VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  She had just endured three dances with this fellow, as heavily perfumed as he was drunk. He'd had a good night on the River Royale docked nearby at the landings, and his gratuities were generous. Greta accepted each with a well-practiced thanks. But when it became clear that his generosity was failing to get him entertainment beyond the dance, he chose belligerence over flattery and that attracted Big Bear's attention. Bear was not a young man, but with such a build as his he didn't require youth to dispatch the drunken gambler.

  Greta saw Bear coming, parting both the crowd and the smoky air, thick as a London fog. Without a word, he scooped up the gambler by collar and waist. For Greta to consider Bear as any kind of savior would have been ludicrous. But she was relieved, as she rubbed her arm where the gambler had pulled angrily at her. Big Bear had a business-like efficiency about him at times like these. His 'girls' were his most important commodities. Greta remained on the dance floor as she watched the spectacle; the only one neither hurling amused ridicule at the gambler nor uncomfortably ignoring the commotion. As was the norm, Bear remained silent as he carted off the offending customer even though, all the way to the door, the gambler was raging.

  "Damn it, I was guaranteed. What kind-a dance hall doesn't sport whores? I want my money's worth or I want my money back. Damn it! Mr. Dubenshire assured me…"

  They were at the door, but Big Bear stopped short of the toss, releasing the man's trousers waist, but not his collar. He tossed a steely glance to Greta, then returned his attention to the gambler.

  "Nothin' or nobody guarantees you manhandlin' my girls."

  The gambler was not so drunk that he couldn't sense a second chance. He tried to shrug Bear's hand from his collar, and struck a tone between lingering offense and fresh reconciliation. Big Bear's grip, however, remained where it was.

  "Sure. You're right. I should've come to you instead of handling her myself." The gambler slowly rolled an arm upward against his captor's hand. This time Big Bear allowed it and released him. "But I spent a lot of time and money on her, and this is how you treat your patrons?"

  Bear leaned his head back slightly, a gesture Greta had seen many times during that wretched month. It allowed him to both acquiesce and look down at people.

  "She's new," he lied. "Only this evening, she started. Nice, isn't she?" He wasn't looking at her, but the gambler did and smiled, too. Greta, the only one not smiling, glared back. "But nice girls, we got galore," Bear said, and Greta knew he was practically reading the gambler's mind; how the drunken lout was thinking of making the attempt with her yet again. "Listen. Behave yourself and you can take your pick. You dance with 'em all, my compliments. You still like the new girl, by then I'll have her talked to." Big Bear glanced around the dance hall a moment. "Heidi, darlin'... "

  A night-seasoned raven of a woman in an over-worn burgundy gown stopped talking to a customer at the bar and walked over. She was one of the women Greta admired. Her face was always set, nearly expressionless, like some common laborer simply determined to put in a full day's work for a full day's pay. Bear didn't have to issue that droll instruction to 'take care of Mr. So-and-so', but he did anyway. Heidi, who no more resembled her assigned alias than Greta resembled her own (Gigi. Big Bear felt 'foreign names' gave his girls an exotic quality), was already on the dance floor with the gambler before Bear had finished speaking. She affixed a small, professional smile and let him lead her in a waltz Greta had heard so many times it was nearly toneless to her ears. But every time the gambler swooped past where Greta stood he stared at her frankly and ravenously.

  The worst wasn't over. Greta held her ground as she watched Big Bear approach. He tilted his chin down and stared into her eyes as he took her by the elbow, stepping her off the dance floor.

  "What you just heard me say to the gent, it ain't so. Talkin' to you is all done."

  "I told you when I began here I would only dance," she said, as she had said so many times between tight lips. "You assured me that most of the women here simply danced, do you recall?"

  "I'm a business man, I say what needs sayin'. You're a smart cookie, don't let on like you don't know enough about business to understand that." Big Bear tilted his head back as he had done with the gambler. "'Sides, it wasn't so much a lie. I don't expect much for the first week or so, and I been 'specially tolerant of you. You're a real find, you been bringin' in new regulars and you got by with just workin' the dance floor for a long time." Then he lowered his head, his expression without rancor, looking all the world like a legitimate business man. "But now I'm close to losin' customers because of you. Always workin' 'em up then pissin' 'em off. I run a clean place here, cleaner than most, and I had to toss two out on account-a you last week and almost one tonight. Only thing that saved him was mentionin' Dubenshire. He's sent me lots-a business, and ain't any way I want on his bad side. So this is it. That gambler man decides he still wants you over Heidi, I expect you to do right by 'im."

  Greta narrowed her eyes and said with a venomous voice, "I dance only."

  Big Bear replied with a cool, even voice, "Then you walk out the door."

  Greta swallowed. So the time was at hand. Oh, but Lord, the thought of it…she becoming Heidi…deftly warding off the busy hands of the men who could afford only a dance. Then coolly tolerating the pinches of those whose slurred transaction was whispered into her ear; nodding, hardly a word from her, just a thread-bare glove lifted to direct them upstairs. Greta thought of Tess, but even Tess' dowry couldn't persuade her to do what Bear was insisting she do.

  Watching this memory, Greta was surprised to see herself looking so evenly into Big Bear's eyes. She certainly hadn't felt as confident as she sounded when she said, "Then I'll take my last pay. I danced with 12 before the troublemaker."

  "Some nerve you got, calling him the troublemaker. You made your pay in tips, with all you got tonight."

  "I can't begin to know what you mean," Greta lied. "You owe me for 12 dances."

  "So long, Greta."

  She didn't press the matter. For one thing, she had done very well with gratuities and now that the decision was made, she just wanted out. In the true moment, the real moment, while Greta sat with Mr. Shane, an aching groan escaped her throat as she watched herself give her back disdainfully to Big Bear. She walked to the liquor bar and reached under it where the women were allowed to keep their handbags.

  The moment about to unfold was so much worse in reverie. As horrid and debasing as it had been when fresh, to see it again was nearly unbearable. Because now Greta knew that when she straightened up again she would be staring into the eyes of her day employer, Mr. Sanders. She had the sense that his expression had been fixed for some time; that he had been gaping at her all the while. He stood at the opposite corner from her, was slightly apart from a cluster of men, alone by the way he was ignored by all but her; and obviously horror-struck. It must have been his expression as he had watched the commotion with the gambler. Now he held her gaze only a moment before he ducked his balding head and walked rapidly to the doors.

  Greta returned all her senses to Mr. Shane and the present time. Her companion was gazing at her in the calm, inquisitive manner to which she was now accustomed.

  "What did you do?" Mr. Shane asked.

  "Nothing, really. Any number of thoughts raced through my mind. Hurry after Mr. Sanders, try to explain. Hurry home. Hurry to McKinley Bridge and leap off." Greta laid both hands against her stomach. "This numbing despair...right here...have you ever experienced it?"

  The question seemed to jolt Mr. Shane, as though Greta had forced a dismal memory of his own. "Yes," he replied. "Yes, I have."

  "Even after stooping to a dance hall I wasn't the woman I am now. I still had an inkling of humility. I still had shame. And it sealed me to the very place I was standing. I think it was Heidi who asked if I was well as she passed by with the gambler. I nodded, I suppose, or gave her some sign. Then I left. I went home. I lay awake all night, next to Tess in our little bed, gett
ing some small comfort listening to her steady breathing." Greta dropped her hands to her lap. "By the time I could see dawn through the window I had determined to go to work. Early, to avoid the other clerk. I'd ask Mr. Sanders for a private audience and, if I had to, beg from my knees to remain in his employ. Don't you see? My family and I lived among the destitute. I knew what was in store for Tess if Mr. Sanders couldn't be moved, and God Himself only knew what would happen to Father."

  "But he wasn't moved."

  Greta struggled against the twisting pain in her throat. "He barely looked me in the eye. He reminded me so much of Father when he was drinking, looking anywhere but into my face."

  The memory surged before her; she, standing in her very best office dress, Mr. Sanders seated behind his desk, looking at his hands as his fingers fidgeted over the brown envelope lying atop.

  "Please, Miss Roscoe, not another word, you know this won't do and drawing it out only makes us both more unhappy. It just won't do. How would it seem? You know how it would seem."

  In the ensuing silence, while Greta stood feeling all strength drain out of her soul, Mr. Sanders pushed the envelope across the desk to her. She looked at it, desperately wanting to speak again. Why couldn't she speak?

  "I'm a decent sort, Miss Roscoe, you can't nay say me on that, though you may be tempted at the moment. Perhaps some day you'll see my position. But I am a decent sort. Last night, there were extenuating circumstances, as to my presence, and I'm a very dedicated family man. And I have my business reputation to think of. This simply won't do, and I'm sure you don't need sordid details to illustrate my point. But I am a decent man." Mr. Sanders stopped. Perhaps because he knew he was repeating himself, or perhaps Greta's unhealed silence was becoming unbearable. "But you see, I am somewhat sympathetic to your plight and though you chose a gravely erroneous solution, I am a decent. Well, in any case, highly irregular as it is, I want to encourage you to return to the higher path. That envelope contains two month's salary. No other employer would do as much under the same circumstance, I may point out. Two full months. There's simply nothing else I can do. And that's all the severance I can afford, you understand? I'm not a wealthy man, Miss Roscoe, you know that by now."

  In the present time Mr. Sander's edgy, flitting expression began to dissolve, replaced by Mr. Shane's steady gaze. "He was trying to buy your silence. What did you do?"

  Oh, how dry and sore her throat was. Greta looked at her tea cup, still as empty as before. She drew what moisture she could find in her mouth. "I took it."

  "But you could've taken much more. Didn't you realize he was actually more vulnerable than you?"

  Greta nearly laughed at his question. "Is that a compliment of sorts? No, I didn't realize it at the time. I hadn't yet learned to be so devious as I was just before dying. It's a man's world, Mr. Shane. At least the world of the living, isn't it? And hadn't I learned what happens when a woman of marginal stature resists her fate? Yes, I realize he was buying my silence and getting me out of his sight. He thought me so low a creature that I would stoop to something like that. But it didn't occur to me until much later that I could have been such a creature. I didn't yet know how shamed, how compromised he must've been to be seen in such a place, by one who knew him by the light of day. By the time any such thought crossed my mind, well, it was too late. Marshall had us very firmly in hand."

  "Later or not, you could have turned the tables on Mr. Sanders at any time. A blackmailer needn't observe statutes of limitation."

  Greta shifted uneasily. "You're trying to find a nobility in me that doesn't exist. I had only one focus: Tess. I didn't care what I had to do to assure her future. And see how horribly I've failed her. Look what I've done."

  It had taken only four days to finish off what was left of Greta's self-respect, to starve it utterly. Every morning she left Tess and her father in that dismal apartment, as though she were still employed by Mr. Sanders. As for the evenings, she told Tess that her services as a night maid were no longer required. She spent the so-called severance carefully, but it wouldn't last any longer than had she earned it with regular hours. So its modest cushion gave her no comfort at all. And it was becoming clear that there were no jobs to be had. None that were legitimate. None that she could get to on foot, none to which she could afford to travel.

  It was on that fourth day, the fourth night actually, when she sat with Tess, after the meal of potatoes and bread, after they had bathed and cared for Father together. And she made her confession to Tess. She told Tess what the night maid position had been and what she had been doing for the past several days and how it all came about. And what she intended to do. She had expected her sister to be angry or ashamed. But she had been neither. Perhaps, being only 12 years old, Tess was too young to understand she should have been so with Greta. Or perhaps, she understood all too well, so that there was no room for anything but love. Nevertheless, Tess' first expression was one of determination.

  "No, you don't have to do that," she told Greta. "You don't have to go back there. I'll get a job, too. At the shoe factory. I can do piece work, there's nothing to it."

  "Darling, if there were work to be had at the factories, I would already be there. There's none."

  Tess knew this wasn't entirely true. "They're always looking for workers."

  "No, Tess, there's nothing there, nothing for you."

  Greta said this, knowing the piece boss would have hired Tess in a minute. Greta was too educated, too old. He had fixed his flinty eyes upon her for one long moment, then dismissed her. A factory piece boss wanted those he was certain wouldn't improve themselves any time soon. Children were especially desirable. Children's pay was lower than adults', especially by the piece. Tess' eyes welled with tears.

  "You don't have to go back to that place. If dance halls are so awful, why would you? You don't let me help at all."

  Greta reached for her sister's hand, but the girl jerked away and tucked her arms against her chest. "That dance hall is a paradise compared to the shoe factory, Tess. And we'd have no hope at all, none, of ever bettering your position." Greta stopped, appalled to recognize the ghost in her voice. She leaned stiffly back in her chair, rubbed her face tensely, pressed her chin into her hand and looked away. A gesture as common to her mother as those words. "Just let me take care of things," she said, unable to rid herself of the ghost.

  She left the table and sought the barrier of the curtain which stretched across the north corner of their one-room flat. She undressed and dressed as quickly as she could between its heavy fabric and the cot she and Tess shared. She emerged, ready to go back to the Mississippi Pharaoh.

  Tess was still sulking at the table. Greta tried to kiss her forehead, but the girl pulled away. So Greta straightened and let her gaze fall upon her father, thin and pale, curled up on his little cot sharing the wall with the pot-bellied stove. Only then did it occur to Greta how fortunate she had been, compared to Tess; day in, day out, caring for a breathing dead man. It was an event if his gaze happened to pass across you, if he made so much as a soft moan.

  Father made a sound today, Greta. It was very nearly a word. Look, Greta. No, you already missed it. I think he may have seen me.

  Suddenly Greta was kneeling before Tess, cupping the girl's face in her hands. "The factories aren't better than this, darling, I promise you they're not. But somehow, I'm going to make your life better. I swear to you and I swear it to God. I will do whatever I must to give you a life; you must let me do that. If you just will, you'll see. It won't be like this forever."

  Fresh tears came to Tess' eyes. The girl nodded and pushed her forehead against Greta's lips. Nothing else could have given Greta the will to rise and begin the trek to the Mississippi Pharaoh.

  The moon had not yet risen. The sky was aqua where the sun had surrendered to the dusk. Had these memories not been so vivid, so authentic, Greta would have been sure the onset of that evening had been chill and damp. But it had not been so. The chill and damp
were squarely centered in Greta's belly. That evening was the first pleasant night of early spring. Such a night promised a full house at the dance hall.

  Dusk was a less risky time to be a woman alone in the tenement streets. As well, Greta had learned which turns to make in the maze of alleys and perpetually muddy roads. These were not necessarily the quickest routes to the dance hall, but certain paths were more traveled, some less and each had its advantages if Greta's timing was right. So she made her way safely enough. It would be the walk back home in the deep night when she would have to be so very careful. Or so she thought. She hadn't counted on another danger altogether, a bizarre warp of past events, as she emerged from the last dank alley and stepped onto the busy main road leading to the river landings.

  She had seen the sleek black hansom rolling her way. It caught her eye, because it was a private carriage rather than a taxi. Private hansoms were not so very common; not very practical, with only a two-person compartment. She waited for it to pass before she crossed the street, then was startled to see the driver jerk the reins bringing the horse to a skidding halt.

  Greta stiffened. It was inevitable that she would have to walk past the carriage, and she supposed she understood why the hansom was abruptly pulled short. This wouldn't be the first time she had been offered an unwholesome proposition on her way to the dance hall. But it was the first time she wondered if she should accept. The moment was upon her: to stop and face the rider or walk on ahead. She hesitated. The driver peered blandly down at her from his perch behind the passenger compartment.

  The rider leaned forward, resting a gloved hand upon the lacquered demi-doors before his legs. It took a moment to recognize Marshall, so unprepared was Greta to see him there. He smiled.

  "On your way to the Pharaoh? Nothing would please me more than to offer you a lift."

  Chapter Eleven

  Profit And Loss

  The nausea was so pervading that the soft muscle beneath Greta's tongue constricted and her mouth watered. She couldn't have replied had she wanted. Instead, she swung her gaze forward and began walking again; quickly. She didn't want to discover how Marshall had known where she was going, she didn't want him to explain how he managed to arrive just when he did. Nothing mattered except to purge him from her sight. The unhurried rhythm of the horse's hooves caught up with her easily.