Sex Wars (20 page)

They were both silent as they plodded on. Finally Freydeh said, “In shops at home, you have onions and you have yarn and you have vodka and wine and you have buttons and needles. Only what you need. Now I understand why everybody wants to be rich in America. There’s so many things, you think you want to have them. You look and you think, Now why can’t I have one of those? And two of those?”

“Did you really think the streets were paved with gold, like some greenhorns?”

She pulled off his cap and ruffled his hair. “I wasn’t that ignorant. But I had no idea how crowded and filthy it would be. No one prepares you for that. But we go forward, Sammy, we go forward.”

The brothel was an ordinary respectable-looking brownstone house in a row of them. Nothing set it off from its neighbors, no bare-breasted girls hanging out the windows, no drawings of curvaceous naked ladies. Freydeh wondered if they had the wrong address and this would be somebody’s home. They rang the bell and had a longish wait. A Black man in livery answered. He seemed rather surprised at what he saw.

“She’s looking for our sister,” Sammy said. “We were told she might be working here. We’ve lost touch with her.”

“Lost touch, huh? Probably threw her out.”

“No,” Freydeh said. “No! We don’t care what she’s done. She’s our sister and we just want to see her.”

He seemed to be making a decision. “Come into the parlor. I’ll get Mrs. Baines, and she can talk with you. If she will.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Freydeh stammered. “We won’t make no trouble. We just want to find her, to see her.” She pulled the drawing from her bag and thrust it at him. “Maybe you recognize her? Shaineh?”

“Mrs. Baines, she’ll let you know.”

But she had seen a flicker of recognition in his eyes. No matter what they said, she knew that Shaineh had been here and maybe still was.

Mrs. Baines kept them waiting for half an hour. They sat together in the parlor on a plush sofa, gazing at the walls covered with red-striped wallpaper that looked like fabric, staring at the ceiling painted with floating half-naked nymphs. There was a whole bevy of them, blond, brunette, redhead, buxom and svelte, tall and short, all floating in draperies that bared a breast across a wishy-washy bluish sky studded with big-bosomed clouds. The effect was silly. The women looked unnatural swimming along in the sky with one tit hanging out and a good bit of leg exposed.

Two women dressed like ladies came out together, each carrying an empty basket. One was in black silk with white lace, her black hair in loose curls. The other—in a loose red jacket and serge walking skirt looped up to show yellow-and-black-striped petticoats, striped stockings and high heeled boots—had longer red hair. They nodded at Freydeh as the Negro butler showed them out. Freydeh wondered if they worked here. Somehow she didn’t think so.

At last a tall lean woman wearing a pince-nez marched in. “Now what’s this?”

“We’re trying to find our sister,” Sammy said, trying to sound respectful. Freydeh nodded fervently.

“Shaineh,” she added. “Her name Shaineh Leibowitz.”

“A Jewess?”

They both nodded and waited. Mrs. Baines took a seat in a high-backed chair somewhat like a mahogany throne upholstered in red pierced through with gold embroidery and eyed them, looking over both of them critically and carefully. “You’re saying this woman you’re talking about is your sister?”

Both nodded again and Freydeh repeated, “My sister, yeah, his aunt. Please?”

“What is it you want with her?”

“We lost her.”

“Lost her?” The madam looked amused. “Ladies lose handkerchiefs, not sisters.”

Freydeh turned to Sammy, for the explanation was too complicated for her rudimentary English. Sammy told the story, although he appeared in it as Freydeh’s son. That seemed to be their new explanation to the world. They always seemed to be explaining themselves to strangers.

“So this man never gave you the letter? Why? Was he protecting this woman in some way?”

“Not him,” Sammy said. “He wouldn’t protect her if a brick was falling on her head. He was mad at Frey—Mother. He was mad at Mother because they had a fight about money.”

“Isn’t that what all fights are about?” Mrs. Baines yawned and lit a cigarette. “Money or jealousy.…So have you been looking for this young woman long?”

“Since Mama got the letter in her hands,” Sammy said. He was getting good at this. She could understand most of what Sammy said. She was used to his accent. She was getting better at understanding spoken English, but putting a narrative together was still beyond her. What would she do without Sammy?

Freydeh could not contain herself any longer. She bounded up and handed the drawing to Mrs. Baines. “Please, do you know my Shaineh? Have you seen her? Is she here?”

The madam studied the drawing. At length she handed it back to Freydeh. “She was. Not any longer.”

“Please how long ago and what happened to her?”

“Early last spring she came to us. She was starving and frostbitten. We took her in.”

“She work as maid?”

“She was a virgin, as I’m sure you know. That was worth a reasonable amount of money.”

Freydeh tried to keep her face still but her hands twitched in her lap. Poor Shaineh. It was
her
fault. If she had not quarreled with her old landlord Big Head, she would have received Shaineh’s letter, met her, and everything would have been different. So different.

“You sold her cherry,” Sammy said. “Did she get any of the money?”

“She got room, board and a percentage. We tried to train her to keep working here.”

“But she left?” Sammy persisted. She could tell he disliked the madam.

“She wasn’t cut out for the life. She was afraid of men. Some men like that, but mostly they like it if it’s put on, not when it’s real.” Mrs. Baines grinned. She had a gold tooth that winked at them.

“So you threw her out?” Sammy was trying to control his anger.

“She found a man who liked it well enough so he promised to keep her. She went off with him, quite willingly, believe me. She was always nervous here.”

“How long you keep her?” Freydeh asked. “How long?”

“Somewhat over three months. The end of June, she went off with her gentleman.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Of course. He was a customer.”

Freydeh found a piece of paper in her pocket. “Please to write man’s name.”

“I don’t give out names of my customers.”

“Lady, we don’t care he’s a gent that comes here for your girls,” Sammy said. “We just want to find my aunt. Please, we’ve been trying to find her for months already. This isn’t the first house we had to visit looking for her. My mama is a working woman and she don’t have lots of time to run around looking and looking. This is the closest we come to her sister, so help us, please. We’d pay you, but we don’t have any money.”

Freydeh spoke up. “We make condoms now. We make good ones. We give you a sweet deal on them for your girls. You give us name, address if you got, and we sell you condoms, good right-made ones, for better price than anyplace.”

Mrs. Baines smiled. They bargained back and forth. The bargaining seemed to make the woman more genial. Finally they settled on a price for three dozen as an experiment, payment on delivery and satisfactory testing. Then Mrs. Baines brought out a ledger. “I keep excellent books. Everything should be here.”

“He paid you for her,” Sammy said. It wasn’t a question. “To take her away.”

“The standard fee.” She was licking her finger, turning the pages, scanning them.

“The books must be useful for a little extra money,” Sammy said. Freydeh could tell he really disliked the woman. She was sure the woman could feel that too, but she was hardened against disapproval.

“I don’t dabble in blackmail, boy. They’re for the police captain, so he knows I’m not cheating him.” Her finger paused. “Here it is. Oh, John Smith. We get a lot of those.”

Freydeh turned to Sammy, puzzled. He explained, “It’s like John Doe.” Freydeh shrugged. Sammy went on, “It’s not his real name.”

“I can still help you,” Mrs. Baines said. “He took her in a phaeton. I had my bouncer deliver her baggage. So I have the address. He had to pay Roscoe.”

She wrote down an address on the Far West Side, not a neighborhood Freydeh knew. “Good luck. I expect delivery by next Wednesday.”

“You get.” Freydeh nodded, bobbing her head vehemently.

As they set out on their long trek to the address they had been given, Freydeh clapped Sammy on the bony shoulder. “So. We got our first order and we got an address. We are forging ahead, Sammy. Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to find my sister tonight and this week we’re starting production.”

“But we got to produce three dozen in a week.”

“Nu,
so, we’ll do it. Starting tomorrow early.”

They came wearily at last to the address—to where the address should have been. But there was nothing except a burned-out hulk. The block had endured a fierce fire, for three houses in a row were just outer walls and rubble. Freydeh stood in the street staring at the house whose address she had been given. Another dead end. She sat down on the ashy stoop and wept.

A
NTHONY HAD CHANGED
his job and now worked for Cochran, McLean and Company at the corner of Broadway and Grand. He was making a reasonable living on commissions, but he was not satisfied. Man was not created for a solitary life, and such a situation created temptation and improvident choices. A man needed a helpmate, so he began looking around to find a suitable candidate. He felt hollow. If a mighty
wind picked him up and blew him out to sea, who besides his boss would miss him? Perhaps his mentor at the Y. Perhaps his pastor. He returned at night to his dismal room in the boardinghouse run by a respectable widow. Life was not supposed to be so empty for a virtuous man. He was entitled to marry. Marry or burn, Paul said in the Scriptures, and he did not wish to burn.

He courted a young woman he met at his church for a month of Sundays, but she was too forward. She expected attentions he considered inappropriate, constantly looping her arm through his and, the last time they saw each other, pressing into his side. She also giggled. She would not do. Someone more settled would be to his taste. He noticed a woman in one of the dry goods stores on his route. She was a well-spoken woman with a soft melodious voice that reminded him of his mother. He wondered if she sang as his mother had. She was rather pale, for she spent her days in the shop. Her father, who owned the store, had been a prosperous merchant in Stone Ridge near the Hudson, but he had lost his business due to the unscrupulousness of a partner. Mr. Hamilton was eager to tell Anthony all this, to explain he had not always stood behind the counter of a tiny shop that sold the cheaper sort of ladies’ notions and sewing supplies. Once he had been a merchant to reckon with. His pew had been right in front of the altar, he told Anthony proudly. He had ridden in a fine brougham drawn by two white horses.

Anthony understood the plight of the woman, whose name he learned was Margaret. He too had been reared in a family that had been prosperous and then had come down in the world. It was a difficult burden, but Margaret bore it stoically. She had probably given up the hope of marrying, for she was already twenty-nine—past the age at which most women had any chance of finding a husband.

He liked her large pale blue eyes. Her hair was the lightest brown, straight and fine. She was tall and willowy. She had a slightly sad demeanor that touched him. He could make her happy, he knew it. As he considered over the next couple of months beginning to court her, he imagined her pleasure, her delight. He would carry her off from the dusty little dry goods store. The prospect was uplifting to contemplate. Why rush the matter? Finding a wife was almost as good as having one.

Then one fall day Margaret was not in the shop when he came by to show the newest merchandise—even though Mr. Hamilton would buy little of it—and take Hamilton’s order for the same old. “Where’s your daughter?”

“She could not shake a cough she had. It’s kind of you to ask.”

Anthony leaned forward. “She’s at home then, recuperating?”

“We sent her to the country. We have a cousin, a prosperous farmer in Stone Ridge. We hope the clean country air will revive her.”

Anthony felt as if the floor had given way beneath him. He was so accustomed to Margaret behind the high wooden counter, it had never occurred to him that someday she might not be there to smile shyly at him and then to cast her eyes down lest she seem forward. A modest woman, a demure woman, a proper woman. Now she had been sent off into the country where someone else might speak for her. She might decide to stay there. Anything could happen. She could be trampled by a horse. She could be bitten by a rattlesnake, for venomous snakes, he had been told, were common in the mountains.

He prayed for her on his knees beside his narrow bed in the boarding-house, hearing the sounds of dishwashing from below and the chatter of the maid and the boardinghouse keeper, hearing the raucous laughter of the men in the parlor smoking and telling stories and lies to each other. This was the life he had determined to put behind him; yet he had hesitated. He was a fool to have risked losing a good woman who seemed to have every virtue he desired in a wife.

He gave short shrift to his salesmanship the next day and rushed to Mr. Hamilton’s shop immediately afterward, to catch him while the shop was still open. He knew they stayed open late in order to catch the last business that might conceivably come to them.

“Mr. Comstock,” Mr. Hamilton greeted him. “We aren’t ready for a new order yet. You aren’t due back to us for another three and a half weeks.”

“It’s not for Cochran, McLean I’ve come. It’s for myself.”

Behind the counter where Margaret usually stood was a much older woman, white-haired but with a strong resemblance to his Margaret, who might be her mother. He greeted the woman and then turned back to Mr. Hamilton.

“I have had the pleasure of studying your daughter’s behavior and demeanor for some months now, and I am much impressed with her modesty and her hard work for you and her gentleness.”

“She’s a good worker,” Mr. Hamilton said, clearly puzzled. “Did you want to hire her?”

But the mother had a better idea of what was afoot. She came out from behind the counter, patting at her hair, her eyes glittering. She beamed at him.

“I want to ask for Margaret’s hand in marriage.”

“But you’re years younger than she is.”

“We are suited, I believe. Age differences matter little when a husband and wife have similar values. I believe I can keep her in a reasonable manner—not the lap of luxury, but well enough.” He was afraid that Mr. Hamilton was going to refuse him. It occurred to him that although he doubted the father could possibly find him an unworthy suitor, perhaps he wanted to keep Margaret working in the shop. “You must think first of the happiness of your daughter, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh yes, Edmund. It’s a wonderful chance for Margaret. She can marry at last and have a family. I wanted that so badly for her, all these years. You must say yes.”

“I suppose. But you must consult Margaret. She will be back within ten days.”

“Do I have your permission to speak with her then, to propose matrimony?”

Mr. Hamilton sighed. Anthony, who was skilled at reading expressions, decided his suspicions were correct. The father did not so much mind losing a daughter as losing a shop clerk. “What religion are you, Mr. Comstock?”

“I’m a Congregationalist.”

“We’re Presbyterian.”

“Close enough,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “Close enough.” She accompanied him to the door and stepped outside with him. “Don’t mind my husband,” she said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “I know Margaret likes you. She has spoken of your visits to the store in a manner that shows a favorable impression. Press your suit as soon as she returns, and I believe this marriage will go forward.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I look forward to your being my mother-in-law. My own mother died when I was ten, and never have I stopped missing her.”

He allowed two weeks to pass before he returned to the store. This time Margaret was behind the counter. She had more color in her face than usual, from the country sun, but he could see that she blushed at the sight of him. She was not wearing the usual shop apron but had on a dress of blue dimity, with a blue ribbon in her fine light brown hair. “Mr. Comstock,” she said softly, then looked down.

“You’ve been in the country.”

“Yes, with a cousin.”

A long awkward silence spread between them. The father was frowning, banging drawers open and shut. “Miss Hamilton,” he began, “may I return when you are done with work here? Might we take a short walk together?”

Margaret glanced at her father before replying—a dutiful daughter. When, after a minute, her father nodded, she turned back to Anthony. “I should be pleased to accompany you on a short walk.”

At seven-thirty, he returned to the shop. She was waiting for him already in her cloak and bonnet. She dressed in an old-fashioned style, a bonnet instead of the large plumed hats of the current style. She wore a simple woolen cloak over her blue dress, but her gloves were new white kid. She was neat and simple, something he felt comfortable with. After they were married, he could provide her with many little items of finery that women enjoyed, for he knew all about ladies’ fashions from his job.

They walked in silence for two blocks, his arm holding hers. He must speak. They were both nervous. She tripped twice on a curb. She was so slight that although she was fairly tall for a woman, her bones felt like those of a little bird, one of those warblers he used to see in the spring and fall on his father’s farm. “Miss Hamilton, I have come to admire you greatly over the time we have been acquainted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Comstock.” She lowered her chin to her chest.

Nothing forward about her. All proper. He must act. “Miss Hamilton, it would make me extremely proud and happy if you would permit me to court you with the aim of persuading you to marry me.”

Her breath came out in a long hiss. She did not speak for a minute and he was afraid she had some objection to his suit. But she said only, “Yes, Mr. Comstock, I’d be pleased if you were to court me with the intention of proceeding toward marriage.”

He clasped her hand in his. Hers was quite cold. So for that matter was his. “I don’t want to rush you, to push you too hard.”

She smiled slightly. “I have no objection to speed, myself, but I suspect my parents will insist on a proper length of time for the engagement.”

He wished for a selfish moment that they could run off, marry and be together. But everything must be done with decorum and in the proper manner befitting the social position he intended to achieve for himself and now for Margaret too.

It proved to be a long and sometimes tedious courtship under the gaze of her watchful parents, but they moved inexorably toward marriage. The date was set for the following June. As May whittled down on his calendar,
he began to think about marriage in the physical sense. He had no clear idea what to do. On the farm, he had seen the rooster servicing his hens, but that did not help. When the cows had been freshened by the bull, he had been forbidden to watch and sent inside with his younger brothers. He had heard the farm cats yowling. His mother said they were fighting, but his older brother told him they were mating. He had no idea why they screamed. Perhaps the act was painful. Was it necessary to remove all clothing?

He did not wish to appear a fool or to risk injuring his delicate Margaret. He must find out what to do. He took time on his lunch break to visit one of those nasty bookshops that catered to young men and corrupted them. It was a simple matter to find the shelf of marriage manuals, so called, that gave explicit descriptions of the male and female body, inflaming whoever read them, and described the act as well as methods for avoiding God’s purpose for that act. He was disgusted, but he purchased one of the manuals and carried it off, along with
The Lustful Turk
and
Venus’s Miscellany.
He read it overnight, containing his outraged feelings. Now at least he knew what to expect. Then he perused the two other obscene volumes. If he were weaker in his Christian values, such books might have corrupted him, but since he read them and viewed the obscene illustrations only to acquaint himself with the kind of literature to be destroyed, he emerged unscathed.

The next day he went to the same captain of police who had assisted him before. He showed him the vile books and once again they proceeded to the shop in question with two patrolmen, confiscating all the dirty books they could find as well as a stash of French postcards he simply could not believe as he looked through them. He studied them carefully to know what he was dealing with. These bookshops were dens of iniquity indeed. Someday he would close every one of them. He would wipe them off the face of God’s earth. The two novels were rife with women who behaved without morals, shameless whores who wriggled and screamed with lust. He was confident his wife would never behave so, for she was a thoroughly virtuous woman. She would do her duty and nothing more.

Now he knew what he must do to his precious Margaret. It would be difficult for them both, but he would be man enough to perform the act. Soon they would have children to carry on the Comstock name, children to gather around him in wonderful family evenings in the parlor of the
home they would soon share. Children to rear in Christian values and to protect from all the vicious snares of the city.

He began to look for a house in earnest. After two weeks, he decided it would be much better for Margaret and for their children to come if he looked in Brooklyn. Ferries crossed the river regularly and many gentlemen traveled to their offices from homes in the city of Brooklyn, which struck him as far more respectable than Manhattan. Trees shaded the streets of family homes and solid brick and brownstone row houses, some quite fine. He had set aside five hundred dollars, free and clear, to put down on a house when he found one that pleased him.

Over the next three weeks, he looked at fourteen houses without being satisfied by any. Finally, just six days before the wedding, he saw a large two-story yellow house with a porch around three sides, nice carpentry work, a corner tower that included on the second floor a spacious master bedroom. He put his five hundred down on impulse, realizing only afterward that he had not consulted Margaret. Well, it was a bargain, a large and commodious house with excellent wood paneling and wallpaper they would not have to change. They would have to live in a boardinghouse for the first weeks, until they had it furnished, but then they would be in their own home. He told Margaret about it that evening. “It has indoor plumbing—water closets and bathtubs and running water in the kitchen sink. It has central heating, three bedrooms and a maid’s room.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect, Mr. Comstock. I look forward to seeing our new home.”

He had the most agreeable wife in the world, he was convinced. He brought her to the house and she admired it. “I will leave the furnishing of it largely to you, my Margaret, so long as you stay within the budget I have established.” It was only recently he had begun to use her given name. He constantly begged her to use his, but she demurred.