But as he scanned the neighborhood, he could see there was no peace and quiet to be had, not in theaters, noisy restaurants and saloons. Plus the streets seemed more crowded than usual, as cars and delivery wagons slowed down and more picketers were gathering for what appeared to be another rally against the newly elected mayor. Ernest spotted Mrs. Irvine addressing the crowd with a megaphone from atop a flatbed truck.
The AYP had revealed Seattle to the whole nation—the good, the bad, the outrageous. But now the wild, open town that Mayor Gill had supported was being put to the test, from its own citizens. Plus the return of Halley’s Comet had aroused yet more doomsday superstitions, worrying parishioners back into church pews, where they hedged their bets with acts of repentance. And those who already had a desire to save souls caught fire and had been joining Mrs. Irvine by the hundreds. A blessed unrest was flooding the Garment District, and Ernest wasn’t sure what might happen at the Tenderloin without Madam Flora or Miss Amber there to defend against the pious incursions.
He led Fahn across the street to the quietest spot he could find, H. J. Ellison’s Bookstore, a favorite hideaway, which was peaceful inside and smelled like coffee and leather. He led her to a row of popular novels, far from the front of the store.
“I really don’t feel up to another lesson on French literature,” Fahn mumbled as she absently browsed recent books by Harold MacGrath and Joseph Conrad. “This is my day off. Why don’t we just go home and I’ll sleep until I have to work?”
Ernest watched through the bookshop window as the crowds migrated toward the Tenderloin and the motorcars and carriages began moving again.
“Anything I can help you with?” the proprietor asked.
Ernest nodded to the man, who sat at a desk near the back of the store oiling a typewriter. A pipe dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“Pick something,” Ernest whispered to Fahn despite her protestations. “Pick something for enjoyment, not schooling. Let me buy it for you.”
As though in a fog, Fahn chose a hardback by an author named Stacpoole. She absently handed the book to Ernest, who stepped to the counter and presented the owner with a silver dollar, waiting patiently for his change.
“Ah, excellent choice,” the man said as the pipe bounced up and down from the corner of his mouth. “The book is in its seventh printing already—a bestseller. The story’s about two kids like you, marooned on a tropical island.”
Ernest paged through the book as he inhaled the scent of fresh printer’s ink and the man’s grape-flavored tobacco. Perfect. Ernest looked back at Fahn, who was now a silhouette, a beautiful mannequin that stood near the store window as the world streamed by. He thanked the owner, then led her gently, as though she were sleepwalking, out of the store and away from the crowds, upstream to the entrance of a triangle-shaped building, on the fringes of the red-light district. A giant electric sign sat atop the roof, emblazoned with letters twenty feet tall that spelled out HOTEL SEATTLE.
Ernest stared at their reflections in the polished glass door.
Why not?
He saw the resigned look in Fahn’s eyes as he led her inside and paid for a room in what had once been the Occidental Hotel. She seemed disappointed to not be going home, though somewhat expectant as well, as though this were just another chapter in the sad chronicle of her life. Ernest held her hand and walked her up the winding staircase to a room on the fifth floor overlooking the street. She sat on the bed and he took off her shoes, whispering that he could order room service, but she said she wasn’t hungry. Then Ernest loosened his tie and looked outside as he watched police officers on horseback riding into the district. There were fights in the streets, and people were throwing bottles and rocks. But from above, the scrum seemed a world away, the people like actors in a silent film. From the top of this world Ernest had a commanding view of the construction of the new Smith Tower and beyond that, the sparkling blue-green waters of Puget Sound. From here he could see trains coming and going, he could watch the ships at sail, steam billowing from their stacks, but all he could hear were the gusts of wind on panes of glass and the sound of his leather heels on the wooden floor. And even that was muffled by the carpets as he stepped back toward the bed.
Ernest propped up a pillow and urged Fahn to lie back, to relax, and to close her eyes if she wanted to. Then he took the great feather duvet and tucked it around her shoulders. He pulled up an easy chair next to the bed and sat down.
“You’re safe now,” he said.
“You’re not getting into bed with me?”
Ernest blinked. He slowly shook his head.
There was an awkward silence.
He drew a deep breath, entranced by the way her dark hair fell across the white duvet. Fahn stared back at him, searching his face for understanding.
“You know you can, if you want to,” she said. “It’s okay…”
Ernest reached out and touched her hand. “It’s not okay. And I don’t care what Miss Amber says. If she’s going to try to make you work as an upstairs girl to earn your keep, then I’m going to pay for your time—all of it, every night. Just like this.”
He patted the book, then opened to the first page. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud, pausing every so often to look up at Fahn. Her eyes were closed, and she looked tired, weary, but she also smiled as she curled beneath the covers. He hoped she was warm enough.
Ernest got comfortable and read until the evening, until Fahn fell asleep.
And then he read one more paragraph to himself:
Here it made the air a crystal, through which the gazer saw the loveliness of the land and reef, the green of palm, the white of coral, the wheeling gulls, the blue lagoon, all sharply outlined—burning, coloured, arrogant, yet tender—heartbreakingly beautiful, for the spirit of eternal morning was here, eternal happiness…
He closed the book and whispered, “I love you. I will always love you,” softly so he wouldn’t wake her. Then he put his feet up and closed his eyes as well.
LIT THE FIRE
(1962)
Ernest sat next to Gracie as she curled up on his chesterfield beneath an old blue afghan. Gracie had crocheted the blanket years ago, and although she probably didn’t remember its origin now, its vague familiarity seemed to bring her something beyond physical comfort. Just like the book that Ernest held in his lap, the same well-worn hardback he’d bought for her fifty years ago. Together, they must have read forty or fifty novels during the long year that Gracie had been required to work upstairs as a Gibson girl. But this book had always been her favorite—Ernest’s too. As he turned the pages to the last chapter, he smiled, detecting a hint of tobacco, and the burnt-almond scent of old paper.
“Keep reading,” Gracie said. “You can’t stop now.”
Ernest obliged, knowing that although they’d read this book a half dozen times, the story was now brand-new to her. By her eagerness, Ernest could tell that Gracie didn’t seem to remember that the romantic adventure ended in tragedy for the main characters. The two young lovers had finally been rescued from their deserted island, but only after consuming handfuls of poisonous berries, just when they’d thought all hope had been lost.
As Ernest read the final page, he cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, and changed the ending. He gave Gracie what he thought she needed, a grand rescue at sunset and a happily ever after for good measure.
She furrowed her brow as he closed the book.
“People don’t find real happiness in the end, do they, young Ernest?”
He regarded the wrinkles on his hands, the loose skin. He didn’t feel so young anymore. “I found you, all over again—that makes me happy.”
Gracie pursed her lips and stared into the past.
“I remember…” She paused. “I remember you and Maisie. I miss her.”
“That was a long time ago,” Ernest said. “I miss her too.”
They sat in silence for an endless minute, as Gracie continued searching, weighing something in her mind. Ernest heard a siren in the distance.