Ladies In The Parlor (8 page)

Alice answered, “Yes,” for Leora.

“And how are you, Alice? Is he good to you?”

“Yes, Mother, Mr. Everlan is a fine man.”

Her tone changed, “You tell me if he isn’t. I don’t want my girls abused.”

“I will, Mother.”

The large woman dropped her glasses.

“Her name, Alice.”

“Leora Blair.”

Mother Rosenbloom studied for a moment, “Pretty —the first name—the last—a trifle harsh—however, that can come later.”

She made a move as if to seat herself in a davenport. Alice started to help her.

Mother Rosenbloom shook her head. “No, no, not that—I can never get out of the God-damn thing.” She gave the chuckle of a giantess. Leora smiled. Mother Rosenbloom looked from one girl to the other, “Ah, my dears,” she said again, “there was a day—but all that’s over and done,” she chuckled again, “and now I feel as old and dismal as reading the will at midnight—I can lie awake and hear the leaves rattle in the graveyard.”

She sat down, then shook her head swiftly, saying, “Heavens—what a thought—and I never think of it until I see youth.” She chuckled again. “A drunken rascal was in here last night singing sad songs, and I made him stop—then I made Mary Ellen—you know Mary Ellen—” she said to Alice—”well, I made Mary Ellen sing something gay—and she sang

'Oh for the life of an osteopath,

To play rummy dum diddle

On somebody’s middle—’

The watch shook as Mother Rosenbloom chuckled.

Dr. Farway did not like osteopaths. The girls looked at each other.

“Alice, dear, will you press the bell?”

The housekeeper answered. Mother Rosenbloom did not notice her for a moment. Severely dressed in black, with white apron, cuffs and collarette, and grim as the last hour, she stood, her fleshless six-foot body rigid. Had Mother Rosenbloom searched the world, she could not have found a woman who seemed more out of place.

“Matilda,” she asked, “will you bring us some coffee and toast?”

The housekeeper bowed, smiled grimly at Alice, glanced casually at Leora, and left the room.

Within a short time they were seated at an improvised table.

“Now, dear,” began Mother Rosenbloom, as she looked at Leora, “Alice has no doubt told you considerable about our house. I try to run a respectable place, and only cater to the best people.

“Upon your deportment here, often your future may depend. It is not my policy to keep a girl over two years. If she hasn’t feathered her nest with some good man in that time she may as well become a street-walker or join a church. Wealthy men come here from everywhere, and you must treat them with the respect which their position implies. You’ll find, of course, that men are all alike—once in the bedroom they will ask you personal questions—where you are from—who took your virginity, and if you don’t think that they are the greatest lovers you have known. You must remember, though they come here, they still like innocence—they will keep you awake bragging about the virtue of their daughters. They will try to rescue you from the life of shame which you lead, forgetting indeed that without them you could not lead it—and, as I explained to Alice when she first came here—you must not go to a room with a man unless you are able to make him believe that you’ve been waiting for him since you were a child. If you cannot respond to his caresses, you must pretend. You must never tell the truth to any man—always color it up with a little romance. If a bricklayer has seduced you, he immediately becomes a millionaire. A successful girl in a house like this always knows how to imply a great deal. You must listen always. . . . no matter how silly the story—or how many times you have heard it. Give me two beautiful girls and I will always take the good listener—a woman who can’t listen is worse off than a rooster who can’t crow—as many men come here to be listened to as for anything else. You must laugh at the proper time, and always call me Mother—even if no one is around—then you will not make a slip when men are about.”

Mother Rosenbloom sipped her coffee and sputtered, “This damn stuff tastes like rusty water—I’ll fire that Nigger.” She became calm again.

“And this is for your good as much as mine—” she paused. . . . “I don’t allow men lovers in the house—or pimps, if you’d rather—that is—you can have a lover here every night in the week, so long as you pay me my half of fifty dollars—the charge for the night, and he buys liquor as often as any other man. This, I have found, protects the girl as well as the house. A man likes what he has to pay for. The minute you start shelling out free, he goes elsewhere and pays for it.

“And you must remember that even a hangman or a lawyer feels superior to a girl in a sporting-house; so always be dignified, for they must not feel that you’re anybody’s dog who’ll go hunting. Every man who comes into the place will talk to you as though he would give you the earth—just let them rave, but don’t lose your head, for if you cut their throats they would bleed ice water.

“Make the weakest man you know feel that he is a giant. If he touches you a little, just say something like `Please don’t hurt me, dear, you are so strong,’ then watch him perk right up.”

The shrewd student of sex looked admiringly at Alice and then toward Leora.

“And learn to wear clothes well; though I must say you look very nice today. Men like a clothes mare—even if she’s big as a stallion. And never mention anything about your body. Deep in every man’s little head is the idea that a woman is still an angel, and would naturally have no natural functions. There are no toilets in Heaven.

“You must never be self-conscious or ashamed of yourself in the presence of men. You have as much right to sell your body as the priest has to sell a Mass.” She smiled, her wide gold false teeth showing.

“If men talk to you about only poor girls being in houses like this, say nothing. There’s many a rich whore, and if the poor girls get the kings it’s because they’re better bedfellows, that’s all.”

She looked from Leora to Alice.

“What can Mr. Everlan buy nicer than Alice—I’d like to know.” As neither girl informed her, the immense woman looked at Leora, and resumed, “I wouldn’t talk to you so long if I were not so fond of Alice and if you were not so beautiful.

“But keep your head and heart to yourself—for if you don’t kick a man, he’ll kick you harder. Don’t trust any man. They’re all after something. Not even a preacher prays on his wedding night. Mr. Everlan would not stay with Alice tomorrow if she got smallpox or a hump on her back. And don’t wait for any of the men who come here to lie to you—lie to them first—and always remember to get your money in advance, for not even the President would want to pay when the horse is limber. And of course you must talk some—but not too much—just start the man talking. If he’s a lawyer, just say, ‘Dear, I’ll bet you make a fine presence in court.’ That’s all—then ask any silly question so long as it lets him talk about himself. If you find he’s a doctor, tell him how soothing he must be—

“Talk always as though you have some money, or your people have. Men like the feeling that you are superior—they wouldn’t be interested in Cleopatra if she was in a crib on Placer Street and had one leg.”

She swung her watch a few times. “And remember, girls, your chief concern is to make men love you, but not have them jealous of you. And no smart girl can afford to be emotional. I’ve seen women in my house fall in love with men so ugly they’d stop a clock in a morgue. That would have been all right, but the men had no money. And a man should have something to offer a girl.

“Press the bell, Alice, will you, dear?”

The housekeeper removed the table.

“You’ll stay here tonight—will you, Alice—he’ll be with his family—and who knows who may come—” Mother Rosenbloom rose slowly. “I think I’ll telephone Mr. Skinner,” she said, “and tell him we have a virgin in the house.”

Her giantess chuckle came again. Alice laughed merrily.

“Now you introduce her to the girls, dear, and pick a last name for her.”

“All right, Mother,” returned Alice. She took her cousin’s arm and led her toward the reception room, which was commonly called “the parlor.”

Mother Rosenbloom left the telephone and strolled about the rooms.

She was proud of her house. She loved the thick rugs under her feet, and the touch of the soft brocade drapes.

Though the house was often flamboyant, it was alive, and everywhere gave evidence of the unusual personality that dominated it.

Bowls of beautiful flowers were scattered over the house. A dozen long-stemmed roses were always in a bronze vase on the piano. Mother Rosenbloom had them changed several times a week.

Four girls, in evening gowns, lounged about the room. All were in their early twenties.

They rose to greet Alice.

“Mary Ellen,” she said to the first girl, “this is Leora Blair.”

Mary Ellen stepped forward and bowed in a polite boarding-school manner. She had a florid face, bright, wavy red hair, and large brown eyes. She looked as clean as a new cake of soap.

Leora liked Mary Ellen at once. She extended a hand to her. Mary Ellen held it for a moment and said, “Welcome, Leora.”

The second girl stepped forward.

“Leora,” said Alice, “this is June Le Fear.”

June had straight, jet black hair and light blue eyes, a fine sharp nose, and a very small mouth. Her thick pper lip curved slightly. Her teeth were small and even, and her eyes seemed to be getting ready to cry. Her breasts were firm and hard, and she had the manner and movement of a well-brought-up boy.

She looked Leora up and down after the greeting and said to Alice, “She’s nice.”

The third girl had hair the color of corn silk, and languorous eyes of a greenish cast. Her complexion, very pale, glowed with a delicate pink make-up. Her hands were slender and beautiful. The color, otherwise lacking in her complexion, seemed to have rushed to them. There was about her an air of complete lassitude, as though the touch of men’s hands had been too heavy for one so young and frail.

“Leora, this is Doris Mahone,” said Alice.

The girls nodded to each other. Before the fourth girl was introduced, Doris had half reclined on a davenport, from where she gazed at Leora.

The fourth girl had a dimple in the center of her chin, and a copper complexion. She wore her hair in two braids, which hung like immense twisted ropes. Her features were those of an idealized Indian girl’s. Her lithe body twisted as she walked. “This is Selma,” said Alice, as she took her to the davenport near Doris.

Leora was no sooner seated than June was beside her.

“Now listen, girls,” and Alice smiled at them, “Mother wants us to give Leora a new name. She says that Blair is too harsh, that no gentleman would like a girl named Blair.”

“I think it’s nice,” June repeated the name, “Leora Blair.”

“Sounds like a firecracker,” put in Mary Ellen.

“Of course it’s not as beautiful as Mary Ellen—that’s like a Sunday school teacher’s.” June looked at Doris, who nodded.

“Why not call her Nellie—let’s see—Nellie Narine,” suggested Selma.

“I wouldn’t have the name Nellie— I knew a girl called that one time and she died of the old ral,” said June.

“Well, what did the name have to do with it?” asked Selma.

“Maybe nothing,” returned June, “but just the same I wouldn’t want to take a chance.”

“Then make it Josephine,” suggested Doris, adding, “Josephine Le Grand.”

“No,” Selma shook her head quickly, “that name doesn’t fit her character at all.”

All the girls laughed. The name was dismissed.

“Why not Doreen Farway?” Alice laughed outright, while Leora smiled.

“That’s not so bad,” said June, “that’s a nice name—I wish I had it.”

Mary Ellen did not agree. “It sounds like the wronged girl in a novel,” she said.

“Well, just the same, I like it,” said June.

“You would, June—you’re so romantic,” Mary Ellen smiled.

“Why not let’s call her Leora,” suggested Alice, “and get her a last name. Mother liked ‘Leora.’”

“Then why not Leora Le Grand,” put in Doris.

“Not with Le Grand and Le Fear in the same house. The men will know they’re not real,” said June.

“Well, what do they care what we call ourselves so. long as we give them what they want,” said Doris.

“Well, just the same, they do,” returned June.

“Make it Leora Lavean,” said Mary Ellen.

“Too Jewish—it would hurt her chances with some Ku Klux Klanner or something.” Selma threw a braid of hair across her shoulder.

“Then give her an Irish name,” suggested Selma, “the Irish would never forgive us.”

“Mother might like it.”

“It’s just as well,” snapped Mary Ellen, “a name like that would be hard enough to bear, even in Church.”

“Call her Rosy Rosenbloom—after Mother,” smiled Doris.

“You mean after Mother’s dead—and then she’d haunt us.” Selma’s lithe body moved seductively across the room. “Why not name her Doreen Dewey,” she suggested.

“That would be awful,” put in Doris, “the house’d be full of sailors, thinkin’ she was Admiral Dewey’s daughter.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Selma.

“Oh nothin’—except they want to pay a girl twenty cents—Mexican money,” Doris answered.

“Maybe you’d rather have the officers,” Selma smiled.

“Not me,” was Doris’ quick reply— ”they’d want it for nothin’—and think it was a Naval order.”

Leora was amused, as Alice put in, “I’d hate to have you girls name my baby.”

“Well you’ll have a name for it by the time you have one with Mr. Everlan,” again Selma smiled.

“Why, Selma—has he disappointed you?”

“Oh no— I just shut my eyes and dreamed of Santa Claus.”

Mary Ellen paid no attention to the badinage. “I’ll tell you,” she clapped her hands, “Call her Leora La Rue—it sounds Frenchy and high-toned.”

“Leora La Rue,” several of the girls repeated. Satisfying themselves, they asked Leora in unison, “Do you like it?”

“Very much,” returned Leora.

“All right then, it’s Leora La Rue,” said Alice, as she put an arm about Leora.