“Well, well, well,” the other girl’s voice called out.
Ernest flinched and then felt bad for recoiling when he saw Maisie—especially as she smiled up at him for the first time ever, and waved benignly.
“Geez, I’m not gonna hit you, Ernest,” she said. “Relax, willya.”
Both girls had removed their dresses and were sitting on the grating of the fire escape in their long slips, leaning on one of the crossbars, dangling their stocking-covered toes over the edge of the platform, which hovered fifty feet above the alley and the rooftops of the nearby buildings. The girls scooted over in opposite directions, inviting him to sit between them. He double-knotted the laces on his shoes, lest one come loose and tumble to the street below, then sat between them. The metal of the fire escape felt cold and hard, but he didn’t care because just to sit—to get off his weary feet—was a welcome relief.
From their perch he could see the flags atop the courthouse and the Alaska Building; he could even make out the shapes of the frescoed walruses, tusks and all, which adorned the crown of the Arctic Club. But the loveliest spectacle was that of the rippling waters of Puget Sound, deckled with lights from piers, boats, cruise ships, and freighters of every kind. He’d never seen a view from a place so high up. Then he smelled coal-fired furnaces, steam plants, and Maisie’s cigarette. He looked on, wide-eyed, as she took a deep drag and then offered it to him. He stared at the tip, glowing reddish orange in the breeze. Mrs. Irvine had dozens of names for the vice: little white slavers, dope sticks, devil’s toothpicks, the list went on. Before he could react, Fahn reached over, took the cigarette, put it to her lips, and inhaled as a moth flitted overhead.
She exhaled slowly through her nostrils, and wispy tendrils of gray smoke looped over her lips and swirled into the air. She whispered, “If you’ve never been kissed before, then I’m positive that you’ve never tried a Sweet Caporal.” She put the cigarette to his lips. “Here—don’t try to swallow the smoke, just inhale nice and gentle-like, then slowly let it all out.” Her words were lullaby soft.
Ernest didn’t want to, but one little puff seemed simple enough. So he inhaled—then coughed, lurched forward, wheezed, and gagged so much that Fahn nearly dropped the cigarette as he flailed and batted her hand away. His eyes watered and his throat burned while Maisie laughed—no, she practically roared—clutching her stomach and kicking her feet. She patted him on the back, which only made his coughing worse.
Ernest spat to the dark pavement below, caught his breath, and then spat again. He finally cleared his throat and asked Fahn, “Are we even now?” He didn’t know what was worse, embarrassing himself in front of a girl he had strange affections for, or the searing sensation in his throat and lungs. The combined humiliation seemed to magnify both, as if one plus one now equaled three, or four, or ten.
“Don’t worry,” Maisie teased, “everything at the Tenderloin gets better the second or third time around. Practice makes perfect. You’ll see. Except Amber, she gets meaner and ornerier with age. She’s old wine turned to vinegar.”
Ernest wiped his eyes and thought of Jewel.
“And no, we’re not even,” Fahn said. “You still owe me.”
Ernest picked bits of tobacco off his tongue. “What exactly do I have to do?”
Fahn smiled, paused, and then raised that mischievous eyebrow again. “You, young Ernest, have to touch lips with Maisie—the last of the great unkissed.”
Ernest’s jaw dropped. He shut his mouth, hesitated, unsure if this precocious girl was joking or not. But as nervous as he felt, he was intrigued by the dare. He found himself willing, after all; beneath her brusque tomboy exterior, Maisie was plainly beautiful. He turned to face her…
“Don’t even think about it.” Maisie stared back.
At that moment Ernest wanted to jump off the fire escape—to hurl himself into the void. Fahn laughed as she argued with Maisie about being a prude. “Everyone calls you the Mayflower because you’re like those Pilgrims on the ship who were just a bunch of stuck-up Puritans,” she jeered. “Maisie Mayflower can’t hold out forever.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Fahn added in frustration; then she lifted Ernest’s chin and kissed him. “See?”
The words stung Ernest, and he felt his bubbling affection for Fahn diminishing by the second, fondness leaving his heart like air from a leaking balloon.
He looked at Maisie, who seemed to be taking the teasing in stride, but that didn’t exactly make him feel any better. If anything, he was more confused.
“Well,” Fahn said to Ernest, rising to her feet. “I guess you’ll have to pay me back some other way. I’m sure I’ll think of something. Anyway, let’s hit the hay. I imagine we’re going to have our hands full tomorrow.” She slipped through the window and bid them good night as she headed through the room and into the hallway.
“What do we have to do tomorrow?” Ernest asked as he and Maisie climbed back into the room. “We’ve cleaned up just about everything…”
“You’ll see,” Maisie said as a serious tone slipped into her voice. Then she took a final drag and tossed the cigarette butt out the window, watching the ember sink like a falling star. “Big parties like this tend to take a toll on Madam Flora, even though she’s a real Rock of Ages. It’s all she can do these days to keep herself together with special teas and crazy medicines and all that, so she can play ringmaster for the night’s circus at the Tenderloin. But tomorrow, you’ll see. We’ll probably need your help, so get some sleep while you can.”
Ernest didn’t fully understand, but it was late, and he was exhausted, and more than happy to go to bed. He said good night and walked toward the servants’ stairs. That’s when Maisie called to him from her end of the long hallway.
“Hey, Ernest, don’t believe her. Don’t listen to Fahn.”
He turned back as she spoke again.
“A first kiss means everything.”
BOSTON MARRIAGE
(1909)
Ernest thought he was dreaming when he felt someone next to him. He opened his eyes and discovered Fahn sitting on the edge of his bed, still in her nightgown. Her hair was pulled back and she leaned in close, her soft, warm hand on his bare shoulder. His heart lurched from surprise to happiness to panic as he glanced from the open door to the window, saw the sun shining in and realized that it must be late morning. He’d overslept, missed his Sunday morning chores. “I’m sorry, I’m…”
She shushed him. “It’s okay, Ernest—it’s okay,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to startle you. I’m sorry to wake you like this, but we’re having a bit of an emergency and I need you to get dressed and put on your shoes as quickly as you can, okay?”
Ernest shook off his slumber and bolted upright. “Is it a fire?” He instinctively sniffed but didn’t smell smoke, only tobacco and the dreamy haze of last night’s perfume.
“Nothing of the sort.” She touched his arm and calmly spoke. “Madam Flora is having one of her fits. Miss Amber and Maisie are trying to calm her down, but I need you to run to the herbalist again and get more of that tea. I need you to go right now. I’ll turn around so you can put your clothes on.”
She handed him his pants and then stood and faced the door while he got dressed and donned a clean shirt. When she turned back to him, she held up a dollar bill. “Mrs. Blackwell will take care of the downstairs, there’s nothing there that you need to trouble yourself with. And the upstairs girls, for the most part, are still sleeping—they have the day off. Everything will be fine, but this is…”