Madam (21 page)

Mary looked to her awkwardly, not sure what she was supposed to do.

“Rise!”

Shakily, Mary stood.

“The time o’ queens is comin’!” Eulalie writhed as she stretched her arms higher and higher toward the sky. Her body quivered, writhing more and more as if she were having a spell. And then she dropped, wilting as if the current had been suddenly cut off. “Leave the dimes in the hollow,” she said flatly. She picked up the bisque and sauntered off.

Mary stared after her, wondering what was supposed to happen now. She didn’t feel any different. The three dimes didn’t magically turn into three hundred. Was she supposed to go home and wait for the lightning? The lightning that was going to burn down the Alley but spare just her crib?

A few paces away, Eulalie paused. She looked back offhandedly. “And Saturday night,” she said, “at the Countess’s party, just go ’round to the back door. The colored folks’ll let you in.”

C
HAPTER FOURTEEN

T
he Countess’s party? There was no way, black magic or not, that the likes of an Alley whore would be welcomed at the Countess’s party. Mary might as well show up knocking at the front door of the president of the United States’s house for all it mattered. And yet, she found herself compelled by Eulalie’s orders, even though she was certain she’d become a laughingstock, booted out onto the street where she belonged.

Her worn boots picked their way along the cobblestones. They seemed to have a mind of their own, these boots, desperately coaxing her along Basin Street, past ornate, looming Victorian mansions that must have been grand in their day but were now left to crumble and rot in the unfashionable back of town. Her heel stuck between a gap in the stones and she stumbled, catching the hem of her pale blue dress. She heard the sound of fabric ripping and she felt herself well up—this dress couldn’t stand to be any more tattered.

She’d bought the dress from a whore on the Alley called Birdleg Nora for the special occasion of Peter and Charlotte’s marriage. Birdleg Nora had probably stolen the dress, or at best was gifted it by a john, but it was relatively high style, with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a sashed waist, and she’d needed money fast. Mary got it for a steal. She’d matched the dress with striped silk stockings, which were all the latest rave from Paris—Mary knew this because she always heard the vendors telling the high-society ladies, who would pay an unbelievable two dollars a pair! Of course, Mary hadn’t bought the stockings; rather, one day she overheard an angry lady yelling at a shopkeeper that her stockings hadn’t even lasted through one washing. Come closing time, Mary lingered around the rubbish and, sure enough, there was the returned pair, with just a small run that could easily be stitched up.

The tiny wedding had been held at Holy Trinity Cathedral, with a young priest agreeing to bless the union only because, when Charlotte’s parents were alive, her family had attended regular mass there. Since the priest had never seen Peter’s face in his pews, he’d sped through an abridged version of the marriage ceremony, all the while tossing disapproving glances at the only other attendant, Mary. Unless God really did speak to him, Mary wasn’t sure how a man of the cloth would know she made her way on the Alley, especially since she was dressed in the fashion of a society girl.

Still, his stare had sent a prickly rash down Mary’s chest, and the dress’s lace collar suddenly felt like a choke hold. Mary hated the notion that her lot in life was already tarnishing the new life her brother and Charlotte were about to begin. And she resented the thought that if ever there was a man who would want to marry her, he wouldn’t be able to do so under the eyes of God. The moment she returned home from the church, she tore off the dress, convincing herself it was a relief there’d never be an occasion to wear it again.

She’d found the dress in her bureau drawer, wadded up, just as she’d left it. After a good ironing, it was wearable. But as soon as she shimmied the dress over her head and buttoned herself up, she could once again feel prickly heat flush her chest and belly. It was as if the dress had kept her shame within its lace and seams all this time.

Waiting until Peter and Charlotte were out, she changed and then hurried from the house, not wanting them to glimpse her as they’d most surely inquire about the dress, the silk stockings, and that she’d braided a ribbon into her hair and dabbed on her rose oil more generously than usual. The last thing Mary wanted was to reveal her farfetched longing to become one of the Countess’s girls, and she couldn’t bear the thought of Peter and Charlotte asking all sorts of hopeful questions she couldn’t answer.

Now she tucked the dragging seam into her boot and continued on, but with each step closer, doubts pelted her, reminding her that bastard girls who made their way in a crib should know their place. And her place had been set the day Lobrano sent her, with a push, into the middle of the Alley. She didn’t want to think back to that day, but the memory was suddenly with her, spilling out like a cracked egg. How she’d stood there trembling as Lobrano shouted, “Virgin! That’s right, bona fide virgin! Pure as rain!” She’d wanted to disappear right then and there, and if not for little Peter, eyes hollow and sunken, grasping on to her leg, she would have run, would have run away from there and away from Lobrano. But instead she remained frozen as men jeered while passing by. A barkeep she recognized from a nearby saloon presented Lobrano with two dollar bills. He had always leered at Mary through the saloon window when Lobrano left her and Peter waiting outside while he sidled up for a drink. Now the barkeep’s hand was on her shoulder, leading her away. She didn’t dare look back at little Peter as she and the man disappeared behind the saloon. He forced himself on her and covered her mouth in case she tried to scream. But she wouldn’t scream; she knew better. Screaming would only add on a beating. She was twelve years old.

The sound of reckless merriment grew closer as Mary saw Lulu’s glowing bordello ahead. The opulence took her breath away, most especially the lit stained-glass archway of LULU WHITE that fanned the door. She’d never seen anything so dramatic. Stifling back all the voices in her head telling her she wasn’t worthy of even standing on this plot of land, she allowed herself to become momentarily hypnotized by the allure of what possibilities lay beyond that door. If only she could catch the Countess’s favor . . . then her life could change in an instant.

After a deep breath, she headed around back, just as Eulalie had instructed.

The kitchen was in chaotic swing. Addie tilted a bottle of sherry into a cast-iron pot that nearly bubbled over with turtle stew. Then she moved over to a large pile of oysters on the half shell and, as delicately as her haste would allow, placed them onto china plates. Boo frantically poured Champagne into flutes that were quickly whisked away by the waitstaff. All the while, a young black boy scurried underfoot, collecting scraps that had fallen to the floor.

“You take those droppin’s out by the alley, Little Louie,” Addie said to the boy. He opened the back door to reveal Mary, her hand hovering in the air, ready to knock.

“Miss Addie, there’s a lady there,” Little Louie said.

Addie turned her head to glimpse a white girl. “Ma’am, the front door’s ’round front.”

Sheepishly, Mary said, “I was told to come ’round back.”

“Confused, girl? Ya look like you’re here for the party. . . .”

“I am.” Mary nodded eagerly.

Addie gave a shrug; she didn’t have time for this. “Well, you got empty hands. Take this tray on your way in.” She whisked Mary inside, handed her a tray with Champagne glasses, and gave her a push toward the party.

The lavish parlor was packed and swinging. Mary gripped the tray of clinking glasses as she shuffled forward into the crowd. A line of topless can-can girls weaved around the room, singing, “I kick up one leg, then the other. Between the two I earn my living!”

From Mary’s tray, the Champagne glasses were plucked up, with the last glass in the hand of none other than Countess Lulu White. Face-to-face, Lulu stared at Mary, raising a perfectly drawn eyebrow. Mary opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

“Countess!” a voice called from across the crowd. “Countess! We’re toasting!” Forced to turn her gaze, Lulu looked to see an already tipsy Mayor Flower sloppily pouring a bottle of Champagne over a pyramid of glasses. “Come, Countess, let’s toast!” he bellowed.

Lulu gave Mary a steely, final glance, then, with a dismissive pivot, she glided off to the center of the room, where she struck a stunning pose in her elaborate crimson gown and diamond-and-feather tiara. Joining her was none other than Tom Anderson, handsome and debonair as could be in a top hat and tails. The mayor handed Tom a glass, then grabbed one for himself, licking the dribbles of Champagne from the rim. “Monsieur Fleur!” Lulu reprimanded.

“Cut the music!” Flower shouted, and the piano went quiet. At the thought of a piano player, Mary craned to look across the room, her eyes finding a shiny grand piano. She sucked in her breath with the hope that it might be the player from Lala’s café. But instead, an expressionless white man with gray hair sat at the bench, looking stiff and out of place. Mary drooped a little with disappointment—how nice it would’ve been to have a familiar, welcoming face.

“My dear friends,” Anderson boomed, commanding everyone’s attention. “This is a great honor. As you know, I don’t believe in sumptuary laws. I think it degrades a citizen to take away the privilege of choosing for himself between right and wrong.”

Flower piped up, “It’s indeed every man’s God-given right to choose wrong!”

At this, Lulu nudged Flower out of the way, repositioning herself front and center, lest she allow him to embarrass himself—or, more important, her—any further.

“We New Orleanians are making history tonight,” Lulu said, dramatically enunciating each word. “Mademoiselles, come, gather ’round me.” Twenty of Lulu’s girls stepped forward with the swishing of satin, taffeta, bustles, and lace, the twinkling of jewels, and the swelling of cleavage. Lots of cleavage.

Lulu continued, “We, the
demimonde
, are at long last coming into power. Embrace your sisters and recognize this remarkable achievement.” The girls linked arms, some leaned their heads against one another’s shoulders. “Generations from now, women with money to their name, with rights on their side, and with esteemed societal standing will speak of this precise moment, with immense gratitude . . . to us.”

Mary found herself moved by the Countess’s words and noted the same reaction in her girls as they clasped hands and tapped their hearts.

Lulu raised her glass. “Gentlemen and ladies . . .”

As if that were their cue, her girls—sentimentality quickly forgotten—catcalled, shimmied, and hoisted up their breasts as if offering them to the crowd.

“To Storyville!” Lulu shouted.

“To Storyville!” The crowd answered.

More corks popped, and soon a bevy of whores were chasing Mayor Flower through the parlor, drenching him with Champagne. He squealed and giggled uncontrollably.

“
Attention, mes amis!
” Lulu called, and directed all eyes to the balustrade. Heads turned to look up to the second-floor landing, which was to serve as a makeshift stage. A line of Lulu’s girls costumed in Victorian dress and powdered white faces solemnly marched out.

“We, the respectable women of New Orleans, transcend our sexuality,” one of the Victorians announced in a high, very proper trill. “Look how we achieve a state of pure passionlessness and frigidity.” They all froze like corpses, with expressions of smelling something foul.

“Oh, look, it’s President McKinley,” another shouted, “coming to bestow his personal gratitude for our pious devotion to the crusade against vice in all forms, be it liquid or naked.”

A girl dressed as President McKinley, with fake bushy eyebrows, her hair greased into a side part, and a cleft drawn with kohl on her chin, took the stage and ran through the line of Victorian women, rubbing “his” nose in their breasts. One by one, the women fainted, and the crowd, including Mary, burst into laughter.