Mrs. Houdini(54)

Ten minutes after Harry left, there was a knock on the door. Relieved, she climbed woozily out of bed and padded her way, barefoot, across the carpet. Of course he had come back to ask her to go with him to the jump. He needed her.

But it wasn’t Harry in the hall; it was Young, bearing an armful of white towels.

“My wife told me to put these in your room, but I forgot,” he confessed.

Bess blinked. “Thank you. I didn’t notice they were missing.” Surely someone as rich as he had staff to do such things? “Harry’s just left.”

Young looked at his watch. “Of course. I should be going out there soon as well. It’s already past three o’clock. When are you going down?”

“Actually, I’m staying here to rest. I’m not feeling well.” She wondered if he could read from her expression that they had had an argument.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Young looked past her into the room. “Do you mind if I set these down?”

Bess took a step backward. “Of course, I’m sorry. It is your house after all. Please come in.”

Young closed the door behind him and set the towels on a table by the window. Looking at the sky, he said, “It’s a good thing we’re doing this within the hour. There’s bad weather coming in.”

Bess went over to his side and followed his gaze out the window. “I’m sure Harry will be fine. He’s done this kind of thing before, in much worse weather.”

Young turned to her. “I must admit, I was surprised by how young you both are. I had thought you older.”

Bess laughed. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of course. Actually, you are much more beautiful than your photographs in the papers.”

“That’s quite kind, I think.” She blushed as his hand brushed against hers. She had never stood so close to any man who was not Harry. She felt that familiar rush of blood run through her. Young was not as handsome as Harry, and he was at least ten years older, but he had a confidence that reminded her of the Harry Houdini she had first seen onstage.

Suddenly, turning from the window, he seized her hand. She looked at him, astonished. “What are you doing?”

He pulled her against him and kissed her, hard, on the mouth.

But she didn’t pull back. It felt nice. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had rushed into marriage too soon. If she hadn’t married Harry, would her life have been more fulfilled? Could she have had children?

John Young led her toward the bed. She followed him blindly. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “You do find me attractive, don’t you? I find you very attractive.”

She tried to picture Harry’s face, to inspire her to act quickly, to move away from him before things got out of hand. But strangely, the Harry of her imagination was muted, his features dulled to gray, and the woman who had married him was slipping away, too.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

She stood, trembling, as he reached behind her to untie her robe. She tried to envision that it was not John Young standing in front of her but Harry, and that he desired her the way he had desired her ten years before, when she was an eighteen-year-old girl, and he had gripped her arms and kissed her fiercely on the beach.

Young pulled the robe off her shoulders. She stood naked before him, shivering. He reached out and placed his hand on her back, then pulled her roughly toward him. She arched her back so that her hips were against his. “Beatrice,” he moaned.

Bess stepped back, alarmed. No man had ever called her that except Harry. Suddenly, she felt exposed. Outside, there was a loud swell of voices. People had begun cheering. Harry must have arrived on the pier. He was fifty feet below her, right outside the window. She grabbed her robe and covered herself, then reached behind her head and repinned some of the hair that had fallen out. “Go.” She tried to steady her voice. “It’s already three-thirty.”

Young’s face reddened. “You wanted this,” he said angrily. “You’re nothing but a goddamn tease.” He stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

When he had gone she fell onto the bed and felt numb. The wind was growing stronger outside. She thought about her mother’s warnings, that Harry would make her into a bad woman. She certainly was a bad woman now, but she didn’t blame Harry for it, or even Young. She had been willing—frozen, but willing. How could she even have contemplated being with someone else? She felt the emptiness coming over her again, realizing how close she had come to betraying Harry. Was she really so weak that she would break her vows over a few harsh words? She wondered if it was possible that she had imagined it all, that her fever had brought on hallucinations. But when she looked at the table she saw the white towels piled neatly by the window and she knew it had been very real.

There would be three thousand people, Young had said. Usually Harry prefaced the stunt by talking for ten minutes or so, then made a great show of putting on the handcuffs and leaning over the railing to examine the water. When he jumped in, it usually took him only a minute to release himself, although sometimes he took longer to increase the suspense.

She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to four. She pictured Harry at the end of the pier, stripping to bathing trunks in the icy cold, holding out his wrists to a policeman to be handcuffed. He liked to chat with the policemen and some of the reporters before the stunt; it put him at ease. John Young, certainly, would partake in the banter. But he would not say, “I just came from your room.” He would not say, “I have seen your wife naked and she is beautiful.” He would shake Harry’s hand with the same hand that had touched her, and Harry would climb over the railing and one of his assistants would hold him in place until he gave the cue, the rush of wind stronger now than before, and the gray ocean churning underneath; then he would be pushed into a free fall, and he would drop, and no one would see him until he emerged again.