The Cure for Dreaming(68)
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our election-night ball, sponsored by the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage to Women.”
I gagged over the word suffrage, while everyone else applauded and cheered.
“To the Republicans in the crowd,” continued Mrs. Underhill, “a hearty congratulations. It looks as though President William McKinley and his running mate, Theodore Roosevelt, will be helming the country as we sail into this glorious new century.”
Fewer than half of the attendees smiled and slapped their gloved hands together, while the anti-imperialist Democrats folded their arms across their chests and sat there with a wilted air of defeat.
“What we can all celebrate together as a group, however”— Mrs. Underhill lifted her index finger and waited for the applause to fade—“is the continued tradition of men alone voting for president while we women devote our attention to more ladylike pursuits.”
An astounding abundance of women and girls clapped at this sentiment, including bold Sadie Eiderling, who seemed far too despotic to be opposed to female empowerment. I ground my molars.
“My sincerest apologies,” said Mrs. Underhill, folding her hands together in front of her waist, “for the unpleasant display that greeted your arrival at the hotel this evening. More than ever it seems we need a remedy for the growing army of loud, obnoxious women who insist they are the same as men.” She shifted her royal-blue bosom our way. “And I have good news for you on that account. Some wise men in our very own community have used their innovative brains to create such a remedy.”
Silence befell the mesmerized crowd.
“My dear friends,” continued Mrs. Underhill, “you may have noticed a few extra people at this party whom you may not have expected to see tonight. Dr. Walter Mead, a local dentist.” She stretched out her hand in Father’s direction. “And Monsieur Henri Reverie, the talented young hypnotist from Montreal, Canada.” She extended her right arm to Henry, who stood in front of the opposite side of the stage from us. “Together, they have invented a cure for female rebellion, using the astounding power of hypnotism. Young Monsieur Reverie is going to demonstrate this revolutionary antidote for wayward women right here, right now, in front of all of you. Please welcome to the stage Henri Reverie and his subject, young rabble-rouser Olivia Mead.”
The audience’s applause walloped me in the face like a sack of rocks, and I couldn’t even think to stand on my own. Father had to yank me out of the chair to get me to come to my senses and move.
“Go up, go up,” he said, spinning me toward a small staircase at the side of the stage. “He’s waiting for you.”
I tripped over my skirt and petticoat on my way up the steps, for the whole room spun, and all I could see were crystal chandeliers whisking over my head. A warm hand slipped into mine and helped guide me to my feet.
“It’s all right, Olivia,” said Henry, putting his other hand around my waist. “I’m here. Just keep breathing.”
With his assistance, I regained my balance and found myself wandering with him to the middle of the stage. Unlike the last time I joined him in such a way, it was the audience below us that resembled devils, not he. No matter how hard I blinked, I couldn’t shake the sight of sharp teeth, anemic skin, and hungry stares in that sea of sky-high pompadours and slicked male hair that glistened with greasy spiced oils. Sadie Eiderling stood in the front row, peering at me with a viper-toothed grin, her hair a huge and untamed nest on the top of her head.
Henry slid his hand out of mine and turned to face the monsters. After a deep inhale, he rolled back his shoulders, lifted his chin, and with the magic of a metamorphosing butterfly, transformed into the performer version of himself.
“Good evening, mesdames et messieurs. My name is Henri Reverie, and I have been studying the arts of mesmerism and hypnotism with my uncle ever since I was twelve. I use a combination of techniques from the great masters, including animal magnetism, deep relaxation, and the remarkable power of suggestion. As you heard from our lovely hostess, Madame Underhill, I recently received the fascinating challenge of curing this young woman”—he half turned toward me—“of her dreams to vote for president. Un remède pour des rêveries. A remedy for daydreams.” He rubbed his right fingers together in the air and seemed to taste the phrase on his tongue. “The cure for dreaming. A beguiling possibility, no?”
Spellbound, the rapt devil faces in the audience watched him walk toward them across the stage. “Over the past five days,” he said, “I have administered two separate treatments to this young woman. When I first came to her, just last Thursday, she was participating in scandalous rallies for the vote and scrambling to finish her high school diploma so she could attend a university.”
“You actually met her last Wednesday,” called the gaunt and long-toothed version of Percy from the crowd, his hands cupped around his mouth, “when you stood on top of her at your Halloween show.”
“Yes, merci. Thank you for reminding me, Monsieur Acklen. I first saw Miss Mead the very day she attended the rally, and I subdued her in front of the eyes of Portland that very night. Now she cannot even hear certain words related to the vote and higher education without getting sick to her stomach. Shall I demonstrate?”
The audience, at first, seemed taken aback by his proposal. They darted skeptical glances at one another, chuckled, and shook their heads. My eyes stopped seeing them as monsters. Now they were a crowd in white summer dresses and suits, gathered to witness a miracle maker at a county fair.