Love and Other Consolation Prizes(21)
“You’re right,” the woman named Florence replied. “We’re now partners in a crime that no one in the world cares about—but you. Half the judges smoke in their chambers, my dear. Trust me.” She smiled again. “I would know. And what else have you foisted upon the good people of Seattle? Let’s see, it’s now illegal for a woman to wear pants in public, saloons must be open to public viewing—oh, and tipping of any kind is no longer allowed within the city limits. My, how you love your rules.”
Mrs. Irvine pointed to the tickets. “And the rules for the raffle very clearly said, to a good home. Not a place for a good time.” She crossed her arms and scrunched her lips as though she had just tasted something bitter.
Florence spread the tickets like a fan and waved them in front of her face, feigning coyness, if only for a moment. She blinked over the tops of the cardboard stubs and then revealed a stern countenance. She sorted out the ticket with the winning numbers and then held it up for all to see. “It took us a while to find the right one; after all, we have so many. But, as you can see, I’m here now to claim my prize. We both have the same intentions, Ida dear, we just have different methods of getting what we want…”
“Don’t you dare compare me to…”
Ernest listened to the women bicker back and forth about propriety and decorum, interrupting one another, chewing each other’s words with their mouths open, their teeth bared, their nostrils flaring, cheeks reddening. As they inched closer to each other, the day seemed to grow more confusing and unreal by the moment. Ernest observed this as their arguing became background noise, blending into the sounds of the fair—a distant rock tumbler, a melodious pipe organ, laughing children on a carousel, the glassy popping of flash powder. He noticed that in this group of painted ladies, the older women had made their faces appear younger, while the younger ones, barely out of their teens, were made up to look older. But there was a certain wit about all of them, like every look was a dare, a threat, and a promise.
They all seemed pleasant enough. Ernest thought that any one of them would be a million times preferable to the monotony of the boarding school. Where life was a song with only one note. No melody, and no chorus, just a flat monotonous tone.
Ernest didn’t feel entirely comfortable, but he was at least intrigued by the thought of going home with any one of these gay young ingénues. He wondered where each of them lived, who their husbands were. Did they have other children?
That’s when Ernest saw the littlest one—not a woman at all, a young girl, really, and barely a wisp of one at that. Ernest noticed her as she stood on the edge of the verbal melee, in a purple knee-high dress with a monogrammed M, fringed with lace, and beguiling blond hair cut so short that she almost looked like a boy—almost. She wore an outrageous hat, similar to that of Miss Florence, the leader of the pack. But instead of peacock feathers this queer girl had a pair of stuffed hummingbirds set atop her brim. Ernest noticed her wide, luminous eyes—pools of blue ice, with freckles of summer generously sprinkled on her nose and cheeks.
They observed each other in a silent staring contest, which lasted only half a minute but stretched to infinity in grade school years, until Ernest’s tear ducts burned and he blinked his surrender. The girl rolled her eyes and gazed back. Her confounding expression seemed filled with something like loathing—like a long-held grudge for a sin he hadn’t yet committed. She stepped toward him and revealed what appeared to be the world’s most perfect candied apple—a treat that looked like a ruby atop a stick. It sparkled and shimmered like the Star of India.
She hadn’t yet taken a bite.
Ernest stirred himself from his shocked stupor and waved a polite greeting.
The strange girl regarded him with a glare. Then she looked at the candied apple that he’d clearly admired as though she’d momentarily forgotten the thing was there. She paused and seemed to appreciate her reflection in the hard, candy-coated surface. Then she tipped it upside down, holding the stick with two fingers, like the tail of a dead rat. Ernest watched as she stalked to a nearby garbage can, stared back at him, tilted her head, and dropped the apple in the trash with a hollow thump.
TENDERLOIN
(1909)
Ernest sat with his knapsack on his lap in the backseat of a lurching taxi, a jostling Model T. He was sandwiched between the large woman with the big hat and the girl who hated him for reasons unknown. Most of the other ladies had opted for the trolley, dinner in the city, and a bit of light shopping, he’d been told.
Not the family I imagined, Ernest thought, as he stared out the window and watched the sun set on the waters of Puget Sound. He felt like a tumbleweed, blown by the wind, rolling to the southern edge of town.
Mrs. Irvine had put up a good fight, even though Ernest didn’t fully understand her reasons. She had argued, grabbed the tickets, and thrown them into the air. She’d shoved Ernest behind her, and he’d watched the pieces rain down like ticker tape on a parade, which created a peculiar appearance of celebration, a joyful moment amid the bickering, until a broad-bellied man in a wool suit broke up the fracas. He fingered his walrus mustache and then reached deep into his overstuffed waistcoat, buttons ready to burst, and pulled out a gold badge. Ernest thought he had come to Mrs. Irvine’s rescue just in time, but she called the man a no-good jackal and a scoundrel. The hollering and caterwauling was the closest he’d ever heard Mrs. Irvine come to swearing.