The Cure for Dreaming(71)

Henry left my side. My mind remained my own.

“You now feel your right arm drifting into the air,” he said. “You cannot help it—the arm is simply moving on its own, rising higher and higher.”

I played along and raised my arm, my eyes still closed.

“As you can see, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “some subjects are more susceptible to hypnosis than others. Miss . . . what is your name, mademoiselle ?”

“Lizzie Yves,” said the chirpy girl in a wide-awake voice.

“You still seem awake, Lizzie. Stand up, please—and sleep! Go down, go down, you are so tired you can do nothing but sleep. Very good. You are doing beautifully.”

I found myself tapping my foot to get him to hurry along with everything, but I stopped myself as soon as I realized the blunder.

“Now, ladies . . .” His footsteps traveled to the center of the stage. “What I am about to tell you is extremely important, so you must listen carefully. When I say the word awake, you will open your eyes, and you will not be able to speak. You will have no voice. No matter what anyone says to you, if you try to talk, all that will exit your mouth is soundless air. You will be silent.”

I bowed my head and heard the patter of his shoes leaving the stage, as if he were running away from the mess he was about to create.

“Awake!”

We all opened our eyes. Mrs. Eiderling spread her lips apart beside me, but all that came out was an empty gasp. Next to her, Sadie clutched her right hand around her throat and squirmed in her chair until the legs of the furniture tapped against the stage. Mrs. Underhill and Eugenia flapped their lips open and shut like wide-eyed fish.

“This, ladies and gentlemen,” said Henry from down in the middle of the crowd, “is the sound of silent women.”

The men in the audience let loose applause that threw us back in our chairs.

“Bravo,” shouted Judge Acklen. “Well done!”

Mr. Underhill whistled his approval, and his wife sat up with a fierce-eyed glare.

“Go ahead.” Henry grabbed Percy by the arm. “Tell those girls what you really think of women. They can’t say a word back to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Percy lifted his hands and retreated out of Henry’s grasp. “They can still slap, can’t they?”

The gentlemen laughed and patted Percy on the back.

Sadie stood and waved her arms.

“Oh, wait.” Henry wiggled a piece of paper and a pen out of his breast pocket. “One of them is trying to communicate.”

Sadie snatched the writing utensils from his hands and kneeled on the stage to scribble a note. She then shoved the paper down at Henry’s nose.

Henry read the note over and shifted back to the crowd. “Well, this is a historic moment indeed. For the first time ever, an anti-suffragist woman has written the words ‘Give us our voices!’”

A few gentlemen laughed, but a sobering silence threw a bucket of ice water over the party. Glimmers of suspicion awakened in the eyes of the Oregon Association crowd. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

“Ladies.” Henry turned toward us, and he swayed for a moment, as if he had moved too fast. “Gentlemen are not kind when it comes to you speaking your minds. You must be cautious about giving us full custody of your voices. I am afraid we will take unfair advantage, mes chéries.”

Sadie stomped her foot on the stage and made the whole room jump.

“All right, sit down, sit down.” Henry waved her back to her chair.

He moved to take a step away from the crowd, but he stopped and tipped as though dizzy, and his eyes rolled toward the back of his head. He fell forward but caught himself by bracing his hands against the front edge of the stage.

I bolted upright in my chair. “Henry?”

He stayed still for a moment, panting as though breathing were a struggle, his head hanging between his arms.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to lift his face, now as white as ash. “Oh, God . . . maybe the orchestra . . . I’m really sorry . . .” He staggered backward and collapsed on the waxed ballroom floor.





’m not sure how I got off that stage—I believe I may have taken a running leap and jumped to the hard parquet below. All I remember is Henry’s skin growing cold and gray beneath my hands.

“Are you breathing, Henry?” I shook his shoulders. “Oh, God. Please breathe! Please breathe!”

He turned paler by the second. The only thing I could think to do was jostle him.

“Don’t die. Don’t die. You can’t die. Isn’t there a doctor in this room? Why isn’t someone helping him?”

I peeked up at the crowd and discovered that the floor around us had cleared. Everyone stood back in their fine tailored clothing, watching me fumble to save his life.

“Why are you just standing there?” I asked. “This isn’t part of the show. Someone needs to get him to a hospital. Put him in one of your carriages. Help him!”

Mr. Underhill grimaced at Henry. “He’s a theater person. Some of us would rather not have him in our carriages.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re idiots.” I cradled Henry’s head against my chest. “If he dies, then your wives and daughters are going to be stuck without voices forever.”