The Ripper's Wife

37

The tail end of 1920 found me in Atlantic City, recovering from jaundice and a gallbladder operation, performed at a charity hospital by a doctor who was adamant that I should give up drinking. Something he said must have struck a chord so deep within me I couldn’t consciously hear it. I had, incredibly, come out of the darkness into the light. It just happened. Maybe it was one of God’s tiny miracles? I just woke up one day and decided that I was tired of being drunk, tired of being pushed, punched, and pawed, and just tired of being tired all the time. I had a little money. A Mr. Alden Freeman, a philanthropist who used to attend my lectures, had died and remembered me with a small bequest in his will. So I made my way to Atlantic City. I thought the salty air might bring clarity and help me find a new and better way to live.

I hadn’t felt better or more hopeful in years. I had even woken up that morning thinking I might like to take up china painting again. I’d always loved it so when I was a girl and had time for such things. Maybe I could rent a little stall and sell my handiwork? I was letting my hair go natural after years of hennaing and dyeing it a harsh, brassy blond, and letting my skin breathe freely, devoid of makeup after years of tumbling into bed drunk with more paint on my face than a Rembrandt.

After my operation, my hair had gone all stringy and started to fall out and I had reluctantly surrendered to the nurse’s suggestion that I have it bobbed. After all those years of enforced prison shearings I thought that was another thing I’d never do again. I shut my eyes and trembled and tears seeped out from under my tightly clenched lids when I felt the cold steel of the scissors against the nape of my neck. But afterward I was glad that I did it. My head felt surprisingly light and cool, and all the ladies at the salon said the style suited me beautifully and took years off me.

As soon as I got to Atlantic City, I had bought myself a new blue-and-white-striped dress and a white straw hat with long blue ribbon streamers and was strolling idly on the boardwalk, smiling over a little sack of pink and white saltwater taffy, remembering how I used to love my candy-pink dresses and candy-striped corset until Alice Yapp put it on and spoiled it for me. I could almost laugh about it now without being too bitter. I was thinking that I might like to try for a job in one of the tiny taffy shops that dotted the boardwalk. I was older now and I was finally starting to make peace with the loss of my son. Maybe I would be calmer now and not frighten the shop’s eager little patrons? It was worth a try, I thought, and popped another taffy into my mouth. When I bit down I felt the most excruciating pain.

Fortunately, I was able to procure a dentist’s appointment that very afternoon on account of a last-minute cancellation and I had money enough to attend to that rotten tooth. I was sitting there waiting, flipping through a copy of Photoplay magazine and trying not to be too nervous, when I came to a picture that made my heart jump.

It was him—the Biograph boy! Full page, in profile, it was unmistakable! Handsome, sensitive, sweet, and vulnerable, he still had the power to pull at my heart. All grown-up, he was still that same boy. My mind raced back to 1908, where I could see him in living color not just as a flat black and white printed page, and the day I had dared brush back his dark hair and let my fingers linger caressingly over his face. At last I learned his name; it was Bobby—Bobby Harron. It suited him perfectly; no other could be more fitting. I smiled. However had I missed him becoming a movie star? Had I really been that tired and drunk? I’d have to make a point of seeing his next picture; I was so excited I was of half a mind to wait until the nurse’s back was turned and tear the page out for my scrapbook, I was so proud of him. My own son had shunned the gift of beauty God had given him and chosen math and mechanics over being worshiped and adored as a matinée idol, but, I couldn’t believe it; my sweet, shy little Biograph boy—I still couldn’t help but think of him as mine even though I only knew him for a few precious minutes all those years ago—had become a movie star! Then I read the small print under his picture: “The boy you knew”—Why was it in past tense? I started to feel the sneaking creep of fear, but I kept on reading—“on the screen was the real Robert Harron, ‘Bobby,’ as friends and fans called him—human, lovable, genuine. His passing, as a result of an accidentally inflicted bullet wound, left a place no one can fill.”

I automatically turned the page, hoping for more details, as though knowing more would in any way change anything. Even if I knew everything he would still be dead, just like my son. My eyes skimmed over the words without reading them until one popped off the page like a boxer’s fist—Intolerance. That was why he’d seemed so familiar! But I hadn’t been able to see past the drama and the dark mustache he was sporting for that particular picture. Distracted by the similarity to my own story, I let myself be convinced that it was all a trick of the mind, only it wasn’t; there was another, much deeper, reason he’d been able to capture my heart without saying a word. “The Boy” on the screen was my Biograph boy. And now he was dead, just like my son. Bobby was only twenty-seven. Bobo died at twenty-nine.

Accidental—The papers said my son’s death had been accidental too. He had everything to live for, a successful career, a girl he meant to marry, a bright, bright future. But they didn’t know what I knew; they hadn’t seen the watch under the microscope, the evil confession signed and spelled out in scratches. Surely it really was an accident. It just couldn’t be anything else! That would be too cruel! Accidents happen all the time. One young man, troubled and distracted, pours cyanide into a glass and drinks it down like milk; another one drops a gun on the floor and puts a hole in a perfectly good heart—and it was a good heart. I could tell that from the first glance. They were both so young and had everything to live for. But in the end only God knows for sure.

I remembered that soft, baby smooth cheek against my palm; I could feel his skin, just as real, living and warm, after all these years as though I had only just touched him. When I caressed him that day in the Biograph office had I also cursed that sweet, innocent boy with the death and misfortune I brought to all my loved ones?

I got up from my chair and walked out of the dentist’s office without saying a word, the magazine trailing listlessly from my hand, pages flapping against my ankles like the wings of Death. I stayed more or less drunk for the next ten years. I never went back to that dentist or any other; I let that tooth rot and fester in my jaw as a penance and numbed the pain with alcohol.

I went back to Chicago and then New York and started painting my face and coloring my hair again. I returned to the vagabond vagrant’s world of Salvation Army cots and soup kitchens, meaningless couplings in dark alleys against walls, just for the money, and the only place I found any small measure of happiness—the movies. My diet was every child’s dream—any given day for breakfast, lunch, or dinner I might have Cracker Jacks or hot buttered popcorn, orange, grape, or strawberry soda, or even Coca-Cola, which had replaced coffee and tea in my heart, and a handful of sticky peanut butter Mary Janes or some of Mr. Hershey’s blissful Kisses, with an Eskimo Pie for dessert, and in between I was constantly sucking on sassafras, horehound, or red anise drops, peppermint stars, and butterscotch buttons. I was profoundly disappointed in myself, but I just didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

The world was moving even faster now. The twenties really were roaring. Faster cars, faster music, faster dances, and faster women in shorter skirts and shorter hair, who were not afraid to show their stockings and drink homemade gin brewed in somebody’s bathtub even if it meant risking death or blindness. They just thumbed their noses and laughed and made jokes about it. The world just kept evolving and revolving at a faster speed, in both morals and motion. Corsets, like bustles and crinolines, were a thing of the past, and I had a terrible time getting used to these new dresses without structure that hung as loose as society’s morals now blatantly and unapologetically did. I didn’t know whether I had been born too late or too soon or to laugh or cry or just curl up and die.

My daughter was all I had left now, the only one to love, even if my love was unwanted and always given from afar. Though well into her thirties, Gladys didn’t show it; she was still beautiful and fit right in with the bright young things of the 1920s. I’d catch a glimpse of her sometimes, in the society columns or with my own eyes, getting out of a car in a cloche hat, t-strap high heels, and a bright purple coat trimmed with monkey fur to attend a ladies luncheon or a charity event at a fashionable hotel or restaurant and in sparkling evening dresses, encrusted with crystals or covered with tinsel fringe that flowed and danced over her slender body like liquid silver or gold.

One of those rare summers when I was less drunk instead of more, I floated to the surface in Newport. I was going through one of my resurrection phases and decided to clean myself up. I left my badly faded red, yellow, and gray streaked hair alone and stopped painting my face, put on a dowdy plain dress, and went in search of respectable employment. I was hired at a fashionable country club as an urgent last-minute replacement for a ladies’ washroom attendant who had just eloped with a wealthy stockbroker’s nitwit son.

That night I couldn’t believe it. I found myself in the same room with Gladys. So close I could have reached out and hugged her. Because I was wearing what amounted to a maid’s uniform I was all but invisible to her and her glossy, gorgeous friends. In their eyes I was no better than a coatrack or an umbrella stand.

For one so beautiful, my daughter’s disposition was distinctly dour. Her constant complaining made crabapples suddenly seem as sweet as sugar candy. She was wearing the loveliest black lace dress, with cascading flounces floating over her shoulders and down her back, and yards of skirt billowing over a sheath of black satin beneath, and a lavender satin sash encircling her tiny waist. Her hair hung down to just above her waist in a mass of perfect inky black ringlets, with clusters of lavender roses at each side of her head. She looked a full dozen years younger than her actual age.

But was Gladys satisfied? No! She was sulking and pouting and stamping her feet and complaining because her husband wouldn’t let her bob her beautiful hair and she was tired of looking like Mary Pickford in mourning, with black curls instead of golden.

“If he wanted Mary Pickford, he should have married her instead of me!” She flopped down petulantly onto a velvet bench and hitched up her skirts, dug into her purse, and drew out what I thought at first was a spectacles case, popped it open, and proceeded to nonchalantly fill a silver syringe and inject it into the white thigh above her black stocking top.

“Heroin is simply heavenly!” she sighed, glancing round at her friends and extending the case as though it were a candy box.

Her friends very wisely demurred—apparently not all young people these days are devoid of sense, I thankfully thought—and changed the topic of conversation to that perennially popular feminine subject: the prevention of pregnancy.

Gladys, fumbling around in her purse again, shrugged it all off. “Dutch caps and watching calendars!” she snorted. “I don’t have the time or the patience for all that! I’d rather just have an abortion! I’ve already had nine; it’s a wonderful excuse to go to Paris and shop for Poiret gowns! I simply adore Dr. Jacquard!”

“Couldn’t you see Dr. Jacquard without having to have an abortion?” one of her friends asked, to which Gladys insolently barked,“Shut up, Mimsy!”

Just as quickly, Gladys’s angry snarl transformed into trills of the gayest laughter. “You all should have been with me the last time I was in Paris! I made Jim take me to the Café du Rat Mort—the Café of the Dead Rat. I was there the same night Olive Thomas drank the mercury poison,” she boasted, mentioning the beautiful young actress who had died a few years ago under mysterious circumstances. After a late night of partying in Paris she and her husband, Jack Pickford, had returned to their hotel, where she had drunk, intentionally or accidentally, no one knew for sure, the mercury solution he used for treating his syphilis sores. “. . . and we ate the most delicious food,” Gladys continued, glossing over this vibrant young woman’s sad and untimely passing, “watched a Negro bite the head off a giant rat, and some whip dancers—I tell you the welts they raised were real!—and then we danced to the gypsy orchestra, and they had these girls come round to all the tables offering lovely little bouquets of fresh flowers that they sprinkled with cocaine from silver shakers. I’d said I would have one, merci beaucoup, and was already sniffing it when the girl held out her hand and told Jim that would be twenty francs; you should have seen his face! He complained that the cost was exorbitant, but by then it was too late; it’d already gone up my nose and wasn’t coming back. And they have the most wonderful cocktails there—brandy and ether with a dash of liquid morphine and a spritz of essence of violets. I tell you, they’re the best in the world!”

She finally found what she was looking for in her purse and came and shoved me aside and swatted at the rose marble counter between the two sinks with her lacy skirt, then began to carefully tap out two lines of white powder from a little golden vial. She took a dollar bill and carefully rolled it into a hollow tube and, bending over the counter, stuffed one end of it up her nostril and proceeded to suck the white powder right up her nose, while her friends just looked on shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. Apparently they were well accustomed to Gladys’s antics.

When she was done, she casually flung the dollar in my direction; I suppose that was her way of tipping washroom attendants.

“I’m tired of this!” she declared, turning back to regard her reflection in the big glass mirror over the counter. She reached back behind her and untied the bow of her sash and with a playful whoop flung it high in the air. Then she reached down and began tugging at her skirt. “Devil take you, black lace valentine Mary Pickford!” she cried, balling her lace overdress up and sending it sailing over the nearest stall door, into the toilet. Standing before the mirror in her slinky black slip, she began to do a shimmy dance, pulling her slim skirt up, inch by inch, to reveal her stocking tops. She stepped out of her black satin step-ins, explaining that they “spoiled the line,” and kicked them aside.

Then my daughter spoke to me. For the first time since she was six years old, Gladys Evelyn turned, looked me right in the eye, and spoke to me, her mother.

“Scissors!” she bellowed, thrusting out her hand. When I hesitated she got right up in my face and yelled, “Are you deaf or just dumb? I said: SCISSORS!”

I opened the drawer and took out the pair of silver shears we kept on hand for ladies who needed help with hanging threads or repairing a sagging hem or loose button. She didn’t give me a chance to hesitate and snatched them from my hand.

With Gladys’s girlfriends, I watched in horror as my daughter laughingly tugged at her corkscrew curls, pulling them down and watching them spring back up, “just like a piggy’s tail!,” then started to snip them off one by one. “Won’t Jim be surprised?” she cackled, blindly thrusting the scissors back at me, points first, like a dagger, then skipped out the door, calling back to me, “You can keep the dollar!”

She never noticed the tears in my eyes as I stood there with the ruins of my daughter’s beautiful curls scattered round my feet, remembering the day her brother had given himself a haircut in imitation of the illustration of Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince.

Shaking their heads, Gladys’s friends tipped me with various coins and some generous dollars and followed her out.

Alone, I knelt, gathered up my daughter’s curls, and cried and cried. I couldn’t bear to stay, to see her like this. She was certain to kill herself one day and I didn’t want to be there to see it. I’d had enough of death. As I stood up I caught a glimpse of my face, haggard and ashen in the mirror, and I had to stop and ask myself was I any better? I was a poor hag who drank and sold her sagging body for a few cents, while my daughter danced, wore designer gowns, injected heroin, and snorted white powder. Was Gladys another victim of my curse? Had she imbibed the seeds of death and destruction with the milk she’d sucked from my breast?

I deserted my post then and there. I wouldn’t be paid, but I didn’t care. I got my coat and hat and went to the bar. There was something in my face that silenced the barman’s protests that I wasn’t supposed to be in there. He gave me the glass of gin I demanded.

“This is the last one I’ll ever have!” I said, saluting him with the glass before I downed it.

As I walked through the club’s ballroom, I caught one last glimpse of Gladys through the open glass doors. She was standing, balanced precariously, on the edge of the swimming pool’s diving board while her husband and friends anxiously tried to coax her back down. She attempted to dance a Charleston and fell, suffering a concussion and a broken arm. Dr. Corbyn, her husband, fished her out, gently wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out to their car. I noticed as he passed me, with Gladys moaning and whimpering in his arms, that Dr. Corbyn didn’t look at all well. Though he was still in his late thirties, his hair was already gray as a tombstone, the lines on his face were carved quite deep, and behind his spectacles his eyes looked woefully weary. Marriage—or should I say marriage to Gladys?—clearly did not agree with him, it had aged him terribly.

That last glimpse was well and truly enough. I never set eyes on Gladys again. And I can’t honestly say, even though she was my daughter and I loved her very much, that I wasn’t glad. There are some things a mother just shouldn’t have to see.