by Dara Horn
Antonia had been scrubbed clean of all empathy. She turned back to him and grinned. “It was worth asking,” she said cheerfully, and turned toward the stage. “Oh, look, there’s Miss Cary.” The one-legged musicians, he saw, were putting away their instruments; some slaves were helping them down from the landing, while others busied themselves with hanging a sort of makeshift velvet curtain over the ordinary doorway at the landing’s back wall. Once the landing was vacated, a thin young woman with a severe blond bun of hair proceeded up to it, where she banged a spoon against her dirty-water-filled wineglass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, “welcome, and thank you all for your generous contributions to Chimborazo Hospital.” The room quieted. “Please make yourselves comfortable. In just a moment, our main performance will begin.”
Glasses clinked as people set them down around the room, the men on crutches settling into their seats. “Miss Van Damme is next,” Antonia whispered to Jacob. “Have you ever seen her perform?”
Sweat beaded underneath his eye patch. But he couldn’t help himself. “Yes,” he said.
“Really!” Antonia gushed. “Everyone says she’s sensational. Is it true?”
“It is,” he said.
Antonia had him by the elbow now, trying to steer him toward the stage. He remembered what Rose had said, and stopped. “Please, go ahead. I would prefer to stay back here,” he said, gesturing toward a row of seats along the side of the room.
“Nonsense,” Antonia said. “I shall stay with you.” Apparently he was now Antonia’s escort for the evening. The prospect revolted him, but his legs gave him no choice. She pulled up a chair and offered it to him, as she herself sat down on a stool beside it. He made his best attempt at a bow to her as he accepted, swallowing his shame at how the roles had been reversed. All the men were ladies now.
“Of course, her reputation precedes her,” Miss Cary was saying as he took his seat. “Many of us are privileged to remember her performances before the war, from her debut in Washington as Ophelia in Hamlet when she was only fourteen years old, to her appearance as ‘The Illusionist’s Assistant’ here in Richmond. Since her return to the stage, her audiences have only become more devoted as she delights us in our darkest hour, performing as actress, illusionist, and conjurer. We are particularly honored to have her with us for tonight’s special performance, where she will provide us with a demonstration of some of the tricks of the escape artist’s trade—a trade which Miss Van Damme is known to have mastered, both onstage and elsewhere.” A laugh and a cheer rose among the guests. Miss Cary waited patiently, smiling, attempting to speak and finally giving up as the cheer spread. At last she threw out her arms, a broad gesture of welcome to the guests. “Without further ado, it’s my pleasure to present to you this evening’s ‘Escape Artist’—the exceedingly talented Miss Eugenia Van Damme!”
Miss Cary stepped aside, proceeding down the stairs and into the crowd. The newly hung curtain behind the landing stirred, and everyone with at least one leg rose as Jacob’s wife stepped onto the makeshift stage.
She was vastly more beautiful than he had remembered her. Time and suffering had left their impressions on her face, but the effect was to deepen her dark eyes and soften her mouth, broadening her disarming smile. Her hair hung in dark wild curls around her shadowed throat. She was wearing a red dress with a low décolletage; the pregnancy and birth had apparently protected her from the gauntness he had noticed in Rose. If the baby had changed her figure, it was only to render her body more spectacular than before, less like a girl’s and more like a woman’s, her hips more emphatic, her breasts more pronounced. Jacob sat captivated, barely breathing. Every moment that he had ever spent with her flooded back over him as though the past two years had never been. He could feel her hair between his fingers, taste her skin against his tongue, sense his hands shaking as he struggled to untie her corset, remembering the last time he touched her naked body, his last night in their married bed, the night before he fled. To think she had been his! But now he was nothing but a spectator, no different from any other man in the room, drooling over an unattainable star. It would be impossible even to catch her eye. He watched as she walked with grace toward the edge of the landing. She raised her arms out toward the guests, and he squinted his remaining eye and saw that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. She made a sweeping curtsy before the audience, her arrival alone warranting the crowd’s applause. It was fortunate that Jacob was crippled, because if he weren’t, he would have leapt onto the stage and carried her away.
“I was told that she was stunning,” Antonia whispered in his ear. “But I rather think she looks a bit Oriental; wouldn’t you agree?”
It was a euphemism he hadn’t heard since his old society days in New York. He would have laughed, but he was too enchanted. “A bit,” he whispered back, relieved when Antonia finally turned away from him, scrutinizing the figure on stage. He stared at Jeannie, his living wife, and held his breath, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude to God. It was all he could do to keep himself from weeping as she began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for welcoming me here tonight.”
He heard her actress’s voice, the voice she had used the moment they first met: Gladly, Mr. Rappaport. But only if you will allow me to repay you. For an instant it was as if time had not passed, as if he had just stepped into the front room of the Levys’ house—seeing, for the very first time, Jeannie and her three sisters curtsying before him, standing on the precipice of their family’s destruction. But now he watched, and began to imagine, for the first time, how Jeannie had managed to escape.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, the art of escape is quite complex, involving many different skills which I hope to demonstrate for you this evening. But once one masters it, it is possible to find one’s way out of almost any situation. And perhaps some of you will even take from my demonstration a measure of hope for these dark times.” The audience began to cheer again, and Jeannie waited patiently until they had stopped before she continued, producing a fan almost out of thin air and waving it gently at her side. “Now the phrase ‘escape artist’ tends to suggest a rather pedestrian set of skills. Most of you are probably expecting me to tuck myself into a barrel or a steamer trunk and simply pop out of it—as if every smuggler on the Potomac hasn’t been doing precisely that for the past four years.” The crowd laughed as Jacob remembered folding himself into the barrel that took him on his first journey to hell. He listened as Antonia giggled, aware of how his scars made it difficult for anyone to notice how he blushed. “Of course I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you, and I do promise to pop out of a barrel at least once during this performance.” The guests laughed again, and he could feel how they were warming to her, leaning toward her, eager to see where she might lead them. “But the technique that any escape artist must master first isn’t the art of escaping from physical constraints, but of escaping from mental ones—that is, liberating oneself from the expectations of others.” The guests were silent now, captivated. Jacob could barely breathe.
Jeannie smiled, waving her fan. She had taken ownership of the landing, pacing across it and sweeping her wide skirts along its worn carpet. “I see that we are privileged to have many soldiers and veterans with us this evening,” she announced, leaning forward as she gazed out at the crowd. “Perhaps some of you might be able to assist me in my demonstration of the escape artist’s trade. Please tell me, gentlemen, if you will: are any of you experienced at guarding prisoners?”
A man at the front of the room raised his hand. Jacob couldn’t see him well from where he was seated, but when Jeannie gestured to him, Jacob heard him clear his throat, his voice tight with pride. “Yes, miss,” the man announced. “I was serving at Andersonville down in Georgia until last Easter.” Jacob held his breath. Even in New York, the rumors about the prison camp at Andersonville had been widespread, and frightening. Apparently those who returned from there had come back as living skeletons,
if they returned at all.
Jeannie leaned toward the man, her face pure confidence. “What is your name, sir?” she asked.
“Captain Strathmore, miss.”
“Captain Strathmore, would you do me the honor of joining me onstage?”
The crowd clapped as a man in an elegant officer’s uniform made his way up the grand staircase to the landing. Now Jacob could see that unlike most men in the room, Captain Strathmore was entirely able-bodied, a genuine active-duty officer, his uniform’s cloak bulging from the holsters at his hips and his chest decorated with medals. He was about Jacob’s height, with blond hair, a blond mustache, a tall forehead, and an unmistakably smug expression on his face. As he took his place onstage at Jeannie’s side, he reminded Jacob of William Williams.
“Welcome, Captain Strathmore,” Jeannie said, and curtsied. “Thank you for your generous contribution to Chimborazo Hospital. And thank you also for your service to the cause at Andersonville.”
“My pleasure,” the man said.
This struck Jacob as a rather inappropriate reply, but the audience applauded as Jeannie offered him her hand. Jacob watched as the officer brightened, initiating a deep bow to her and kissing her fingers—far too warmly, and for far too long. Jacob burned with jealousy as Jeannie smiled.
“Now would it be correct, Captain, to say that escapes from Andersonville were few and far between?” she asked, fluttering the fan in his direction as she spoke.
“That would be correct, miss,” the officer answered. “And none of them were on my watch.”
“I see,” she said, as though thinking aloud. “So it is quite unlikely that even an experienced escape artist, if imprisoned there, would have been able to liberate herself from beneath your watchful eyes.”
The officer grinned at her, relishing his moment beside her onstage. “Well, it would have been rather difficult, since the guards were each armed with at least two pistols. But Miss Van Damme, I wouldn’t dream of underestimating you,” he added, his voice gallant. The old William Williams queasiness returned to Jacob’s stomach. He shook his head, fighting it as he listened.
“How gracious of you. I do appreciate it,” Jeannie said. She stepped closer to him, which clearly cheered him, and flicked her fan in his direction. “What sort of persons were you guarding at Andersonville, Captain Strathmore?”
“Mostly Yankee privates, miss. Many in rather sickly condition.”
“Tell us, Captain: were there any ladies among your prisoners?”
Now he laughed, blushing, as the audience laughed along with him. “No, unfortunately. I expect I would have enjoyed my responsibilities quite a bit more if that had been the case.”
Jeannie laughed too, standing right at his side. “I expect you would have. But as the situation stood, those sickly Yankee privates had your full attention,” she said, waving her fan softly back and forth.
“I should hope so,” he said, with a chuckle. His eyes were glued to Jacob’s wife. Jacob watched as the officer’s gaze traveled along her body, down to her dress’s generous neckline and her breasts beneath it.
“Captain Strathmore, I take it that you are armed this evening, as is customary,” Jeannie said.
“Indeed,” the officer nodded. His eyes, Jacob noticed, were still on her breasts.
“Do you truly find it necessary to be armed at a ball?”
Captain Strathmore paused, surprised by the question. “Well, it is customary, as you say,” he said. “It seems a poor idea to leave valuable weapons unattended at the barracks, what with all the deserters and the like. And one prefers to have protection of some kind, if one appears in uniform.”
“I see. And how many pistols are you carrying at the moment?”
“Two, miss.”
Jacob immediately knew what was about to happen, because it had happened to him. He smiled to himself, relishing the moment, immeasurably proud of his brilliant wife.
“Are you certain, sir?” she asked. Then she raised one foot, letting her skirt fall so that her leg was revealed halfway to the knee. The eyes of every man in the room bulged, including Jacob’s remaining eye, as Jeannie reached up along the outside of her own leg, her hand hidden beneath the skirt of her dress. “Because I only found one,” she announced. Her leg returned to the floor, and the audience gasped as she raised a revolver high in the air.
The officer’s jaw dropped. He looked down at his hip and hopelessly pulled his cloak aside to reveal his own right holster, which was empty. He stared at his own raised pistol in Jeannie’s hand, flabbergasted.
She smiled at him. The guests, recovering from shock, at last burst into applause. Jeannie stooped down, placing the gun on the wide flat surface of the banister before straightening up again suddenly, as if she had forgotten something. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I was mistaken,” she said loudly, cutting the applause short. “You did indeed have two.” Then she reached behind her back and pulled out another revolver, which she pointed straight at the ceiling. But this time, before the audience could even regain its breath, she pulled the trigger—causing Captain Strathmore to drop by reflex to the floor. The gun only clicked.
“I couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t loaded,” Jeannie said with another smile, as Antonia gasped at Jacob’s side. Jeannie reached out to hand the gun to the officer. Captain Strathmore jumped back up to his feet, visibly shaken, taking the gun back from Jeannie like an obedient child. She then took the other revolver from the railing, holding it in the air again as she turned to the audience.
“As you can see, the mental constraints of expectations are what the escape artist must first overcome, after which she may help herself to whatever she finds useful for a physical escape,” she said to the crowd. “In fact, if I wished, I should find it quite simple to rob Captain Strathmore at gunpoint.” She paused, her eyes narrowing as though she were trying to decide what to do, before adding, “Except that that would be—” She looked back at the shocked Captain Strathmore and smiled, waiting until he regained his senses enough to smile back at her. Then she reached into her décolletage, pulled out a billfold, and concluded, “entirely unnecessary.”
The crowd was silent for a moment, astonished, before finally cheering as she handed the money and the second gun back to the bewildered officer onstage.
“She’s a witch!” Antonia said to Jacob over the crowd’s applause. “Truly a witch! Heaven help whichever man she marries!” Jacob looked at his wife, resplendent with brilliant beauty, and glowed with unearned pride.
“I thank you for your sportsmanship during this demonstration, Captain Strathmore,” Jeannie said, and kissed his limp hand. “And I hope that you will never again make the mistake of underestimating the ladies. Fellow Rebels, please join me in a round of applause for the captain!” The officer descended the stairs quickly, chagrined as the audience cheered. Jacob clapped his hands as hard as everyone else, fighting to keep himself from weeping.
For the rest of that evening, Jacob watched as his wife liberated herself from handcuffs, wriggled free from a ladderback chair onto which she had been tied by another audience volunteer, and concealed herself completely in a bale of cotton—from which she emerged wearing a different dress. As promised, she popped out of a barrel that had been nailed shut, and out of a steamer trunk bound with chains. During the course of her performance, she also “borrowed” numerous items from people in the audience, all without their knowledge, and all returned to their great surprise—personal effects ranging from handkerchiefs to daggers. The audience was amazed, amused, laughing at each trick’s finale, wondering what might happen next. But to Jacob, the tricks were almost irrelevant. The very fact that she was alive was the most astounding feat of all. As Jeannie made yet another demonstration of the escape artist’s trade, he suddenly understood what had happened on that Yom Kippur two and a half years before.
“Borrowing weapons and breaking free from shackles, of course, are often convenient ways to escape from an unpleasant situatio
n,” she was telling her audience. “But occasionally one finds oneself under certain constraints—in a prison cell, for example—in which more dramatic means are necessary for redirecting the attention of one’s guards. In those sorts of circumstances, I have found that the most effective way to distract people is by suffering an apoplectic stroke.”
The guests leaned toward her, their applause from her previous act still fading as they eagerly awaited whatever was coming next. But Jacob thought of the newspaper article that had destroyed his life. Could it possibly be? “Now, I know what many of you are thinking,” Jeannie said. “Even an amateur performer might be able to feign certain ailments with relative ease, but simulating something as severe as an apoplexy must surely be impossible. Inconceivable, isn’t it?” Some of the guests nodded, though most simply watched her in silence—prepared, as the invitation had warned them, to be astounded. “Well, then,” she said, with a wide smile, “why don’t we see just how inconceivable it is?”
Of course, of course; why hadn’t he thought of it before? Jacob watched, for the second time in his life, as Jeannie Levy voluntarily dislocated her jaw.
It was even more appalling than the first time he saw it. The entire lower half of her face appeared to fall right off of her head, her mouth distended beyond recognition, her jaw dangling by one corner in an unimaginably ghastly way. It was like watching a botched decapitation, just before the spurting of blood. The men in the room had surely all seen their share of gruesomely wounded soldiers, but witnessing a beautiful young woman becoming instantly and catastrophically disfigured onstage was something altogether different, and atrocious. Every person in the room gasped. But this was not enough for Jeannie. She let out a long, loud moan, a dark rattle of pure animal suffering, and collapsed on the landing, her body lying in a heap on the Cary sisters’ carpet as her eyes rolled back into her head.
