He did as they instructed, even as he heard the swish of metal rings on a curtain rod and the faint padding of bare feet on wet tile. Then he felt the hot water rise and ripple against his chin and heard light splashing.
He squinted and saw the two girls climbing in, covering themselves with hands and forearms and their tiny cotton washcloths, their bare skin pink from the hot water.
“Hey! No peeking,” Maisie said.
He covered his face with his wet hands and smiled as he felt them swimming, splashing, then sitting next to him, Maisie on one side, Fahn on the other.
“Surprise,” Fahn whispered, and Maisie giggled.
He opened his eyes as they sat hip to hip with him, water to their chins. He tried to stare directly ahead at the wall, but his eyes wandered through clouds of steam and he couldn’t help but notice their long hair floating like lotus leaves on the surface of the bath, their bare legs extended, suspended in the water. Fahn folded her washcloth into a neat square and then rested the small towel on her head. Maisie splashed hot water on her face and let it trickle down past her ears. Then they each held on to one of Ernest’s hands to keep from floating away into separate, steamy corners of the deep tub.
“Is this allowed?” Ernest asked, blushing, though he didn’t really care. His face was already flushed from the heat, masked by clouds of steam. “I don’t want us to get kicked out of here or anything…”
“You worry too much, Ernest,” Fahn said. She sank lower in the tub and her toes surfaced through the clear water, wiggling. “This is normal where we come from—and I don’t mean the Tenderloin. Besides, this is the quiet time. All the old people go home, but school isn’t out yet. This is our time.”
An old Japanese woman wandered by, collecting wet towels for the laundry and wiping down the bench seating near a row of wooden lockers and hand-painted advertisements for the Maneki restaurant and the Higo Variety Store. She did a double take when she saw the three of them soaking, likely more surprised by Maisie’s blond hair than by the three of them bathing together, but she said nothing.
“Hello there. Pleasant weather we’re having,” Ernest said. The girls laughed, but the woman’s expression remained unchanged as she continued to the boiler room and closed the door behind her.
Ernest imagined what would happen if Mrs. Irvine walked in and saw him now. He pictured her eyes widening, her jaw dropping as she clutched her garments.
Then he felt Fahn let go and slowly drift away. Maisie too. They smiled and floated, spreading out their arms and hands, their feet, their bodies occasionally touching his as he closed his eyes again.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Maisie said softly, her voice a ripple on the steamy, glassy surface of the water. “What are you thinking, Ernest?”
He searched for words that could describe this moment, this strange, marvelous joy, filled with intoxicating nervousness and thrilling emotion. The warm ocean of happiness and contentment that washed over him seemed endless. He wished Maisie and Fahn could read his mind—and that it could always be like this.
On the breezy walk home, Ernest stopped near one of the blooming cherry trees and carved a large heart with the sharp end of his hairpin. Inside the heart, he inscribed three sets of initials, while the girls twirled amid the falling blossoms.
COMING OUT, GOING AWAY
(1910)
Ernest shoveled a heaping mound of coal into the great iron boiler beneath the Tenderloin, ensuring that there would be plenty of hot water for the Gibson girls’ morning baths, though soaking in the claw-foot tubs upstairs couldn’t compare to the bliss of skinny-dipping at the sento. He closed the groaning furnace door with a worn leather mitt and felt the searing, blinding heat slowly fade away. He grabbed his shirt and put it on, buttons pulling over his broadening chest.
Ernest cleared the coal chute, restocked the supply bin, and then cleaned himself up for breakfast. When he finally made his way to the servants’ dining room, Iris, Rose, and Violet were already there, enjoying a fresh pot of tea. He greeted the ladies and took his seat at the far end of the long table. He ate a hash of last night’s ham, corn, and creamed potatoes while poring over a wrinkled copy of The Seattle Star. There was an article about a working girl named Hazel Moore, who’d been arrested and was fighting back. Her series, “My Confession,” had become popular with the upstairs girls. Ernest skimmed her tale of woe, from rural farm girl to a budding actress in musical theater. She eventually became the mistress of a wealthy man. He was now serving time on McNeil Island while her fate remained unsettled, much like what had remained of Madam Flora’s memory.
But even those troublesome tales had become lost in the latest topic of the day.
He turned the page, and Rose read over his shoulder, “Astronomers in England say the tail of Halley’s Comet is millions of miles long and made of cyanogen and could kill every one of us when the Earth passes through that poisonous gas.” She gave him a look of wide-eyed worry as she pointed to the article. “If you ask me, it’s all an omen of something terrible.”
Violet rolled her eyes, while Iris said, “What you’re suggestionizing is preposterous. It’s just a big shooting star, dear, like the Daylight Comet we saw in January. Make a wish and be done with it. The real news, Rosie, is that you’re a ninny.”
Rose sputtered as she held up the newspaper. “Every time it reappears, terrible things happen. Look at England—their king is on his deathbed. And this lady, Madame de Thebes, says there will be flooding in Paris.” Rose put her hand on her hip and cocked her head as if that settled the argument.
Of all the maids, Rose had been the most caught up in the worldwide fervor about comets, spirits, and astrology. She’d gone to see Alexander: The Man Who Knows at the Pantages Theatre. She’d even bought a Ouija board and scared half the upstairs girls out of their wits until Miss Amber made her get rid of the parlor game.
As Fahn joined them at the table, Ernest listened to their bickering, imagining Madam Flora as their personal star, streaking across the sky in a fading trail of light.
It was their end of the world: Madam’s declining health and her declining capacity for joy, business sense, poise, and charm.
While Violet and Iris went on to discuss their duties for the day, and Rose and Fahn compared notes on the handsome patrons from the night before, Ernest wondered if they too had noticed that the hysterics had become more frequent. Did they hear the flustered chatter at night, the banging on the floor, the struggle by Miss Amber to keep Madam Flora in her room when she was out of her mind and going off like a church bell? Or the sullen way Maisie carried the burden of losing her mother, echoing the cycle of good and bad days? Instead, as if determinedly looking away from what was going on in their own house, everyone seemed to talk only about sensational stories of the latest race riots, Jack Johnson carrying on with a white woman, or aeroplanes and world’s records. Though also about the motorcar and the gifts that kept arriving.
“I still can’t believe that thing!” Rose said to no one in particular. “Most men send flowers or Swiss chocolates, or maybe silk scarves, but this fellow buys us a brand-new car. Too bad he didn’t just send cash!”
Ernest looked about the room and noticed the nervous glances.
“Louis Turnbull is nothing to worry about,” said Maisie. “That old fool wasn’t content with his slice and now he wants the whole pie. Let him take a good bite and see how Madam Flora tastes now. He’ll turn tail and run—the feckless coward.”
“And how is your big promotion going, lad?” Mrs. Blackwell shouted from the kitchen, snapping Ernest out of his wandering thoughts. “Madam always wanted a real coachman. And once Professor gets done teaching you how to operate that contraption, you can take us all out for Sunday jaunts on the regular. Oh, how I’d love to soak my bunions at Green Lake Park.”