The Cure for Dreaming(33)
Percy steered Mandolin around the bend to the right, and I forced my eyes away from Henry’s.
“Well,” said Percy, “despite how sacred you’re making stage hypnosis out to be, I would really love to pay you to show me how to perform some of these skills.”
“That information isn’t for sale,” said Henry. “You’re just going to have to mesmerize the world based on your own natural charms, Monsieur Acklen.”
Percy barked a laugh that seemed to shatter something fragile in the air, and I rocked against them both, wondering if Henry Rhodes would put my mind back the way it was, if he was genuinely sorry for what he had done.
PERCY LED US INSIDE AN ELEGANT TWELFTH STREET establishment with frosted glass light fixtures twinkling over dark wooden booths and tables draped in ivory cloths. Waiters in white coats waltzed about with bottles of wine and steaming plates of fish and beef that made my hungry stomach moan. I’d never stepped inside the place before that moment. Father always preferred eating at home, so we seldom dined in restaurants.
Our host, a tall gentleman with a dusky walrus mustache, took our coats and the boys’ hats and led us up two short steps to one of the dining areas. In one of the booths we passed, a woman in a lavender dress picked at a salad with soundless jabs of her fork.
Another vision approached—I could tell, for the air grew hard to breathe, and the colors of the woman’s booth bloomed into shades that demanded my full attention. Her supper companion, a bony-faced old coot with a half-dozen gold rings, said something to her that made her blur and fade into fog and shadow.
I stopped in a daze and rapped my knuckles against Henry’s arm behind me. “They’re disappearing,” I said. “Certain women.”
“Who’s disappearing?” asked Percy. “What’s going on with you now?”
I sealed my lips, picked up the hem of my gown, and continued following the walrus-mustached host. The illusion passed. My lungs breathed with ease. Everyone now seemed made of flesh and bone.
The host seated the two young men and me at a round table, toward the back, with the flame of a white candle dancing in a silver holder at the center. We removed our gloves, and the host handed us thick red menus. I heard him describe the evening’s specials in a friendly enough voice, but I could no longer pay much attention to the menu or the possibility of food. All I thought about was how I was going to convince Henry to put me back the way I was before I, too, faded like my neighbor Mrs. Stanton and that poor woman poking at her salad.
“Psst—look over there,” said Percy in a whisper once the host had left us.
I craned my head toward the booth across the room that had caught Percy’s eye. Four young ladies dined there in relative quiet, including redheaded and lovely Agnes Frye, my friend Kate’s sister who had lured us high school girls to Wednesday’s rally.
My skin prickled, warning of the arrival of yet another hallucination. The ladies’ booth seemed to rush toward me for better viewing.
My eyes opened wide.
Lanterns switched on inside all the women’s bodies. Their hair glistened with breathtaking luminescence—a light that reflected off the surrounding wood. Their skin flushed with a brilliance that rivaled our candle’s flame. I sucked in my breath and watched in awe as they glowed—literally glowed— before my eyes.
“See the emblem hanging off their left shoulders?” asked Percy.
Agnes lowered her left arm and revealed a bright yellow ribbon.
My fingers tightened around my menu, and I slouched down in my chair with the hope that she wouldn’t see me with the boys and come over. I shook my head to regain control of my brain, as mesmerizing as this particular illusion was. The prickling faded. The ladies’ booth dimmed and retreated to its position against the wall. The world tipped back to its normal balance.
“What are the ribbons for?” asked Henry.
“Women’s suffrage.” Percy frowned. “My sister is like them. She used to wear yellow ribbons, roses, and buttons all the time without any of us knowing what the deuce they meant.”
“You have a sister?” I asked.
“Yesss,” hissed Percy. “I have two older, married brothers, both respectable lawyers, and a twenty-year-old sister who’s no longer a part of our family.”
“Because of the—?” I glanced back at Agnes and her friends.
“Yes.” He swallowed beneath his stiff collar. “My father learned she helped run a banquet for Susan B. Anthony down in Salem last February, so he forced her to pack up and leave.” He closed his menu with a solid thwack.
Henry wrinkled his forehead. “You’re not allowed to talk to or see your sister anymore . . . just because she wants to vote?”
“That’s right.” Percy darted another quick peek at the suffragists. “After Father threw her out, she moved to Idaho so she could live the way she wanted and vote as much as she pleased. Mother nearly died from heartbreak and humiliation.” He reopened his menu and pressed his lips into a hard line. “My sister is a spinster now, just like every woman in that booth.”
“Agnes isn’t a spinster,” I said.
“Who’s Agnes?” asked Percy.
“Shh.” I held my menu over my face and slithered down another inch. “The redhead over there is my good friend’s sister, and she has a loving husband.”