The Chaperone

by Laura Moriarty

  Cora didn’t answer. She reached for the lamp. She would not engage, not about her gown, not about Prohibition, not about anything. She just wanted to go to sleep, to feel nothing, to make this long day finally come to an end.

  And she did sleep, almost right away. But she fell into dreams, and she would remember one dream the next morning, and even long after that: She was still in her nightgown—she could feel the lace at the collar, the soft cotton against her legs—but she was back at her dining room table in Wichita. Alan and Raymond Walker were sitting there with her, both of them wearing suits and drinking out of teacups. They were being nice to her, making pleasant conversation, but one of Alan’s hands was under the table, and one of Raymond Walker’s hands was under the table, too, and she knew by the looks on their faces that something illicit was going on out of view. She didn’t look under the table because she didn’t have to. She could tell by the smiles on their faces, their mischievous grins. And she was mad, mad about it. But then she lifted her own teacup to her mouth, and it was beer, which in her dream tasted sweet, like tea sweetened with honey. “Like liquid gold,” Alan said, raising his cup as if making a toast, a toast, it seemed, to her. She could hear sirens outside, coming closer, maybe real New York sirens in the dark streets outside that became part of her dream, but she was thirsty, so thirsty, and so she stopped being mad and stopped worrying about the sirens and took a long drink from her own teacup, and the sweetness of the beer was so perfect, so cool and wonderful, that she tilted back her head to empty her cup. Alan smiled and said she would be fine. They would have to stay hidden, but they weren’t bad people. They were just people who wanted a drink.

  She never knew what woke her. She would realize later that the room had been quiet for hours, with no movement aside from the whirling fan. But for some reason, maybe the heat, maybe a car backfiring, she became conscious in the darkness, even as her eyes were still closed. She lay still for a while, recalling the strange dream and the imagined sweetness of the beer. Just a dream, not a memory. A car rolled by on the street, followed by another with a louder engine, and she opened her eyes. The thin curtain was aglow, illuminated by an orange streetlight, and she turned away from it, careful to move gently so as not to disturb Louise. In just the past few weeks, she’d grown used to sharing a bed with another body, staying confined to one side, not letting her arms and legs flail about as she did in her big bed at home. And so now she peered through the semidarkness to locate Louise’s head, to measure just how much space she had.

  She could only see the white of the pillow.

  She sat up, making certain, her hands moving over the sheet.

  “Louise?”

  The fan whirled. She reached over to turn on the lamp, shielding her eyes from its brightness. The bathroom was dark. She pushed back the sheet and got out of bed.

  “Louise? Are you here? Answer me.”

  She checked the bathroom, just to be sure, and moved quickly through the kitchen. In the front room, she pulled the chain on the low lamp. The painted Siamese cat stared.

  She ran back to the bedroom, snatching her watch from the nightstand. Twenty past three. She hiked up her long gown, rested one knee on the bed, and peered over the edge of the other side, where Louise had dropped her shoes just hours before. They were gone. Of course they were. Louise had left them out on purpose, boldly, right in front of her. When had that been? Ten o’clock? Almost five hours ago, and there was no way to know what time she’d left. Cora went to the window and pulled aside the curtain, looking down at the street. Even at this early-morning hour, people were still out, men and women bobbing down the sidewalk, getting into taxis, huddled at the corners in little groups. She could see a few lit windows in the building across the street. But the luncheonette was closed, its electric sign dark, its windows dimmed. From the sidewalk, a man with no jacket waved up at her, while his two friends laughed, as if with all the bare-kneed girls in the street, Cora was the one who’d been putting on a show for them, in her prim gown with the ribbon at the collar, her hair loose to her shoulders. She stepped out of sight, her heart pounding, her arms crossed over her chest.

  She didn’t know what to do. Wake the neighbors? The few people she’d seen in the hallway and on the stairway never even said hello. Should she go down to the street and start screaming? Ask a stranger how she might find the police? So they could what? File a report? Her fingers grazed her lace collar, the skin of her neck. No. There was no need for real alarm. Louise was fine. She’d gone out for a lark, but she would come back soon, and when she did, Cora would give her a good scolding, a terrific scolding, letting her know how much she’d frightened her, and how absolutely stupid she’d been to go out by herself in New York City in the middle of the night. Didn’t she know that Cora would only have to say one word about this to Ruth St. Denis, just one word, and Louise could forget about Philadelphia and joining the troupe?

  Cora turned off the lamp so she could again look out the window, unseen. Stupid girl, she thought, even as her gaze moved worriedly up and down the street. Perhaps she should tell St. Denis. It would serve Louise right to have to go back to Kansas now, to lose everything because of her childish behavior. But even as she thought this, she knew that if Louise would just come back, Cora would say nothing to Ruth St. Denis. Louise needed punishment, yes, but Cora didn’t want her to lose everything, not when she was so close, the only student they picked.

  She didn’t know how much time passed before she spotted them, two people moving oddly down the sidewalk, the taller one almost upright and half supporting, half dragging the other. The smaller, leaning figure wore a sleeveless dress, light-colored. Cora pressed her forehead against the window, cupped her hands over her eyes, and saw the cropped black hair. She picked up the key and ran down the stairs in her bare feet, one hand alternately gripping and sliding down the narrow banister. She could hear her own breathing as she turned the first landing, her nostrils flared like an enraged bull’s. She reached the bottom of the stairway, ran across the gritty floor of the entry, and tried to fling open the door to the street, realizing only now that it was kept locked at night. She undid the lock and pushed the door so hard it swung open and hit the exterior wall.

  “Oh. Hello.”

  Before her, on the covered stoop, Floyd Smithers, his bow tie dangling from his collar, stood very still, doing his best to hold up Louise, who slouched against him like a soft doll. She was still in the nightgown, wearing the heels. She raised her head, looked at Cora through hooded eyes.

  “Oh fuck. Not her. Please? Take me anywhere else. Not her. Not now.” She frowned at Cora. “That’s a goddam ugly nightgown, by the way. You look like Little Bo Peep.”

  Floyd met Cora’s gaze. He looked alarmed, and perfectly sober.

  “I just wanted to get her home,” he said.

  For a moment, Cora couldn’t even speak. She wanted to scratch his handsome, college-boy face, the door key sharp in her palm. He was at fault for this, more than Louise, even. Now Cora knew what they’d been whispering about over the counter at dinner. He’d plotted it all out, getting a fifteen-year-old girl out alone and so drunk she couldn’t stand up, so he could… what? The night was still warm, muggy, but she felt a chill of real fear.

  “You’re disgusting,” she hissed. “I should call the police.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to…” Louise started to swoon away from him, and he widened his stance for better support.

  “I can guess your intentions.” She moved to Louise’s other side, looping one bare, limp arm over her neck. “I’ll take it from here, thank you. But don’t worry. You’ll be hearing from me soon. And from the authorities. She’s a child, fifteen. You knew that.”

  He disentangled himself and stepped away. Louise’s full weight slumped against Cora, and they staggered backward, almost falling against the wall. For such a small person, Louise was surprisingly heavy, dense like a soaked sponge, and the silk nightgown hard to hold on to. Cora righ
ted herself, hooking her free arm around Louise’s waist, and took a careful step toward the stairway. Louise rolled her head in and whispered something indecipherable. Her breath smelled of sour milk and pine.

  “Floyd.” Cora turned her own head away, breathing hard. She wasn’t sure if he was still there. “Floyd?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes. “It’s three flights up. I need your help.”

  In a moment, he was beside them. He put one arm under Louise’s knees, one arm under her shoulders. Without comment, he made his way to the stairs. As soon as he began to climb, Louise started to kick and slap his back, muttering protests. One of her heels fell off on the second landing, but Cora, following, didn’t pick it up. She wouldn’t. Maybe the shoe would be there in the morning. Maybe it wouldn’t. It seemed to Cora she deserved to lose it.

  At their door, Floyd waited, breathing heavily, as Cora pushed the key into the lock. Louise, somewhat revived by her ride up the stairs, was also exhaling audibly, but she was doing it on purpose, as a joke, blowing her acrid, piney breath at Cora’s cheek. “You like that, Cora?” she slurred, heavy-lidded. “That’s gin is what that is. You should try it sometime. You know? Maybe you won’t be such a wound-up pain in the ass.”

  Cora opened the door, moving through the kitchen to the bedroom. “Just put her on the bed,” she said, yanking the chain for the bedroom light. He did, not too gently, and stepped away, still breathing hard and red in the face. Cora noticed he no longer appeared contrite. He actually appeared put-upon. She hoped he didn’t feel in any way absolved, just because he got Louise upstairs. That was the least he could do.

  “Nothing happened,” he said. “Nothing. I just wanted to get her home.”

  She stared at him, trying to see any sign of real honesty. She wanted to believe him. She was desperate to. But he might say anything now, to get himself out of danger. The flush of his skin made him look younger than he was, boyish. Maybe he wasn’t lying. But that was just it—there was no way to know.

  Cora gave him a withering look. “Why are you still here?”

  He held up his palms, turned, and made quick strides out of the room. The door to the hallway slammed behind him. Louise started laughing again, lying on one side, her bare knees curled up under her chin. But she stopped suddenly, the thin black brows going low. Her hand went to her belly, and she looked utterly somber, almost afraid.

  “Oh. Oh-oh. I think I might upchuck.”

  Cora frowned. This, she supposed, was as close as the girl would come to remorse. She felt no sympathy at all. “Well, for God’s sake, get to the bathroom. And don’t think I’m going to carry you. If you can’t walk, crawl.”

  To her surprise, that was what Louise did. She rolled over so she was belly-down on the bed and stretched both hands toward the floor. As she tried to slide the rest of her body to the floor, she lost her grip on the floor and fell forward, the hem of the gown hitching up around her thighs. But she recovered. Groaning quietly, she crawled like a toddler toward the dark bathroom. She was wearing underwear, to Cora’s relief.

  Cora followed her to the bathroom, pulling the chain on the light. Two shiny roaches scurried into the drain of the sink, and Louise crooked her elbow over her eyes. She was lying on her side by the toilet. Cora, feeling faint and closed in by the bathroom’s red walls, braced herself against the edge of the sink. She wanted to go back to bed, to go back to sleep, but if she wanted answers, truthful answers, she would have to get them now.

  “Where did you get the liquor? Where did Floyd get it?”

  Louise smiled, her eyes still hidden by her pale arm. “I dunno. I just followed him.” Her “him” came out like “em,” all the new, clear diction gone. “It was the darnedest little place, Cora. You go in like you’re going into a phone booth, but if you knock on the wall the right way, a door opens, and you’re inside a room. Isn’t that smart?”

  “A speakeasy, then.”

  “Listen to you. So worldly. I’m impressed.”

  Cora wanted to kick her. She was mad enough to lean down and pull the girl up for a quick, hard shake that might have sobered her enough to understand that the matter at hand was very serious, and that none of her usual belligerence would be tolerated. She’d been out with a boy, unchaperoned and falling-down drunk. Cora would have to call her parents. And what would she tell them? That their daughter may have been violated? Would they want Cora to take her to a doctor? Perhaps Floyd hadn’t been lying. Perhaps he hadn’t touched her, and a doctor could assure them all that there had been no real violation at all. Cora would swear silence. She would. But Louise had to stop smirking, to stop acting as if this was all some hilarious joke.

  Louise sat up with her hand over her mouth. Cora, who had little experience with drunks, but who had nursed her husband and sons through countless bouts of the flu, positioned Louise’s head over the toilet just before she spewed out a stream of clear liquid that smelled more of bile than pine. Cora had to turn away so she wouldn’t retch herself, but she kept her hands on the girl’s narrow shoulders. With every additional shudder, Cora patted her back.

  “Better to get it out,” she said. “Keep going. Get it all out.”

  She waited until Louise sat back from the toilet, nothing left in her stomach to expel. The girl’s nose and cheeks were pink, and her eyes were dull, unseeing. She scooted back until she was against the edge of the tub, and there she sat, bare legs splayed, one strap of the gown hanging off her shoulder. Cora flushed the toilet and lowered herself to the floor as well, her back against the wall.

  “That was amazing,” Louise whispered. “I feel so much better.”

  Cora shook her head. She’d been wrong to pat the girl’s shoulders, to offer comfort and aid. There was no remorse, no understanding. “Louise. This is a very serious situation. I have to ask you, and you have to answer me honestly. Did he take advantage of you?”

  The dark eyes focused on Cora’s, and unbelievably, even now, with her chin still shiny with drool, there was the condescension, the smugness in her gaze. She snickered, but she shook her head.

  “Louise? You understand what I’m asking? You’re certain? He didn’t take advantage of you? You understand what I’m asking? You haven’t been… compromised, Louise? This is what I’m asking.”

  Louise held up her hand as if taking a pledge. “He did not compromise me. I remain uncompromised.”

  Cora closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

  Louise laughed again, lowering her hand to wipe her cheek. “Thank me, why don’t you. Floyd just isn’t my type. I think I’d be a little much for him.” She paused, moving her tongue beneath her lower lip. “Other fellows had more money for drinks.”

  “Oh, Louise.” Cora shook her head.

  “Oh, Cora.” Louise shook her head as well. “Don’t you be so worried about my virginity, me losing it here in New York. I didn’t even pack it, for your information. It’s back in Kansas somewhere.” She stretched her pale arms up, arching her back away from the tub. “Sorry to tell you now, when you’ve been so passionate about your duties. It’s been adorable, really.” She crossed her arms and made a pouty face. “Poor Cora. Poor, dumb Cora, assigned to protect my virginity. You’ve been sent on a fool’s errand, I’m afraid. I lost it long ago.”

  Cora watched the girl’s face, her sleepy eyes. She might be lying, just trying to unnerve her. But if anything, Louise seemed less guarded, and much less strategic, than she usually did. She was sloppy, but honest, with drink.

  “You look surprised.” She tugged a strand of black hair toward her mouth, but it wouldn’t reach. “I guess you ladies in Wichita really don’t know so much about all my rides to church after all.”

  Cora shook her head. She didn’t understand.

  Louise rolled her eyes. “Eddie Vincent?”

  It took Cora a moment to recognize the name. “Mr. Vincent? He was your Sunday school teacher, Louise. You said he gave you rides to church.”

  “Yes. And so m
uch more.”

  Cora swallowed, taking in the girl’s mocking expression, the nonchalance in her voice. As if she weren’t ashamed by what she’d implied. It was terrible, what she was suggesting.

  “What are you saying? Do you mean to tell me that… Louise. Be clear.”

  “I’m saying we had an affair, dummy.” She lifted the hem of the nightgown, then let it fall back to her knees. “He got me this pretty thing. Isn’t it the berries? Took photographs of me in it, really beautiful. He has a good eye. He could have been an artist, but his wife got pregnant.”

  Cora was aware of the hard tile beneath her, the bathroom’s warm and muggy air. “Louise. Edward Vincent is a respected man in Wichita. This is a serious allegation.”

  “I’m not alleging anything.” She examined the back of her hand. “I’m telling you we had an affair. I was his lover.”

  Cora watched the girl’s eyes for any sign of fear or regret, any flinch that might suggest she was lying, or at least exaggerating. But there was no such sign. She looked confident, even proud.

  “Oh, Louise.” Cora felt nauseous. “If this is true, if this horrible thing you’re telling me is true, it wasn’t an affair. You weren’t his lover. Edward Vincent is older than I am. He teaches Sunday school. I have to tell your mother.”

  Louise yawned, a soprano trill escaping from the back of her throat. “Oh, I think she knows. She knew he was taking pictures of me, that I was posing for him. She thought I might be able to use the pictures for my career. We didn’t get into the specifics.” She looked at Cora reproachfully. “I don’t think she’ll want to talk with you about it. She probably won’t appreciate you being so… familiar.”