“Do you like it, Anna?”
“I adore it…Edgar.” She closed her hand around it, knowing that wearing his ring would make her golden again in the eyes of the world.
He leaned in close, his hair flyaway with static electricity. The wind carried away his warmth and his scent. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes for his kiss.
Before their lips came together, their mouths but a whisper apart, the Widow Crisp rounded the tree. Edgar pulled back. Her timing was preternatural, her expression prim and disapproving. Anna silently cursed the Widow. It was a hostile act. She knew the mangy crow had done it on purpose. The Widow wouldn't care if they cavorted naked, but she would care if Anna had the briefest moment of bliss.
Edgar smiled tightly at the Widow Crisp, murmuring to Anna from the side of his mouth. “Sorry darling. I'm not much good at making love with an audience.”
Anna sighed. “I had hoped she would blow away.”
That night, Anna smuggled an iron from the laundry into her room, hidden in a shawl, and slid it under the bed. She lit a fire in the carved stone hearth. Butterflies fluttered in her insides. Tomorrow, Edgar would ask her father for her hand. And her father would say…what? And then what?
Anna pulled her egg-encrusted matron's uniform from a carpetbag. She wet the stiff fabric in a tub of cold water and scrubbed at the hard egg yolk and chalky chicken dung with soap and her father's boar bristle toothbrush. Her own silk night robe stuck to her lingerie, damp from splashes. She stripped off the lacey garment and hung it near the fire to dry, side by side with the newly cleaned uniform. She would continue to go to the station. Once she knew she was really, truly engaged, then she would quit.
Anna climbed into bed and squirmed herself warm under the covers. She needed beauty sleep, especially if her father said no, but fear of not sleeping kept her awake. She felt fidgety, overexcited from a day that was more eventful than the whole rest of her life put together. She rang for the maid to bring her sleep syrup and, when it arrived, slurped two spoonfuls of the bitter liquid.
As Anna drifted off in a barbital haze, the little beaten man lay in the gutter and called her name from a dream: “Anna. Anna.”
“Sacré bleu! It's always something, Anna,” Mr. Blanc said, as if it were her fault. The mountains in the east were glowing pink and a mist hid Catalina Island. Anna wore yesterday's frock, which she had plucked from the floor and donned quickly, her legs bare and chilled underneath. She took big steps in the dewy grass to keep up with her father, and almost trod on a dead gopher—a half-eaten one. Two brown teeth poked from its stiff mouth, its fur clumped in wet, bloody tufts.
Mr. Blanc halted in the middle of the lawn. Her full name, Anna Virginie Blanc, was cut into the turf in big dirt letters. They splayed across the lawn, edged with hairy roots and halves of worms, and sprinkled with a white powder. Anna put her hand on his thick arm and squeezed. A Mexican gardener approached with a wheelbarrow full of sod. He looked gravely at Anna. “Buenos días, Señorita.” He knelt and began scraping the powder out of the letters with a trowel. Anna shivered and pressed her lips.
“Who did this?” Mr. Blanc demanded. “Do you know, Anna?”
Anna shook her head and hugged herself.
“Never mind. I've called the police.”
Anna's heavily lashed eyes widened and she spun about to leave. The last thing she needed was to be interviewed by Wolf. Her father grabbed her arm. “You're not going anywhere alone.”
“I never do,” Anna said in a singsong. She started to sweat.
“And, you're going to stay with the Breedloves. Will they have you?”
“Of course.” Anna craned her neck to watch for police cars in the drive, and noticed the gardener's dog lying on the asphalt.
Mr. Blanc slapped his forehead and turned to the gardener. “It's herbicide, isn't it?”
The gardener took a pinch and rubbed the grains between his fingertips. He lifted it to his tongue.
“Don't!” Anna said. “Unless you want to end up like the gopher. And, I regret, your dog.” The gardener dropped his hand and immediately began whistling for his dog.
Anna heard hoof beats and a mounted cop trotted onto the drive. He dismounted and knelt by the dead animal. Anna twisted free of her father and grimaced. “I'm going to go greet the nice officer.” She loped off, veering toward the rear of the house, and disappeared.
“Anna!” her father shouted.
A weapon is a good idea when one does police work, or when a man uses arsenic as an herbicide when writing one's name on the lawn, or when one may have to render an officer unconscious in order to escape unseen. Anna clipped up the servant's stairs to retrieve Cook's paring knife from under her bed. She scooped up her silver hairbrush, too. The hairbrush could be used for bonking, and she was good with the blade, having eviscerated dozens of books. She supposed she could eviscerate other things, too. She would have to practice.
Anna whetted the knife until it was keen edged and popped it into her favorite beaded purse, a Frederick Worth original. The knife slit a hole through the silk and fell onto the floor, sticking in the hardwood like a dagger. It made a twanging sound. A shower of opalescent beads tinkled and bounced in all directions, pelting her feet. Her purse was gutted. “Biscuits!”
Anna's eyes shot to the clock. She was terribly late. The maid knocked at the door. Anna lunged to lock it. “Go away!”
“The officer wants to interview you.”
“Tell him I'm naked,” she said, and kicked herself. “Or something!” She heard the maid shuffle down the hall, sniggering.
Anna went to the fireplace and fingered her uniform. It was slightly damp and looked like it had been wadded into a ball, which it had been. Next time, she wouldn't wad. She stirred the remnants of last night's fire, retrieved the iron from under the bed and placed it on the coals. She spit on it periodically, until, finally, it sizzled.
Anna picked it up with a towel and ran it up and down the damp skirt leaving little streaks of soot. She congratulated herself. The iron worked. She let the iron linger on the more resistant wrinkly spots. Acrid smoke began wafting from the skirt. When she lifted the iron, a scorched triangle of cotton came with it. “Biscuits!” Anna hurled the charred skirt onto the floor.
The maid knocked. “Miss Anna. The officer is waiting.”
“Tell him I'm coming!”
Anna kicked the uniform under her bed. When the hall was quiet, she slipped out the door in yesterday's dress. She took the servant's stairs to the Widow's room, and in a moment they were sneaking out a window with a tin of kippers and running for Clara's house.
On Monday morning, Anna parked off the road behind a Coca-Cola billboard thirteen blocks from the station and walked, having dropped the Widow at her sister's rat-infested bungalow. Multistory buildings blocked the morning sun. She was out of sorts because she hadn't seen her father or Edgar and hadn't heard a word from either about the engagement. Over a day had passed and her ring finger remained bare. Surely Edgar would visit her at Clara's house and tell her tonight. The engagement would no longer be secret and she could wear his lovely ring.
Anna climbed the steps of the station in the hateful greenish, yellowish, brownish frock that strained across her bust. She clutched a leather carrying bag in russet red. It was so hideous only the Widow Crisp would wear it—unless one was being stalked and had to carry a very sharp paring knife, and one did not want to gut another silk purse. She imagined it could match with some things, like burlap, or moth-eaten dog fur, or a matron's uniform. But it could carry a whiskey bottle, four crime books, and the picture of Anna and Eve from the march, all of which would be safer at the station. She had also brought the shoe.
When Anna swung through the doors, Joe Singer was already there in his dress, having just returned from another sting operation. This time, he wasn't drunk. He leaned against the counter singing “Pretty Maiden” from Floradora with an elderly woman. Joe sang the girl's part. “They flirt with girls t
oo freely and it's not the same girl twice.”
Anna had to walk past them to get to her desk. The old woman leaned in close to Officer Singer and in a loud, old lady whisper said, “Is that your new assistant matron, Officer Singer? She's very pretty, and you don't have a sweetheart.”
“Beauty, Mrs. Macklehainey, is only skin deep.” He gave the old girl his full masculine attention. Mrs. Macklehainey smiled appreciatively and batted her lashes. She turned to Anna. “Hello. I'm Joe's neighbor. He's helping me find my dog.”
Anna nodded politely and looked at Officer Singer. “I wasn't trying to get you in trouble on Saturday. I was simply pointing out…”
He interrupted her. “You couldn't get me in trouble, Assistant Matron Holmes.”
Mrs. Macklehainey looked from one to the other and smiled. “Oh, my. Sparks a fly.”
Anna huffed away.
Wolf spotted Anna and immediately crossed the floor to greet her. He smelled like cigarette smoke. “That's a lovely dress, Matron Holmes, but where's your uniform?” His eyes darted from her bust to her face and back again.
“I destroyed it.” She frowned. “I suppose I should buy another.”
“Yes, you should.” He lowered his voice. “Do me a favor and keep Matron Clemens and the boys happy, as I was kind enough to hire you.”
Anna looked surprised. “I think I've done well so far.”
“Sure. Sure. Maybe we could talk about that a little later in private. Maybe in the stables at lunch time?” He laid a light, warm hand on her shoulder.
Anna smiled uncertainly and crossed over to the desk Matron Clemens had assigned her on Anna's first day. Dusty file boxes surrounded the desk like an invading army. Anna sneezed. Matron Clemens approached. “Good Morning, Matron Holmes. Where's your uniform?”
“I, um, gave it to a beggar woman…. She was desperate. With…children. May I have another?” Anna smiled brightly.
“Matron Holmes, you've worked here one day, and you're already six dollars in arrears.”
“I'll earn it back. I promise.” Anna tried to inspire confidence by looking serious.
“That's all very well, but I've already given you my spare. You'll have to sew a new one. And soon.”
Anna blanched.
Matron Clemens glanced at the mound of dusty boxes. “In the meantime, I'd like you to go through these files and separate out the juveniles who are now adults. Then, I'd like you to integrate them with the adult files. If a file contains information on siblings or multiple children, I'd like you to type copies of the report and assure that each child has their own copy in their own file. If there are three siblings, there should be three complete files. If there are four siblings, four files. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
When her mentor departed, Anna bit her lip. On one hand, she couldn't wait to read real criminal records. On the other hand, she couldn't type. Anna looked over at Mr. Melvin, who typed brilliantly. His fingers blurred like a pinwheel in the east winds. Anna padded over and quietly positioned herself behind him. Every one of his fingers punched keys. Every finger knew where to strike. Anna studied their movement and position. She watched him roll in a new sheet of paper and return the carriage. His typing was wondrous. She knew she could never do it.
Anna glanced up and saw Matron Clemens watching her as if she suspected Anna of a crime—like impersonating someone who could type. The woman stood and glided toward her. Anna's lips formed an O, and her mind turned to porridge. “Mr. Melvin, I…Um. Mr. Melvin…”
Mr. Melvin spoke quietly and without turning. “Matron Holmes, extra ink ribbons are on the bottom shelf. And, I agree. A limber pinky makes all the difference.”
Matron Clemens made a “Hmm” sound and went back to her seat. Anna clipped to her desk and rolled paper into her Remington. She tried to catch Mr. Melvin's eye so she could mouth a thank you, but he didn't look up. Anna hit keys until letters fell like hailstones onto the paper. She typed faster than Mr. Melvin, but in no particular order. When the page was full, Anna pulled it out and hid it in a file. She would do the real typing tonight with no one looking.
Anna flipped through the files. They each bore the name of a juvenile, their birthday, names of parents, along with reports about their transgressions, sentences, and/or actions taken on their behalf.
She lit with epiphany. If Peaches Payton had a juvenile record, Anna could find Georgie's relatives and save him from the witch. She quickly searched under Daisy Tombs, the name the little black maid had given her. Anna found the file and flung it open, skimming the entries.
December 25, 1897.
Daisy Tombs, age nine, and brother Amos, age two, were orphaned when their parents, Betsy and Joshua Tombs, drowned in a flash flood when walking along the Los Angeles River. Matron Clemens left them in the care of their uncle, Chip Jones….
The entry provided an address and other details. Anna beamed. This was easy as pie. Anna would find Chip Jones and notify him of Daisy's death. He would take Georgie.
May 8, 1900.
Daisy Tombs stol kantelop frum a growsire…
Anna chuckled. It was complete gibberish, but she thought it might say that Daisy Tombs had stolen cantaloupe from a grocery store. The typist copied the mangled report just as the illiterate officer had written it, correcting only the child's name. Whoever had typed it had a sense of humor, or was trying to make a point.
Anna moved on to the next entry.
June 1, 1900.
Daisy Tombs was found at a dance hall wearing too much makeup. Matron Clemens washed her face and took her home, where she found Chip Jones passed out drunk on the floor.
July 3, 1900.
Daisy Tombs and Carry Morgan had their virtue stolen by M. M. Martinez, proprietor of the Esmeralda Club, and six other unknown men, after they were given drugged champagne…. A jury convicted Martinez after the girls testified in court…. The girls were sent to Whittier Reform Academy because their families did not know what to do with them….
Anna set down the file. Was it a wonder that tender girls fell into sin when preyed upon by devils like Martinez? No one would marry them. Testifying in court virtually advertised their disgrace. What else could Daisy have done? Become a scullery maid? Anna wouldn't have hired her. Girls like Daisy had best go stay with relatives in a distant town.
What about M. M. Martinez? Had he been hanged? She found his record. No. He'd been fined $100 dollars. Then, the cad had struck again. He'd drugged one Sarah Smith, age sixteen.
Anna made note of his address. His house was on a better street, not far from her own. If she could find the time, she'd burn it down.
Anna found the file on Carry Morgan, and another entry caught her eye.
February 18, 1907
Madam Chantilly Stone fild a misin purson report for Kitty Blake a.k.a. Carry Morgan wuz gon frum Yanke Doodl on Febrary 14th, were she hored.
Anna tapped her teeth with her thumb. Daisy Tombs committed suicide and Carry Morgan disappeared. Both worked in brothels.
Matron Clemens clipped up to the desk. “Matron Holmes. I don't suppose you'd be inclined to do a good deed?”
“Anything.” Anna smiled obsequiously. Wolf had admonished her to make friends.
Matron Clemens dropped two coins on her desk. “Good. Peaches Payton will be buried today at four o’clock. Madam Lulu requested that the boy be there to say goodbye. They've helped raise him. I think it's all right if you stay with him.”
Anna beamed. She could give Peaches her shoes.
Snow passed by and heehawed like an ass. “In this heat, she'll be a sight, And a smell.”
Anna made a sound of disgust.
He grunted. “They should have buried her on Sunday.”
“Sunday? When all the priests are busy with their flocks? That's ridiculous. Who would say the mass? I'm sure Madam Lulu gave her a proper wake, despite all those vile men who would be showing up at the door. She seemed to care about the girl.”
Snow gave her a deadly look and lumbered off. Matron Clemens raised an eyebrow. Was it a reprimand for impudence toward a detective or a begrudging sign of approval? Afraid to find out, Anna nodded to the matron and scampered off.
It was easy to drop a child on a doorstep and run. Abducting a child was tricky. Unfortunately, Anna needed the Widow Crisp. She found the Widow in the sister's bungalow, her eyes bloodshot, and her breath antiseptic. A gorgeous wool afghan tumbled down her lap. She knitted like Helmut Melvin typed. The Widow agreed to collect Georgie, in any manner she chose, in exchange for a pair of Anna's pale blue, quilted satin boudoir slippers with two-inch Louis heels.
By the time Anna arrived at Canary Cottage with the boy, the mourners were already processing down the street behind a glass hearse drawn by a dappled mare. The coffin shook in rhythm with the horse. So much for the shoes. Anna set them down on the gate.
Madam Lulu led the cavalcade in a shiny black gown and a wide-brimmed hat in which nested half a dozen brightly colored birds. Her cheeks were rouged cherry red, as red as her puffy, kohl-lined eyes, and the same dead fox swung from her neck. She waddled on the arm of an old black man in a dapper suit and derby. Behind them, the brothel girls processed in party dresses dyed black. They were, to a girl, lovely. Some appeared younger than Anna, some older, none over twenty-five. Two of the girls held babies. These were Lulu's girls, the girls who were dying, who the madam believed were being murdered. Anna wanted to stare at them, to gaze into their solemn eyes and know what manner of creatures they were, that they would choose to live in a brothel, when surely they could work in a factory or be nuns. She tripped, trying to walk and watch them with Georgie in her arms. One girl, who was perhaps sixteen, stared at Anna. When Anna looked, the girl glanced down and smiled. Anna fell in step behind the mourning prostitutes.
When the little black maid saw Georgie, she ran over and took him, squeezing him and kissing his plump lips. “My Georgie.” She turned to Anna. “Miss, won't you go back and wait in the parlor? There's lemonade.”
The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Page 9
