—
ERNEST THOUGHT ABOUT Maisie’s words as he worried about Fahn. He missed her terribly. She’d been gone only a few days, but no one had seen her, no one had heard from her. Everyone hoped for the best—certain that she’d calm down and return. But Ernest had scoured the neighborhood, to no avail.
In the meantime there were preparations to be made for Maisie’s big night. And if the finest parlor joint in Seattle was hard-pressed for money, Miss Amber didn’t acknowledge such concerns as she gave Ernest precise instructions. Maisie was not to settle for a frilly one-piece sorority dress, even the elegant kind offered at Frederick & Nelson. Instead a tailor at J. A. Baillargeon’s would take care of her personally.
When they arrived at the clothier, Ernest parked the motorcar out front and opened the door for Maisie. He helped her alight to the curb like he’d been taught by Professor True, and he tipped his hat to the uniformed valet who ushered them along a purple carpet on the sidewalk and through the double doors into the posh clothier. Ernest’s leather heels clicked on the polished wooden floor, and his dark uniform stood out in sharp contrast to the rows of glass display cases, and the columns of white marble that supported a pressed tin ceiling. Dozens of elegantly dressed mannequins stood in repose beneath an array of crystal tulip lighting, backlit by sconces that looked like glowing seashells.
Ernest stood next to Maisie, hands behind his back, feeling conspicuously out of place as she handed Madam Flora’s calling card to a slender man who wore a monocle around his neck.
He bowed and then kissed Maisie’s outstretched hand. “You must be the one and only Miss Margaret Nettleton—I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. For years I’ve worked with Flora, and it is such an honor to meet her spirited little sister.” He fished out a silver pocket watch. “And you’re right on time.”
“Please, call me Maisie.”
The man then said, “Your boy can wait outside.”
“This is my driver and colleague, Ernest Young,” said Maisie. “He has excellent taste, so I value his opinion. I’m sure you won’t mind if he has a seat.”
Ernest smiled, silently cheering Maisie for her refusal to be pushed around. Even as the clothier sneered down his nose at Ernest’s outfit, his black leather gloves, and the driver’s cap, which he’d removed and tucked beneath his arm.
“Of course, be my guest,” the tailor chirped as he donned an obliging smile, one reserved for wealth. “Let’s begin this little adventure of ours.”
Ernest sat on a tall stool and watched as the tailor put a shellac record on a windup Victrola, playing an Italian ballad. Maisie was offered a cup of English tea with milk and honey as the slender man discussed her preferences. Then the real work began as she stood on a platform and was measured in every way imaginable. Ernest looked on as Maisie disappeared behind a large Coromandel screen, followed by a trio of seamstresses, who attended to her like a flock of fairy godmothers.
Maisie periodically reappeared, each time wearing a gown more elegant than before. Ernest loved them all, even the heavy white linen dresses that Maisie rolled her eyes at. She finally settled on an elegant design of white satin. Over her bare skin she wore a guimpe of lace that had been held in place by pearl-topped dress pins. The sheen of the new machine-made fabric was all the rage, and made her lightly freckled skin look like creamy silk, almost translucent, shimmering beneath the humming electric glow of the store.
Ernest watched Maisie become more beautiful with each incarnation of fabric and sequined lace. He almost forgot that she wasn’t dressing for him.
“What do you think?” Maisie asked.
He opened his mouth but found his capacity for rational thought to be temporarily impaired. He tried not to imagine who would eventually be removing Maisie’s party dress. Or Fahn’s silk robe, for that matter. The girl whom he had shared a balloon ride with was drifting away. And the girl who had stolen his first kiss was expanding her collection.
“Ernest, your opinion please?”
“You don’t really want to know what I’m thinking.”
“You’re a man,” the slender man said. “Your opinion always matters.”
“If my opinion mattered, this wouldn’t be happening.” He tried to reconcile his feelings—balancing what he wanted so much with how little he actually could attain. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
“And…spoken like a man,” the tailor said with a groan.
“Thanks.” Maisie shook her head. “You’re a big help.”
Ernest stared at Maisie, her reflections—facets in the many mirrors that surrounded her. She wore no makeup, no eye shadow or lip rouge. Her hair wasn’t curled or pressed like that of the upstairs girls. She looked like the stubborn Mayflower he’d always known, but with longer tresses now and a ballroom dress that made her look like royalty. Through the kaleidoscope of Ernest’s imagination, she looked more beautiful than all the Jewels in all the Tenderloins in all the red-light districts in the whole world. But in this moment, he found himself feeling guilty for admiring her. As if doing so made him complicit, somehow in league with the men who would be bidding.
The world is upside down, spinning backward, Ernest thought. And what about Fahn? She was somewhere, selling herself as well, though deprived of such luxury.
The slender man snapped his fingers and left to get something. Maisie posed in front of Ernest, one hand on her hip, her head cocked to the side. She pursed her lips and batted her eyes.
“How much would you pay for me?”
Ernest felt tongue-tied.
“Why so quiet? What’s there to think about?”
Ernest smiled and looked away.
Maisie laughed. “Aside from that.”
Ernest finally laughed as well. “I was worth a cardboard ticket when they raffled me off—the going rate for a novelty. But for you, I suppose I’d pay the going rate—plus a nickel,” he said.
“And what would you want in return?” Maisie asked casually. Her eyes reminded him of the way she had looked floating above the world, amid the fireworks.
Ernest shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You wouldn’t want anything?”
All I want is everything.
He shook his head again.
He kept his mouth shut and took a deep breath, exhaling from a place in his chest that ached with sadness and longing. He couldn’t bring himself to speak about things he wanted, things he could never have, either for himself or for the people he loved, so he turned away. He pretended to be interested in a display of fur coats made from mink and fox, though he couldn’t look at them without remembering the wild and beautiful things that had been trapped to make them.
FIVE THOUSAND REASONS
(1910)
After dinner, Ernest sat next to Professor True on his well-worn piano bench and watched the musician’s long fingers dance across the polished ivories playing the hit song “Chinatown, My Chinatown.” When the Professor reached the chorus he drew a deep breath and crooned, “Where the lights are low, hearts that know no other land, drifting…drifting to and fro…”
Ernest listened and touched the spot on the mantel that used to belong to an old windup metronome. He remembered seeing it earlier in the week, atop Madam Flora’s messy desk—Miss Amber had placed it there so that the tick-tock motion would soothe the grande dame. Ernest had watched, fascinated by Madam Flora’s twitching eyes as the swaying arm of the oaken box enthralled her. Ernest found himself squarely jealous of her madness, which insulated her from the world more than Miss Amber ever could.