The Paragon Hotel

by Lyndsay Faye

  It’s what I liked about you, I hear her spitting.

  Liked. Before I read a letter and smashed her trust.

  No. One letter and a few bonus sentences. More’s the pity, because the latter were terribly interesting.

  And it’s after reflecting on these aforementioned missives—about a dreamed-of farm, about needed money—that I wonder just who was admiring to pay whom, and what an unusual “arrangement” could mean.

  And what could it possibly have to do with Davy? Nothing at all?

  These people adore the tyke, and it isn’t as if nowadays you can go around selling kids like they’re puppies.

  It’s too wrong to contemplate. But why was Davy angry at Rooster before disappearing? And if Blossom knows all about Miss Christina’s secret and wants it left alone, same as Max, what can a white interloper do save to shut up and move along?

  My thoughts disintegrate. Curling up on the coverlet, I soak my nest with my sorrows. The tears come bitter and strong and thick.

  Liked. So we aren’t chums anymore.

  She was wonderful. She glowed as bright as anybody, and she even looked for your eyes when she smiled.

  Alice’s, if she still exists.

  Not Nobody’s.

  And you didn’t even get to tell her about kissing Max.

  * * *

  —

  When I awaken, the sky is rotting from purple to black. The comforting rhythm of the rain is absent. But the stars are out—watchful and arrogantly bright.

  The short rest revived me. Rising, I wash my face. Don a plain beige pocketed frock with a square collar, wrap up my hair, dab powder under still-swollen eyes. I regard Nobody the spinster suffragette and frown—I’m about as far away from professional journalism as Blossom is from the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. Granted, I’ve been scribbling all-too-real data and observations in her prop notebook. Whether as proof should Overton ask to see it, or as an aid to my own memory, I can’t rightly tell. But I simply cannot commit any of these new aspects to indelible ink.

  Miss Christina is hiding something. Rooster had a quarrel with Davy. And Blossom . . .

  Blossom needs money. Very, very badly.

  All thoughts of slinking away, slither-swish, are quashed. There’s too much at stake. There’s a missing boy and a band of good people and a populace being bullied.

  There’s Maximilian Burton. And his lips tasted like almonds and rain and clean smoke.

  My entire body still glimmers. But now isn’t the time; what I need is a heart-to-heart with Jenny Kiona. She’ll be happy as a veritable daisy in the field if I confess Blossom and I scrapped, even if I fail to discuss details. And she’s closer to Blossom than just about anyone other than Max and Mavereen.

  That’s the ticket, now join the queue and step onto the carousel.

  Fearful of another quarrel, I take the stairs. When I arrive in the nearly deserted lobby, Rooster is reading a newspaper, glancing every third second at the revolving doors. Whatever else can be said about the man, shirking isn’t his strong suit. He spies me at once, and I give an apologetic wave.

  Rooster finds that he prefers the sight of the printed word.

  Then the circular door turns. No—it blasts into orbit, churns dizzily, it makes the jazziest display of revolving that ever a lobby door did, and I flinch in alarm until it spits out Mrs. Evelina Vaughan.

  She looks better than when last I saw her—but if it were a race, it would be by a nose. Her pastel features are less hectic, but her cheeks have sunken. Her yellow pleated coat is charming, but the body beneath can’t catch its breath. Her apricot waves are piled atop her head, but it looks like she employed two minutes and a fork on the project.

  Mrs. Vaughan’s eyes gleam like grey pearls. She’s crying. Everybody and their maiden aunt seem to be crying these days.

  “Oh!” she gasps. “Miss . . . James, was it? Were you at my house? Or did I imagine that?”

  I shift into the sober reporter. “I was entirely real, Mrs. Vaughan. But whatever is the matter?”

  Rooster bounds from behind the counter. “Mrs. Vaughan. Welcome. Here, sit down—”

  “No, I can’t, Rooster, there isn’t time. Where’s Blossom? I need her.”

  “She’s performing tonight,” I supply. “Mrs. Vaughan, please won’t you sit down? You seem as if you’ve had a shock.”

  She touches her palm to her brow, nodding. “Yes, but never mind that, I need to tell her. I got here as fast as I could.”

  My blood frosts. “I’m . . . an acquaintance of Blossom’s. Rooster and I can help you. Tell her what?”

  “That the Klan is massing!” Mrs. Vaughan paces in a circle—eyes shut, like a child pretending to be invisible. “I still can’t quite think straight, you see, I took something of a spell, and I didn’t know what to do, so I have to ask her, she’ll know.”

  “The Klan is what?” Rooster growls.

  “They’re holding a rally, a demonstration, something ghastly, these ridiculous men with their hoods and their nightgowns,” she hisses. “My husband caught wind of it. Dear, brave, harmless Tom. I—”

  A trio of partygoers, the man with a lady on either arm, return to the hotel, laughing to raise the dead. Rooster ushers us to the side and greets them. They stagger into the elevator.

  Rooster returns, resembling the veritable wrath of God.

  “I overheard Tom on the telephone at home,” Mrs. Vaughan continues, “saying that the Klansmen were gathering, but he rang off before I heard what he planned to do. Then I ran downstairs to ask, but he . . . I haven’t felt well, so he wanted me not to trouble myself. And he had to leave! And he’ll do all he can to keep the peace, but what if they don’t listen? What if—”

  “Mrs. Vaughan,” Rooster rumbles, “is there a reason you needed Blossom specifically?”

  “The Klansmen plan to gather at the Elms.”

  The lobby floods with chilled silence. Rooster is never spendthrift with words. As for myself, I’ve forgotten them all.

  “They must want to intimidate the search party.” Mrs. Vaughan twists her gloves. “Tom suggested so, and after he left, I came here quick as I could. Oh, he’ll be furious, but.”

  My ears buzz as if bullets are singing. I exchange a look with Rooster; he shakes his head. So Mavereen hasn’t returned, and the search party doesn’t know about Muriel Snider’s gossip.

  Which means Max doesn’t know they’re under threat of attack.

  Rooster nods decisively. “I’ll send Wednesday Joe.”

  “He’s a boy!” I exclaim. “Mavereen assigned him KP for walking a few blocks away—what do you think she’ll make of him visiting the Elms?”

  “The message needs delivering.”

  “Then deliver it!”

  “I don’t leave this hotel when the Klan are running loose.” The veins in Rooster’s neck strike up a martial drumbeat. “There’s three hundred and seventy-two God-fearing souls presently lodging in this building. Who do you want behind that desk when a mob shows up with torches? Me or Joe?”

  I bite my lip, willing my pulse to calm.

  “I’ll go,” I announce.

  “Yes, fine, yes, but hurry,” Mrs. Vaughan begs.

  “Like hell you will.” Rooster is so angry his teeth are showing.

  “Entirely apart from writing my article,” I state with clarity, “I’ve been making every effort to prove I’m not loafing. I went to Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan’s house, and I can go to the Elms. These clods would never harm a white woman—it’s against everything they stand for. Hail us a taxi, please?”

  Steam whistles teakettle bright from Rooster’s nose.

  “Oh, I can’t stand this,” Mrs. Vaughan moans. “I’ll go by myself, I’ll—”

  “No, Miss James will take care of it, Mrs. Vaughan,” Rooster grinds out. “But she’l
l see you home on the way. After you, ladies.”

  We precede Rooster outside the Paragon. I haven’t any coat, and the air bites with petite teeth. Mrs. Vaughan takes one look at me and wraps her muffler about my neck, a shawl-like garment printed with violets that does positive wonders.

  “I can’t possibly—”

  “Oh, you certainly can,” she husks as Rooster whistles for a taxi. “Just like you can take me with you to the Elms, I’ve no doubt in my mind. Speaking of my mind, it’s rather addled presently, which is why I need an escort, do forgive me for dragging you into this wretched mess, but. I know who you really are, you see.”

  “I’m Alice James, when have I pretended—”

  “Blossom likes you.” A secret, sunlit smile dawns. “Actual you. So I like you too.”

  “I see,” I manage.

  Liked, I think, impaling my palms with my nails.

  “The Elms, driver, quickly!” Mrs. Vaughan calls when we seat ourselves in the sleek little conveyance, and the engine roars into action. “Yes, I know it’s closed. Please do hurry!”

  The city passes us in stripes of electric garlands and shining glass. It’s like being in a river, all shimmer and no permanence. Yours truly is so smashed up over Blossom and so frightened for Max that I’m silent until the delicately wild woman beside me says, “I hear the pair of you have been getting yourselves into trouble.”

  I turn to Evelina Vaughan in dismay.

  “Oh, don’t be alarmed—please, you’ve eaten my scones, you must imagine that we’re friends right up until the instant we really are, and then it’ll come true.” She smiles faintly. “You’d not think it to look at me, but I’ve spread mayhem with Blossom Fontaine myself. I’m only thankful you’re both all right after that horrible Overton beast attacked you. He ought to be in a cage in a zoo, a very faraway zoo.”

  “Arabia,” I suggest.

  “Farther than that.” Her tone could poison spinning wheels.

  “From your lips to God’s appointment book, Mrs. Vaughan.”

  “Amen. And do call me Evelina.”

  “I’ll be Alice henceforth, then.”

  “You’re very sweet. And I’m sorry you saw me like that, earlier, with Tom.” She winces. “I don’t remember much of it, I never do, but if I’ve anything to apologize for, you mustn’t hesitate but tell me at once so that I can make amends. That’s the only way I can cope with the guilt over having such a humiliating condition—instant and profuse apologies.”

  “You were lovely,” I assure her. “Let’s talk of something cheerfuller en route to high adventure, my belly’s in a dreadful tangle. Did you really pull out the red paintbrushes with Blossom?”

  “From time to time. I’ve never turned up at the Rose’s Thorn, it would be unfair to Tom, you understand, as the wife of a Chief of Police. But, yes, we did carry on occasionally before his promotion. I remember her singing some nights, the sort of French songs that make you feel like a flock of sparrows is bursting out of your chest. I really can’t do such silly things anymore now I’m something of a public figure, but. She’s a dear friend. Oh, do forgive me, Alice, I can’t chat any longer. My head aches so.”

  I pat Evelina’s hand. She squeezes mine, then pushes her fists in her coat pockets and lets her head loll on the leather seat.

  I huddle in her scarf trying not to think of all the wasted love in the world. Like Blossom’s for Evelina. From where I’m sitting, it roars like Niagara Falls.

  We don’t speak again until after she’s paid the driver, insisting, and we step into the chill glow of the Elms’s nocturnal illumination. It turns the grounds icicle blue, an awfully eerie landscape but a beautiful one, as if a heartbroken painter had thrown away all his other colors in despair, or you could see “After You’ve Gone” right in front of you the way I heard Blossom sing it last night.

  Evelina Vaughan screams.

  The sound is so shrill I nearly stumble, and a hot needle pierces my gut. She seizes my wrist. At first, only gasping, “What is it?” I see nothing—but then she turns me away from the fairgrounds and points at the tree line, silhouetted in sinister spikes against the constellations.

  And the enormous cross burning hellishly in the foreground.

  ◆ Twenty ◆

  Silhouetted in the bright glare the marching figures passed in an endless array like silent wraiths, bent upon some solemn mission: ever-silent, ever-moving, a dauntless power, an irresistible force, moving on and on, ever beneath the cross, ever yielding to its glory and magnified by its power.

  —“KU KLUX KLAN STAGES MONSTER SPECTACLE IN RECEIVING THEIR CHARTER,” Roseburg News-Review, Roseburg, Oregon, July 17, 1922

  Centuries scrape by as we gape at the monstrous thing.

  “I never in my life thought to see one,” Evelina breathes. “God, it’s madness.”

  “Blossom calls it loathing,” I note.

  We stare, holding each other’s arms, as the wood dances a devil’s jig. Then I recall a body stuffed into a barrel and experience an unholy swell of rage.

  “Sod this shit,” I declare. “Let’s go.”

  We set off, angling toward the river. The ghosts of figures mill about below their hideous bonfire. Many carry torches. As small as matchsticks at first, then ballooning into grotesque candles. After fifty paces, we spy conical hats painted phoenix orange by firelight, the blurred swish of white robes. After forty more, we hear the occasional raucous laugh. We aren’t yet visible ourselves—outside the range of the Elms’s haunted illumination, we are ink spilled on darkness. Nevertheless, Evelina pulls my arm.

  “Tom isn’t here yet,” she frets. “Oh, I wanted so for him to be here already, even if I’ll be in the hottest water of my life. Peaceful assemblies are one thing and burning crosses are another. He’d be furious, just livid.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “I don’t know. But . . . surely the search party won’t come out of the woods at all, if they see a flaming cross?”

  “They won’t see it. Any black would’ve lost his last marble to walk toward that thing, but the Klan set it up behind that copse there. The search party will be carrying bright lanterns. They’ll be awfully tired. And it’s miles of forest on the other side and the river bordering.”

  “You’re saying it’s a bottleneck, aren’t you?” The grip on my arm tightens. “One they won’t spy until it’s too late. Can we get around and stop them first?”

  We slink like cats. There is no moon, thankfully; hung from that strangely pristine canopy, the moon would serve as well as a great chandelier. So despite my injury and Evelina’s exhaustion, after two minutes we’ve nearly reached the gentler slope where the search party should emerge.

  But nearly only counts regarding horseshoes and hand grenades.

  “You best believe she’ll be sitting up for me with supper on the table!” an unknown voice calls. A second chuckles, and a third lets out a weary hoot.

  Evelina gasps, and I clap a hand over her mouth—gently.

  “Evelina,” I mouth in her ear, “if you’ve heard any stories where a white woman shrieking as a gang of blacks approached led to a picnic, discount ’em. It leads to funerals.”

  She sags in defeat.

  “You been married to Gracie for six months and you think she’ll still wait up half the night for you?” the voices continue.

  “Damn straight! Nursed me through fever sweats just last month.”

  “Aw, hell, I’d take her nursing if I didn’t have to eat her biscuits. Andy, no offense, but does Gracie savvy the difference between flour and cement mix?”

  This last voice belongs to Maximilian. A chorus of guffaws heralds a dozen lantern beams crisscrossing like rockets.

  One of the lights catches us, snags, momentarily blinds me.

  “Saints alive! What on—Mrs. Vaughan, is that you, sugar? And with Miss Jam
es?”

  Mavereen Meader strides toward us, exclamations surrounding her. Evelina and I wave our arms.

  “Quiet, oh, do please keep quiet,” Evelina pleads. “We’re here to warn you!”

  “What kinda warning might that be, Mrs. Vaughan?”

  Max appears, tall and calm, and despite the thrill I can’t control, I’m dreadfully keen on the notion of his being elsewhere. Argentina has a dandy ring to it.

  “The Klan,” I report. “Look, over there, they’ve—”

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Max growls.

  The search party takes in the scene. I can practically smell the quick surge of nerves.

  Mavereen groans. “Oh, no, not while our boy ain’t yet found. ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life: of whom shall I be afraid?’”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Dr. Pendleton curses in a different sort of prayer. “Just when I think I’ve seen enough shit for one lifetime.”

  “Oh, hell no,” comes another voice.

  “Those bastards. Those yellow-bellied bastards.”

  “Lights out!” Max orders. “Shut ’em down on the double!”

  A dozen lanterns are extinguished.

  Click-snap. Clink-scrape.

  Then we turn, as one crouched animal, toward the cross with the red snakes’ tongues flicking upward.

  Max’s hand, steady and surprisingly warm, smooths down my arm in the darkness, and I can’t decide whether to think yes, yes, do that forever, or run and run now.

  “We got no time for chitchat, Alice,” he murmurs, “so I’ll play it straight, like. I ain’t happy to see you here.”

  “Don’t use up all your flattery in one go. Consider a girl’s poor heart.”

  “I’m gonna wring your neck, matter of fact.”

  “I only hope you get the chance.”

  “Angels of mercy defend us,” Mavereen whispers. “What do we do? Take cover in the woods?”

  “Nah.” Max spits on the ground. “That’d only bait ’em, see? They’d come in beating the goddamn bushes like we was rabbits.”