Ladies In The Parlor (17 page)

“‘You’ve got to ask someone older’ n me.’ “

Mother Rosenbloom doubled in mirth.

“But that’s nothing, folks,” resumed James J. Blaidor— “My grandfather was a hundred and forty-seven when he died—it was a tough blow to Grandma—he’d started to church, and took a notion to stop in at Betsy Adal’s place where he knew all the girls— They served him a lot of liquor— Finally he takes the oldest battle-ax in the house up stairs—she must have been sixty-four. Anyhow, he got so damn rough with her she had to shoot him.”

“Did your grandmother marry again?” asked Judge Slattery.

“Oh yes,” was the answer, “a woman like Grandma couldn’t stay single long— ‘My body needs nourishment,’ she used to say—so finally she married a newspaper editor, and inside of two months she was cheating on him.”

The professor pounded the piano until the laughter died away.

James J. Blaidor appreciated the merriment. Stumbling about the room he scowled in the direction of his fellow reporter and chortled, “You and your damn hearts that talk—you stole that story from Longfellow or somebody—maybe it’s in the Bible—it’s old enough.”

“Well it’s a damn good yarn, ain’t it—and it goes well with women.”

“Oh, I don’t know—just because you’re a guest of the state is no sign you can tell all the old stuff here.” Judge Slattery winked.

“But, Jimmy,” he said.

“Bladder’s his name, Judge. He’d think he was in society if you called him Jimmy.”

“What is it, Judge—pay no attention to this riffraff.”

“Well, Jimmy, that happened to my grandfather.” “No, it happened to mine,” volunteered another reporter.

“None of you had grandfathers—you were all hatched out of eggs the cook threw away.”

He turned around, “Where’s the Empress?”

The colored maid was at his side with the champagne. The glasses were again filled.

The girls drank sparingly.

Judge Slattery moved to a large leather chair. A circle formed around him.

“If you clucks want a story—how about this one?” asked James J. Blaidor—”don’t answer, for it won’t be funny—

“There was a little girl in England, not over twenty, who was hanged for killing her baby because she wasn’t married. She was very pretty, and she sobbed a little before she went to the gallows. ‘Come on,’ said the hangman, ‘poor dear, poor dear—it’s God that knows I’d rather sleep with ye than hang ye.’”

“Oh,” Mary Ellen gasped.

“The poor little devil,” sighed Mother Rosenbloom.

“They’ll do anything in England,” said Doris Mahone.

“Except to give Ireland a break,” hiccoughed James J. Blaidor.

Slattery, whose parents came from Ireland, said nothing.

Their wanton hearts were touched.

“I think that’s terrible,” said Mary Ellen.

“Why?” asked a reporter, “the kid was better off—and had a better home, maybe, than its mother could have given it.”

“But just the same—the girl was a cowardly bitch—what people said was worth more to her than her own baby.” Selma was stubborn.

“Perhaps you don’t know all the circumstances,”

James J. Blaidor moved closer to her. “Maybe she already had half a dozen—those school-teachers are prolific as hell— They tell me they’re good, too—the Empress of Zulu always wanted to teach school until I discouraged her.”

Ignoring his mockery, Selma snapped

“Well, just the same, I’d of raised the baby—what the hell’s the difference?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” a reporter said.

“The hell I wouldn’t— I’m raising one now—and I’m damned proud of it too.”

“That’s the girl,” said James J. Blaidor— “We’ll write an editorial about that in the morning.”

“Why do women hate to have babies?” asked Selma. “I knew a girl who had one. She was a young schoolteacher. She didn’t want to go through with it so she went to a judge who helped women—and he told her to go ahead and have it and he’d help her out by taking the baby after it was born. By the time the child came, he had a good home for it—the only agreement was that she would never ask about it. She went back to teaching school, and when the child was six years old, it went to be taught by its own mother.”

Mother Rosenbloom asked with interest, “Did she find out it was her child?”

“No—and the little girl was her favorite all that term. It went to the same school five years and neither of them ever knew.”

James J. Blaidor raised his glass and sang,

When I was young, and in my prime,

I had hot knuckles all the time—,

And now I’m old and my joints are sore,

And I can’t get hot knuckles any more—

“God, that’s awful,” Selma said—”he sings like a raven—anything’s better than that— Won’t someone tell us another story—about love this time—we all believe in love.” Her voice was mocking as she looked at the other girls. “You believe in love, don’t you Leora?”

The judge’s arm was about her.

“Surely,” she answered.

“All right, I’ll tell you about a girl in love,” said the
Argus
reporter.

There was instant attention.

“She’d been in the hospital.

“One morning she went to the superintendent and asked if she could get out. The superintendent told her she was hardly well enough to go. But when the girl insisted so much the superintendent told her that she might leave.

“The girl was a little street-walker, and she didn’t have a dime. She hurried to the little room she’d always had and straightened it up.”

“Was she getting ready for business?” asked Selma. “Yes, getting ready for business,” responded the reporter.

“Go on,” said Leora.

“Yes, do,” said Mary Ellen.

“After she’d fixed up, she went down on the street and looked at the different men as they passed. “Finally a man came along. He had a heavy red mustache and little black eyes. He didn’t look any too good to the girl, but she needed the money, so she took him up to her room.

“He gave her two dollars.

“She hurried away and bought a bunch of violets; then went out to the cemetery and put them on her sweetheart’s grave.”

“Well, well,” said Mother Rosenbloom.

The reporter waited for further interruptions. None came. He resumed.

“He’d been hanged a year ago that day, and the girl had promised to put flowers on his grave every anniversary.

“When she got back to the room, the landlady said, ‘I saw you going up stairs with that man, but I felt you needed the money, so I didn’t say anything . . . but really, it’s too bad you had to go up with him.’

“‘Who was he?’ asked the girl.

“‘The hangman,’ answered the landlady.

“Oh, -my God,” gasped Mary Ellen.

Mother Rosenbloom’s bosom went up and down. Slattery’s eyes were half closed. Finally he said, “Jesus Christ!” and held Leora closer to him.

Selma whistled softly. Mary Ellen looked at Leora. She had tears in her eyes.

Unconscious as time, James J. Blaidor had stretched himself on the davenport.

“Now choose your girls,” said Judge Slattery.

A reporter put his arms on Leora’s shoulders. She drew back against the judge, saying half shyly, “Please, I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?” asked the reporter. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Yes,” was Leora’s answer.

Soon the different couples went up stairs. Slattery made no move.

“We’ll talk here a while,” he said to Leora.

Mother Rosenbloom motioned to the professor and left discreetly. The professor played lower and lower. Soon his hands stopped on the keys. He, too, had gone from the room.

No word was said between Slattery and the girl. She clung to him like a frightened child for fear she would fall from his lap.

Not talkative the whole evening, he now sat in complete silence.

Leora tried to snuggle closer to him. He did not move.

She remained quiet for some time, and then, her feeling overcoming her, she ran her hand through his hair. Still there was no response.

Remaining still for the second time, she held her hand over his heart and counted the even beats for a few seconds.

She could feel his arms holding her. For the first time in her life, every fiber of her body was relaxed. Suddenly she heard the clamor of a couple coming down the stairs. She jumped from the judge’s lap and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth.

As Selma and the reporter for the Argus reached the parlor, Leora said, “My, it takes you people a long time.”

“Yes, Kid, I had an old man,” Selma returned banteringly.

“Not so damned old,” laughed the reporter.

When the time came to go, James J. Blaidor was carried to the car.

“I hope you didn’t treat the Empress this way,” Mary Ellen nudged him.

“The poor Empress—and you’re the one who was going to wear us all out,” Selma pinched his cheeks. James J. Blaidor’s head sagged. He made no answer.

In leaving, Judge Slattery caressed Leora lightly, and placed a bill in her hand.

She tried to hand it back. He said decisively, “You mustn’t.”

When all had gone, Doris asked, “Did he disappoint you?”

“Not at all,” answered Leora— “How could he?” Still holding the money, Leora went to her room. It was a hundred dollar note.

She went to Mother Rosenbloom with the bill. “I owe you fifty,” she said.

Mother Rosenbloom looked at the money. “No you don’t,” was her decision.

Long that night she lay and thought. Was he really fond of her? She did not know. Oblivious of everything else, she could feel his arms around her.

The professor brought several letters to Leora next evening. As always, she opened Sally’s letter first. Buddy had come home and was now at work as a switch-tender in the railroad yards.

Denny was so proud of his new suit, and often talked of his sister. He had passed a store with Sally. Seeing a wax model in the window wearing an evening gown and a fur coat he pointed and shouted, so that passersby could hear— “Look, Sally, Leora’s one of them.”

Sally took his hand and hurried him away, while he continued to look backward at the model.

Leora closed the letter with a smile.

Money had made so much difference in her father’s house, and her broken-down mother was not there to enjoy it. With the heritage of the sensitive poor, a feeling of belligerency took possession of her.

It passed as she opened the next letter. It was from Dr. Farway.

She opened it slowly and looked at the certified check for a hundred dollars that it contained. She folded it several times and mused before reading the letter. It had all been like something that happened to some one else.

Her quick mind compared him with Slattery. She knew the difference without being able to explain it to herself. Slattery “just was” as Selma had said.

She began to read Dr. Farway’s letter. “You’ve been gone about two years,” it said, “and it seems like five.”

And then, as though it were something he had just remembered, “Mrs. Farway died nearly two weeks ago. We had many differences, as you know, and even though she could not bear the child I so much wanted, I am lost without her.” . . .

Leora did not read the letter to the end. She had the impulse to telephone to Alice, and then dismissed it. The thought came to her, “Why can’t I go back and marry him if Mary Ellen intends to marry her lawyer?” She shuddered at the thought of leaving Slattery.

A bell rang. The maid knocked at her door and said, “Ladies in the parlor.” Leora answered, “All right,” but did not move.

In a few minutes another knock came. It was the housekeeper. Mother Rosenbloom would like to see her.

Mother was not yet dressed. In its fluffs and laces, her enormous body looked twice as large. Her pink silk nightgown had a dainty lace yoke and no sleeves. Her arms, large as the legs of a man, were bare.

“Judge Slattery telephoned, Leora,” she said, as a maid finished waving her hair. “He wants you to be at the Randolph Hotel at ten tonight.”

“Why, Mother?” Leora gasped.

“I’m sure he likes you or he wouldn’t send for you like this.”

“But, Mother—I’m so—”

“No, don’t be anything but yourself, and don’t tell him how to run the state—more women get no place by talking too much than anything else.”

She rang the bell.

“Bring Selma and Mary Ellen to me.”

The maid bowed.

“Too bad that girl’s high yellow. She’s got more brains than most women,” said Mother Rosenbloom. It was the same maid who had kept James J. Blaidor’s glass full.

When Selma and Mary Ellen arrived, Mother said to them, “Leora’s meeting Judge Slattery tonight—help her dress, girls.”

When the girls entered Leora’s room, they found her in a clinging blue velvet dress. It made the blue of her eyes more vivid, and turned the rich brown of her hair to copper.

Slattery had sent her a corsage of gardenias.

Selma gasped, “My God—you know what to wear all right.”

Mary Ellen ran her hand over the curve of Leora’s breasts. “No wonder he fell for you,” she said. Leora smiled in the mirror.

The girls returned with Leora.

Mother Rosenbloom looked at her and said, “Lovely.” “What’s going on, Mother?” asked Selma.

“Some gathering—the judge doesn’t want to be alone.”

The girls were soon on their way to the Randolph.

“I’ve got a hunch,” said Selma, “I believe you’re in.” She sighed, “I’d give my right eye for a man like him.” The cab turned a corner and swayed Selma toward Leora. “Damn, you do look lovely,” she said, adjusting herself—”I can understand the whole thing.”

“Why?” asked Leora.

“Just one of those things—you’re in—that’s all.”

The cab stopped at the hotel.

“We’ll wait here,” Selma commanded the driver. Slattery’s man was standing at the entrance.

He stepped forward and took Leora through the crowded lobby and up the elevator to the Blue Room. It was really a penthouse and overlooked the city.

In the room were politicians, pugilists, gangsters, lawyers, and people from the different theatres.

Arm in arm with Judge Slattery, a great criminal lawyer leaned against the bar. A famous actor had just introduced him as the leading member of the American Bar Association. When Leora entered, the applause had not died down. She was taken to Slattery. The judge greeted her warmly and introduced her to the lawyer. Soon a tall man with a hooked nose joined them. “Miss La Rue—may I present the governor—Governor Harris—Miss La Rue—”