Mrs. Houdini(23)

She did. He was a confident kisser, and he had the most wonderful, strong hands. But he still seemed unsure of himself at times.

“I want to try something,” he murmured, struggling out of his clothes. He pulled her hand down his stomach, between his legs. He gasped when she touched him, and she held him in her hand, her own body throbbing. “I want you to put your mouth . . . down here,” he told her. “I want to see what it feels like.”

Bess snatched her hand away and sat up. “I will not!” she said. “That’s—that’s a whore’s behavior.”

Harry sat up beside her, his voice livid. “And what do you think making love in the hallway of my mother’s apartment building was? That certainly wasn’t a lady’s behavior.”

Bess slapped him hard across the cheek. Harry sat back, startled.

For a moment, she was afraid he was going to hit her back. She threw her arms over her face. Harry yanked them away. “Who do you think I am?” he demanded. “Do you think I’m the kind of man who would strike his wife?”

“I’m not sure what kind of man you are,” she said slowly, realizing it only as she sounded out the words. She had fallen in love with his love for her, with the certainty of his devotion. “I don’t really know you.”

Harry stood up in disgust and pulled on his clothes. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “We’re going to be late for our own party. I’ll wait for you outside.” He paused in the doorway. “Sometimes, you look at me like I’m not a good man,” he said sadly. “And it’s not fair.”



They were met with cheers in the beer hall, where Doll and Dash waited to greet them with beer and flowers. The other performers, crowding the hall, raised their glasses, calling, “Hooray for the newlyweds!”

It appeared they had been waiting for some time, and almost everyone was already drunk. Bess looked around at the group of them, her friends—Billy the strongman, and Doll and Anna and the other musicians, and Tony the fire-breather, and the comedians. She had known them for only a month, but she would miss them if she and Harry made up and went south after all. Bess took a yellow flower to match her skirt and put it behind her ear. She was wearing one of the outfits Mrs. Weiss had given her, and she felt older and more like the kind of woman who could do such things, even if they were in a beer hall. It was all anyone could afford, but she hated the place—the waiters with their stained white aprons and the smell of stale tobacco and the constant influx of drunken sailors, who spat lewd, drunken comments at the women. She imagined the kinds of places she would frequent if she were wealthier—tearooms papered in pink and white, quiet except for low voices and the tinkle of porcelain cups. Working in the restaurant at Siegel-Cooper had spoiled her; she had seen how it was possible to live. She had carefully observed the dress and mannerisms of the women who came for lunch, admiring their flowered silk gowns and egret plume hats. Of course, she couldn’t imitate their polished behaviors with her own friends—they would only laugh at her—but she filed the memories away for later use.

She and Harry parted almost immediately—he toward a group of men in the back and she toward the excited chatter of Doll and Anna. They had found a new performer for their group, who would be joining them the following week, and they had given up their short-lived grudge against Bess for abandoning them.

“What is it like to be married?” Doll asked. “Do you feel like a different person?”

Bess shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes. Doll grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

“We had an argument,” Bess said. “Harry and me. Just before coming here.”

Anna laughed. “Oh, is that all? Darling, married people argue all the time. It’s nothing.”

Bess covered her face with her handkerchief. “This was different.” She wanted to tell them what Harry had asked her to do, but she was too embarrassed.

“That’s what everyone says. I know my fair share of married women—I’ve got six married cousins, you know—and they all say that.” She handed her a heavy glass of beer. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

Bess took the glass and swallowed the contents in four gulps. It was thick and bitter, and she almost retched it back up. “This is the worst beer I’ve ever had,” she said.

Anna shrugged. “Of course it is. We’re in the Gut.”

“Champagne tastes better.” Her mother had forbidden alcohol in the apartment—an order her stepfather never tolerated—but she would not forget the champagne Harry had opened after their wedding, the sensation of the bubbles popping against her tongue.

“Of course champagne tastes better,” Doll said. “What a silly thing to say.”

Bess looked across the room at Harry, who was seated at a far table with his legs stretched out in front of him, laughing. Evatima Tardo, the snake charmer, was seated beside him, her hand on his thigh. She was a strange, black-haired Cuban beauty, who spoke English with a heavy, seductive accent and performed a miraculous act—she enticed rattlesnakes to bite her bare shoulder and was able to sing beautifully as dozens of pins were pushed into her face. She had a mysterious tolerance for pain and poison that Harry envied. She claimed she had been bitten by a poisonous fer-de-lance as a child, which had immunized her, but Harry was certain she was lying and was always trying to entice her to tell him her secret.