Ladies In The Parlor

by Tully, Jim

Their wanton hearts were touched.

  “I think that’s terrible,” said Mary Ellen.

  “Why?” asked a reporter, “the kid was better off—and had a better home, maybe, than its mother could have given it.”

  “But just the same—the girl was a cowardly bitch—what people said was worth more to her than her own baby.” Selma was stubborn.

  “Perhaps you don’t know all the circumstances,”

  James J. Blaidor moved closer to her. “Maybe she already had half a dozen—those school-teachers are prolific as hell— They tell me they’re good, too—the Empress of Zulu always wanted to teach school until I discouraged her.”

  Ignoring his mockery, Selma snapped

  “Well, just the same, I’d of raised the baby—what the hell’s the difference?”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” a reporter said.

  “The hell I wouldn’t— I’m raising one now—and I’m damned proud of it too.”

  “That’s the girl,” said James J. Blaidor— “We’ll write an editorial about that in the morning.”

  “Why do women hate to have babies?” asked Selma. “I knew a girl who had one. She was a young schoolteacher. She didn’t want to go through with it so she went to a judge who helped women—and he told her to go ahead and have it and he’d help her out by taking the baby after it was born. By the time the child came, he had a good home for it—the only agreement was that she would never ask about it. She went back to teaching school, and when the child was six years old, it went to be taught by its own mother.”

  Mother Rosenbloom asked with interest, “Did she find out it was her child?”

  “No—and the little girl was her favorite all that term. It went to the same school five years and neither of them ever knew.”

  James J. Blaidor raised his glass and sang,

  When I was young, and in my prime,

  I had hot knuckles all the time—,

  And now I’m old and my joints are sore,

  And I can’t get hot knuckles any more—

  “God, that’s awful,” Selma said—”he sings like a raven—anything’s better than that— Won’t someone tell us another story—about love this time—we all believe in love.” Her voice was mocking as she looked at the other girls. “You believe in love, don’t you Leora?”

  The judge’s arm was about her.

  “Surely,” she answered.

  “All right, I’ll tell you about a girl in love,” said the Argus reporter.

  There was instant attention.

  “She’d been in the hospital.

  “One morning she went to the superintendent and asked if she could get out. The superintendent told her she was hardly well enough to go. But when the girl insisted so much the superintendent told her that she might leave.

  “The girl was a little street-walker, and she didn’t have a dime. She hurried to the little room she’d always had and straightened it up.”

  “Was she getting ready for business?” asked Selma. “Yes, getting ready for business,” responded the reporter.

  “Go on,” said Leora.

  “Yes, do,” said Mary Ellen.

  “After she’d fixed up, she went down on the street and looked at the different men as they passed. “Finally a man came along. He had a heavy red mustache and little black eyes. He didn’t look any too good to the girl, but she needed the money, so she took him up to her room.

  “He gave her two dollars.

  “She hurried away and bought a bunch of violets; then went out to the cemetery and put them on her sweetheart’s grave.”

  “Well, well,” said Mother Rosenbloom.

  The reporter waited for further interruptions. None came. He resumed.

  “He’d been hanged a year ago that day, and the girl had promised to put flowers on his grave every anniversary.

  “When she got back to the room, the landlady said, ‘I saw you going up stairs with that man, but I felt you needed the money, so I didn’t say anything . . . but really, it’s too bad you had to go up with him.’

  “‘Who was he?’ asked the girl.

  “‘The hangman,’ answered the landlady.

  “Oh, -my God,” gasped Mary Ellen.

  Mother Rosenbloom’s bosom went up and down. Slattery’s eyes were half closed. Finally he said, “Jesus Christ!” and held Leora closer to him.

  Selma whistled softly. Mary Ellen looked at Leora. She had tears in her eyes.

  Unconscious as time, James J. Blaidor had stretched himself on the davenport.

  “Now choose your girls,” said Judge Slattery.

  A reporter put his arms on Leora’s shoulders. She drew back against the judge, saying half shyly, “Please, I don’t want to go.”

  “Why not?” asked the reporter. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “Yes,” was Leora’s answer.

  Soon the different couples went up stairs. Slattery made no move.

  “We’ll talk here a while,” he said to Leora.

  Mother Rosenbloom motioned to the professor and left discreetly. The professor played lower and lower. Soon his hands stopped on the keys. He, too, had gone from the room.

  No word was said between Slattery and the girl. She clung to him like a frightened child for fear she would fall from his lap.

  Not talkative the whole evening, he now sat in complete silence.

  Leora tried to snuggle closer to him. He did not move.

  She remained quiet for some time, and then, her feeling overcoming her, she ran her hand through his hair. Still there was no response.

  Remaining still for the second time, she held her hand over his heart and counted the even beats for a few seconds.

  She could feel his arms holding her. For the first time in her life, every fiber of her body was relaxed. Suddenly she heard the clamor of a couple coming down the stairs. She jumped from the judge’s lap and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth.

  As Selma and the reporter for the Argus reached the parlor, Leora said, “My, it takes you people a long time.”

  “Yes, Kid, I had an old man,” Selma returned banteringly.

  “Not so damned old,” laughed the reporter.

  When the time came to go, James J. Blaidor was carried to the car.

  “I hope you didn’t treat the Empress this way,” Mary Ellen nudged him.

  “The poor Empress—and you’re the one who was going to wear us all out,” Selma pinched his cheeks. James J. Blaidor’s head sagged. He made no answer.

  In leaving, Judge Slattery caressed Leora lightly, and placed a bill in her hand.

  She tried to hand it back. He said decisively, “You mustn’t.”

  When all had gone, Doris asked, “Did he disappoint you?”

  “Not at all,” answered Leora— “How could he?” Still holding the money, Leora went to her room. It was a hundred dollar note.

  She went to Mother Rosenbloom with the bill. “I owe you fifty,” she said.

  Mother Rosenbloom looked at the money. “No you don’t,” was her decision.

  Long that night she lay and thought. Was he really fond of her? She did not know. Oblivious of everything else, she could feel his arms around her.

  The professor brought several letters to Leora next evening. As always, she opened Sally’s letter first. Buddy had come home and was now at work as a switch-tender in the railroad yards.

  Denny was so proud of his new suit, and often talked of his sister. He had passed a store with Sally. Seeing a wax model in the window wearing an evening gown and a fur coat he pointed and shouted, so that passersby could hear— “Look, Sally, Leora’s one of them.”

  Sally took his hand and hurried him away, while he continued to look backward at the model.

  Leora closed the letter with a smile.

  Money had made so much difference in her father’s house, and her broken-down mother was not there to enjoy it. With the heritage of the sensitive poor, a feeling of belligerency took possession of her.

 
It passed as she opened the next letter. It was from Dr. Farway.

  She opened it slowly and looked at the certified check for a hundred dollars that it contained. She folded it several times and mused before reading the letter. It had all been like something that happened to some one else.

  Her quick mind compared him with Slattery. She knew the difference without being able to explain it to herself. Slattery “just was” as Selma had said.

  She began to read Dr. Farway’s letter. “You’ve been gone about two years,” it said, “and it seems like five.”

  And then, as though it were something he had just remembered, “Mrs. Farway died nearly two weeks ago. We had many differences, as you know, and even though she could not bear the child I so much wanted, I am lost without her.” . . .

  Leora did not read the letter to the end. She had the impulse to telephone to Alice, and then dismissed it. The thought came to her, “Why can’t I go back and marry him if Mary Ellen intends to marry her lawyer?” She shuddered at the thought of leaving Slattery.

  A bell rang. The maid knocked at her door and said, “Ladies in the parlor.” Leora answered, “All right,” but did not move.

  In a few minutes another knock came. It was the housekeeper. Mother Rosenbloom would like to see her.

  Mother was not yet dressed. In its fluffs and laces, her enormous body looked twice as large. Her pink silk nightgown had a dainty lace yoke and no sleeves. Her arms, large as the legs of a man, were bare.

  “Judge Slattery telephoned, Leora,” she said, as a maid finished waving her hair. “He wants you to be at the Randolph Hotel at ten tonight.”

  “Why, Mother?” Leora gasped.

  “I’m sure he likes you or he wouldn’t send for you like this.”

  “But, Mother—I’m so—”

  “No, don’t be anything but yourself, and don’t tell him how to run the state—more women get no place by talking too much than anything else.”

  She rang the bell.

  “Bring Selma and Mary Ellen to me.”

  The maid bowed.

  “Too bad that girl’s high yellow. She’s got more brains than most women,” said Mother Rosenbloom. It was the same maid who had kept James J. Blaidor’s glass full.

  When Selma and Mary Ellen arrived, Mother said to them, “Leora’s meeting Judge Slattery tonight—help her dress, girls.”

  When the girls entered Leora’s room, they found her in a clinging blue velvet dress. It made the blue of her eyes more vivid, and turned the rich brown of her hair to copper.

  Slattery had sent her a corsage of gardenias.

  Selma gasped, “My God—you know what to wear all right.”

  Mary Ellen ran her hand over the curve of Leora’s breasts. “No wonder he fell for you,” she said. Leora smiled in the mirror.

  The girls returned with Leora.

  Mother Rosenbloom looked at her and said, “Lovely.” “What’s going on, Mother?” asked Selma.

  “Some gathering—the judge doesn’t want to be alone.”

  The girls were soon on their way to the Randolph.

  “I’ve got a hunch,” said Selma, “I believe you’re in.” She sighed, “I’d give my right eye for a man like him.” The cab turned a corner and swayed Selma toward Leora. “Damn, you do look lovely,” she said, adjusting herself—”I can understand the whole thing.”

  “Why?” asked Leora.

  “Just one of those things—you’re in—that’s all.”

  The cab stopped at the hotel.

  “We’ll wait here,” Selma commanded the driver. Slattery’s man was standing at the entrance.

  He stepped forward and took Leora through the crowded lobby and up the elevator to the Blue Room. It was really a penthouse and overlooked the city.

  In the room were politicians, pugilists, gangsters, lawyers, and people from the different theatres.

  Arm in arm with Judge Slattery, a great criminal lawyer leaned against the bar. A famous actor had just introduced him as the leading member of the American Bar Association. When Leora entered, the applause had not died down. She was taken to Slattery. The judge greeted her warmly and introduced her to the lawyer. Soon a tall man with a hooked nose joined them. “Miss La Rue—may I present the governor—Governor Harris—Miss La Rue—”

  The governor bowed politely.

  Hours passed. There was dancing and music. The governor made an address. Men and women gathered about the governor and Slattery when it came time to go.

  Judge Slattery’s car waited at the main entrance. With the governor and the great criminal lawyer, the famous actor and others, Leora was taken to his home.

  The men treated her with the utmost consideration.

  After they had been at his home for an hour or more, the judge said to her, “I think you had better retire, Leora.”

  It was the first time he had spoken her name.

  A maid appeared and escorted her to an elegantly furnished room.

  She awoke late.

  The judge joined her at breakfast.

  “I leave for New York at once,” he said. “I’ll take you home on the way to the station.”

  “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, as the car went toward Mother Rosenbloom’s.

  “Oh, so nice,” she said impulsively, putting a delicately gloved hand on his forearm.

  “That’s good. I thought you would enjoy it. The governor and I were hungry boys together.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.” Leora leaned toward him— “It meant so much to me.”

  “Don’t,” he said, “it’s all right,—I’ll be back in a week— Mother will talk to you.”

  He rang the bell for her.

  “Good-bye— In a week,” he said.

  In another moment he was in the limousine.

  Mother Rosenbloom was having her coffee and reading the newspapers when Leora entered.

  She asked with the same solicitude as Judge Slattery, “Did you have a nice time?”

  “So nice,” Leora answered. “He’s grand.”

  “The judge talked to me last night,” Mother Rosenbloom confided, motioning Leora to sit on her bed. “He wants you to stay on here with me—I’ll have the bookkeeper figure what you’ve earned the past month—you’ll be paid your half of that—and see no other men.”

  Mother studied a report.

  “I’ll go fifty-fifty with you on liquor—that should get you another hundred a week anyhow—will that please you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” answered Leora. “I never want to see another man.”

  “That’s good—the judge will take care of everything.” Smiling, she added, “He said a nice thing about you over the telephone.”

  “What, Mother?”

  “That you weren’t silly—and so respectful.” “Who wouldn’t be, Mother?”

  Mother did not answer the question. Instead, she turned her newspaper to the society page and looked at the pictures of several society women in riding costumes.

  “They’re bigger whores than us,” she growled, turning the page hastily.

  Looking at Leora, she said, “Now, dear—you can explain to the girls—they’ll understand.”

  Before Leora reached the door, Mother added, “You’re much better off—the patent on men won’t wear out—or on women either—it’s grand to think he likes you—but I knew he would the minute you came into the house—I’ll explain it to you some day—maybe.”

  Chapter 29

  Events came rapidly for Leora. On the third night she received a long distance telephone call. After Slattery had talked to her he said, “Put Mother on the ‘phone.”

  When Mother had finished, she smiled, “He wants us to wire him at the Willard in Washington. He’s still a lonesome little boy—did he tell you?” she asked.

  Leora, still agitated over the long distance call, nodded, “Yes.”

  “Now send him a nice telegram,” said Mother. “You won’t have to lie—you do miss him—I know.”


  Leora spent some time in wording the telegram. The gruff matchmaker looked at it and asked, “Where’s the one you wrote first?”

  Mother looked it over. “It’s the best—I knew it would be. Anything from the heart is never studied.” She rang for Mary Ellen.

  “You’re more patient than me, Mary Ellen—and Leora might get too excited. Telephone these telegrams for us.

  Mary Ellen picked up Mother’s receiver and with clear articulation read the messages. When she came to the end of Leora’s she pronounced the words, “All my love,” as though her own heart were in them. They sounded strange to Leora. She had never written such words to anyone but Sally and her aunt before.

  More men selected Leora in the next few days than ever before.

  “They’re like dogs,” Mother said grimly, “they know.”

  The women in the house, from Mother Rosenbloom to the cook, treated Leora with new deference. Whether due to Mother’s training or the innate largeness of spirit in Selma, Mary Ellen, and Doris, they exhibited a kindly envy without jealousy.

  “It’s nice of him not wanting her with other men,” observed Selma.

  “Tut, tut,” —said Mother, “it’s not nice at all—he’s a man—and he doesn’t want to share.”

  “Maybe he thinks it’ll turn into a maidenhead again,” said Doris.

  “Where did you learn that—in the reform school?” Mother asked.

  When the judge returned, Mother sent Leora to meet him several times in different sections of the city. It was generally at a public function or dinner. Treated with respect, she would be returned to Mother Rosenbloom after a light caress.

  At times Slattery would talk to her, but always in short sentences.

  When she had said, “Governor Harris has such sad eyes, hasn’t he?” Slattery replied,

  “Yes,—they come from indigestion.”

  “Why is Mother so fond of you?” Leora asked him. “She’s getting old,” he said.

  “But she’s still very smart,” was Leora’s retort. “That’s why she likes me,” returned Slattery. Another month passed when word came to Mother from Slattery to have Leora find an apartment. Alice could help her.

  Leora cried for joy as Mother told her. She hurried to telephone Alice.