The Ripper's Wife(112)

I liked the big, sprawling historical spectacles best. Even if I fell asleep, which I often did, there was always something interesting to see when I woke up. Intolerance was my favorite; I think I stayed in my seat for every showing of that one. I loved the wild, magnificent decadence of ancient Babylon, Belshazzar’s bacchanalian feast, the wanton virgins in the Temple of Love, and the pillars of palaces topped by giant white plaster elephants with their trunks turned up for luck. The massacre of the Huguenots on St. Bartholomew’s Day made me weep; I kept hoping it would end different each time and that the hero would carry the girl, his beloved Brown Eyes, over the threshold as a bride instead of a ravished corpse. And when Christ intervened and saved the adulteress from stoning, proclaiming, “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone,” I wanted to kiss His feet in gratitude.

But it was the modern story that had me on the edge of my seat, riveted and tense, frightened enough to want to run, only I didn’t want to miss a moment, and in truth I don’t think I could have moved unless someone had set off dynamite beneath my seat. It was my story, only it was a young man playing the part. Truly innocent but accused and convicted of taking a life, he had a questionable reputation, a past, that counted against him.

Even though the film was silent—the actors had no voices then—his dark eyes truly were a window into his innocent soul, and I could “hear” his cries of “I didn’t do it!” clawing at my heart. There was just something about his face; even with that dark mustache, I’d never seen one more innocent. How could the judge and jury not see that too? I kept crying, shaking my fist, and railing at the screen, even though I knew it was all a fiction, not real life. Several times the ushers had to come in and quiet me down by threatening to throw me out if I didn’t sit down and shut up and stop spoiling the show for the other patrons. I kept thinking that I knew him, and maybe I had seen that actor in another film before, I saw and slept through so many, but I finally persuaded myself it was just an illusion, a trick of the mind. Seeing him bringing to life a story so uniquely like my own had worked a strange magic and created a false sense of kinship and familiarity.

“The Boy”—that was the only name the character had—was condemned to die. He passionately protested his innocence and fainted in the prison chaplain’s lap, just like I had, even as his young wife raced to waylay a speeding train and beseech the governor’s pardon. There was something otherworldly about his thin, pale face and the dark eyes he raised to Heaven when he took the Last Sacrament. I had to shake and pinch myself every time. I was so caught up in his magic, it was almost impossible to believe that this was just an actor playing a part, all in a day’s work for him. He made it seem so real, like all of us sitting out there spellbound in darkness were truly witnessing an innocent young man preparing to die. He made it all the way up to the gallows; the black hood was on his head and the noose around his neck before reprieve came at the last possible instant. It sent chills down my spine every time. I was so afraid the reprieve would come too late and that I would have to sit there and watch him die.

Then it was 1917 and the world was at war. I didn’t read the papers anymore, except the social columns now and then to try to catch a glimpse of Gladys, and I couldn’t quite wrap my bleary, weary mind around what it was all about. All I knew was that the streets were full of brave young men in uniforms and the walls papered with posters trying to coax more to join up. If my son had been alive he would have been one of them. I didn’t like to think about it, so I drank and drank. I still thought about the Biograph boy; he was rarely out of my thoughts for long. He must have been well into his twenties by then. Was he in uniform too? Was that baby face sporting a dapper mustache like so many of these boys, trying so hard to be brave and grown-up, were wearing nowadays? One evening when I woke up after sleeping all day with him still on my mind, so vivid I could almost reach out and touch him, I staggered into the nearest church and lit a candle and prayed that he would be spared, wherever he was. Even though I didn’t know his name, I was sure God would.

One day I woke up with the morning and took a cold bath, put on my most plain and decent dress, did what I could with my faded hennaed hair, and went out and tried to volunteer as a nurse, but one glance told the Red Cross how utterly unsuitable I was. So I gave what comfort I could to those poor boys going off to war or coming back wounded, missing limbs, and shell-shocked, in dark doorways and alleys, where the darkness and dim, distant streetlights still knew how to be kind to an aging woman.





37

The tail end of 1920 found me in Atlantic City, recovering from jaundice and a gallbladder operation, performed at a charity hospital by a doctor who was adamant that I should give up drinking. Something he said must have struck a chord so deep within me I couldn’t consciously hear it. I had, incredibly, come out of the darkness into the light. It just happened. Maybe it was one of God’s tiny miracles? I just woke up one day and decided that I was tired of being drunk, tired of being pushed, punched, and pawed, and just tired of being tired all the time. I had a little money. A Mr. Alden Freeman, a philanthropist who used to attend my lectures, had died and remembered me with a small bequest in his will. So I made my way to Atlantic City. I thought the salty air might bring clarity and help me find a new and better way to live.

I hadn’t felt better or more hopeful in years. I had even woken up that morning thinking I might like to take up china painting again. I’d always loved it so when I was a girl and had time for such things. Maybe I could rent a little stall and sell my handiwork? I was letting my hair go natural after years of hennaing and dyeing it a harsh, brassy blond, and letting my skin breathe freely, devoid of makeup after years of tumbling into bed drunk with more paint on my face than a Rembrandt.