Love and Other Consolation Prizes(67)

Ernest imagined his aching heart ripped from his chest and wrung through a taffy puller. He was surprised by how deeply he cared—about both girls—his care made manifest by how hurt he felt. He was losing Maisie, about to watch her sacrifice herself. Consumed into the belly of this confounding business that was like all the people he ever knew, from his mother to Mrs. Irvine, from Madam Flora to Miss Amber—joyful and awful, so free at times and yet so broken. And now Fahn was abandoning ship—simply because she couldn’t have what Maisie didn’t want.

“I can’t leave, not like this. And you shouldn’t either.” Ernest shook his head and struggled to remain calm. “Are you out of your mind? You’re only fifteen, and you actually want to sell yourself to the highest bidder? Just think about what you’re doing!”

Ernest argued, bargained, and grappled with denial as he tried to talk some sense into her. He stopped short of shouting, You stole my first kiss! You can’t leave because I’ll miss you too much. I can’t lose you and Maisie too. But he hesitated, surprised as the words rose from the center of his chest but got stuck in his gullet. And then he remembered what Maisie had once said—true love is always wasted, distorted, lost in the funhouse mirrors of the red-light district.

Ernest sat down. “Are you truly going to leave us because the upstairs girls get a few favorable nods? That’s how the world works—you’re a servant, for God’s sake, and well paid at that. I wouldn’t trade my job for all the expensive clothing and fancy dinners in the world! I’d rather be shoveling coal and peeling potatoes all day than counting ceiling tiles all night long, no matter how much they pay me.”

Mrs. Blackwell appeared in the doorway. “He’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to be an old maid,” Fahn said, looking directly at Mrs. Blackwell. “In fact, I don’t want to be a cook or a maid at all. We live in steerage while they’re in first class. I want what they have—respect.”

“But they don’t have real respect, dear. Can’t you umble-cum-stumble anything? What they have is an illusion, crafted by Madam Flora.” Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes and removed her cooking bonnet. “Oh, they have such beauty, don’t they? And charm to spare, and the well-polished veneer of high society. But as a form of currency, dear, that beauty fades. You have beauty too—so much it hurts, I know. But you’re also so self-absorbed, girl, you possess so much anger, which scares the dickens out of me. If anger is your currency, then you’re one rich bitch.”

Ernest blinked.

Fahn froze.

For a moment he felt relief, thinking the words of the dowdy old cook had found purchase in the jagged reaches of Fahn’s imagination. Then she fastened the top of the basket and stared back at Mrs. Blackwell and nodded at Ernest.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll find my own way. The Tangerine will want me back now that I’m all grown up. Or the Aloha Club.”

“But…those are just run-down cribs,” Ernest said.

“We all have to start off somewhere,” she said as she stormed past him.

He could smell perfume, something she must have stolen from upstairs.

“If you leave us, child, you know there’s no coming through that door again,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “If Madam Flora hadn’t lost her wits, things might be different, but you know Miss Amber—she refuses to stand for this kind of nonsense, especially from the help, of all people. She won’t take you back and she won’t give you a recommend to your next employer when you come to your senses. Please, just calm down, girl—think about what you’re doing.”

Fahn continued without looking back, down the hallway, across the foyer, past a startled Professor True, and toward the front door.

Ernest sprinted upstairs to find Maisie. He hoped she could talk some sense into Fahn, but the Mayflower wasn’t in her room. He ran to his bedroom and threw open a window, from which he could see Fahn wending her way around drunks in the street.

“Fahn!” he called out past throngs of bewildered onlookers. He wanted to give chase, but he couldn’t. As upset as he was, he was also worried about Maisie.

“Fahn, please…come back!” Ernest drew a deep breath and was about to shout again when he noticed everyone on the street staring up at him, regarding the queer sight of a young man hollering from the third-story window of the most famous brothel in the Garment District.

And he fell silent.

Fahn turned and shifted the basket to her other arm. She looked as lovely as ever, but breathtakingly sad. Even from a distance he could see that her cheeks were wet from tears. She touched her heart and then blew him a kiss, staring back at the Tenderloin as though soaking it all in, as though proudly, stubbornly saying goodbye for good.

Ernest heard someone behind him. He turned and saw Jewel standing in the doorway. “At least you tried, Ernest.”

When he looked back out the window, Fahn was gone.

—

ERNEST HURRIED DOWN the hallway in search of Maisie. Her door was ajar, her room still empty, so he followed the sounds of shouting and crying, which led him to Madam Flora’s room. Maisie was in tears, arguing with Miss Amber, while Madam Flora sat at her rolltop desk, which was open and littered with documents, invitations, and bundles of cash. The grande dame appeared to have fallen into a stupor, a tangle of confusion and detachment. She looked neither happy nor sad, present nor particularly absent—she just stared at her desk, absently touching papers as though searching for something she’d lost.