“Bring your bathing suit and we’ll make a day of it,” Ernest promised.
The ladies laughed and Ernest smiled. Professor True had already given him three weeks’ worth of driving lessons. His most recent had been a starting, stopping, stalling, lurching journey in which they’d traveled a whole twelve blocks to J. Redelsheimer & Co., where he’d been fitted for a leather driving coat, butter-soft gloves, goggles, and a cap. He knew Madam Flora couldn’t afford it, but she had insisted.
He’d been told that when he passed his twelve-question driving test, he’d begin taking Madam Flora and Miss Amber to their numerous weekly doctor appointments all around the city.
Meanwhile some of the Gibson girls were less eager to start riding in the car. They’d read articles in respectable magazines regarding the fact that traveling at such high speeds—as fast as twenty miles per hour—might cause acute mental suffering, nervous excitement, and circulatory problems in women. Other articles questioned the propriety of a man and a woman traveling together in an automobile.
But as Maisie had said, “What does Madam Flora have to lose either way?” She’d laughed broadly and asked Ernest to start the car.
—
THAT DAY THE roads were bone dry and the sun was shining, so Miss Amber sent Ernest out with Professor True for another lesson—another battle, really. Ernest tenderly retarded the spark plug so he could start the thing, only to wrestle with the pedals and the gearbox, the throttle and the brake lever.
“And take our darling ragamuffin twins with you, while you’re at it,” Miss Amber had said. Ernest felt nervous but excited about finally taking them for a spin.
“Don’t think of us as passengers,” Maisie teased. “Think of us as victims.”
“Survivors,” Fahn said. “We’re safer here than on the sidewalk!”
They sat in the back, laughing and crowing, but seemed more apprehensive than when they’d waited in line for the Fairy Gorge Tickler. They kept finding things inside the motorcar to hold on to, looking for ways to brace themselves.
“How do you know so much about driving, Professor?” Fahn asked as the musician cranked the starter rod. If he minded playing mechanic while still wearing his evening tuxedo, he didn’t show his displeasure.
The Professor shouted above the roar of the engine, “I don’t! But I know how to work an engine, baby doll. Spent a winter helping my brother operate an ice cutter back in the day, made from a repurposed motor. The rest…ah, we’ll keep figuring it out together.” He jumped into the front passenger seat next to Ernest and patted him on the back. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Ernest tried not to think about the car turning turtle on the sidewalk, or crashing into a bus. He was more mature, at least, than some of the other chauffeurs on the road. Boys as young as eleven were being enlisted as drivers all over the city.
“When do I get a turn?” Maisie asked.
“Right about the time I run for president,” Professor True said. “You know Madam and Miss Amber: there are some things a proper woman just doesn’t do, and driving an automobile is one of ’em.”
Ernest refrained from noting the irony of things a proper woman at the Tenderloin doesn’t do.
“Well, when I get the vote,” Maisie argued, “I’m going to make sure women can drive anytime they want…”
“As fast as we want,” Fahn added.
“Why would you want to drive when you’ve got me as your chauffeur?” Ernest interrupted as he stepped on a pedal, lurching the roadster into high gear. Then the car stalled in the middle of the street as another car veered around them. “Don’t answer that.”
“Things are gonna change,” Maisie said. “You just wait and see…”
“Now you sound like Mrs. Irvine,” Ernest said as he started the car again and they motored up First Avenue, around the Bon Marché, Frederick & Nelson, and Knosher’s clothier. Then he pulled hard on the brake lever as he turned a corner and had to swerve to avoid hitting an oncoming trolley. Professor True held on to his hat while singing the melody of “The Longest Way ’Round Is the Sweetest Way Home.”
As Ernest straightened the wheel, Fahn wrapped her arms around his neck and sang the chorus into his ear, “Two young lovers strolled down by the stream, said the maid with a smile, as they crossed o’er the stile…”
“Keep it in one piece, son,” Professor True said as Ernest drifted one tire up onto the sidewalk and back down again. Fahn stopped singing and let go, laughing.
“Madam might need this thing,” Professor True added. “Sounds as though she and Miss Amber will be taking a cruise to San Francisco to see some special doctors—might be down there a few months, and this kind of newfangled medicine don’t come on the cheap. Money is tight without Madam Flora at her fighting best, so they’re talking about maybe selling this car to pay for the trip.”
Ernest was both surprised and relieved to hear someone finally speak frankly and openly about Madam Flora’s condition. He blew a spot of dust from the dashboard, disappointed at the thought of losing such an amazing new machine right when he was getting the hang of things. He wasn’t sure what to believe.
“When did you hear this?” Maisie asked. She held down the hem of her dress as the fabric blew in the wind. “Who told you that?”
“Miss Amber told me last night, Mayflower. I thought you knew.”
Before breakfast Ernest had overheard Mrs. Blackwell mention there’d be some kind of announcement tonight. He assumed the big news was another dinner party like the Victorian, rose-themed Valentine’s Day gala. Or the bawdy Easter egg hunt Madam Flora had celebrated upstairs. Though some of the servants had been murmuring about possible wage cuts or longer weekend hours.
Ernest slowed down and honked, tipping his hat to a group of ladies on the street who waved as they trundled across. Why send me out for driving lessons if they planned to sell the car? he wondered.
Then he felt Fahn’s hands on his shoulders again as she leaned forward and whispered, “This is my big chance, young Ernest.”
—
THAT AFTERNOON, AFTER lunch and their midday duties were attended to, Ernest sat with Maisie taking a break on his fire escape, sipping glasses of fresh, tart lemonade. They dangled their bare feet as they watched a steamship, probably loaded with millworkers and bindle punks, chugging toward Bainbridge Island beneath a trailing cloud of smoke. They counted the vessels in the mosquito fleet as well as the smaller boats, which shuttled downtowners to Alki Point and families to Luna Park.
Ernest stretched his back. The weather was unusually nice. The rains of March had been absent and the warm sunshine felt like a gift. Now that Maisie’s blond hair was longer, it fluttered in the breeze, and curls brushed Ernest’s face, tickling his cheek.
“Sorry,” she said as she tied her hair back with a piece of ribbon. “I’m not allowed to cut my hair, by order of Madam Flora and Miss Amber, all part of their conspiracy to make a lady out of me, the next grande dame. Like I’d want their jobs…”