For the past three months, Rudy’s Ritzy Review had been doing quite well. Many nights they played to full houses. Clair had become part of the Sallies, and she realized on live stages mistakes happened all the time. It felt good, too, to be bringing home more income.
Her father’s constitution had improved. He had a new crony at the local coffeehouse, and afternoons they met to play chess there. Aunt June seemed happy to have him gone. Their bickering over the smallest things had increased with his health. “The tea’s too cold. Where’s my book?” he’d complain.
Clair hummed “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” donned her cloche hat, and adjusted it in the hall mirror. There was a knock at the door. Her father must have forgotten his key again.
“I’ll get it,” she called to Aunt June, who was in the kitchen baking bread.
“Farley!” Clair stepped back as he pushed his way inside.
“Clair.” He nodded at her and removed his bowler. His droopy mustache had been shaved off, he’d lost his paunch, and the muscles in his upper body had filled out. It had been over six months, and she wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the too-sweet scent of his pomade.
Aunt June hurried into the room.
“Hello, June. Leland told me I could find him here. Where is he?”
“At the coffeehouse around the corner. Why don’t you go down and find him?” She put her hand on Clair’s back.
“I’d rather stay.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a match.
Clair took her purse and coat off the hall tree and started for the door, but he caught her elbow.
“Where are you off to?” His grip was firmer and his words more clipped than they had been before.
“Work.” Clair tugged her arm away.
“I’ll give you a lift.” He put his cigar in an ashtray. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“As far as I’m concerned, we have nothing to talk about.”
He closed the door and stood in front of it. “Tell me more about this job of yours. A seamstress of sorts I’ve heard.”
Clair nodded. “Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Midtown.”
“What exactly do you do there besides sew?”
“Help with odds and ends.” She kept her voice calm. If she pushed too hard, she’d never get to the theater.
Farley frowned. “A girl of your standing should not be out working.”
“Things have changed. Even women do what they can.”
June took Clair’s hand. “Yes, if it wasn’t for her job, we’d have starved long ago.”
“I’ve got to go now or I’ll be late.” Clair tried again to push past Farley.
He got in close to her, nose to nose. “We need to discuss this further.”
“No, we do not!” Clair yelled. “Who do you think you are? Barging in like this and trying to tell me what to do.”
“You are my betrothed!” He put his face close to hers.
“Are you demented? That was long ago.”
Aunt June stepped between them and put her hand gently on Clair’s forehead. “You seem to have a fever, dear. Let’s go to our room and you can lie down.”
Farley stepped back. “It might be consumption. I’ll get the doctor!”
“No need. She probably just needs a little rest.” Aunt June guided Clair into the bedroom and shut the door.
Clair’s body shook with anger. “If he thinks he can sashay in here and lord it over me, he’s got another thing coming!”
Aunt June whispered, “Settle down. Last thing you need is to get him all riled up.”
“But I need to get to work.”
June shook her head. “You should stay here until your father comes home.”
“But everyone at work is depending on me.” Clair had been tempted to tell Aunt June the truth about her job but didn’t want her to have to keep that secret.
“They’ll get along for one night without you.”
Clair plopped down on the edge of the bed and started to cry.
“I’m sorry.” Aunt June handed her a lace handkerchief.
The front door slammed and June peeked out the door. “Good. He’s gone.”
Clair stood. “Then I’m off, too.”
“You’d better wait. He might be lurking outside.”
Clair paced the apartment while June checked her bread and made soup for supper. Thirty minutes later Farley returned with Dr. Johnson.
“Farley tells me you aren’t well.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! She’s fine,” Aunt June grumbled.
Her father opened the door. “Farley!” He shook his hand. “Dr. Johnson! Why are you here? Has June had a relapse?” He put his hand on his chest.
Farley lit another cigar. “No, it’s Clair. She’s gravely ill.”
Clair squinted her eyes at him. “You bastard!” She clasped her hand over her mouth and looked at Dr. Johnson and her father sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Crying, she ran past them out the door. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“See, this is what I was talking about.” Farley blocked her way.
Dr. Johnson took Clair’s hands in his. “My, my. You certainly aren’t yourself.”
“Then who would I be?” She smirked through her tears.
“Clair, don’t be disrespectful to the doctor.” Her father frowned at her.
“Let’s go to your room for a little exam.” Dr. Johnson escorted her by the elbow, smelling like the witch hazel he had prescribed for her pimples a few years ago. He sat her on the bed and put his black bag on the dresser.
Farley and her father followed them in.
“Gentlemen, you two can go now.” Aunt June closed the bedroom door and sat next to Clair. “This is not necessary, doctor. She’s fine.”
“We need to be sure.” He grabbed his stethoscope from the bag.
With his back turned, Clair jumped up and tried to leave the room.
He stood in her way. “Sit down.” Using the stethoscope, he listened to her chest through her blouse. “My, my, my. How are you feeling?”
“Angry as hell!” Clair shouted.
The doctor nodded, escorted Aunt June from the bedroom, and closed the door. Clair, alone in the bedroom, ran her fingers over her thighs, then got up and put an ear to the door.
“Is my Clair going to be all right?” her father asked.
“Leland, I have grave news.” The doctor kept his voice low, but Clair could hear him anyway. “My diagnosis is that she has what we call ‘impulse hysteria’ and needs to be confined to complete bed rest.”
“Really, doctor?” Her father sounded scared.
“Leland, that’s ridiculous.” Aunt June always had the voice of reason. “She was fine until Farley arrived.”
“I recommend she stay in bed for at least a week, Leland, under your direct supervision.”
Clair came out of the bedroom, put her arm through her father’s, and managed a smile. “I’m fine, now. I promise.” She wished she had heeded Varinska’s advice and not let them see her cry.
“Ha! I’ve discovered what caused this ‘illness,’” Farley sneered.
Everyone in the room stared at him.
“She’s been performing at a burlesque house!”
Clair’s body felt as if it were a chandelier falling onto a marble floor, shattering in a million pieces.
“That’s not true!” Aunt June looked at Clair, but when she saw her niece’s expression, she sat down on the sofa.
“Here’s the evidence.” Farley unrolled a scroll in his hand, held it up to the group, and gave it to her father.
Clair’s father studied the playbill, handed it to June, and dropped onto the sofa next to her, his head in his hands. “My little Raffie.”
“Women are runaway trains. If you don’t control them, they’ll crash.” Farley glared at Clair.
Dr. Johnson shook his head. “This won’t do at all. Won’t do at all. An upstanding young woman like you performing burlesque!”
Clair stood tall, put her shoulders back, and tilted her head up. “It’s not a juice joint or anything distasteful. Rudy runs a clean house!”
She tried to make another run for it. Farley stood in front of the door, and she pounded on his chest. Stopping her, he grabbed her wrists. “See, she’s out of control! Let’s lock her in the bedroom.”
“Don’t touch her!” Aunt June put a hand on Clair’s back. “Come with me, dear.”
The women sat on the bed. Aunt June shook her head. “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
They listened to Dr. Johnson through the door. “Put four of these drops in water every eight hours and make her drink it. I’ll return tomorrow. If her fits don’t stop, there are other treatments we can use. One of my other patients never snapped out of it, and we had to send her to a sanitarium.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” her father moaned. “We’ll take good care of my girl. Goodbye, and thank you.”
The front door closed.
They let her out of her room, and the four of them—Clair, her father, Aunt June, and Farley—silently drank their soup and bread.
At bedtime, her father pulled the cork from the vial, counted drops into a glass of water, and made sure she drank it down. The reddish-brown liquid tasted bitter, worse than any hooch she’d ever tried, but she denied him the satisfaction of grimacing.
“It’s for your own good, Raffie. You need to get better.”
“But I’m not even sick.” She shook her head, deeply shocked by the day’s events.