The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (11 page)

“The
Queen of the Underworld is never off her feed, Mr. Heald,” she answers tartly.

“Well,
then. I expect such tenderheartedness from my. . . .that is, from the ladies of
the Western Addition. Not from the Queen of the Underworld, eh?” Mr. Heald’s
eyes glisten at Jessie’s self-proclaimed title, which is as much a flattery to
her as a titillation to him.

“Oh,
you expect, do you, Mr. Heald? Well, the Queen of the Underworld says there is
a place for sin and a time for sin. And that time and that place is not during
my Fourth of July promenade in the park.”

Jessie
gasps for breath, she is so truly distraught. Then she does her act. One of her
acts. She breaks out into tears, great fat raindrops of tears, the kind that can
really drench the heart of Mr. Heald and all the likes of Mr. Heald. She fans
herself furiously, peeking through her deluge at his mortified face.

“Now,
Jessie,” Mr. Heald says gently. “I had no notion
you
were such a
patriot.” He fumbles in his vest and pulls out a fistful of double eagles. He
spills them on the table for the pleasure of her company.

“Thank
you, Mr. Heald.” Jessie permits herself a trembling little smile.

Oh,
how she loves double eagles! Her favorite of all the gold coins circulating in
San Francisco. So pretty. Madame De Cassin says the American eagle is really
the phoenix, the mythical bird that never dies. He just hatches over and over
again from the flames and lives forever. Jessie loves that idea. The phoenix is
like the soul, dying and being born again in the Summerland. Like her Rachael,
her sweet innocent Rachael who speaks to her from the Summerland, thanks to Madame
De Cassin’s expertise. Double eagles. Jessie wouldn’t think of taking anything
less, let alone that worthless paper money. Government certificates, pah. You
cannot even bite them.

“Let
us forget all about those hoodlums,” Mr. Heald says, watching as she turns the
coins over in her palm, fingering them, stroking them. He tugs at the buttons
on his trousers. “Let us forget all about the heathen Chinee, and the park, and
all such argle-bargle, shall we? Let us go upstairs.”

Jessie
snaps the fan shut and smartly slaps the ivory rib of it against his plump
cheek. “Forget about the highbinders? I should say not! You are a coward, Mr.
Heald. I’ll entertain no cowards today. Mariah!”

The
maid climbs down from the fire escape, her black skirts billowing around her
ankles. Not some auntie or chippy is Jessie’s Mariah, oh no. Mariah is a prize,
one of the coveted Negro maids hired straight out of the Palace Hotel for a
pretty penny. Mariah takes as high a wage as a hotel chef, since she can cook
something grand, keeps the boardinghouse spotless, and keeps her mouth shut.
Mariah knows exactly how to behave around the likes of Mr. Heald. She demurely
draws her skirts through the window and glares at the gentleman with so evil an
eye that Mr. Heald blanches visibly.

Now
Jessie is in distress. After all this excitement, her liver positively throbs.
She cannot see a caller in this condition. “Fetch me my Scotch Oats Essence,
Mariah. And be quick! I feel faint.”

Mariah
scurries for the medicine and a spoon of pure gold. How Jessie loves gold! And
how she loves the pale green bottle filled with the precious medicine. The label
depicts a buxom, apple-cheeked mother stirring a brew in a cast-iron cauldron
while a bevy of cupids flutter all around her on pink wings. Mariah expertly
slides a dose through Jessie’s lips, and in a trice, Jessie feels absolutely
healthful again. The delicious bitter tonic slides down her throat with a burning
sensation, yet swells her head with a sanguine joy that assures her she will
live forever, never mind the ache in her liver.

She
slides the fan into her sleeve and peers in the mirror again. She always looks
so much better after a dose of Scotch Oats Essence. “Not bad for forty,” she
tells her reflection. Forty years old? Can it really be? She smooths some
ruby-colored balm over her pursed lips. Mr. Heald watches her, his mouth
falling slightly open, his eyes glazed. He likes to watch her put on makeup. A
lot of men do. Them Snob Hill ladies never use face paint. That’s why them Snob
Hill ladies always look so plain, in spite of their fancy togs.

“You
don’t look a day over twenty, Jessie,” Mr. Heald says in a ragged whisper.

“Nor
am I, darlin’,” she tells him. He is so eager, he’ll pay double the usual when
she gets around to entertaining him again. “Nor am I.”

*  
*   *

“Joaquin
Miller sent me,” the caller tells her. He leaves off brushing dust from his
jacket and politely bows, then pulls out a smoke and lights it, his hands
trembling.

Li’l
Lucy gazes at him as if he were a shot of fine-aged bourbon and she a-dyin’ of
thirst.

Jessie
enters the foyer regally, Mr. Heald ambling behind her like a courtier at her
beck and call, his respectable appearance enhancing her own prestige. The
caller examines them curiously. Jessie loves making a grand entrance like one
of them Snob Hill ladies.

“Joaquin
Miller,” she says. “Now, there’s a good egg even if he is an odd bird. He says
he gimped that leg of his fighting the wild Cherokee, but have you noticed he
never limps on the same foot twice? I am Miss Jessie Malone, proprietress and
landlady of this establishment. What’s your name, buster?”

“I
am Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris.”

“Paris!
You just blew in from Paris?” Jessie whips out her fan, concealing her
excitement behind the lace. “Are they still wearing bustles in Paris, Mr.
Watkins?”

“Heavens,
no, Miss Malone. Mr. Worth has eliminated the bustle in his latest creations,
which I for one most approve of. Now a gentleman can admire the long, slow
sweep of a lady’s hip. Do you not agree, sir?” he says to Mr. Heald.

Mr.
Heald stares, stupefied.

Li’l
Lucy turns beet red and giggles like a lunatic.

Jessie
shushes the girl but she can barely contain herself, either. A gentleman who
can yap about Paris fashions! About Mr. Worth’s latest creations! Can you
imagine! But her suspicious nature kicks up. Is he one of those odd birds who
attends drag parties? She’s been hired to attend drag parties. There was one on
Snob Hill where the whiskey magnate demanded that she lace up his corset extra
tight. The long, slow sweep of a lady’s hip, indeed.

“Sure
and aren’t you an outspoken young gentleman.” Jessie saunters over to him and
circles him, making a show of brushing dust from the back of his jacket. She
runs her hand down the long, slow sweep of his back. Young and vigorous, all
right, with some little gun tucked in the back of his belt. It would be a
crying shame for the ladies of San Francisco if he turned out to be a fairy.
“You have an interest in ladies’ fashions?”

“Only
when they’re being discarded.”

Li’l
Lucy presses her palm to her mouth.

“And
Mr. Worth,” Mr. Watkins continues smoothly, “has widened the sleeves and the
front of the skirt. Tightened the waist and added fullness to the bosom, pardon
my language, miss,” he says to Li’l Lucy, who is beside herself with giggles.
“So that a lady like yourself, Miss Malone, will show the perfect figure. Like
an hourglass, is how they put it.”

What
gentleman in this burg has flattered her so shamelessly, can anyone tell her
that? Jessie tosses her head and stands back, trying to size him up. Is Mr.
Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris a little too smooth? What
is he, anyway? A gambler or a tool? She’s been scammed and chiseled before.
She’ll tolerate no deadheads in
her
establishment.

“Tighten
the waist?” she says forlornly, kneading her aching liver through the corset.

Now Mr.
Watkins circles around her, staring blatantly, inspecting her. “I fear you
will
have to nip it in. But just a bit, Miss Malone.”

Jessie
hasn’t blushed in fifteen years. The heat in her cheeks must be a sudden fever.
“Jar me, we can all stand for some improvement.” Then she frowns. The Queen of
the Underworld has a skin as thick as buffalo hide. She will not be stung by
this pup’s insolence. She seizes a heavy brass ashtray, shoves it in his hands.
“Smoking is permitted only in the smoking parlor, Mr. Watkins. I despise the
demon weed.”

“I
do apologize,” he murmurs, stamps out the smoke, and shuts his trap. A wary
look of exhaustion crosses his face. It suddenly occurs to Jessie that young
Mr. Watkins looks rather green about the gills. She glares at Li’l Lucy, who
stops giggling at once. She sniffs, detecting the stink of choke-dog beneath
the tobacco.

“What
can I do for you, sir?” She crosses her arms and taps her toe, looking him up
and down with a thundercloud on her face.

“Miss
Malone, I am looking to lease a suite of rooms. I would prefer my own water
closet and bath, if this fine establishment boasts such amenities. I’m told you
may have something available.”

Jessie
considers the possibilities. As it is, Li’l Lucy will have to add two weeks to
the term of her contract for her medical treatment and resting-up time at
Dupont Street. It’s high time for Li’l Lucy to get back to work. “Mr. Watkins,
this fine establishment boasts many things, and a suite with a private water
closet and bath is one of them. This young lady was just about to move out, wasn’t
you, dear? Get packin’, Lucy.”

She
stares at Li’l Lucy, who cringes and dashes back up the stairs. Li’l Lucy is pushing
nineteen years of age. She is getting long in the tooth and dim in the noggin.
Jessie watches her go. If Li’l Lucy suffers another medical problem, Jessie
will have to move her to the cribs on Morton Alley, and that’s that. The biz is
the biz.

“There
is just one problem, a minor one, I’m sure,” Mr. Watkins says with a lovely
smile. He pats his pockets for a smoke with the blind gesture of habit and
finds one. Then he recalls her injunction and twirls the ciggie mournfully
though his nicotine-stained fingers.

Jessie
sighs. Young and vigorous. And insolent. And on the make. “Sure and you cannot
pay me right away.”

He
looks at her, all fraudulent innocence and cunning and genuine desperation
aging his youthful face into an odd sort of mask. As if a wholly different
person stands before her for a moment.

What
is happening? Something strange! Jessie’s breath catches in her throat.
Fireworks pop and crackle overhead, and she starts, her heart fluttering.

Then
a horse clatters on the cobblestones outside, and the spell is broken, and poor
Mr. Watkins looks like nothing so much as sick, lost kid.

Through
the window, Jessie spies Madame De Cassin. What a fine lady she is, too. Jessie
smiles as the dashing spiritualist leaps off her black stallion, ties him to
the hitching post, and stomps up the stairs. She bursts into the foyer without
ringing the bell, splendid in her billowing black cape, black riding habit, and
tall black boots. She always smells of horses, leather, and lavender oil.
Madame De Cassin surveys Mr. Watkins with a piercing glance and, without hesitation,
says, “Well, give him a room, Miss Malone, but he’ll want to watch his step.
I’ll wager you’re born under the sign of Aries, sir, am I correct?”

Jessie
fairly bursts with joy. Madame De Cassin is the most respected, most
sought-after expert in matters of the occult in this burg. Sure and the
spiritualist has never laid eyes on Mr. Watkins before, yet she offers her
opinion of him in less than a trice.

“You
see?” Jessie says. “Madame De Cassin knows everything!”

“Aries,
then, sir?” says Madame De Cassin. “The headstrong ram?”

“I
haven’t the slightest notion, madame,” Mr. Watkins says and lights another smoke
in spite of Jessie’s admonition. Mr. Heald pats perspiration off his forehead
and grins tightly. The spiritualist
has
laid eyes on Mr. Heald before.

“Well,
what I do know is this
,
my dear,” Madame De Cassin says to Jessie,
tossing her riding whip on the side table, together with her black riding hat with
its jet beads and black plumes. She flexes her hands, which she always keeps
gloved in the finest black kid, and imperiously surveys them all. “I do know
it’s a fine time to call upon the sweet spirits.”

 “Mariah!
Li’l Lucy!” Jessie calls. “Get the sitting room ready.”

Madame
De Cassin boldly stares at Mr. Watkins. “Are you a believer sir?”

“A
believer in what?” Mr. Watkins stares back, bold as you please.

“In
communication with dead.” To Mr. Heald, “How about you, sir? Have you ever
spoken with the sweet spirits? Indeed, have you ever spoken truthfully with
your wife?”

But
Jessie is too excited to pay much attention to Mr. Heald’s scarlet face and sputtering
breath. “Sure and we have enough people to sit for a séance, do we not, Madame
de Cassin, if we include the gentlemen and Li’l Lucy? Have you ever sat at
séance, Mr. Watkins?” she says, taking his arm. “Mariah! Bring us the sherry.”

*  
*   *

Jessie’s
sitting room is a small inner chamber with no windows, one door, and one
low-burning brass gaslamp left unpolished so that a dark green patina has mottled
the metal. The walls are heavily draped in black velvet. Even on this sunny
day, the sitting room broods untouched by any natural light. A large round wooden
table stands at the chamber’s center, surrounded by eight plain wooden chairs.
A single brass candlestick holding a squat black candle thick with wax
drippings juts up from the table’s center.