The Lonely Hearts Hotel(42)

A young mother wearing a red kerchief on her head and carrying a baby on one hip and a big cloth bag with groceries in it on the other passed Rose. There was a look of women who breast-fed while they themselves were hungry. Their skin was gray and their teeth were rotten and wiggly. A little girl trailing behind her wore a gray cotton dress with pink flowers. She wore only one sock as, presumably, there just hadn’t been time to put on her second one. The child was carrying a bag of onions like it was a war buddy she was going to have to leave behind eventually. The family smelled like urine, probably because of the baby’s diaper.

The women in the brothel were the only ones without children. But Rose realized, looking at their slow mannerisms, that they all seemed to be addicted to heroin. Being a woman was a trap. Something would bring you down before you turned twenty-three. The only time the world shows you any favor, or cuts you any slack, is during that very brief period of courtship where the world is trying to fuck you for the first time.

? ? ?

THE DUPLEXES FOR THE WHORES were usually nicer. They could afford pretty curtains and a doormat. The whores in the windows were like chocolates in an Advent calendar. The madam let Rose in. She pointed the way to Poppy’s room. Rose walked down the hall and knocked on a door. It swung open and there was Poppy, wearing an undershirt and nothing else. She had a great big strawberry-blond bush and scabs on both of her knees. Rose wondered what odd sexual practice caused her to skin both her knees. Poppy looked at her visitor, trying to place her.

“Oh yeah, you’re with Mac.”

“My name’s Rose.”

Poppy gestured for Rose to come in. She slammed the door and sat down on the lumpy double bed that seemed to be made of old oatmeal, in the center of the room. There were magazines lying all over the quilt.

“You’re named after a flower too.”

“It’s not my real name.”

“Jesus, I’m not really Poppy either. Everyone goes by the name of a flower here, in case they get arrested. I’ve changed my name about seven times, but everyone always calls me Poppy. I guess it suits me. My real name is Sarah. I’m Jewish, if you can believe that. I make less money than all the other girls, so when the madam gets a tip that there’s going to be a raid, she always hides the better-looking girls in the ceiling and lets me get arrested. I think that it has more to do with my personality than my appearance. I mean, I have naturally curly hair. Not that anybody knows that it’s naturally curly because you can fake it. Maybe people aren’t as impressed by curly hair as they should be.”

“I think you’re very pretty.”

“Not that I really think that much about it at all, in the end.”

“What are you reading?” Rose asked, pointing to the Better Homes and Gardens and The Chatelaine magazines on Poppy’s bed.

She looked at Rose with enormous eyes, which made her look like a little kid.

“Oh, I can’t read very well. I like them for the recipes. There’s one for jam that I’m interested to try. I make the city’s most amazing jam. Look at this.”

She knelt on the bed and leaned over to pull open the door of the armoire at the foot of it. Sure enough, there was a shelf with ten jars on it.

“My jam is so good, I’d be a millionaire if I were a man. You know, there are sometimes articles in the magazines about how it’s all right to be a woman. I don’t know if I believe it, though. My crotch is always itchy. I get sore every time I have sex.”

“What do you do for it?”

“Sit in a pot of water and pray to God.”

They laughed together. They heard the girl in the next room moaning wildly.

“Be careful, sweetie, don’t hurt me. I’m new to this. Ooooh, that feels so strange.”

“Listen to that!” Poppy said. “Isn’t she good? The men all love her. She’s so pretty. She’s done by four o’clock, then she goes to the penny arcade.”

“Oh daddy,” said the voice through the wall. “Teach me how to do it so I can show your friends when they come over.”

Poppy put her hands over her mouth and exclaimed, “How does she think of that?”

“Do you get along with the other girls?” Rose asked.

“Yes. I’m good to them. I go to prison for them, and I read all the girls’ fortunes. Give them advice and such. I can do yours!”

Poppy rolled across the bed as though she were rolling down a hill, fell off the other side, then jumped up and went to get the pack of cards on the bureau. Rose found Poppy so fascinating to look at, even if men didn’t find her attractive. She loved how openhearted Poppy was.

“Where did you learn how to read cards?” Rose asked.

“There was an old French-Canadian woman who lived upstairs and had no legs. She showed me. She also taught me how to make jam and maple butter, and also how to swear in French. Those are, like, the only things that I know how to do well.”

She shuffled the cards like a madwoman. Then she held out the deck for Rose to cut them. Rose took off the top half of the deck. Poppy flipped the card that was on top of the second half.

“The death card! You’re going to wreak havoc in this world, miss.”

“I didn’t need cards to tell me that.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Where to get condoms.”