Love and Other Consolation Prizes(54)

“What can I say? We were just kids, barely in our teens…” Ernest said.

“You were part of Seattle history,” Juju said. “And you, Dad, you’re practically a living, breathing Ripley’s Believe It or Not! I know people of your generation don’t like to talk about themselves very much—if at all—but come on…”

Gracie slowly tapped her spoon on the side of her bowl.

Then she looked about the restaurant—at the lamp, the statue, the diners at other tables and in booths—as though she were remembering where she was. Smiling.

“Ernest is being…modest,” Gracie said. “He was a coachman, and a good one. You had…driving gloves and a leather coat. You looked so handsome. How could I ever forget that?”

Everyone waited, holding their breath.

Then Juju added, “And you worked there too.”

Rich snickered and teased. “Don’t tell me you were a party girl, Mrs. Young.”

Juju frowned at the man. Ernest tried to change the subject, waving to the bow-tied waiter, who was already on his way with a platter of preserved beef, braised chicken, and seaweed salad. All of it served cold.

“Oh no, nothing so romantic,” Gracie said pleasantly. “I was a prostitute.” She spoke as though she might have said, Please pass the salt or How’s the weather?

Rich fell silent for once, addressing his soup without looking up. Hanny laughed, thinking she’d just caught the tail end of a joke; then as reality set in she stared at Juju, mouth agape, her face equal parts shock, confusion, and disbelief. Juju cocked her head toward Ernest, as if to ask for confirmation.





ANGELS IN THE SNOW


(1909)



Ernest pulled his red wool scarf up higher to shield his nose against the wind, which was blowing fat snowflakes in every possible direction. His breath was warm, even as his toes felt like ice cubes in his rubber three-button boots. He leaned into the shovel again and again as he worked to clear the dense, wet drifts of mashed-potato snow that piled up on the sidewalks and the front steps of the Tenderloin. Ernest had always loved the idea of a white, picture-postcard Christmas, even if that meant he had to shovel snow all day long on Christmas Eve.

As he caught his breath and stretched his aching back, Ernest heard the jingling of bells on a harness. He waved a mittened hand at a black-bearded man in a long overcoat, who tipped his snow-brimmed top hat as he talked to his team of draft horses as though they were stubborn children. The man shouted words encouraging them, chiding them, and scolding them as they pulled a metal plow down the street, carving a path through the snow-covered city. Shopkeepers swept and shoveled, businessmen in fine suits took turns clearing the trolley platforms, and dozens of stevedores, hired for the day, worked furiously to clear the rail lines again and again so the streetcars might have a chance amid the falling, drifting snow. It was an effort that, to Ernest, seemed as endless and futile as trying to bail out the Pacific Ocean.

As a group of drunken carolers sang an off-tune, wine-soaked version of “Here We Come A-Wassailing,” men and women completed their last holiday errands all around him, hauling Christmas trees, carrying wreaths, toting presents. Icicles, which hung precariously from the lampposts, slowly began to melt as the gaslights flickered on for the evening. The lamps added a warm glow to the fairy lights that deckled the storefronts, the clothiers, and even the pubs and casinos. Ernest thought that the peaceful street scene was like something out of a painting, as though the clock had spun backward ten years, thanks to the absence of chattering automobiles, replaced by the pleasant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages, Bristol wagons, and the occasional snap of a buggy whip. He watched as another team of bridled horses snorted gusts of steam through flared nostrils as they trotted by, high-stepping in unison, proudly showing the impotent motorcars buried in the snowdrifts that they hadn’t yet surrendered their usefulness.

Ernest stomped his feet to try to warm his toes as he wondered what Christmas morning would be like. With Madam Flora’s erratic behavior, planning anything had become difficult. And besides, Miss Amber had been busy taking Flora about the city to new doctors all month. In their absence, Mrs. Blackwell and the servants had taken charge of putting up a tree and decorating the house. Ernest thought they’d done a yeoman’s job (without Miss Amber’s normal, stern input), so at least it looked like Christmas at the Tenderloin and smelled like a merry holiday. Ernest had learned from the other servants that certain occasions, especially birthdays, were not celebrated—the upstairs girls chose to keep their ages a secret. So he had wondered if the Advent season would be enjoyed beyond the basic trappings.

In anticipation, he’d bought small, hand-painted wooden angels for Fahn and Maisie, and wrapped layered boxes of chocolates and dried fruit, dusted in powdered sugar, to be shared by the maids and the upstairs girls. But would they really get up early and exchange presents? Or would Christmas involve another late night in the casual company of rich, lascivious customers who came and went, and everyone sleeping in past noon, just another day of canoodling, with or without mistletoe?

Ernest worried, because Madam Flora’s bouts of hysteria were getting worse. Her episodes had been draining them of the reserve of hope they’d all built up at the fair.

He closed his eyes and remembered how he’d eagerly returned to the fairgrounds with Maisie and Fahn three days after the closing ceremonies. They’d woken early and stolen away on the trolley to see what remained, yearning to savor one more moment.