Mrs. Houdini(20)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bess responded in German, dipping into a relieved curtsy. Harry turned to her in surprise, and Bess smiled. She had managed to trick the trickster himself.

She had the sense that Harry expected her to treat his mother as he did, as one would treat a queen. She was suddenly grateful that her new name was Houdini and she would never have to be the second Mrs. Weiss. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to be held in compare by Harry with this woman, with her high, chiseled cheekbones and perfectly rounded nails. She had done more in her lifetime than Bess could dream of doing—moved across the world, survived ferocious Wisconsin winters, been widowed, and dragged her family out of abject poverty. And yet she still carried herself with the kind of softness and grace one saw in the most polished society women. Bess was terrified that Mrs. Weiss would secretly despise her for marrying Harry, but this did not appear to be the case. Instead, she seemed eager to impress her. She took Bess by the hand and led her to a far wall, where a worn prayer rug had been given a place of prominence, hanging beside the family photographs.

“Kaiserin Josephine walked on this many times. It used to belong to an orphan asylum in Budapest. This is a family treasure.” Her face lit up. “My husband was quite a well-known scholar in the old country. He was able to obtain artifacts like this. Ehrich is going to be equally famous here, in the new country.”

“Yes, I know,” Bess said, because she felt this was the proper response, although secretly she wondered what would come of his mother’s dreams for him. Bess and Harry both had come from poor upbringings. The circus and vaudeville business was a tricky profession, and one did not easily find fame or fortune in it.

Mrs. Weiss leaned in so Harry could not hear her. “You know my son will be”—she began in English and then had difficulty finding the words, and finished in German—“always a boy at heart?”

Bess laughed, not sure how to respond.

“He has a soft heart but a fiery temper. You will have to learn to manage his moods.”

Bess glanced at Harry, and he shrugged.

Mrs. Weiss had made strawberry pie, Harry’s favorite, and they stayed for lunch before leaving for the Rahners’ residence in Brooklyn. Gladys chattered away about neighborhood gossip, and when the dishes were cleaned, Bess took Gladys’s hand and squeezed it. “We will see you again soon,” she said in English, and Gladys beamed.

Before they left Mrs. Weiss went into the bedroom and came out with a paper bag. “Don’t be offended,” she said, reaching in to pull out a woman’s long skirt. “But you should not be traveling with Harry in those clothes. You look much too young. You will be turned away for lodging.”

Bess bit her lip. “Thank you,” she said, looking at Harry, whose face was frozen in horror. “That is very practical advice.” She glanced down at her own skirt, her face hot with humiliation, but knew there was some truth to it. Her small size, small breasts, and curly hair gave the wrong impression of her age. She did not want to have to pretend to be Harry’s sister when she had only just become his wife.

When they left, after a long series of kisses and good-byes, Bess turned to Harry. “How did I do? Was I all right?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “But you didn’t tell me you could speak German.”

She smiled. “Are you still glad you married me?”

He laughed and pulled her into an alcove at the end of the hallway. “My dear girl,” he said, wrapping his hands around her waist, “my mother might claim me as her son, but you are my wife. The two loves do not conflict.”

“But you love her so much.”

“Of course. She’s my mother, and I have to take care of her. I have to do what my father could not.” He lifted the bottom of her skirt and ran his fingers over her knees. “I only have three devotions—you, my mother, and my magic act. I promise you I will be faithful to those my entire life.”

Bess pulled down her skirt. “Harry! Someone could come up the stairs.”

He grew serious. “What you told me about your stepfather—you should know, no one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

Bess wrapped her arms around his neck. “What about you? Your mother warned me that you have a temper.”

Harry was horrified. “I would never lay a finger on you.”

“You can lay a finger on me,” she said playfully. “It’s all right.”

He blinked at her. “But you just said—?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course,” he stuttered.

“You don’t have to be gentle with me, you know. I’m not fragile.” She untucked his shirt. There was something exhilarating about hiding in the hallway of his family’s building. She had never done anything so daring. “I’m your wife, Harry.”

Harry brought her leg up around him. He clasped his hand over her mouth and held on to her thigh so tightly that she could feel the flesh bruising. No one had ever loved her this much. She felt she had lived most of her years numb, and had come out of a white snow burning with life. She wanted to feel every part of her life now; she wanted to feel all the facets of love, all its joys and agonies.

Certainly, she was breathing, but she could hear nothing. Around them, there was only quiet, that beautiful, abundant quiet.