
—
AFTER SWITCHING TROLLEYS on Spokane Street, they glided back into Pioneer Square. Ernest took Fahn’s hand and helped her off at the platform nearest to the Garment District. She looked tired—not just tired, but lost in shadow.
Ernest couldn’t bear to go back to the Tenderloin in that moment.
But as he scanned the neighborhood, he could see there was no peace and quiet to be had, not in theaters, noisy restaurants and saloons. Plus the streets seemed more crowded than usual, as cars and delivery wagons slowed down and more picketers were gathering for what appeared to be another rally against the newly elected mayor. Ernest spotted Mrs. Irvine addressing the crowd with a megaphone from atop a flatbed truck.
The AYP had revealed Seattle to the whole nation—the good, the bad, the outrageous. But now the wild, open town that Mayor Gill had supported was being put to the test, from its own citizens. Plus the return of Halley’s Comet had aroused yet more doomsday superstitions, worrying parishioners back into church pews, where they hedged their bets with acts of repentance. And those who already had a desire to save souls caught fire and had been joining Mrs. Irvine by the hundreds. A blessed unrest was flooding the Garment District, and Ernest wasn’t sure what might happen at the Tenderloin without Madam Flora or Miss Amber there to defend against the pious incursions.
He led Fahn across the street to the quietest spot he could find, H. J. Ellison’s Bookstore, a favorite hideaway, which was peaceful inside and smelled like coffee and leather. He led her to a row of popular novels, far from the front of the store.
“I really don’t feel up to another lesson on French literature,” Fahn mumbled as she absently browsed recent books by Harold MacGrath and Joseph Conrad. “This is my day off. Why don’t we just go home and I’ll sleep until I have to work?”
Ernest watched through the bookshop window as the crowds migrated toward the Tenderloin and the motorcars and carriages began moving again.
“Anything I can help you with?” the proprietor asked.
Ernest nodded to the man, who sat at a desk near the back of the store oiling a typewriter. A pipe dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“Pick something,” Ernest whispered to Fahn despite her protestations. “Pick something for enjoyment, not schooling. Let me buy it for you.”
As though in a fog, Fahn chose a hardback by an author named Stacpoole. She absently handed the book to Ernest, who stepped to the counter and presented the owner with a silver dollar, waiting patiently for his change.
“Ah, excellent choice,” the man said as the pipe bounced up and down from the corner of his mouth. “The book is in its seventh printing already—a bestseller. The story’s about two kids like you, marooned on a tropical island.”
Ernest paged through the book as he inhaled the scent of fresh printer’s ink and the man’s grape-flavored tobacco. Perfect. Ernest looked back at Fahn, who was now a silhouette, a beautiful mannequin that stood near the store window as the world streamed by. He thanked the owner, then led her gently, as though she were sleepwalking, out of the store and away from the crowds, upstream to the entrance of a triangle-shaped building, on the fringes of the red-light district. A giant electric sign sat atop the roof, emblazoned with letters twenty feet tall that spelled out HOTEL SEATTLE.
Ernest stared at their reflections in the polished glass door.
Why not?
He saw the resigned look in Fahn’s eyes as he led her inside and paid for a room in what had once been the Occidental Hotel. She seemed disappointed to not be going home, though somewhat expectant as well, as though this were just another chapter in the sad chronicle of her life. Ernest held her hand and walked her up the winding staircase to a room on the fifth floor overlooking the street. She sat on the bed and he took off her shoes, whispering that he could order room service, but she said she wasn’t hungry. Then Ernest loosened his tie and looked outside as he watched police officers on horseback riding into the district. There were fights in the streets, and people were throwing bottles and rocks. But from above, the scrum seemed a world away, the people like actors in a silent film. From the top of this world Ernest had a commanding view of the construction of the new Smith Tower and beyond that, the sparkling blue-green waters of Puget Sound. From here he could see trains coming and going, he could watch the ships at sail, steam billowing from their stacks, but all he coul
d hear were the gusts of wind on panes of glass and the sound of his leather heels on the wooden floor. And even that was muffled by the carpets as he stepped back toward the bed.
Ernest propped up a pillow and urged Fahn to lie back, to relax, and to close her eyes if she wanted to. Then he took the great feather duvet and tucked it around her shoulders. He pulled up an easy chair next to the bed and sat down.
“You’re safe now,” he said.
“You’re not getting into bed with me?”
Ernest blinked. He slowly shook his head.
There was an awkward silence.
He drew a deep breath, entranced by the way her dark hair fell across the white duvet. Fahn stared back at him, searching his face for understanding.
“You know you can, if you want to,” she said. “It’s okay…”
Ernest reached out and touched her hand. “It’s not okay. And I don’t care what Miss Amber says. If she’s going to try to make you work as an upstairs girl to earn your keep, then I’m going to pay for your time—all of it, every night. Just like this.”
He patted the book, then opened to the first page. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud, pausing every so often to look up at Fahn. Her eyes were closed, and she looked tired, weary, but she also smiled as she curled beneath the covers. He hoped she was warm enough.
Ernest got comfortable and read until the evening, until Fahn fell asleep.
And then he read one more paragraph to himself:
Here it made the air a crystal, through which the gazer saw the loveliness of the land and reef, the green of palm, the white of coral, the wheeling gulls, the blue lagoon, all sharply outlined—burning, coloured, arrogant, yet tender—heartbreakingly beautiful, for the spirit of eternal morning was here, eternal happiness…
He closed the book and whispered, “I love you. I will always love you,” softly so he wouldn’t wake her. Then he put his feet up and closed his eyes as well.
LIT THE FIRE
(1962)
Ernest sat next to Gracie as she curled up on his chesterfield beneath an old blue afghan. Gracie had crocheted the blanket years ago, and although she probably didn’t remember its origin now, its vague familiarity seemed to bring her something beyond physical comfort. Just like the book that Ernest held in his lap, the same well-worn hardback he’d bought for her fifty years ago. Together, they must have read forty or fifty novels during the long year that Gracie had been required to work upstairs as a Gibson girl. But this book had always been her favorite—Ernest’s too. As he turned the pages to the last chapter, he smiled, detecting a hint of tobacco, and the burnt-almond scent of old paper.
“Keep reading,” Gracie said. “You can’t stop now.”
Ernest obliged, knowing that although they’d read this book a half dozen times, the story was now brand-new to her. By her eagerness, Ernest could tell that Gracie didn’t seem to remember that the romantic adventure ended in tragedy for the main characters. The two young lovers had finally been rescued from their deserted island, but only after consuming handfuls of poisonous berries, just when they’d thought all hope had been lost.
As Ernest read the final page, he cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, and changed the ending. He gave Gracie what he thought she needed, a grand rescue at sunset and a happily ever after for good measure.
She furrowed her brow as he closed the book.
“People don’t find real happiness in the end, do they, young Ernest?”
He regarded the wrinkles on his hands, the loose skin. He didn’t feel so young anymore. “I found you, all over again—that makes me happy.”
Gracie pursed her lips and stared into the past.
“I remember…” She paused. “I remember you and Maisie. I miss her.”
“That was a long time ago,” Ernest said. “I miss her too.”
They sat in silence for an endless minute, as Gracie continued searching, weighing something in her mind. Ernest heard a siren in the distance.
“You…should have been with the Mayflower,” she said. “She offered you the whole world. And you missed your chance…somehow…I messed things up, didn’t I?”
Ernest watched as Gracie’s gaze swept the small room, the old books, the sepia photographs, the magazines that featured the Century 21 Expo, the newspapers with Juju’s bylines, Hanny’s latest head shots, Rich’s business card, her own reflection in a glass of water, distorted and yet transparent, like her memories.
Gracie fidgeted with the button on her blouse. “You never asked what happened at the Tangerine.”
Ernest nodded—she was right about that. Over the years he had never wanted to engage in that particular conversation—it was ancient history as far as he was concerned. But he also realized that those tarnished memories were cobwebs now, blocking Gracie’s view. She needed to acknowledge them if she was to have any chance at moving forward, cleaning them from the sills of her mind.
“I didn’t need to know,” Ernest said. “And I never asked because I didn’t want you to have to relive a moment of what happened.”
Gracie nodded and stared out the window as though she were only partially listening. “I remember the strangest things, you know. I remember the way Madam Flora wore those feathered hats. Miss Amber’s wigs. I remember laboring in the kitchen…the warmth of the oven, the smell of freshly baked bread, the scent of coal oil and perfume, the wine bottles and old, dusty carpets and drapes. But that wasn’t the Tangerine, was it? That place smelled like…lye. And vinegar. That place…was run by a man named Jun.” Gracie paused, then she shook her head. “That’s not right either, is it? Whoever they were—I never knew their names, but they seemed nice at first.”
“Gracious.” Ernest held her hand and shook his head. “You don’t have to…”
But she ignored him, kept talking, kept trying to remember. “They charged us rent, gave us…secondhand clothes. They told us that we owed them for the cost. The other girls…were working on contracts that never seemed to end.”
Gracie stood and looked into a dressing mirror. She reached out, touched her reflection. “At first…I sleepwalked through the men, dozens of them, sailors, cannery workers—their hands smelled like salmon and fish oil.”
She touched her cheek as though recognizing herself. “But my pride couldn’t keep up with my body. So I said I wanted to leave…I wanted to go home. They refused.”
Ernest watched as Gracie drew a deep breath. Then another.
“They…locked me in my room. And when I banged on the door for hours, they gave me something…that made me…sleepy. When the medicine wore off, I said…I was going to run away, shouted that I was going to call the police. Said that I knew people. That’s when they took my clothes. They kept me in a room with nothing more than a lamp and a bottle of poison. I suppose most of the girls just ended it there.”
“But you’re not most girls,” Ernest said.
Gracie slowly shook her head. “With my memories, I lit the fire. I thought of you and Maisie as I took the lamp oil, and I splashed the walls, the carpet, and I set the bed aflame. I felt the heat on my bare skin, tasted the smoke. I thought that if I was going to die I was going to bring the roof down around me. That’s when the owners came bursting into the room with buckets of sand, yelling…and I ran.”
You’re still running, Ernest thought.
“I burned that filthy place to the ground, didn’t I?”
Ernest nodded, oddly proud of her. He remembered worrying that someone might have been hurt, or killed in the blaze. That the police would come around and arrest her. But no one had ever come. He later realized that they’d have been upset only if the Tenderloin had burned.
Gracie glanced around the room. She cocked her head as she looked out the window. “What am I doing here, young Ernest? What is this place?”
“We’re…together, like we’ve always been.”
“No…” She shook her head. “What are you doing with me? You shouldn’t be with me. I’m…hold
ing you back. You should be with Maisie.”
Ernest sighed. “That ship sailed a very long time ago.”
Gracie furrowed her brow. “She goes by Margaret.”
“We’re all grown up now,” Ernest said, nodding. “We survived.”
As Ernest watched her struggle to reconcile the past with the present, he thought about the book he’d read to her once again—about tragic endings that couldn’t ever be fixed. But that’s when Ernest understood. Sometimes you need to feel the sadness, you need to feel everything to finally leave it behind, to have peace.
Happiness. Sadness. Like all things, they both come to an end.
VAGRANTS
(1911)
Ernest helped Professor True haul an enormous, dripping block of ice into the kitchen from a delivery wagon in the alley. The man gripped his end of the block, which was the size of a small steamer trunk, with giant metal tongs, and hefted it into the top cabinet of the icebox. Ernest felt the radiating coolness of the ice on his face, wet from perspiration. Then he latched the lid and followed the Professor back out through the alley and around to the front of the building, where they sat on the steps and basked in the glorious spring sunshine, stretching their backs and warming up their hands.
“You heard from the Mayflower lately?” Professor True asked as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and lit a cigar with a kitchen match, puffing away.
