Parlor Games (40 page)

Unbeknownst to me, a letter of reckoning also awaited me in New York. With matters fairly well in hand at the hotel, I traveled north, resolved to leave heartache behind and journey to England. When I arrived at my New York headquarters, the Waldorf-Astoria, the clerk handed me a note from Rudolph.

January 8, 1903

My dear May
,

It is with great sadness that I inform you I have filed for divorce. I have been patient with you, but you have repeatedly broken your promises to return. I can only conclude you have chosen to live without me. I will not tolerate this any longer. You need not contact me in the future. Please inform my solicitor (address below) of where he can correspond with you
.

Regretfully yours
,

Rudolph

WHATEVER WILL I DO?
NEW YORK AND PITTSBURGH—FEBRUARY 1903

I
was alone with my sorrow over losing Alonso, my dejection at being spurned by Rudolph, and my fuming anger toward Reed Dougherty. Whenever I thought of any of them, I found myself thwarted—unable to maneuver around the sturdy obstacles thrust in my path.

I opened the drapes of my hotel room and gazed out on the avenue, at heavy-coated pedestrians hustling against a steady wind. A draft rippled through the window glass; I folded my arms against its chill. Calm yourself, I thought, you can’t do anything about Alonso or Reed Dougherty. You must consider your marriage, your future.

Should I write Rudolph, tell him I would return immediately? I could explain that I’d never intended to desert him, that my family and then his uncle Philip required my assistance, that all the business I’d gotten caught up in had dragged on much longer than I’d intended.

Would he welcome me home? Or would I only humiliate myself by groveling before him? He’d sounded so sure of himself in the letter, as if he was adamant about the course he’d chosen.

And even if he were to take me back, could I actually bear life with him again? He’d turned the tables on me: He would undoubtedly expect me to live on his terms now. Could I submit to his wishes to spend months at a time with his dour mother and prying sister; bump around a quiet London home with him when the city’s many offerings beckoned; and give up gay opera, theater, and parties?

When morning arrived, I knew what to do. I would visit Frank, my dear friend and sister-in-law to be. While she spent an extended winter holiday in her parents’ Pittsburgh house, I could relax in the
comfort of her family’s well-appointed mansion, with fireplaces blazing and servants to cook and clean. I would confide in Frank, and she would help me decide what to do about Rudolph.

After I greeted Mr. and Mrs. Shaver, Frank walked me up to my bedroom. I pulled her into the room and closed the door. Taking a seat on the bed, I motioned her to join me. “Oh, Frank, I’ve got myself in an awful fix.”

“Not you—not the oh-so-clever May.” She plopped down beside me. The mattress cratered under her solid weight, sliding me close to her.

“Rudolph wants a divorce.”

“That’s a stunner.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Why?”

“He thinks I’ve decided to start a life here without him.”

“Have you?”

“I won’t deny I needed a break from him. He’d become so annoying, nagging me about the silliest things.”

“Doesn’t sound as if you care much for him.”

“It’s just that he’s older. He wants different things. At first he took me to the very best theater in London and out to wonderful restaurants. He bought me jewelry, he taught me about opera, he gave me my own money. Then he turned into an old grouch, only wanting to stay home and throwing fits about me spending money.”

“Then to hell with him.”

“But I built a secure life with him.”

“What about love?”

“Love never lasts, does it? Something always gets in the way.”

Frank patted my thigh and rested her hand there. “It’s devotion you want. That’s more important in the long run.”

“I can’t say I ever really loved Rudolph. And the men I did love I couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Frank.” I reached for her hand. “Am I doomed to never have love and marriage with the same man?”

Frank shook her head in sympathy. “I hate seeing you so damn miserable.”

“Look at me. I’m nearly thirty-four years old. What’ll I do without my youth?”

She pulled me to her bosom and rocked me in her arms. “There, there, your Frank is here for you.”

Frank’s tending was exactly what I needed. She must have told her parents about my dismaying circumstances: They were especially polite and solicitous, and not once did they ask a prying question or even mention Rudolph. Frank was an absolute dear. On Saturday night, she took me to a Shakespeare play—
As You Like It
. And then, the following weekend, to
A Doll’s House
at a cozy playhouse with velvety forest-green seats. We even visited Harry Davis’s Avenue Theater, where I saw my first moving picture,
When the Cat’s Away, the Mice Will Play
, a silly but startlingly realistic picture story. On our evenings at home, rather than partaking of the usual after-dinner parlor chat with her parents, she often excused us and insisted I relax in her bedroom before retiring to my own.

I was so grateful for her many kindnesses that I took her on a shopping trip to her favorite antiques emporium, where I purchased a mantel clock that caught her eye—a lovely French piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It wasn’t inexpensive—seventeen hundred dollars—but the cost hardly approached the value I placed on our friendship and family bond. I even found an Egyptian Isis statue for her parents, which fit perfectly with their parlor collection.

Two weeks after my arrival in Pittsburgh, a blizzard descended, a howling, bone-chilling storm that unleashed over two feet of snow. That evening, Frank stoked the fire in her bedroom fireplace to roaring and pulled our chairs close to it. I nestled into my plush armchair, listening to the blasting wind rattle the windowpanes and swing the weathervane in erratic arcs.

Frank draped a wool blanket over my lap and eased into the chair beside mine. “Awfully good news about the hotel.”

Gene had wired us earlier in the day about Fratto’s new offer—$225,000, even better than the minimum I’d set. “The best,” I said. “What a relief not to worry about the place anymore.”

“You did damn well. An excellent return.”

“If all the paperwork—and money—come through.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Fratto’s rolling in money. And he loves to gamble.”

“He does seem anxious to wrap it up.”

“Believe me, he’ll want in before the track opens. So he can strut around on opening day.”

“I suppose Gene’ll be moving to Chicago now.”

Frank held her palms out toward the fire. “Maybe. Doesn’t always do what I expect.”

I hadn’t let on that Gene had told me about Frank’s reservations, but I thought if I could draw her out perhaps I could patch things up between her and Gene. “Have you had some problems with him?”

Frank drew her hands back from the fire and curled her fingers into her palms, as if to warm her fingertips. As she faced me, her face reflected the fire’s licking flames. “Let’s not bother ourselves over husbands or husbands-to-be tonight.”

The fire crackled. A branch of kindling tumbled onto the hearth, one end of it aflame. I picked up the other end and tossed it into the fire. With a giggle I said, “Who needs them anyway?”

Frank laughed. “This room, this night. It’s a helluva good place to be.”

I stretched my feet out under the blanket, unlaced my boots, and wriggled my toes before the blaze. “Pour us a Cognac, will you?”

And then I told her about my Mexican adventure—about pulling off the business deal, my love affair with the son of the Secretary of Resources, and the government pressuring me to leave. I didn’t bother with the part about Reed Dougherty: It would have required too much backtracking.

Frank nestled into the corner of her chair so she could face me, and, when I’d finished my story, said, “My God, you’re a plucky dame.”

I lifted my Cognac glass to her. “You’re no poltroon yourself. Taking men on in the courtroom.”

“We ought to travel together,” said Frank. “We’d have a rip-roaring time.”

After we’d laughed ourselves out over a few too many drinks, I made my way down the hall to my bedroom, toting my boots. The cold of the wooden floor leached the heat from the soles of my feet
and set me to shivering. Although the home’s Franklin stove had been well stoked with coal, its warmth failed to reach my out-of-the-way upstairs bedroom.

Quickly, I stripped off my dress, my chemise, my corset. Dancing up and down to keep warm, I wriggled into my nightgown and flipped back the blankets on my bed. I slid my hands under the top sheet, preparing to plunge under it. Its icy, slick surface chilled my hands; I yanked them away. Cupping my hands together, I stepped out into the hall and looked toward Frank’s room. An orange glow flickered through her cracked door. I pranced back into her room, closed the door behind me, and ran toward her bed.

Frank flung the bedcovers aside, and I dived in. As I slithered under the blankets, she scooped me up in her arms. We rocked away in our mutual embrace, soaking up each other’s body heat and giggling like schoolgirls. When Frank’s touch turned amorous, I figured, if a few kisses and caresses were enough to keep her happily ensconced in the family fold, who was I to rebuff her? In the morning, I woke to her nakedness spooned against my bare back and her arm draped over my waist, enveloped in the afterglow of the guileless affection only women can share.

Come the last week in February, Frank and I packed up. Frank’s work beckoned her back to Chicago, and I’d decided to meet up with Daisy in New York before sailing across the great pond. Since Frank’s train was slated to leave only two hours before mine, we said our good-byes to her parents and rode to the station together in the family carriage.

Frank tucked the warming blanket over our laps and sighed. “Sure wish I could spend more time with you. But this wretched trial’s been delayed too many times already.”