The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

by Ariel Lawhon

Jude moved the sheet away, exposing her flat stomach. He circled her navel with the tip of one finger and then placed his palm on her belly. The hope in her copper-penny eyes was too much for him. He turned away.

  “We never fight.”

  “But we will. Because I will be pregnant. One day.”

  “When is your appointment?”

  “Fourteen days.” She breathed the words against his skin.

  “And you think this doctor can help?”

  “It’s a start.”

  In the distance they could hear the rumble of the El where Park Row met the Bowery. Jude groaned and pushed the sheet away.

  “Don’t.” Her breath was warm against his neck.

  “I have to.”

  “You should stay.”

  “Tell that to the sergeant.”

  Maria curled into him and wrapped her leg around his. His pulse throbbed against her thigh. “I could convince you.”

  “You could convince the pope to take a mistress.”

  “Don’t say that.” Her hands flew over her chest in the sign of the cross. She grabbed her rosary—pale blue beads on a silver chain—from the bedside table and slipped it around her neck. It hung between the swell of her breasts, carnal and reverent.

  “It’s true. If Pius the Eleventh saw you right now, he’d reconsider his vow of celibacy.” Jude sat up, reluctant. “I could lose my job.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” She regretted the words as soon as they were out. A shadow crossed his face, and Maria crawled toward him. She slid her hand along his thigh and offered a coy smile. “Consider the alternative,” she whispered.

  Jude laughed and dropped back to his elbows. “You’re wicked.”

  “Stay there.”

  Maria leaned over the bed and reached for something underneath. The heavy silver cross around her neck clanked against the floor as she stretched farther, balanced precariously on her hips. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her spine, could almost sense its caress in the small of her back. Finally, she felt the square edge of the box she’d stashed the night before.

  “For you, Detective.” She handed him the small brown package.

  Jude took the gift and peered at the hastily tied string. “Is that my shoelace?”

  “We were out of ribbon.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I wanted to give it to you back in March, when you got the promotion.” She smiled, embarrassed. “It took a while to save up.”

  Too excited to wait for her husband, Maria ripped off the paper and held up a cigarette lighter.

  He took it and flipped the lid. A bright orange flame leapt up.

  She pointed to the side. “Your initials.”

  The letters J.S. were engraved across the metal in script and filled with black patina. Jude ran a thumb across them.

  “Do you like it?”

  Jude cupped the lighter in the palm of his hand. It was warm against his skin. “I love it.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” She tapped the sudden crease between his eyebrows.

  “You shouldn’t have to work two jobs. It’s not right.”

  She pulled away to better see his face. “You know Smithson won’t hire a woman tailor full-time—too big of a hit to his pride. So I’ll keep the housework for now. Besides, we need the money. Rent just went up.”

  “Not again?”

  “The notice came in the mail yesterday.”

  Jude sat up and stretched. He looked like a kitten, tongue curled and back arched. She laughed.

  “Not so fast.” Maria caught him off balance and tipped him back onto the mattress. She pinned him down with her hands and knees and kissed him with the deep warmth known only to seasoned lovers. He didn’t resist.

  MARIA slipped through the entrance of 40 Fifth Avenue and paused to catch her breath. She twisted her watch around her thin wrist and noted the time. Eight-thirty. She winced and rushed toward the elevator. Her lust and Jude’s shoelaces had made them both late for work, but she could always blame the incessant construction-induced traffic along Fifth Avenue. There were over seven hundred buildings under construction in Manhattan that year, turning her well-laid route into a maze of cracked concrete and cordoned-off streets. It seemed every building, cellar, subway, and foundation was undergoing some sort of alteration to make room for the relentless swell of people. The air was a broken symphony of shovels, rock drills, jackhammers, and cranes pecking, breaking, and thundering New York City into the twentieth century.

  Maria wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip and leaned against the cool wall of the elevator as it rose to the fifth floor. Her uniform, a black rayon dress with lace collar and cuffs, stuck against her back with the humidity and chafed her skin. She fished for the keys to apartment 508 inside her purse, thankful that the owners were on vacation in Maine and wouldn’t know she was late.

  She let herself into the apartment and eased the door shut. Four times the size of the efficiency she shared with Jude, the Craters’ home spread before her, wood floors and cream-colored walls dotted with oil paintings in gilded frames. The living room was anchored by a stone fireplace with a stained mantel and a painting that cost more than she made in six months. Mrs. Crater had beamed the day they won the Monet at auction, confiding that it would be worth a small fortune in a few years—not that they hadn’t parted with a decent sum, mind you, but it was a luxury now that Mr. Crater had his seat on the bench. She had shown Maria the signature in the bottom right-hand corner, insisted she trace it with her fingertip to feel his name on the painting. They both knew it was the closest Maria would ever come to a Monet.

  The rest of the apartment was compact. A small kitchen and dining room were off to the side, an empty pewter fruit bowl and place settings for six on the table. Vacant elegance. Maria stood in the entry and inhaled the smells of oiled furniture and floor wax. The heavy must of velvet drapes. One day she hoped to have a home as lovely. Jude’s promotion brought them a step closer, but the reality was that even if he made sergeant in a few years, they would never be able to afford something like this. She pushed aside a swell of envy and got to work.

  The Craters kept the cleaning supplies beneath the cabinet in the guest bathroom, and she was about to collect them when she heard the Victrola playing softly in the master bedroom. Mr. Crater often left it on—a habit that irritated Mrs. Crater to no end—and must have forgotten to turn it off when he left for Maine on Friday evening.

  Maria pushed open the dark wood door that led from the living room into the master bedroom. It was furnished, as was the rest of the apartment, thoughtfully and expensively. Sturdy walnut furniture. Red-and-cream bedclothes. Curtains puddled on the floor.

  But stretched across the bed was a naked woman, twenty years younger than Mrs. Crater and a great deal more buxom. She and Maria stared at each other for one horrified second. The woman screamed and hurried to cover herself as Joseph Crater emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet, a towel around his waist. Maria gasped an apology and shut the door. She stood, paralyzed, listening to the tumult in the other room.

  “The maid,” Crater said.

  A whisper. “What is she doing here?”

  “Cleaning, obviously.” He tripped over something. Cursed. “I forgot to tell her not to come.”

  “You forgot?”

  “Stay here.”

  Maria looked at the front door, wondering if she could grab her purse and leave before he came out. Mr. Crater charged from the bedroom, holding on to his towel with one hand. Barrel chest. Pasty skin. And behind him, the woman, pushed up against the headboard with the bedspread yanked up to her chin. The look on her face was desperate and ashamed. Pleading. Maria shifted her gaze to the floor. She backed up as Mr. Crater strode toward her.

  “I’m so sorry. I thought you were in Maine. That’s what you said Friday, that you’d be gone.” The words tumbled out, and she was afraid to meet his furious gaze.

  “Get out!” He pointed at the front door.
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  Gladly. She stumbled backward, eyes still on the floor.

  “Don’t come back until Thursday when I’m gone, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “One word of this to my wife and you’re fired.”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Crater leaned in, his voice hoarse with anger. “You know what I did for your husband. I will take it all away if you don’t keep your stupid mouth shut.”

  Maria couldn’t look at him for fear the hatred would be evident on her face, but she gave a quick nod and blinked hard.

  “It’s not her fault. She was just doing her job.” His mistress now stood in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes large, and ample curves hidden by the bedclothes. Maria startled at the protective note in her voice.

  Mr. Crater shifted his gaze between the two. “Stay out of this.”

  Maria grabbed her purse from the side table.

  “You won’t say anything? Please?” she said in a stage whisper, and took a step toward Maria. Don’t start trouble with him, the look said. Please go.

  Mr. Crater had hired Maria three years earlier as a gift to his wife. She cleaned their home and cooked their meals and ran their errands. Mr. Crater signed her paychecks and gave her a small Christmas bonus every year. He had once pinched her bottom when his wife wasn’t home. Maria felt no loyalty to him and didn’t care to guard his secrets. But there was a depth of sadness in the girl’s hazel eyes that she could not turn from. An unspoken agreement passed between them.

  “I have nothing to tell,” she said, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

  FIFTH AVENUE, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1930

  “Thank you, Mr. Crater!”

  “For?”

  “Putting a good word in for Jude with Commissioner Mulrooney. He’s got an interview with the detective bureau next week.”

  He glanced up from his paper, impassive.

  Maria twisted the cleaning rag in her hands and shot an uncertain look at Mrs. Crater. “If he gets the promotion, he’ll finally get off the vice squad. We want to start a family, and that’s a hard job for a father to have.”

  “I do wonder,” Mr. Crater said, rising from the table with a sneer, “how the daughter of Spanish immigrants managed to snag one of New York’s finest. It’s an odd match, don’t you think?” He folded the newspaper in half, tossed it on the table, and retreated to the bedroom to dress for work.

  Maria busied herself with his dirty breakfast dishes so Stella wouldn’t see the shame spread across her cheeks.

  “Ignore him,” Mrs. Crater said. “He’s all piss and vinegar because his own promotion looks a bit tentative right now.”

  “He’s right.” Maria swallowed. “I married above myself.”

  Mrs. Crater placed a cool hand on the back of Maria’s neck. She patted. “Your husband is obviously a wise man. Look at you, lovely thing!”

  “I’m a maid.”

  “You,” she said, “are smart enough to know that a woman is only as good as her husband. The better off he is, the better off you are. Many women don’t understand that.”

  Maria turned and peered at her. “You convinced Mr. Crater, didn’t you?”

  “He’s never been good at telling me no.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll listen to the back channel and see how things go for Jude. How’s that?”

  “Back channel?”

  “The political wives, dear. Chances are, I’ll know something before Joe.”

  Maria smiled, bright and grateful. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  “We’re in this together. Where would women be if we didn’t look out for one another?” She returned to the living room, where her novel waited, cracked open at the spine.

  “Mrs. Crater?”

  “Yes?”

  “Jude would be furious if he ever found out I did this. He wants to succeed on his own merit. Not on favors. Certainly not those begged by his wife.”

  Mrs. Crater spread her skirt across the couch with a flourish. “Well, that’s silly. Everything in this city is based on favors. In one way or another.”

  MARIA opened the door to Smithson Tailors and reached up to steady the bell. To her left, she could see the city’s newest structure, a monolith dubbed the Empire State Building, dwarf the skyline. The papers said it would be a mind-boggling 102 stories when finished. Construction began less than six months ago, and already the building was fifty-five stories high. Over three thousand workers were employed full-time. Maria could not imagine anyone wanting to be that high above the ground.

  Donald Smithson glanced up in his office. Tapped his watch. “Your appointment will be here in five minutes,” he said.

  Maria nodded and wove her way through the bolts of fabric in the showroom, gray wool and brown tweed, pinstriped cotton and, most popular during the brick-oven summer months, linen.

  She took her sewing bag to a small alcove set into the front window. When she’d inherited the job from her father, she had no intention of becoming the store display. It happened by accident. With square footage in high demand on Fifth Avenue, Smithson could not expand as he’d wished, at least not without securing a second mortgage. So he set his new tailor in the window behind a small desk until space could be made for her in the back with the others. But he soon found an increase in foot traffic as people stopped to watch her nimble fingers work a needle with rapier accuracy. Once settled into her space, she became a living advertisement for the quality offered by Smithson Tailors.

  Maria’s real genius, however—and the reason she’d secured a position in the all-male establishment—was her dual talents as both cutter and stitcher, a rare combination on Savile Row, much less in New York City. Though she could never explain it, Maria could feel the fabric. Not only the texture and the thread count beneath the pads of her fingers, but the proclivity of the material itself, whether it wanted to bunch or snag, whether it would hang well on a particular frame. A natural intuition allowed her to make adjustments in a pattern for a client with a pronounced stoop, a paunch, a barrel chest, a limp, or some other physical quirk that wasn’t taken into account by standard measurements. The warp and weft of fabric softened beneath her touch, like strings for a cellist. Her chalk lines were light and fluid, almost a language of her own, a dot here for buttonholes, a line there for slanted pockets, a streak to allow for extra material that would form the inlay. Nuanced as her cutting skills were, it was in her stitching that Smithson made his real profit. She produced no less than five thousand stitches per suit—she counted—every one equal in size. A straighter hem or tighter seam could not be found in Manhattan. Smithson knew this, of course, and monopolized her abilities for himself. Yet he would not give her the dignity of a full-time position—and therefore the salary that would accompany it—or a referral that would send her to a competitor.

  Donald Smithson stuck his head out from his office. “This client is priority, Maria. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

  Maria forced herself to respond with a smile. “Of course.” Priority, she knew, meant wealthy beyond the normal standards of their clientele. It meant a man willing to buy five or more suits at one time. It meant a level of flattery by Smithson that would nauseate any human with a shred of dignity.

  “I suggested he use one of our more experienced tailors, but he insisted on you. Requested you by name, as a matter of fact.”

  Smithson pulled a tin of Altoids from his pocket. He placed one mint on the tip of his tongue and drew it in with a grimace, straightened his tie, then said, “Get the fitting room ready. And unlock the humidor. Top shelf.”

  Maria grabbed her sewing bag and inspected the contents: measuring tape, pins, cushion, chalk, pinking shears, scissors, and needles in three different sizes. Then she made her way across the showroom and through a side door. What expense her employer spared in her work area he made up for in here. Heavy green carpet covered the floor and the dark paneled walls were adorned every eight feet with a mannequin
dressed in the latest menswear. Between each mannequin was a mirror almost seven feet tall, self-admiration available from all angles. In the middle of the room, a round mahogany platform was positioned directly beneath the chandelier. Two leather chairs rested off to the side, an end table between them. Tiffany lamps in masculine shades of blue, yellow, and green and a gold ashtray completed the opulent decor. Along the back wall sat the built-in humidor. Maria unlocked the doors and swung them open, revealing a generous display of cigars behind a glass case. Her fingers trembled slightly, nerves still on edge from finding that woman in Mr. Crater’s bed. She closed her hands into fists and took a deep breath before she slid the glass open and pulled out the top shelf. The Cubans—Romeo y Julieta being Smithson’s preferred brand. He paid extra for the personalized silver band embossed with the company logo, but he never smoked them himself. She made sure they were straight and that the cigar clipper was clean and polished.

  Panatelas, she called them, the saboteurs of fabric. “Can’t get the smell out of wool,” Maria had complained to Jude more times than she could count. “Ruins a suit every time.”

  She unloaded her sewing bag and set the contents on the edge of the platform. Even in this she was orderly. Pins placed in a perfect swirl around the red cushion. Tape folded in eighths. Scissors laid out neatly. As she finished, the door swished open behind her. She took a quick breath and turned to see the wide eyes and cleft chin of her client.

  “Maria, this is Owney Madden. Owney, Maria Simon.”

  He swaggered the five steps between them, grabbed her hand, and rattled out his greeting in an almost incomprehensible Liverpool accent. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Coming from one of the city’s most notorious gangsters, the comment could easily be applied to him as well. “Mr. Madden.” A quick nod and Maria lowered her eyes.

  “Have we met before?” His studied her face. “You look familiar.”

  “No. I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “It must be the name, then. I hear you’re the best tailor in the city.” He paused. “Seamstress? What exactly are you?”