The Moon by Night (43 page)

“Yes, Maman,” Solange said doubtfully.

“You're a good girl, Solange,” Manon said, sighing. “Better than I ever hoped or prayed for. And so pretty too! Don't be afraid, Solange. I don't want you to be afraid.”

She made it up the stairs, her head spinning with every step. But now she was so determined that she knew she would crawl if she had to. With this new determination came new strength. She didn't feel anything like she used to when she was young and beautiful and had admirers by the score in Paris, but she was accomplishing the tasks she had set for herself. One by one, step by step, moment by moment. That's all she thought of. The next moment, the next step.

She dressed herself in her oldest dress, a plain blue velvet that was a little shiny at the elbows. It was impossible to button up, but Manon steadfastly refused to think of it. She would wear her heavy gray wool cloak so that no one would see her dress gaping at the back.

Then, carelessly pulling a dozen of her finest dresses—silks, satins, taffetas, velvets—out of an enormous trunk, she unceremoniously dumped them over the stairwell landing to the foyer below. Taking up her cloak and her half boots, she gingerly made her way back downstairs. Breathing heavily, she sat on the bottom stair and pulled on her boots and laced them up. She felt such pride at this accomplishment that she almost laughed. She was feeling better now that she was up and dressed and had a set course to take. She felt a peculiar reckless elation.

Underneath the stairwell was a cubbyhole for storage. She opened the door and bent over, peering into the dark triangular space. Sure enough, Lisette's carriage was still there. Marcus had bought it when Lisette was born. The fine carriage of blue leather on a steel frame was large enough for babies up to a year old. Manon maneuvered it out and gave it a careless dusting off with the corner of her skirt. But then she stopped and stared at it, considering.

I could take Lisette…and Solange has clothes and boots—

She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. It wouldn't do to take Solange and Lisette. She had leaned on Solange for too long, to her shame. Now she had her course set, the steps clearly defined, and she must walk those steps alone. Marcus was gone.

But still, she might be able to see him, plead with him one last time…for Lisette's sake, she told herself. She went to the console table by the door and slowly picked up the coverall he had thrown there last week on that last terrible night he had been so angry and had left Manon almost paralyzed by fear and dread.

But she was different now. Thoughtfully she folded the coverall, with the embroidered logo faceup, and put it on the bottom of the carriage. Then she picked up the clothes, item by item, folded them neatly, and laid them in the carriage. Lastly she folded a shawl, a pink one with fringe, and tucked it around the bundled clothing so that it looked like a baby's coverlet.

She went back into the parlor, her steps sure, her head clear. Solange looked up from changing Lisette's diaper. Her eyes looked huge and dark in the dim room. Lightly Manon said, “I'm almost ready, my darling girl. I was just wondering, would you please loan me your Susannah? For good luck. I promise to bring her back, safe and sound.”

Solange looked puzzled, but she said, “Of course, Maman. She's over by your chair. I was playing with her last night.”

With furtive relief Manon saw the doll propped up against one leg of the table. She bent over to get the doll—her head was spinning dangerously, but she fought the dizziness down—and still managed to slip the last two bottles of absinthe into the roomy inside pocket of her cloak. She hadn't wanted Solange to see her take them, for she knew Solange would worry.

And Solange, with the wisdom that comes from having to be an adult at the tender age of six, pretended not to see.

Manon hurried back into the foyer, took a quick sip, stowed the two bottles more securely, and then carefully arranged the doll under the pink shawl so that only a single blond curl showed and a very small square of pink forehead. Manon still had her pride, although that was just about all that was left of her.

She went back into the parlor and threw open her arms. “Come give me a hug, pretty girl. For good luck and for love.”

Solange flew to her mother and hugged her hard.

Manon whispered, “I'll be back soon. Don't be afraid, Solange. Don't be afraid.”

She pulled away, and Solange tried to cling to her for a moment. But then, her little thin face wooden, Solange opened the heavy front door for her mother. Awkwardly Manon pushed the carriage out and down the steps, turned and waved to Solange, and started up the street. Solange closed the door and went back to Lisette.

“Don't worry, baby,” she said in a thin reedy voice. “Don't be afraid. We won't be afraid.”

****

Manon knew she had seen a pawnshop when they had first come to New York. When she and Marcus and Solange had been living in the Corinthian Hotel—oh, what wonderful worry-free days those were—they had often walked to Washington Square. They had passed a pawnshop, she remembered, because one time Marcus started teasing her that he would pawn Solange to buy their dinner.

The smile faded from her face as she recalled the odd light in Marcus's eyes when he had said that. He often said bad things, wicked things, and made them into a joke. But Manon knew that they weren't always jokes, and they were never funny. She shrugged. It didn't matter now.

She had walked several blocks before she even troubled to look around. It was a lovely bright morning, one of those rare days in deep winter that looked as if it were early October. The sun shone cheerily, though it shed no warmth. The sky was a mild airy blue, with small scuds of clouds flitting south. It was probably very cold, Manon thought with unconcern. She was already hot, and she knew that she could not remove the cloak. She had foreseen this, but it made no difference. The dress didn't fit, and she had to wear the cloak.

Manon didn't really know where she was. All she knew was that the train station was up the street from Morton Row, so she walked doggedly up the street, pushing the carriage until she came to the station. A train was there, and people were boarding. Manon hurried to the man with the funny flat cap and the shiny buttons who was taking tickets.

“Corinthian Hotel?” she asked politely.

“Yes, ma'am, you gotcher right train here,” he answered snappily. “Eighteen cents.”

Manon held out the torn dollar. He gave it a once-over, shrugged, and handed her change and a ticket.

“
Merci, monsieur
.”

“Ah, furrin lady, are you?” he said. “Well, you're a nice lady and it's a nice day, so lemme help you with your carriage there, ma'am. No charge today for furrin ladies.” He picked up the carriage and carried it onto the train, then helped Manon to her seat. She sank into it with vast relief. The train started, and the stops, announced by the nice man, made no sense to her. But finally he leaned over her, tipped his cap, and pronounced very slowly, “Cor-in-thi-an Ho-tel, ma'am.” Again he picked up the carriage and moved it out onto the platform. Manon smiled as prettily as she could manage and said,
“Merci beaucoup, et bonjour, monsieur.”

She was right across the street from the Corinthian Hotel, and she recognized the cross street she and Marcus had walked so long ago. Refusing to revisit the painful memories again, she looked straight ahead and took step after step after step, pushing her carriage.

There it was, to Manon's vast relief. For a panicky minute before she saw it, she wondered what she would do if the pawnbroker had gone out of business or moved. But it was still there, with the big sign in bright yellow letters painted on an arc above the door: PAWNBROKER, M. BEASLEY, PROP.

She opened the door and pulled the carriage in behind her. Blinking rapidly, she willed her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Sunbeams danced through the junk piled to the ceiling along the front windows, thin golden pencils of light with dreamy motes floating along them. Manon, hypnotized, watched the sunbeams and the mote dancers for a while. When a nasal voice sounded behind her, she jumped.

She assumed it was M. Beasley, Prop. He was a short, skinny man wearing an ill-fitting mismatched suit. He had greasy soap locks arranged along his forehead, and his eyes were very small and close together. When he smiled, Manon saw with amazement that all four of his upper front teeth were gold. “Good day, madam. How may Mike Beasley help you today?” he asked in an unpleasant, oily manner.

Manon lifted her chin. “Buy clo?” she pronounced in as anglicized a manner as she could muster.

“Huh? Whatcha say?” he said, frowning.

Manon cleared her throat. “Buy clo? Plea?”

“You drunk, girlie?” he said suspiciously. He looked her up and down.

Impatiently Manon leaned over the carriage, pushed the shawl and the doll aside, and lifted out a gorgeous almost-new dress of shimmering taffeta. It made a lovely rustle as she held it up and shook out the folds. Peeking around it, she repeated with determination, “Buy clo, monsieur? Clo, clo.” She shook the dress.

A glare of sudden comprehension lit his muddy little eyes. “Ah, you don't speak-ee English-ee, huh? Foreign tart,” he grunted. But he reached out and rubbed the dress between finger and thumb in a knowing manner. “All ri, girlie-girl. I'll buy your clo. What else you got in there?”

Manon came out of the pawnshop with the doll Susannah, Marcus's coverall, her precious two bottles, and eighteen dollars. She had sold all of her clothes and the baby carriage too. She hesitated, wondering how to find St. Luke's Hospital. The pawnbroker had talked a lot and pointed here and there when she pointed to the name on the pocket of the coverall and asked, “
Où est
St. Luke?” But Manon hadn't understood anything he said or his wild gesticulations, so she just thanked him and left.

Now she stood out in front of the shop looking up and down the street. It was a shabby street, with some carts and a few buggies going up and down. Most of the people walking were either vulgar-looking swaggering men with greasy hair like the pawnbroker's or coarse-looking women who were even more haggard in the bright sunlight. Suddenly Manon felt afraid when two young toughs walked by her, brashly looking her up and down. Although Manon felt like a slovenly fat cow, as Marcus had often reminded her, she was not truly fat. Certainly she weighed more than when she was a boyish ninety pounds, but by the standards of normal healthy women she simply had a rounded figure. Her complexion was pasty, her skin dull, but Manon was still a pretty woman. She had lovely big blue eyes, which were quite striking with her dark hair. It was dull and didn't have the springy curl of her youth, but it was still a deep, rich, almost black shade that still styled well into ringlets. Manon didn't know any of this; in her mind's eye she saw a fat, sloppy woman with sagging skin and dull eyes and crow's feet. All she could think of was that somehow the men who so brashly looked her up and down knew that she had some money. When another man brushed against her and then stopped as if to say something to her, Manon stuck her nose in the air, whirled, and walked off as if she hadn't a care in the world. The man made a rude gesture to her retreating back but turned and went on his way.

Manon walked quickly now, avoiding the eyes of passersby. She decided to go back to the train station, and then perhaps another nice conductor would tell her how to find St. Luke's. Now that Manon had accomplished, miraculously, the task she had set for herself, she was encouraged to find Marcus and confront him. He would have money from the hospital today, she knew, and he would give her some. He must. She must find a way to make him help her, for Solange's and Lisette's sakes. In truth, she no longer cared for herself. She felt her life was over, and the only reason she was still alive was so that her poor little girls wouldn't be left all alone. Somehow she must get every penny she could for them, before she—

Suddenly she stopped and looked around in alarm. She had no idea where she was; she had never seen this street before. It looked much like all the other streets on the lower west side of Manhattan—shabby stores, stinking streets of mud well-mixed with horse manure, cheap boardinghouses, dangerous-looking men, and rough-looking women.

Panic set in, and with it all of the fear and weakness that up until now Manon had so successfully overcome. Her head began to pound, her stomach rolled with nausea, and her heart beat fast and unevenly, making her break out in a clammy cold sweat. Almost gasping, she stood right in the middle of the plank walk, took out the bottle of absinthe, and gurgled down two huge swallows. Even before she lowered the bottle, she felt the lovely lethargy, the dreamy numbness, steal over her. With drug-slowed movements she put the bottle back into her pocket, blinked several times, and started walking again. Now the people who looked at her seemed fuzzy, their features distorted into comic shapes. They all looked like the funny sock monkey that was Solange's second-favorite toy. Manon giggled at them.

She tried desperately to make herself be serious, to get back onto the course she had set for herself, but she could hardly remember what she was doing out here on these filthy streets and what she was supposed to do next. She remembered the pawnbroker and stopped, searching her pockets.

There was Susannah, Solange's doll. Yes, she had promised to bring it back to Solange, so Manon tucked it more securely into the pocket. And she was holding Marcus's hospital coverall still neatly folded, over her arm. Yes, she was doing that right.

Yes, thank heavens, in the other pocket were her two bottles of absinthe…and the money. She mustn't forget the money. It was why she was out here walking around. She giggled again at her confusion.

And there—yes, the pawn ticket! Now she remembered! She remembered M. Beasley, Prop. Fumbling, she put the money back into her pocket and held on to the ticket like a talisman. She tried to remember where she was and which way it was to the pawnbroker's, but it was difficult because all of her thoughts were brightly colored fuzzy images. She took this street, turned that corner, circled back again, looking around blankly.