Ernest listened to the women bicker back and forth about propriety and decorum, interrupting one another, chewing each other’s words with their mouths open, their teeth bared, their nostrils flaring, cheeks reddening. As they inched closer to each other, the day seemed to grow more confusing and unreal by the moment. Ernest observed this as their arguing became background noise, blending into the sounds of the fair—a distant rock tumbler, a melodious pipe organ, laughing children on a carousel, the glassy popping of flash powder. He noticed that in this group of painted ladies, the older women had made their faces appear younger, while the younger ones, barely out of their teens, were made up to look older. But there was a certain wit about all of them, like every look was a dare, a threat, and a promise.
They all seemed pleasant enough. Ernest thought that any one of them would be a million times preferable to the monotony of the boarding school. Where life was a song with only one note. No melody, and no chorus, just a flat monotonous tone.
Ernest didn’t feel entirely comfortable, but he was at least intrigued by the thought of going home with any one of these gay young ingénues. He wondered where each of them lived, who their husbands were. Did they have other children?
That’s when Ernest saw the littlest one—not a woman at all, a young girl, really, and barely a wisp of one at that. Ernest noticed her as she stood on the edge of the verbal melee, in a purple knee-high dress with a monogrammed M, fringed with lace, and beguiling blond hair cut so short that she almost looked like a boy—almost. She wore an outrageous hat, similar to that of Miss Florence, the leader of the pack. But instead of peacock feathers this queer girl had a pair of stuffed hummingbirds set atop her brim. Ernest noticed her wide, luminous eyes—pools of blue ice, with freckles of summer generously sprinkled on her nose and cheeks.
They observed each other in a silent staring contest, which lasted only half a minute but stretched to infinity in grade school years, until Ernest’s tear ducts burned and he blinked his surrender. The girl rolled her eyes and gazed back. Her confounding expression seemed filled with something like loathing—like a long-held grudge for a sin he hadn’t yet committed. She stepped toward him and revealed what appeared to be the world’s most perfect candied apple—a treat that looked like a ruby atop a stick. It sparkled and shimmered like the Star of India.
She hadn’t yet taken a bite.
Ernest stirred himself from his shocked stupor and waved a polite greeting.
The strange girl regarded him with a glare. Then she looked at the candied apple that he’d clearly admired as though she’d momentarily forgotten the thing was there. She paused and seemed to appreciate her reflection in the hard, candy-coated surface. Then she tipped it upside down, holding the stick with two fingers, like the tail of a dead rat. Ernest watched as she stalked to a nearby garbage can, stared back at him, tilted her head, and dropped the apple in the trash with a hollow thump.
TENDERLOIN
(1909)
Ernest sat with his knapsack on his lap in the backseat of a lurching taxi, a jostling Model T. He was sandwiched between the large woman with the big hat and the girl who hated him for reasons unknown. Most of the other ladies had opted for the trolley, dinner in the city, and a bit of light shopping, he’d been told.
Not the family I imagined, Ernest thought, as he stared out the window and watched the sun set on the waters of Puget Sound. He felt like a tumbleweed, blown by the wind, rolling to the southern edge of town.
Mrs. Irvine had put up a good fight, even though Ernest didn’t fully understand her reasons. She had argued, grabbed the tickets, and thrown them into the air. She’d shoved Ernest behind her, and he’d watched the pieces rain down like ticker tape on a parade, which created a peculiar appearance of celebration, a joyful moment amid the bickering, until a broad-bellied man in a wool suit broke up the fracas. He fingered his walrus mustache and then reached deep into his overstuffed waistcoat, buttons ready to burst, and pulled out a gold badge. Ernest thought he had come to Mrs. Irvine’s rescue just in time, but she called the man a no-good jackal and a scoundrel. The hollering and caterwauling was the closest he’d ever heard Mrs. Irvine come to swearing.
As the taxi veered around a carriage, and Ernest thought about Mrs. Irvine possibly being on the wrong side of the law, he was compelled to reevaluate everything he’d ever been told, to reconsider everything he’d known.
For instance, he’d never been in a motorcar. He’d heard that they were ugly, noisy, graceless, foul-smelling contraptions. But as they passed a brigade of crossing sweepers, cleaning up road apples and swatting flies, Ernest thought otherwise. He settled into the polished leather seats, which smelled better than a saddled horse.
He had never once been near the mysterious part of Seattle that lay south of Yesler Way, a street better known as the Deadline. His teachers had talked for years about sewer rats that plagued the area, and rattlesnakes, and about the wolves that prowled the White Chapel District, waiting to sink their teeth into the good people of Seattle, which a local song had dubbed the Peerless City. Ernest had imagined lanky, sinuous creatures with sharp claws and tangles of mangy fur, but as he looked out at the avenue, all he saw were signs for dance halls and saloons. He even heard a fiddle playing a happy tune in the distance as the gaslights on the street corners flickered to life, turning the damp sidewalks a ruddy orange hue. Everything, from the brick buildings to the sidewalks to the lampposts and park benches, looked polished and new, even the brewers’ trucks that seemed to be on every corner.
Ernest looked up at Madam Florence. The woman hadn’t bothered to remove her hat, and the feathery plume swept back and forth against the canvas top of the motorcar as she turned her head. He tried to evaluate what kind of creature she must have been in Mrs. Irvine’s eyes.
She seemed to notice him staring. “First time below the line, I take it?”
Ernest nodded.
The woman smiled and pointed out the window. “It’s not hard to understand when you think about it. North of the line was settled by Arthur Denny—who didn’t drink. South of the line was all land owned by Doc Maynard, who, shall we say, ‘enjoyed his libations.’ So, young man, to the north you get City Hall, the courts, and the police station, and to the south we have booze, casinos, and all kinds of canoodling. That’s Seattle for you, the land of the haves and the why nots?”
Ernest thought her explanation made more sense than the schoolteacher’s fables.
“I’m Florence Nettleton, by the way. But you may call me Madam Flora.” She handed him the winning ticket. “I saved this one for you, a little souvenir of this auspicious day. After all, we’re both winners, aren’t we?” Then she pointed at the others with her cigarette holder. “This is Jewel in the front seat. She’s one of my newer girls. And that’s my baby sister, Margaret—my little hummingbird, but we all call her Maisie May. Say hello, sweetheart.”
“Just Maisie,” the girl answered without bothering to turn away from the nearest window. She removed her hat and wedged it between them.
Ernest hesitated for a moment. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. So much he wanted to know about his new family and about the White Chapel District—like how the neighborhood had gotten its name. As he looked around, he noticed a barber, a haberdasher, and a few tailors—he even saw casinos—but didn’t see a single church.
“You’ll be living here with me, at Washington Court.” Madam Flora pointed to a four-story brick building on the corner as the car’s brakes squealed and the tires ground to a halt. “Your old friend, Mrs. Irvine, once called this part of Seattle a bottomless cauldron of sin and hellfire. The Duwamish Indians, on the other hand, called this area the Crossing-Over Place; that’s how I like to think of this neighborhood. What do you think?”
Ernest stared up at the new building and shrugged. “Looks nice enough to me.”