Love and Other Consolation Prizes(24)

“Welcome to the carriage trade, kid. We’ll get you sorted out tomorrow and introduce you to everyone—you’ll know the routine by week’s end. Best to stay in your room tonight; I suggest you turn in early. Things may be getting busy around here in a few hours, and I don’t want you in the way. Come down for breakfast, about eleven-thirty. We like to sleep in around here…”

She slammed the door behind him.

Ernest’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t had a bite of dinner or supper.

As the last echoes of the fair faded, reality set in. Ernest stared out the lone window into the setting sun and back at the closed door. He patted his shirt and retrieved the winning ticket from his pocket and traced his fingers along the printed numbers and the fine print, the torn edge. His fate had been decided by this simple piece of cardboard. He was the prize, a token for celebration, even though he had no say in the matter. But at least Madam Flora seemed excited about having him, even if the others were mysteries. He tucked the ticket into a corner of the mirror and regarded his face, which had aspects of sadness and relief. Then he sat on the corner of the bed and remembered the dormitory at one of the boarding schools where he’d shared a room with no fewer than five other second-class boys—sometimes as many as a dozen. In fact, he now realized he’d never slept alone in his entire life—not that he could remember.

He found no comfort in the silence of his new home, so he opened the window. He welcomed the sounds of strangers, the embrace of their random conversations, overheard from two stories up. Ernest leaned out and looked up and down the street. He marveled at automobiles and delivery trucks, swerving and veering. He watched horses clip-clopping by, their warm bodies steaming in the cool September air. He heard the yelling of coachmen, and the clanging brass bells of streetcars. He was smack-dab in the beating heart of a crowded city, but as he watched happy couples pass by, arm in arm, pairs that moved as one, he felt empty, confused to be in such modern surroundings, to have such a lavish place to call home yet feeling so alone. He thought for a fleeting moment that the Tenderloin might be too good to be true, that perhaps he should run from this place, try out his new freedom—he could be miles away before anyone noticed he was gone. But he doubted he could find another job in a place as nice as this. Plus, he was hungry. Better to wait at least a week, perhaps even a month, to consider other options.

Not wanting to make waves on his first day (and night), Ernest sighed and closed the window. He found an old newspaper in the armoire and read for an hour. Then he found tooth powder and brushed his teeth. He dressed for bed, but the sheets felt cold and the pillow smelled of soap flakes and blue starch. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the solitude of the room was maddening and the bed was too soft compared to the canvas bunk he’d slept on for the last seven years. He tossed and turned until he heard the piano downstairs—not just practice, but a rousing rendition of the song Professor True had been working on earlier.

Ernest took his blanket and pillow and curled up atop the floor rug next to his bed. He felt warm air seeping in beneath the door but didn’t mind the draft, or the hardness of the wooden floor. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and closed his eyes again and listened to the murmurs of jovial conversation, the popping of champagne corks, and the clinking of stemware. He heard footfalls and chatter up and down the stairs. He chewed his lip and fell asleep to the sound of laughter.

—

AS ERNEST SLEPT he dreamed of the boarding school. He was sitting in the foyer, perched by the window, watching some of the boys leave with their parents at Christmas. Sometimes a whole family would show up, take the tour, listen to the holiday program; other times it would be just a coachman and a waiting carriage—but the end result was always the same. Ernest would be left behind to spend another Christmas alone, eating with the few servants who stayed on as caretakers. Ernest stirred in his sleep, half-waking as he flipped the pillow and scrunched it beneath his head.

“Wake up.” He heard someone whisper in the dark.

He blinked, once, twice, and slowly sat up. He noticed the silvery light that shone through his window, the moon, a streetlight, or a combination of both. He glanced around the room, at the bed, the open wardrobe, all of which remained empty.

Maybe he was still dreaming. He yawned and stretched his back. His mind groggily searched for a possible source of the voice.

“Pssst…are you awake now?”

“I think I am,” Ernest said, though he still couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

“Good. You were snoring like a buzz saw for a while there.”

It was a girl’s voice, but not Maisie’s. It was accented.

The strange voice went on. “I could hear you when I got to my room, even with the music. They said you’d gone to bed. What’d you do, fall asleep on the floor?”

Ernest looked around, bewildered. “Where—where are you?”

“I’m in the room just below. There’s a heating vent in the corner.”

Ernest found a small brass grate nearby and crawled over to the metal duct. He felt a surge of warm air rising, tinged with perfume and tobacco smoke, but saw only a vague shadow in the dimly lit room below.

“I see you,” the girl sang, and then she giggled.

Ernest was tired, confused, but he felt comforted to hear a friendly voice.

“Who are you?” As he spoke he heard laughter from downstairs and the sound of the front door opening and closing. He heard the greetings, the hello darlings, the good nights, and the fond goodbyes. He wondered what time it must be. “Are you one of Madam Flora’s girls?”