Mrs. Houdini(84)

It was the great irony of Harry’s life that he had desired, beyond all measure, to access the realm of the spirits and had been unable to do so, even while the entire public was convinced he had achieved it. By his death Harry had become the nation’s foremost expert on spiritualism. He had advertised a money prize to whoever could show him a supernatural act he could not disprove. His book A Magician Among the Spirits was published to great fanfare. But after the Doyle séance, he had come close to believing in another’s power only one more time, and that was in Margery Crandon, an attractive blue-eyed Canadian woman whom the American Journal of Psychology had called “the most brilliant star in physical mediumship.” In her presence, golden lights had danced, clocks had stopped, and a white, grotesque substance she called ectoplasm had spewed from her mouth. By the time Harry and Bess met her, the nation and its scientists were already thoroughly under her spell.

Bess recalled the scene of the séance, which had occurred in complete darkness. Harry had begun it with high hopes; men whom he respected greatly had vowed Margery was authentic. It had been a windy autumn evening, the stuff of horror novels, and there were a number of witnesses—scientists and physicians—who’d sat beside her in the Houdinis’ parlor in Harlem. Harry had been seated on one side of Mrs. Crandon, and another man was on her right, holding on to her hands and feet to ensure she did not move them to produce any effects. Mrs. Crandon had worn a light kimono with nothing underneath and breathed heavily throughout; she was a woman of overt sexuality, with bulging breasts, and Bess had immediately disliked her, though she imagined the men who were present felt her allure, even from across the room. During the séance, Margery had managed to ring a bell and throw a megaphone without the use of her hands or feet. Bess had been alarmed by the experience; she had felt frigid during the entire evening, even though the room was hot with so many bodies breathing inside.

But afterward, Harry had taken Bess aside and told her he was going to denounce the woman, claiming he could prove that she had rung the bells with her legs, and that the megaphone had been thrown from atop her head. Still, something about her seemed to have unsettled Harry, and afterward he was not the same. He would not set foot in their parlor unless Bess was beside him. He was often fidgety, and he would spend hours at the YMCA, throwing the medicine ball and running the track, as if to invigorate himself out of a deep trance. At the time, she had thought it was a crisis of age, but looking back on it now, Bess thought it was possible Harry had seen some kind of vision of his own death during that séance. Something about it had disturbed him deeply.

Bess’s hesitation about Harry’s message ran deeper than nervousness. It occurred to her, to her horror, as the car rattled through the Atlantic City streets, that Young’s Pier as she and Harry had known it no longer existed. In 1912 a massive fire had destroyed most of the structure. Pictures of the devastation had been in all the New York papers. Young had tried to recoup some of his losses by charging ten cents each to those wanting to see the debris being hauled away. But, ultimately, his efforts had failed. The pier lay in ruins until 1922, when it was finally rebuilt and renamed Central Pier. It would never again eclipse the grandeur of its older competitor, Steel Pier, where earlier in the summer, thousands had watched as swim-capped women on white horses dove into the ocean to the music of John Philip Sousa.

What if Harry couldn’t come through after all because the Young’s Pier they had known was gone? Charles hadn’t tried to stop her, only showed her how to start his automobile and watched from the sidewalk as she drove away. She’d had little experience driving in New York, but Harry had been excited to show her how when he purchased a Model T, and the night felt too urgent to waste any time letting her nerves about the road get to her. But she’d forgotten to ask Charles how to turn on the headlamps, and as the sun descended behind the buildings she raced to the oceanfront so she would not have to get out and walk in the darkness.

The parking attendant at the Royal Hotel recognized her; she left the car at the entrance to the car elevator with him, hastily calling out an invented room number behind her as she ran off. She felt as if she were coming apart at the seams as she ran toward the boardwalk. The lamps were shining already, and the night was almost excruciatingly humid. Bess unpinned her hat and let the breeze cool her head. At the entrance to Central Pier, a carousel was spinning, the painted horses waltzing. Harry would be, she imagined, at the far end of the pier, near the deepest part of the ocean. He would be standing there with his back to her, looking out at the water into which he had jumped so many years before. And then he would turn around and smile at her, and take her hand, and he would tell her what it was like where he had come from, how full of color it was, how many stars there were.

The pier was crowded with people. She could not remember such throngs before. Vaguely, she remembered that the Television exhibit was making its debut. They were calling it the greatest wonder of the electrical world, and there was tremendous ballyhoo over it; everyone was eager to see the new phenomenon. Bess pushed her way through the lines and down the narrow alley of boards on the outside, toward the end of the pier. She could hear the splash of yachts floating in the water. What if Harry wasn’t there? What if she didn’t recognize him? She chastised herself. Of course he would be there. There was no sense in doubting him; he had never failed to do a single thing he had set his mind to.

It was far different than she remembered. The new pier was smaller than the old one had been, and more modern. The Chamber of Commerce offices occupied most of the interior space. But it hadn’t lost any of the vibrant energy it had had that afternoon when Harry performed his escape, and almost died doing it.