Alias Mrs Jones

by Kate McLachlan

  “Here we are,” he announced and jumped down.

  I looked up, surprised. We had traveled no more than two blocks north, and the lights from the theater still glowed behind us. In front of me was a three-story clapboard house painted white. Smaller houses, similar in structure, were built along both sides of the street. It was a pretty neighborhood, made prettier by the snow that sparkled in the electric lights attached to tall poles on each corner. I had seen electric street lights in New York, on Broadway and Fifth Avenue, but I’d never seen them on a modest little street like this. A light hanging over the wide front porch of the house before me indicated this house was electrified as well.

  Mr. Dunn helped me from the sleigh. The front door of the house opened, and a woman stood in the doorway.

  “Here she is, Mrs. Dunn,” Mr. Dunn said. “Right on time.”

  I ascended the stairs, and she stepped back to let me in. “Come in, Miss Chumley. You must be cold. Stand by the fire. It’s so unfortunate it had to snow like this on your first day here.”

  I followed her to the hearth. She was a slender woman, taller than her husband. She wore an embroidered net dress, white over dark navy, with the stylish high collar and wide sleeves of the Gibson look. Her eyes were a deep blue and her hair, lighter than mine, was simply styled with a side part and a figure eight in the back. She used no puffs or curls to try to look younger. Her beauty was simple, but her lack of vanity made it more appealing.

  “But Husband, where is her trunk? You simply must go back and get it.” She shook her head and smiled as if we were friends already. “Men don’t understand these things, do they, Miss Chumley? How could he think you’d get by without your trunk?”

  Mr. Dunn turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said quickly, to stop him. “I don’t have a trunk.”

  Mrs. Dunn’s brow quirked, but only slightly.

  “I thought it might be better to wait,” I said, “and get what I needed after I got here.”

  “What a good idea,” Mrs. Dunn said, as if it were perfectly normal for a schoolteacher to cross the country without a trunk. “You’ll have a better idea of what’s necessary after you get settled. Take her bag upstairs, then, Mr. Dunn.”

  “I’ve left the horses standing.” Mr. Dunn turned again toward the door. “I’ll bring it up when they’re stabled.”

  “Oh, never mind.” Mrs. Dunn rolled her eyes and lifted my travel bag in one hand with no difficulty. “He spends more time with those horses than he does with the children. Come with me, Miss Chumley. I’ve put you in the guest room at the front of the house. You’ll be comfortable there. “

  “I’m certain I will,” I said. “You have a lovely home.” The rooms were simpler than those I was used to, but the careful placement of a few fine pieces of furniture made them comfortable. The only clutter was of a homey nature. An open atlas lay beside a globe and a spread of papers on the parlor table. A newspaper lay folded open on a chair, and a damp coat was draped over the back of another chair near the door.

  Midway up the stairs, Mrs. Dunn scooped up a boy’s leather baseball glove from a stair, and a few cigarette cards decorated with baseball players fluttered out to the floor. She stooped to retrieve them.

  “My son.” She waved the cards. “He collects them. They seem to be more important to him than life itself, yet I find them scattered all about the house. Of course, you understand boys that age, Miss Chumley. He’ll be in your class.”

  “How nice.” I wondered what age boy we were talking about.

  “I must tell you, Miss Chumley, there is no one in this town more grateful than I that you’ve finally arrived. I’ve been teaching the class, you see, and I simply don’t have the time. It’s no job for a married lady. This is the bathroom. You’ll have time to bathe before dinner. I only agreed to do it because Mr. Dunn was in such a bind finding a teacher. It’s a job much better suited for someone like you. And here is your room. I’ll leave you now. We dine at seven.”

  She dropped my bag beside the bed and left me. I slumped against the door in relief. How nice to be alone at last. As pleasant as Mrs. Dunn was, she was the sort of ideal woman who made me feel inadequate, the kind of woman who always spoke smoothly and never wore too few pins for the weight of her hat.

  I pushed off from the door and looked about the room. The wallpaper was a design of lace and roses, and the curtains at the window were white and ruffled with satin ties dangling from the sides. A fringed crochet quilt covered the bed, white with pink ribbons threaded through it.

  The hint that I bathe before dinner was unnecessary. My underclothes were stiff with the dried perspiration of four day’s travel, and cinders from the train rubbed black and gritty in every crease of my body. I lifted the satchel and took it with me down the hall to the spacious bathroom. The room had apparently been included in the original design of the house. It was no closet room tucked into a corner when plumbing was added, like in most of the older homes I knew.

  I ran water into the tub and briefly mourned the bath oils that still sat on my dresser in New York. I opened my satchel and examined its contents. My nerves were frayed when I packed it, of course, but I was still surprised at the randomness of its contents. Three corset covers would be plenty, but I packed no drawers. I had four pair of gauzy lisle stockings and none of cotton or wool. Nearly a dozen sanitary towels took up a large proportion of the space in the bag, and I would not need them for weeks. I’d packed a wire bustle that I hated and had never worn, two pair of silk gloves, a pair of patent leather boots that needed to be re-heeled, and my summer dressing gown. That was it. No dress, no skirt, not even a clean shirtwaist. I would have to wear to dinner the same tired brown suit I had worn for the last four days.

  I stripped off my clothes. I hung my skirt and shirtwaist on a hook and tossed my dirty underclothes into the satchel. I removed my stockings, enjoying the cool feel of the shiny linoleum on my bare feet, and paused to count the bills once more. The amount hadn’t changed. With no better hiding place, I wrapped the stockings around the bills in a rough ball and dropped it in the satchel as well.

  The tub was porcelain enamel and it was large, as long as I was tall. I turned off the spigot, climbed in, and immersed myself in hot water up to my nose. I sighed and blew bubbles into the water. The muscles in my back, my neck, and my sore side relaxed completely for the first time in days. The heat made my wrist throb, but I thought it was better.

  My future was uncertain, but when I considered that I could, at that very moment, have still been sitting in a dirty drafty train heading toward Seattle and even greater uncertainty, I decided I had made the right decision. For a while, at least, I could impersonate Miss Chumley. No one would have any reason to suspect I was not her, except for Mr. Stanfield, and I was unlikely to run into him. I could teach at the school and have time to collect my thoughts before I figured out my next move.

  I dried off with a bath towel and listened to the house. I was still damp and warm, and I was reluctant to put my travel-stained clothing back on so soon. All was quiet. I pulled the dressing gown from the satchel. It was made of thin lawn, nearly transparent. I slipped it on. I clutched my clothes and satchel to my breast and, feeling brave and daring, dashed from the bathroom to my room at the end of the hall.

  I made it safely. I dropped the satchel onto the bed and turned to the wardrobe, which had two large beveled mirrors on its panels. I shrugged the dressing gown off my shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and examined myself.

  I had not seen a reflection of myself unclothed in four years. Robert believed mirrors cultivated vanity. Aside from a small mirror at his shaving table and a mirror in the front hall to ensure our hats were on straight, we had no mirrors in the house. Seeing myself now was almost like seeing an unclothed stranger.

  My belly was rounder than I remembered, my hips wider, and my breasts fuller. I turned and examined the bruise on my side. It was darkest purple where Robert’s fist had landed, but paler smudges
branched up and down where the whalebone from my corset had pressed hard into my side. I smiled at the memory of Robert’s howl of pain when his hand made contact with the corset, but the smile faded when I remembered how angry it had made him. The hair between my legs was still blonde, tangled, and rather long. I turned to examine my backside, and the door crashed open.

  “Miss Chumley, at last! Mother said— Oh! Pardon me.”

  A girl in her teens stood in the doorway, staring at my nudity, eyes wide. I quickly tugged my soiled vest from the satchel and pulled it over my head. The girl averted her eyes and started to back out, then seemed to change her mind and entered the room, closing the door behind her. Her gall astonished me.

  “Who are you?” I asked bluntly, though her likeness to Mrs. Dunn gave me a hint.

  “I’m Fannie Dunn.” She came farther into the room and sat down in the rocking chair, curling one leg underneath her, and looked directly at me again. “You’re Miss Chumley?”

  I bent and retrieved my dressing gown. “Of course,” I said. “Who else would I be?”

  “You look older than I thought. Papa said you were twenty.”

  I am several years older than twenty, but not so much so that Mr. or Mrs. Dunn had doubted my identity. “It’s a family trait,” I said, pulling the gown around me. “We Chumleys all look older than our age. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to dress?”

  She pressed her toe to the bed and set the rocker in motion. “Certainly.” She wriggled her backside and seemed to settle in. “I’m not at all put off by the naked body. You may dress in front of me.”

  “I’m afraid I am not so modern as you,” I said.

  She was nothing but a girl, perhaps fifteen years old, but an air of burgeoning maturity about her made me reluctant to dress in front of her. Her face had the round, dimpled prettiness of a child, and an immense blue taffeta bow at her neck held back strawberry ringlets that fell nearly to her waist. Her shape, however, was tall, sturdy, and womanly, and her bosom more generous than mine. The skirts of her sailor dress swirled above her ankles in what her parents no doubt thought was charming innocence. The effect was decidedly the opposite. I imagined that one day soon her parents would notice that their little Fannie had grown up, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  “As you like,” Fannie said, but she didn’t move. She smiled suddenly. “I’m so glad you’re finally here. As soon as Papa told me you were coming, I knew we’d become friends.”

  “Friends?” I asked. “Aren’t I too old to be your friend?”

  “That’s all right. I’m quite grown up for my age, and there’s no one else in this town I can talk to.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be fifteen in two months.”

  “You’re fourteen? I’m, uh, six years older than that.” I was, in fact, twice her age. “Are you telling me there’s no one in all of Hillyard more suitable for you to talk to than me?”

  “The girls my age are so childish,” she said. “And Mother and Papa won’t let me visit with older girls because they think I’m too young. You’re just perfect, Miss Chumley, and you’re right here in my own house. They can hardly keep us apart, can they?”

  How delightful. The last thing in the world I needed was to be saddled with an adolescent girl for my new best friend. “I’m afraid I have to agree with your parents, Fannie.” I moved to the door. “I’m not a suitable companion for you.”

  “Where did you get all that money, Miss Chumley?”

  My hand froze on the doorknob, and the blood drained from my face. “What do you mean?”

  She turned her head and looked at the bed. I followed her gaze. My modesty had been my downfall. When I’d pulled my underwear from the bed, I’d inadvertently tumbled the satchel open. There, clearly visible in the rumpled pile of dirty clothes, were over thirty hundred dollar bills.

  I stared at her. “I—” My brain flooded with ideas. I scrambled through them to find a credible explanation for why I would have a satchel full of money, but too much time had already passed.

  Fannie rocked forward in her chair and placed her feet firmly on the floor. “Tell me the truth,” she said with a tiny smile. “What have you done?”

  I felt a moment of fear, which quickly turned to despair. It wasn’t fair! She was just a child. I was so close to being rid of my past. It wasn’t fair that everything should be ruined because of this nosy girl.

  “I haven’t done anything,” I said, but the words sounded unconvincing even to me.

  “I don’t believe you, Miss Chumley,” Fannie said. “Nobody gives a girl that much money for doing nothing, and you’re only a schoolteacher.”

  I realized that all was not lost. Fannie suspected me of doing something underhanded, but she did not seem to suspect that I was anyone other than Mabel Chumley. What reason would Mabel give for having so much money? What reason would make sense to Fannie? I let my shoulders slump, mimicked Mabel’s pouting lips, and sat on the bed.

  “My father wouldn’t give me any money,” I said, “and look what he makes me wear.” I pinched the cloth of my brown travel skirt.

  Fannie crinkled her nose.

  I nodded. “I just wanted to buy some prettier clothes, so I took some of his money. I knew where he hid it. I only skimmed a few bills off the top. I didn’t know how much it was until later. Please don’t tell.”

  “Friends don’t tell secrets on their friends,” Fannie said. She shot me an arch look. “And we are friends, aren’t we Mabel?”

  She knew she’d won. I was being blackmailed into being bosom friends with a fourteen-year-old girl. I smothered a sigh and forced a smile. “Of course we are, Fannie.”

  “Splendid.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin and smiled, as thrilled as if the friendship had been my idea in the first place. I expected her to question me further about the money, but she seemed far more interested in her own concerns. She hopped up from her chair, plopped herself onto the bed, curled into a cozy ball, and settled in for a nice girlish chat. I tidied the contents of the satchel and let her talk.

  It turned out to be a mundane tale. Fannie had a suitor. His name was Will Sims. He was the most wondrous young man who had ever taken breath, but he lived on the far side of the railroad tracks that bordered the town, which apparently made him unacceptable in Fannie’s circle. Her parents knew nothing about him. She rhapsodized about Will for some time, going into detail about his intelligence, strength, and good looks, becoming coy only when she touched upon the physical side of their relationship. I soon understood why she was unable to speak her thoughts to other children her age.

  I was a reluctant conspirator, but I felt a need to speak. “Fannie, your mother has spoken to you about what happens between a man and a woman? On their wedding night, I mean?”

  She gave me a tender look. “I know all about it, Mabel. Do you?”

  I bit my lip and gave a brief nod. She assumed me a maiden, of course.

  “Will and I don’t do that. There are other things,” she smiled at the ceiling, “that we do instead.”

  My mind went blank for a moment before my imagination took off, and in the next instant it was I who was blushing like a schoolgirl while Fannie watched me in some amusement.

  A bell rang from downstairs, and Fannie leaped from the bed. “Oh Lord, it’s time for dinner! I won’t be able to hear your secret tonight, Mabel,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me how you injured your hand and got that awful bruise on your side.”

  I clapped a hand to my sore rib. “Perhaps,” I said, but she was already gone.

  Chapter Five

  THERE WERE FOUR at dinner besides me: Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, Fannie, and Guy, a small, compact, quick-moving boy with round blue eyes that flashed in unison with the light glinting off his silverware as he ate. He didn’t speak except to say, “How d’you do?” when I was introduced as his teacher. He didn’t take his eyes off me either. I couldn’t determine his age, but he was younger than Fannie.

>   “Guy, don’t eat so fast,” Mrs. Dunn said. “You don’t want Miss Chumley to think you rude.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Guy said. “No ma’am.” His spoon slowed, but barely.

  We were eating soup. The twist of the wrist needed to bring the spoon to my mouth was painful, and I barely managed to get a few spoonfuls in me before Mrs. Elsey, the cook, entered the dining room with a steaming platter. She placed it beside Mr. Dunn and collected our bowls. She shot me a curious glance, not her first, and returned to the kitchen. Mr. Dunn took a large fork and began filling our plates.

  “Do you know who Matty Mathewson is, Miss Chumley?” Guy asked suddenly.

  I didn’t recognize the name and wondered if I should. Was Mr. Mathewson someone Miss Chumley ought to know?

  Mr. Dunn placed my plate in front of me. I looked at it with dismay. It was a thick slab of roast beef, a perfect shade of pink. My mouth watered for it, but I had no idea how I was going to eat it.

  “Girls don’t like baseball, Guy,” Fannie said.

  I looked up and met Guy’s eyes, his expression hopeful and disappointed at the same time. “I’ve seen a baseball game,” I said.

  “You have?” Guy asked. “Have you seen the Giants play?”

  I had, in fact, seen the Giants play in New York City, but I realized too late that I could not tell him so. “No, not the Giants.” I picked up my knife and pressed it against the meat. Pain shot up my arm. “The team I saw was called the Titans,” I invented.

  “Oh.” His eyes slid to his mother and back to me. “They won’t let us play baseball at school.”

  “Now Guy, Miss Chumley will not allow you to play baseball at school either,” Mrs. Dunn said. “One broken window is enough.”

  “We didn’t do it,” Guy said.

  “Guy.” A warning sounded in Mrs. Dunn’s voice.

  Guy grew a mutinous expression. “It was a trolley striker.”

  “Don’t talk back to your mother,” Mr. Dunn said mildly. “You’ll find, Miss Chumley, that trolley strikers are the scapegoat for everything around here.” He reached over, took my plate, and handed me his. The meat was cut up into bite-sized pieces. “It’s true someone shot at a trolley. No one was hurt, but people are feeling jumpy. It was a trolley striker, most likely, trying to stop people from riding while the strike is on, and it worked.”