“You’d be surprised how much I would believe.”
The warden and the reporters came into the office. Warden Harris checked his watch. “He’s on the clock now. We’ll see how he does.”
The reporters pulled their chairs around Bess. “Do you know how he does his escapes?” one of them asked her.
Bess always avoided this question; she knew everything, of course, but she liked to keep some mystery around Harry’s acts.
“She’s not gonna tell us that,” the heavy guard said. “Then no one would quit asking her how it’s done.”
The reporter changed angles. “What would you do if Harry fails to escape today?”
Bess smiled. “Do? Why, I would do what I always do around this time of the afternoon. I would go back to the hotel and wash for dinner.”
They were not amused. “But wouldn’t you be upset?”
Bess took a long sip of tea before responding. “My husband, you see, has escaped from far more terrible places than this. I imagine he could even find his way into and out of your homes at night without your ever knowing.”
The men sat back, startled. Before they could muster any response, there was a knock on the door. The warden opened it to find Harry, standing in the corridor with his clothes back on. Bess looked at her watch. It had been exactly twenty-one minutes.
“I let all of your prisoners out,” Harry said, wiping his brow. The guards jumped to their feet. “But then I locked them all in again.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” the warden demanded. The group rushed outside to find the eight other prisoners in the cellblock, including the black man from Guiteau’s cell, locked in entirely different cells than they’d been in before.
Bess lingered in the back of the group with Harry. “You mustn’t do things like that, Harry,” she whispered. “People don’t understand your humor.”
Afterward they took the first train to New York, where Harry had scheduled a series of rehearsals that weekend for an upcoming act. The idleness of waiting for him was difficult. That evening Bess wandered around Macy’s department store, looking for something to occupy her time. The building had opened only a few years before, and the floors and walls still glistened. When she had first become wealthy enough for shopping to be a pastime, the department store had enthralled her. It advertised itself as “a place where almost anything may be bought,” and she was a woman who could buy almost anything. And people had begun to recognize her; the store clerks whispered when she approached, and stepped up to help her before she had even approached the counters. They called her famous.
And she loved the crowds; she loved the soft smells of the perfumes and the long carpeted avenues between displays. But tonight they had been invited to Sherry’s for a party given by the insurance magnate James Hazen Hyde, and she had convinced Harry to give up his work for a few hours. She heard the restaurant had been transformed into a royal French garden for the occasion, with real grass on the floor. And she wanted to surprise Harry with a new dress, one with the scandalously low Gibson girl neckline coming into style.
She found Harry at his desk at home after she had dressed for dinner; he was scribbling furiously in a notebook.
When he saw her in her diamond earrings, a glass of wine in her hand, he stopped writing. “Dear, I don’t think I’m up for dinner tonight. I’m exhausted.”
Bess’s heart sank; he didn’t even mention the dress, how beautiful she looked in it. “That just means you want time to work on your tricks. Instead of spending time with me.” A wave of despair came over her. Didn’t he see how integral she was to his success? She fielded the questions from reporters so he didn’t have to. She sewed his clothes when he ripped them and ran him a bath when his muscles ached from so many rehearsals. His accomplishments in the prison were hers as well as his; she deserved to celebrate with him. And to cancel at the last minute when the hosts had gone to such lengths for the party would be insulting.
He snatched the wineglass from her. “I don’t want you drinking this stuff anymore. You never know what you’re saying when you drink.”
Bess grabbed the glass back, splashing some of the wine onto the carpet. “I know perfectly well what I’m saying. I’ve had one sip. You didn’t even want to come back to New York today until I made you. You hardly even see your mother anymore.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He stood up quickly, and Bess winced. She knew better than to imply any kind of disrespect toward his mother. But he only took a napkin from the table and knelt down on his knees to mop up the spill.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean that. I only meant that I’m lonely.”
“How can you be lonely?” Harry demanded, still blotting the stain. “You have everything you could have dreamed of. You’re a society woman now. You can go anywhere you like.”