by Amy Stewart
Norma’s lips worked furiously over her composition. From time to time a word escaped: presumptuous, unconscionable, iniquitous, abhorrent.
She took a breath and continued: indecorous, opportunistic, unprincipled, opprobrious.
Fleurette had been right not to breathe a word of her plans to her sisters. Nothing—not a tour with a theater troupe, and certainly not an offer of marriage—stood a chance against Norma’s formidable vocabulary of refusal.
24
NOW SHE HAD HER ticket in hand. There were three benches on the platform, one of them empty. Fleurette lowered herself gingerly, not certain at first that she could even make contact with the wooden slats. Nothing seemed real at that moment. Either she was intangible or the bench was, but it didn’t seem possible that they were both still solidly of this Earth.
Even the air had changed. It was thin mountaintop air, too insubstantial to keep a person alive. She felt a little dizzy, as if she were looking down upon her life from a great height.
Perhaps this was how everyone felt the first time they left home: insubstantial, transitory, adrift. Fleurette remembered that when her mother died, she was made to wait in the hall, having been banished from the room when her mother started to make a sound like she was drowning. After a long and horror-filled gasp, there came the most restful silence, and Fleurette knew that she was gone. She took a long, deep breath in the hallway, and the air was just like this: cold and alien. It was the air of another world, the one that she would have to live in without her mother.
And now this—this was the world she would live in without her home, and without her sisters.
A tall man in the most ridiculous purple suit came whistling down the platform and dropped onto the bench next to her. “You made it,” he said. “Are these your trunks?”
She had Freeman Bernstein to thank for breaking the spell. No longer was she walking in a dream, through her sisters’ parlor, past her mother’s sick-room. Freeman Bernstein might have been far-fetched, but he was undoubtedly real. He smelled of brandy and cigarettes and faintly of cloves, from the red carnation in his button-hole.
“I hardly brought anything for myself,” Fleurette said. “That’s my sewing machine, and some buttons and ribbons and things.”
Mr. Bernstein grinned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He wore a massive gold ring with a nest of diamonds in the middle. “I expect they’ll have buttons and ribbons and things in Pittsburgh, Florabelle.”
“It’s Fleurette. But you’re supposed to call me Miss Kopp.”
His eyebrows popped up for just a second and he said, “I’m going to call you Florabelle, and you’re going to like it.”
“I never will. Although if you put me on the stage, I might change my mind.”
Fleurette had never felt so bold. If only someone were around to hear the way she traded barbs with May Ward’s husband! What would her sisters think?
The thought made her turn around suddenly and sweep her eyes across the station. She hadn’t yet left her old world behind. It wouldn’t be that unusual to come across Constance in a train station. She shuddered at the thought of it: her formidable older sister, with that gold star on her coat, and that chunk of blue steel on her belt. What would Constance do if she could see Freeman Bernstein now, jumping to his feet and holding out his hand to Fleurette as the train rocked into the station?
It didn’t matter what Constance thought, because it was time for them to go. He ushered her on board and tipped a porter to follow them. Fleurette felt quite grand as she led the way to the rear of the train, where Mrs. Ward and all eight of her Dresden Dolls occupied half of a rail-car.
Fleurette walked breathlessly up to May Ward and made ready with some witty remark about reporting for duty, but before the actress could even look up from her magazine, Freeman Bernstein whisked her past and deposited her among the chorus girls.
“Ladies, Miss Florabelle here is our company seamstress! Don’t teach her your wicked ways.”
An outburst of laughter was his reward. He scampered away, leaving her to make her own introductions and to correct, once again, the pronunciation of her name.
The Dresden Dolls were accompanied by a stern-looking older woman who had something to do with helping the actresses with their hair and costumes (although Fleurette couldn’t imagine what that might be, as the woman seemed to have no sense of style herself), and an absolute brick of a man who acted as a sort of company porter, taking charge of the various trunks and hat-boxes. He was also appointed to stand guard against unwanted male attention as the troupe went in and out of theaters and hotels.
Fleurette was introduced to those two by Charlotte, the youngest and friendliest of the Dolls, as Mrs. Ironsides and Mr. Impediment. They seemed to answer to those names and not to mind them terribly.
“If you so much as take a scrap of paper from a man, I’m to wrestle it away from you, miss,” said Mr. Impediment, in a merry voice that suggested he took great pleasure in his work.
“I enforce the curfew,” said Mrs. Ironsides in a decidedly less pleasant tone. “There’s a train ticket with your name on it if you skip out in the middle of the night.”
“She means it,” said Charlotte. “I took the place of the last girl who missed curfew.”
The others snickered at that but didn’t contradict her story.
With the exception of Charlotte, who couldn’t have been a day past eighteen, the rest of them were at least five years older than Fleurette, some ten. They looked girlish, almost childlike, on stage, but in person, without their costumes, they seemed to Fleurette like world-weary sophisticates.
Two or three of them glanced up from their magazines and card games long enough to offer their names to Fleurette and to suggest the three or four costumes most in need of repair.
“Do the ‘Garden of Love’ dresses first. They’re in tatters. She’s been doing that number since 1909,” said Eliza, as she smoothed her copper-colored hair in the window’s reflection.
“Oh, ‘The Cash Girl’ petticoats are the worst. She’s been doing that number since 1809,” said Bernice. She had a low voice scratchy from overuse.
“I can put another dart in that dress, too, if you like,” Fleurette offered to Bernice, whose dress hung awkwardly around her shoulders.
“It’s not mine, so you’d better not,” Bernice said, “but you can have a go at every single thing in my trunk once you’re finished with the costumes.”
Fleurette might have agreed a little too eagerly to tackle what was sure to be a mountain of tattered frills, but at that moment, as Mr. Bernstein waved a hasty good-bye to his wife and hopped off the train, and she felt the rail-car shudder and jerk forward, she had no doubt that she could do it. Her stomach might have lurched a little as the station slid past her window and the familiar city streets fell away, but she swallowed that fluttery feeling and bestowed her most winning smile on Charlotte, who’d settled in next to her.
“I’ve never been to Scranton before,” Fleurette offered.
“You haven’t?” Charlotte said, in mock surprise, as it was perfectly obvious that Fleurette hadn’t been anywhere. “Well. It has its diversions.”
25
“SORRY, MA’AM. Policewives don’t ride free.”
Constance stared down at the trolley car driver. “It’s a sheriff’s badge. And it’s mine. You’re new on this route, aren’t you?”
“I know the rules. Free fares for sworn officers only. Not wives and stenographers and the like.”
Constance was in no mood to argue. She opened her coat and showed him her gun and handcuffs. He startled and leaned away from her when he saw them.
“Lady, that’s an awful lot of trouble for a free ride. You ought to give those back before someone gets hurt.”
“It’s trouble for you, if you give me any nonsense about my badge again.”
Constance took her seat, which, she reasoned, gave him no choice but to allow it. He was a short, scrawny man who couldn’t h
ave thrown her off the trolley if he’d tried.
Her spirits did not improve when she arrived at the jail and saw Sheriff Heath and Carrie Hart walking toward the courthouse.
“The prosecutor’s office is holding a press conference on the Minnie Davis case,” Sheriff Heath said. “Miss Hart was kind enough to come and tell me, because no one else did.”
“Have they filed charges?” Constance asked.
“You might as well come along and find out.”
For once, the courthouse steps were devoid of reporters swapping stories. They had all filed into a large meeting room on the second floor, one of those dignified, high-ceilinged affairs with tall windows and mahogany panels. A series of judges’ portraits, painted in oil, hung between the windows. Detective Courter stood at a lectern in front of an American flag, the yellow New Jersey flag, and a wall plaque bearing the Bergen County seal. Alongside him was his boss, Prosecutor Wright.
Sitting near the front, at an angle so that she looked out over the assembled crowd, was Belle Headison, Paterson’s lady police officer. Mrs. Headison was a woman of strict moral codes who kept a sharp eye on train stations, dance halls, and amusement palaces, always on the lookout for girls at risk of being led astray. She did manage to catch a criminal every now and then: last year, she caught a man advertising for girls in the newspaper, under the pretense that he was looking for a housekeeper who might also like to audition to be his wife. Constance and Sheriff Heath were called in to help with the arrest. Such cases needed to be brought to light, and Belle Headison, fueled by righteous outrage over the continued assaults to feminine virtue she saw perpetuated all around her, was the woman for the job.
Constance nodded at her from the back of the room, and Mrs. Headison gave a stiff smile of recognition. Constance knew that she made Mrs. Headison uncomfortable: the policewoman had been shocked to see Constance arrest a man and to otherwise carry out the responsibilities of her job the way a man would.
Prosecutor Wright had just finished some preparatory remarks as they walked in, and now Mr. Courter began.
“Last week, constables in Fort Lee were investigating a report of gunfire when they found twenty-five-year-old Anthony Leo, of Fort Lee, and sixteen-year-old Minnie Davis, formerly of Catskill, New York, in a furnished room above a bakery. They posed as man and wife when they rented the room, although they were not married and Mr. Leo apparently had no intention of remedying that situation. He was found with a forged marriage license in his pocket.”
There arose from the crowd a series of gasps, murmurs, and the scribbling of pencils. Detective Courter paused and spelled the names of the two parties.
“The source of the gunshots was never found and does not pertain to the business of which I speak today. Here we have a white slave case. Anyone who is familiar with the laws of this country will readily see that Mr. Leo transported Miss Davis across state lines for an immoral purpose. Her parents reported her missing months ago. The prosecutor’s office has learned that Mr. Leo worked on board a pleasure boat plying the Hudson River in the summertime. We believe he coerced Miss Davis on board and employed such deceptive means as might be necessary to keep her there until the boat was bound for New York City. She obviously had no means of escape short of jumping overboard. When she found herself in a big city such as she had never seen before, penniless and lost, she fell entirely under Mr. Leo’s control and was forced into a disreputable house in Fort Lee, where witnesses report seeing her entertain a series of male visitors in the evenings.”
The room erupted then, with reporters all talking at once and shouting out questions. Constance looked over at Carrie, who rolled her eyes and shook her head sorrowfully. Sheriff Heath stood stiffly, without expression, as he always did in a place like this one, where so many people would be watching for his reaction.
Detective Courter went on with the fervor of a preacher. “It’s well known that in every large city in the world, thousands of women are so set aside as outcasts from decent society that it is considered an impropriety to speak the very word which designates them. Now this disgrace has come to the respectable small towns of Bergen County. The commerce in white slaves was first seen in this country as coming from abroad and involving the importation of immigrant girls who spoke no English and possessed no means of escape. The Immigration Act made that illegal in 1907, and in large part, the practice has stopped. But an even more vile menace has risen up in its stead. This new depravity comes from within our own shores, as girls are lured away from their homes by these traffickers and drawn into a life of debasement from which there is little hope of rescue or recovery.”
Mr. Courter mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporters gave murmurs of assent.
“Can you tell he’s running for office?” Carrie whispered.
“I should’ve guessed,” Constance muttered. It gave her a sinking feeling to think of him building a campaign on morality crimes that rarely amounted to anything.
“Congress passed the Mann Act so that we could put a stop to this scourge within our own borders,” Detective Courter continued. “But the laws are of no use unless the violators are caught, punished, and paraded before the public as a warning to sinister forces from a decent society. Every day I speak to fathers who say they would go to any length of hardship and privation rather than allow their daughters to go into the cities to work or to study. Who can blame them, when even the ordinary ice cream parlor—or a steamboat on the Hudson—may be used as a spider’s web for her entanglement?”
Reporters were shouting out questions now, demanding the name of the steamboat and any other particulars involving ice cream parlors that Mr. Courter might wish to divulge. He waved them away and continued with his speech, which had taken on the cadence of a sermon and no longer had anything in the way of a press conference about it.
“This is why I’ve invited Mrs. Headison from over in Paterson to be here today.” Mr. Courter turned and gestured to Mrs. Headison, who stood and nodded at the audience. “Mrs. Headison does fine work in Paterson by looking out for wayward girls. Seventeen young women have been sent to the reformatory on her watch, and she hasn’t been on the job a full year. Imagine what could be done if we had someone here in Hackensack to do it.”
Constance’s mouth fell open. Sheriff Heath gave her a sharp jab. “Steady,” he whispered. It was just one word, but it was enough to make her compose herself. John Courter was trying to rattle her. She wouldn’t allow it.
He wasn’t finished. “There are some things so far removed from the lives of ordinary, decent people as to be simply unbelievable by them. The white slave trade now plying its ghastly business right here in Bergen County is one of those incredible things. Mothers and fathers, I put you on notice that you are placing your girls in danger if you’re too trusting of them. You must all be on guard against threats to your daughters’ virtue, which may strike wherever she goes, be it a train station, a secretarial school, or a place of amusement. The prosecutor’s office has vowed to close down every vice resort and disreputable house in Bergen County.
“Our prosecution of Anthony Leo is only the beginning. We believe that through his arrest, we’ve uncovered a white slave ring operating along the Hudson River, and we will be working with the New York authorities to break it up. Who knows how many other victims like Miss Davis we might discover? We will restore this once-peaceful county to safety and security, and we want you, the public, to hold us to account as we do.”
After such a speech Constance wanted nothing more than to escape that room and go outside to take in some clean, cold air. She noticed that Carrie never did write down a word.
“I’ve heard this speech before,” Carrie muttered. “And you notice that he didn’t say a thing about the actual case, because he doesn’t have one. It’s not much of a story.”
“This is a press conference,” Constance said. “You’re free to write it up.”
“It’s garbage, and there’s a girl’s name attached
to it. I won’t. The others will.”
“You’re not going to get far in crime reporting if you don’t want to put a wronged girl’s name in the paper,” Constance said, although she was relieved.
As the reporters shuffled past, a few of them gathered around the sheriff to ask if Anthony Leo was in jail and whether he was allowed visitors. Sheriff Heath calmly refused to answer a single question and said that he was only there as a spectator. Mrs. Headison was still at the front of the room, speaking quietly to Mr. Courter, which was just as well, as Constance hadn’t anything civil to say and would rather not be forced to try.
Carrie, Sheriff Heath, and Constance walked together back to the jail. As soon as the metal door closed behind them, Carrie said, “This isn’t a criminal case. It’s a political campaign.”
“I wouldn’t mind that if there wasn’t a girl in jail over it,” Constance said.
They were in a narrow corridor of cement floor and whitewashed brick. Their words made an echo as they walked.
“Can’t you do one of your tricks in front of a judge and spring her loose?” Carrie asked.
“It isn’t a trick,” said Sheriff Heath. “The girl has to be willing to help herself, and so far, this one hasn’t been. If she was forced, she’d better say so, and quickly. I don’t like this talk about men coming around in the evenings, even if Leo did force her into it. There’s not a judge in New Jersey who would set her free if she had that kind of history. They’d want her in a reformatory, at least.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Carrie asked Constance. “It’s not as unusual as it might sound. A girl doesn’t have a dime for her own lunch, so she lets a man take her to a restaurant. Then he invites her to walk through the park, and —”
