Love and Other Consolation Prizes(71)

Ernest watched Maisie become more beautiful with each incarnation of fabric and sequined lace. He almost forgot that she wasn’t dressing for him.

“What do you think?” Maisie asked.

He opened his mouth but found his capacity for rational thought to be temporarily impaired. He tried not to imagine who would eventually be removing Maisie’s party dress. Or Fahn’s silk robe, for that matter. The girl whom he had shared a balloon ride with was drifting away. And the girl who had stolen his first kiss was expanding her collection.

“Ernest, your opinion please?”

“You don’t really want to know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re a man,” the slender man said. “Your opinion always matters.”

“If my opinion mattered, this wouldn’t be happening.” He tried to reconcile his feelings—balancing what he wanted so much with how little he actually could attain. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”

“And…spoken like a man,” the tailor said with a groan.

“Thanks.” Maisie shook her head. “You’re a big help.”

Ernest stared at Maisie, her reflections—facets in the many mirrors that surrounded her. She wore no makeup, no eye shadow or lip rouge. Her hair wasn’t curled or pressed like that of the upstairs girls. She looked like the stubborn Mayflower he’d always known, but with longer tresses now and a ballroom dress that made her look like royalty. Through the kaleidoscope of Ernest’s imagination, she looked more beautiful than all the Jewels in all the Tenderloins in all the red-light districts in the whole world. But in this moment, he found himself feeling guilty for admiring her. As if doing so made him complicit, somehow in league with the men who would be bidding.

The world is upside down, spinning backward, Ernest thought. And what about Fahn? She was somewhere, selling herself as well, though deprived of such luxury.

The slender man snapped his fingers and left to get something. Maisie posed in front of Ernest, one hand on her hip, her head cocked to the side. She pursed her lips and batted her eyes.

“How much would you pay for me?”

Ernest felt tongue-tied.

“Why so quiet? What’s there to think about?”

Ernest smiled and looked away.

Maisie laughed. “Aside from that.”

Ernest finally laughed as well. “I was worth a cardboard ticket when they raffled me off—the going rate for a novelty. But for you, I suppose I’d pay the going rate—plus a nickel,” he said.

“And what would you want in return?” Maisie asked casually. Her eyes reminded him of the way she had looked floating above the world, amid the fireworks.

Ernest shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You wouldn’t want anything?”

All I want is everything.

He shook his head again.

He kept his mouth shut and took a deep breath, exhaling from a place in his chest that ached with sadness and longing. He couldn’t bring himself to speak about things he wanted, things he could never have, either for himself or for the people he loved, so he turned away. He pretended to be interested in a display of fur coats made from mink and fox, though he couldn’t look at them without remembering the wild and beautiful things that had been trapped to make them.





FIVE THOUSAND REASONS


(1910)



After dinner, Ernest sat next to Professor True on his well-worn piano bench and watched the musician’s long fingers dance across the polished ivories playing the hit song “Chinatown, My Chinatown.” When the Professor reached the chorus he drew a deep breath and crooned, “Where the lights are low, hearts that know no other land, drifting…drifting to and fro…”

Ernest listened and touched the spot on the mantel that used to belong to an old windup metronome. He remembered seeing it earlier in the week, atop Madam Flora’s messy desk—Miss Amber had placed it there so that the tick-tock motion would soothe the grande dame. Ernest had watched, fascinated by Madam Flora’s twitching eyes as the swaying arm of the oaken box enthralled her. Ernest found himself squarely jealous of her madness, which insulated her from the world more than Miss Amber ever could.

Bliss, Ernest thought. Madam found her own bliss at the Tenderloin.

Meanwhile Ernest had found his heart torn between Fahn—so headstrong and hot-tempered, but fearless, daring to do what she wanted—and Maisie, who was willing to sacrifice herself for a mother who didn’t know her anymore. Fahn had been given nothing in life but the short straw at every turn, while Maisie, in comparison, had had so much, at least until now. Both struggled to do what they thought was best, even for him.

Maisie and Fahn had known Ernest’s secrets, all except for the one he’d thought was obvious—that he was in love with both girls. But what did that matter now?

As Ernest listened, he noticed that the Professor changed the ending of the melancholy song, finishing up-tempo, with a blizzard of stinging quarter notes. “That there was for you, my boy,” he said.

Ernest nodded. He tried to smile, but the expression came out as more of a polite grimace. He wished Fahn were here so the girls could talk to each other. He had a hard time talking to Maisie about Maisie. But he hadn’t given up.

Professor True began playing something jazzy and modern called the “Comet Rag,” but Ernest barely batted an eyelash.