Mrs. Houdini

by Victoria Kelly

  “Keep going,” he begged. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, perhaps a longing for the old world his parents had told him about when he was a child, before the cold Milwaukee winters and the tragedy of poverty had hardened him.

  Bess’s voice shook. “To that dear home beyond the sea, my Kathleen shall again return, and when thy old friends welcome thee, thy loving heart will cease to yearn.”

  Harry closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he said, “It’s sad.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is sad.”

  He took her to the bed and undressed her completely, then himself, so that they were lying against each other. The humidity pressed down on them, heavy as stone, and Bess pushed the blanket to the side of the bed. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Harry,” she said softly. She had never seen a man’s naked body before, except her stepfather’s flaccid form when he was drunk and had fallen asleep, naked, on the kitchen floor. But there had been something pitiful and contemptible about him that was not present here, in Harry. She could see the dim form of every muscle on his chest, spangled with sweat, and he was beautiful, and she could feel him trembling, too. His breath was hot against her face.

  “It will hurt,” he said.

  “I know.” But she was brave. What powers she possessed beneath those clothes, she had never imagined. Her mother had never broached the subject with her, but her sister Stella, who was already married, had alluded to it. Tomorrow she would have to bring Harry home and tell them both, she realized, and she would not be a little girl in that house anymore.

  “Do you think I look like a child?” she asked him. “Men have said I look like a child.”

  Harry’s eyes widened. “A child? Far from that.” He laughed, holding her against him. Her concern seemed to ease his nerves somewhat. She waited for what came next, for the agony of the wait to be over, and the rush of pain, but also the way she knew it would change them both, how they would emerge, not unscathed but happier.

  “You are my own,” he said.

  As a performer, Harry had determined that true power belonged to those who knew how to create not merely illusions but transformations. It was a fact of human nature, he said, that people wished to become something else. They wanted to travel to that mysterious in-between place that lives only in magic, which ordinary men and women cannot reach. Characters in fairy tales were awakened from death as if they had only been asleep—they hovered, suspended, between two worlds—and Harry knew that people wanted this experience for themselves. If they could go to that place, and come back from it, they would somehow be different—they, too, would be anointed and saved.

  This was the secret that drove the success of Harry’s Metamorphosis trick—when one person was locked inside the trunk, and disappeared, and then reemerged free and unbound; it was as if he had been able to pass through walls, to fade into the ether in which the secret, dreamed-about places lay, and come back from it changed.

  It was with great surprise that after their first night together, as the morning breathed itself through the open window of Harry’s room, Bess learned that she was expected to take Dash’s place in the trick. Dash wanted to strike out on his own, Harry said; he had never quite been comfortable with the uncertainty of the profession, and he wanted to return to the city and try his hand at other things.

  “You and I will be the Houdinis now,” he said, beaming. “Harry and Bess. We’ll be on the billing together.”

  Bess was aghast. “You can’t be serious. A few days isn’t enough time for me to practice all those tricks.”

  “You’ll be fine. You’re much smaller than Dash—it will actually be better this way.”

  Of course, she knew that what he was doing was merely deception, and if one knew the secret one could easily step into another’s part. Surely, as a Floral Sister she had been playing a part. Still, knowing how tricks were done and doing them were two different things altogether.

  “What should I wear? I don’t imagine I could wear one of my singing costumes, with all those feathers.”

  Harry went over to his dresser and pulled out a pair of thin black tights. “You can wear these.”

  Bess took one look at the tights, hanging limply from his hand like a wrinkled snakeskin, and burst out laughing.

  “I couldn’t possibly! You’ll—you’ll have me look like a prostitute, in front of all those people?”

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Bess. I’ve been to plenty of shows—circuses, things like that. This is what the women wear. You’ll have some kind of a dress on, too. Just—not so much as you’re used to.”

  “I don’t think I can step onto a stage in that.” Out of costume, her usual nonstage underclothes alone consisted of drawers and an undershirt, a drawstring corset, a petticoat, a long-sleeved chemise, silk stockings and garters. “I’ve never shown so much of myself.”

  Harry laughed. “Yes, you have.”

  “My singing costume wasn’t that—”

  “With me. Last night.”

  Bess glared at him. “You’re a lousy brute!”

  Harry shrugged. He was much more cavalier when he was talking about his act—a different person altogether, not the tender, nervous boy of the night before. Still, his stage arrogance—the confidence, the clear-eyed determination—was alluring.

  “Besides, I’ll bet you know how to do half of my magic already. I’ll test you. The ropes—”

  She shook her head. “Now you are trying to fool me. That’s the one thing that’s not a trick. I’ll bet you really do know how to break out of those ropes and all kinds of fasteners. It’s your talent.”

  He laughed. “You’re a smart one.”

  She hesitated. “There’s one more thing, and it’s something I can’t control. Whenever I’m nervous, my hands shake. I’ve tried, but I can’t stop it. What if they shake onstage?”

  Harry smoothed her head. “You won’t have to do any of the difficult restraints. Just leave those to me.”

  “Fine. But you have to do something for me first.” She hesitated. Voicing her request made her anxious. She wasn’t even sure it was what she wanted. “We’re married now. I want to introduce you to my mother.”

  “She’s not going to like me, you said so yourself,” Harry said, frowning.

  Bess thought about it. He was probably right. “We’ll see.”

  “I’m ashamed that I’m poor, but I’m not going to be ashamed that I’m Jewish.”

  “No one’s asking you to be.”

  He folded the tights and put them back into the drawer among his other costumes, which had been carelessly stuffed inside. “Why does it matter to you that I meet her? You said you had moved in with your sister.”

  “Because,” Bess said, “if you want me to meet your mother—and you said you did—it’s only fair that you meet mine. We’re not going to start this marriage off unfairly. You said it yourself—you want me on your billing, by your side. Not in the wings.”

  Harry sighed. “All right. Let’s go today then, and we’ll meet each other’s mothers. And anyway, we’re leaving next week for the circus, and we’ll have to tell them.”

  Bess glanced around his room, seeing it clearly now, for the first time in daylight. It was disastrous. His clothes lay in piles in the corners, covered in dust and dirt, and the place smelled strongly of sweat. Empty lemonade bottles were stacked on the bureau. Harry came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s only temporary,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  Bess grimaced. “That’s good.”

  “There’s a Yiddish word my mother used to use: balaboosta. It means homemaker. That’s what she was. Always very organized. As you can see, I don’t have those same skills. Now you’ll be my balaboosta.” He grinned.

  “Oh, I will?” Bess wasn’t sure she wanted to be anyone’s balaboosta. She had grown up in a house full of children and had never envied her mother the enormous tasks of housekeeping she faced every day.

  Harry
pulled her down onto the bed and flipped her over so he was lying on top of her. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether he was going to smack her or kiss her. Then he ran his fingers under her dress and began to tickle her mercilessly. Bess shrieked.

  “Say you will!” He laughed. “Say you’ll do it!”

  “Okay, okay!” Bess cried, squirming under his grip. “I’ll be your balaboosta!”

  Harry sat up and smiled at her. “Good. I knew you’d come to your senses.”

  She tried to push him over, but he was too strong. “You are so infuriating!”

  Harry took her chin in his hand and kissed her. “But I’ll do my part,” he said. “I’m going to take care of you. I promise. You’ll have everything you want.”

  Looking around the room, she wasn’t so sure this would be true. But despite his flaws, she already loved this stranger beside her. She had loved his swagger onstage and his dark, impenetrable eyes, and now even his incompetence at housekeeping.

  She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. “Have you ever been inside the Brighton Beach Hotel?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Neither have I. But I’ve memorized their menu. Littleneck clams, baked bluefish, meringue for dessert.”

  “One day,” Harry said, “we can go there. We’ll come with our servants and stay the whole summer. We’ll watch the races along Ocean Parkway on Sundays. And we’ll have one dinner in the hotel and after the fireworks we’ll go over to Tappan’s for a second dinner.”

  Bess laughed. “Yes. Instead of Paddy Shea’s. Anna thinks that’s the height of elegance. But then again, she also dreams of staying in the Elephant Hotel on her honeymoon.” Compared to the Brighton Beach Hotel, with its white curtains and silver chargers in the dining room, the Elephant Hotel was garish; it was built in the shape of an elephant, with rooms that were cramped and dark.

  “With the cigar shop in front? You’re kidding.”

  Bess shook her head. “What did you do before you were Harry Houdini?” she asked. “Do you have any skills beside magic?”

  “Do you mean how will I support you if I fail at magic? Well, I won’t fail,” he said. “But, to humor you, I can tell you I was very efficient as an assistant necktie cutter for a little while. At H. Richter’s Sons in New York.”

  Bess sat up. “H. Richter’s? Next to Siegel-Cooper? I worked as a waitress in their café during high school! Do you think we’ve met before?”

  Harry thought about it. “I quit five years ago. So you would have just started.”

  Bess tried to remember the faces of the patrons who used to frequent the restaurant, but they were only shadows. “I do think it’s possible. The men from H. Richter’s came in for coffee all the time.”

  “What were you doing working at fourteen anyway?”

  The hair rose on Bess’s arms. “My stepfather was—is still, I suppose—a terrible drunk. I don’t think he’ll be there when we go to Brooklyn, thank God. He’s never there. But after my mother married him, he used to come into my room at night. At first it was nothing—just friendly kisses on the cheek, to say good night. Then one night, when I was sixteen, he tried to climb into bed with me. I kicked him so hard he was laid up for a week. After that, I moved into my sister’s apartment with her and her new husband. So I got a job to help pay my part of the rent.”

  Harry stroked her head. “You poor thing.” His expression was pensive. “I think a part of me remembers meeting you and a part of you remembers me. Even if the memories are not on the surface right now. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to you.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in things like fate?”

  Harry shrugged. “Well, I believe in stories. Sometimes we can make them true even when they’re not.”

  Mrs. Weiss lived in a walk-up tenement apartment on East Sixty-Ninth Street with Harry’s younger sister, Gladys, and brother Leo. Leo worked on the docks and was rarely at home, but Gladys led them into the living area. She was a tiny girl, barely twelve years old, and very frail, her wrists thin as rope. Bess saw her standing in the doorway—she was clearly blind and stared right past them into the darkness of the hallway; the right side of her face was marred with faint scars. Harry hadn’t told her anything about his siblings, never mind a blind sister who had certainly been the victim of some kind of accident—but it was clear the girl worshiped him. She grasped his arm as he led her toward the faded pink sofa where Mrs. Weiss was waiting in a black lace church dress, hands clasped in her lap, to receive them. Her gray hair was tied neatly behind her head in a low bun.

  “Mein geliebter Sohn!” she cried, reaching up to embrace Harry, tears streaming down her face. She kissed both sides of his face three times. Harry had told Bess that Mrs. Weiss didn’t know a word of English. German was the language of the household, and Bess had fortunately learned a conversational use of it in her own house, although her parents spoke mainly in English. She had not mentioned this to Harry; she was eager to hear how he would present her if he did not think she could understand him.

  “Mother, dearest,” Harry said, motioning to Bess, “this is my wife, Beatrice.”

  Mrs. Weiss looked at her sharply. “You love each other very much?” she asked Harry.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Bess could see Mrs. Weiss’s hesitation as she considered her response. Finally she smiled. “Then I have not lost a son,” she said. “I have gained a daughter.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bess responded in German, dipping into a relieved curtsy. Harry turned to her in surprise, and Bess smiled. She had managed to trick the trickster himself.

  She had the sense that Harry expected her to treat his mother as he did, as one would treat a queen. She was suddenly grateful that her new name was Houdini and she would never have to be the second Mrs. Weiss. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to be held in compare by Harry with this woman, with her high, chiseled cheekbones and perfectly rounded nails. She had done more in her lifetime than Bess could dream of doing—moved across the world, survived ferocious Wisconsin winters, been widowed, and dragged her family out of abject poverty. And yet she still carried herself with the kind of softness and grace one saw in the most polished society women. Bess was terrified that Mrs. Weiss would secretly despise her for marrying Harry, but this did not appear to be the case. Instead, she seemed eager to impress her. She took Bess by the hand and led her to a far wall, where a worn prayer rug had been given a place of prominence, hanging beside the family photographs.

  “Kaiserin Josephine walked on this many times. It used to belong to an orphan asylum in Budapest. This is a family treasure.” Her face lit up. “My husband was quite a well-known scholar in the old country. He was able to obtain artifacts like this. Ehrich is going to be equally famous here, in the new country.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bess said, because she felt this was the proper response, although secretly she wondered what would come of his mother’s dreams for him. Bess and Harry both had come from poor upbringings. The circus and vaudeville business was a tricky profession, and one did not easily find fame or fortune in it.

  Mrs. Weiss leaned in so Harry could not hear her. “You know my son will be”—she began in English and then had difficulty finding the words, and finished in German—“always a boy at heart?”

  Bess laughed, not sure how to respond.

  “He has a soft heart but a fiery temper. You will have to learn to manage his moods.”

  Bess glanced at Harry, and he shrugged.

  Mrs. Weiss had made strawberry pie, Harry’s favorite, and they stayed for lunch before leaving for the Rahners’ residence in Brooklyn. Gladys chattered away about neighborhood gossip, and when the dishes were cleaned, Bess took Gladys’s hand and squeezed it. “We will see you again soon,” she said in English, and Gladys beamed.

  Before they left Mrs. Weiss went into the bedroom and came out with a paper bag. “Don’t be offended,” she said, reaching in to pull out a woman’s long skirt. “But you should n
ot be traveling with Harry in those clothes. You look much too young. You will be turned away for lodging.”

  Bess bit her lip. “Thank you,” she said, looking at Harry, whose face was frozen in horror. “That is very practical advice.” She glanced down at her own skirt, her face hot with humiliation, but knew there was some truth to it. Her small size, small breasts, and curly hair gave the wrong impression of her age. She did not want to have to pretend to be Harry’s sister when she had only just become his wife.

  When they left, after a long series of kisses and good-byes, Bess turned to Harry. “How did I do? Was I all right?”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “But you didn’t tell me you could speak German.”

  She smiled. “Are you still glad you married me?”

  He laughed and pulled her into an alcove at the end of the hallway. “My dear girl,” he said, wrapping his hands around her waist, “my mother might claim me as her son, but you are my wife. The two loves do not conflict.”

  “But you love her so much.”

  “Of course. She’s my mother, and I have to take care of her. I have to do what my father could not.” He lifted the bottom of her skirt and ran his fingers over her knees. “I only have three devotions—you, my mother, and my magic act. I promise you I will be faithful to those my entire life.”

  Bess pulled down her skirt. “Harry! Someone could come up the stairs.”

  He grew serious. “What you told me about your stepfather—you should know, no one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

  Bess wrapped her arms around his neck. “What about you? Your mother warned me that you have a temper.”

  Harry was horrified. “I would never lay a finger on you.”