Seven

WHEN FRIEDA OPENS her door, Lou bounds up, both arms wide, but then stops, just shy of a hug. "Oh, is that it? We heard Crowley say 'filthy.' Should've guessed."

Are there lesions on her face? How does Lou know?

"The smell," Lou says, reading her. "The smell."

Frieda thought she'd cleaned herself enough to blunt the odor (like cheese caught and rotting between teeth), but the rags with which she's dabbed herself—she forgot to burn the rags!—are stashed in a heap beside the sink.

"Wait," says Lou. "I'll run home, be right back."

It's two and a half days since the shock of Frieda's firing, a span in which she's spoken to no friend. Mrs. Norcross, the landlady, came knocking once each day—first with the announcement of someone here to see her ("Blond thing, all painted up and powdered"), next to ask if she might need a nurse—and both times Frieda begged her to go away.

Her room—ratty mattress, leaking sink, mingy light (the jets are plugged even more scrimpingly than at Mama's)—is cavelike and punitively close. To keep time, there's the tolling of Immaculate Conception; the graying that brings night, then dawn. But for two tins of sardines, she hasn't eaten; she's too harried even to mind the hunger. Is this how Mama felt when she lost Russia? Toppled into turbulence, not a snitch of air to breathe; every move futile, misdirected.

Frieda's ventured out only to shamble to the toilet. She's dripping all the time, or at least that's how it seems: blood still (a bit of it, the tail end of her flow), and the other stuff, tackier, which stinks. Constantly she feels as though she has to pee or burst, but when she tries, practically nothing will emerge: a trickle that mocks the urgency of her need. She felt it first—this burn inside, this sharp insistent flare—the evening of her exile from the store. Morning found the burning worse; the next night worse still. Her flesh (all she's ever fully trusted) turned against her.

But how could she tell anyone the cause? How could she name the parts aloud, or show them? (And to think she'd been so proud to show Jack.) Which is why, when Mrs. Norcross came knocking again just now—"The blond gal is back, and she won't take no this time"—Frieda finally agreed to see her friend. Lou would have a plan, wouldn't judge her.

When Lou returns, Frieda feels a billow of relief. Just the sound of Lou's breathing (she must have hurried up the stairs) is a comfort: another being, here beside her.

Lou has brought a satchel from which she pulls out vials and pouches. There's an offishness to her movements, a fussiness of the wrists; Frieda's seen it before, when Lou rebuffs a customer who hasn't bought.

"Honestly," Lou says, "didn'tcha take precautions?"

Frieda, stung, merely shrugs one shoulder.

"You gonna tell me safeties ain't kosher?" Lou continues, her voice tight with teacherly disappointment.

Is that all Frieda is to her? An investment of time gone bust? She can't keep the bawl in her swollen throat from leaking.

Lou turns at the sound, and her face, from a new angle, gains lenience. "Listen, sweetpea, I'm sorry. This happens to the best of us. Hell, I've had the whites. Had 'em twice."

"The whites?"

"You know, the clap. Or something like it." She joins Frieda on the mattress, pats her thigh. "I've got some stuff left over from my last time. It should help. But oh! If I ever get my hands on that scamp!" She reaches out and wrings a phantom neck.

"No, Lou. It's not his fault. It's mine."

"Yours! How could it possibly be yours?"

"I've gone with so many fellows—men I didn't even know."

"But you told me that you only went the limit with just Felix."

"It's true. He's the only one for that. But the others—I let them kiss me and, you know, use their hands."

"You don't get it from doing any of those things, Frieda! Christ, you West End girls're sheltered. Trust me, it was him. He gave it to you."

"Then why would they make him report me?"

"Don't you get it? They always blame the girl. But he should know better! And he hasn't lifted his little finger to help you. Has he even answered a single one of your letters?"

Lou thinks Frieda's written him; she promised Lou she would. But she hasn't. So how could he write back?

Maybe Lou is right to urge anger, accusation; but Frieda, through her terror and her crippling abashment, still feels, above all else, grateful. For if Felix has given her this—she can't name it—this affliction, he's also given her affirmation: a sense of herself as worthy of his charms. When she thinks of him, she doesn't think of a soldier reporting her (her illness has made her face the patent truth that it was he), nor of an heir who lied about his life. What she pictures is the man on the crowded subway car who questioned her about her likes and dislikes, who wouldn't rest until he understood her; the man who handed her a key, and said, "You should." To write him begging for rescue (which is what it would amount to) would unbuild the buttress he helped her raise.

"This is my problem," she insists to Lou. "Not his."

"Then you goddamn surely make it his," Lou says. On a plate—Frieda's only one, still slick with sardine oil—Lou's laid out a row of sugar cubes. Now she agitates a brown-bottled potion. "Frieda, you just got sacked. You don't have nothing saved. I aim to take up a collection from the girls, but how long will that last, you tell me?"

"I got that job. I'll go and get another."

"And I hope to high heaven that you do. But put your brains together for a sec. He's a Morse, right? One of the Morses? Morse's Menswear? And you know where his family lives, yeah?"

"You know I do. I told you the whole story."

"So what you do," Lou says as she uncaps her bottle, the top of which is attached to an eyedropper, "you go to 'em. Tell 'em what their good soldier's been up to, how he ain't been so good after all. Then you ask—"

"Oh, I couldn't. They haven't done anything to me."

"That's the worst lot of bilge I ever heard! Ain't they the ones who raised the creep? Besides, think on it. These people're rich! I'll bet they spend more on floor polish every week than you spend on half a year's rent. What's it to them to give you a little help?"

As if to demonstrate how the Morses might part with token sums, Lou droppers a dot of liquid on some sugar. Then more—drop, drop—the tincture slowly seeping until the cube has turned the copper of a coin. Lou is so casual, as if she does this every day. But surely once (how long ago?) she would have found this daunting and, too, would have balked at fleecing strangers. Is this how people change, a slow seep? Frieda tries to gauge if what seems natural to her now would a year ago have struck her as abhorrent. A year from now, will today's unthinkable be the norm?

"If you won't go," says Lou, "hell, maybe I'll go myself," and her mouth forms a sneer of planned reprisal. "But on the subject of handouts, look, like I said, I got this stuff left over from my last time. Don't ask. I know a lady in Jamaica Plain who makes it. This here's sandalwood oil, and you're gonna want, oh, eight or ten drops on a piece of sugar—goes down nice and smooth that way. And you can do that three or four times a day, 'cept there ain't but a day or two's left." Holding out the fishsmelly plate close to Frieda, Lou chortles, and says, "Corpus Christi."

Frieda, not quite getting the joke, stalls.

"Go on, now, it ain't gonna kill you."

In her throat, the cube feels jagged, but all she tastes is sweetness. A strong leafy scent tweaks her nose.

Lou then gives a lesson on the proper care of self for a girl in Frieda's condition. Bed rest and daily bowel cleansing are a must; spicy foods and fat should be avoided. "Skimmed milk's fine. And seltzer, plenty of seltzer, keep things running. Potash water, too. Mix a spoonful of this"—Lou hands her a pouch of powder—"with a tall glass of water from the tap."

Frieda can't bear looking at the grayish, chalky substance. She wonders at Lou's offhand attitude—as if it's common knowledge that being a girl these days takes the knack and the stockpiles of a druggist. Perhaps Lou's nonchalance should allay Frieda's embarrassment, but it only heightens her chagrin: Is everyone more worldly-wise than she? Frieda failed at "good," and now she's bungled being bad.

Tugging tight the drawstring on her satchel, Lou says, "That should ease you, but you really need a doctor."

"A doctor? You know I can't afford that."

"Can't afford not is more like it. There's a clinic at the Dispensary—if you're poor, they don't charge."

"What, I'm some kind of hardship case?"

"Better than a nut case," Lou says. "The pox does that, you know. Makes you crazy. Like Neville, that beggar on your street, they say he's got it. And that ain't gonna cure itself with sandalwood and potash. What if you've got that, too? What then? The only way to know is see a doctor. So you go to the Dispensary, and you walk in the front. There's signs pointing the way with red arrows. Just keep following till you find the right room."

Dispensary. It sounds to Frieda like a place for throwaways. "In front of everyone?" she says. "'Just keep following' so the whole world knows where I'm going? No, Lou, I can't. I just can't." She has to hold her breath to keep from crying.

Lou takes Frieda's chin with two fingers. "Listen, I know you feel like everything's gone wonky. Don't worry. You'll make it through this fine." From her handbag she takes out a curvy blue glass flask. "This helps, too—for pain down here, and here." Lou touches her belly, then her forehead.

Curling at the corners, its print a little smudged, the label reads MRS. WINSLOW'S SOOTHING SYRUP.

"Couple of nips," Lou says. "Three at most." As if to prove it's safe, she takes a pull. She hands the flask encouragingly to Frieda.

Licorice is what it tastes like, undersweetened licorice, trailed by an after-bite of balsam. Shyly, Frieda draws a second sip.

"Better?" asks Lou.

"Maybe. Yes, I think so."

"Good. Now try to get some rest, relax. Tomorrow, you wake up early, and you get the morning paper. Before you can say Jack Robinson, you'll find a new job. And I'll see what the girls can pitch in to help you out."

Wincing, Frieda turns her head away. "They all heard, didn't they? I know there's talk. It's awful."

"Don't be such a silly!" Lou rebukes. "What you need is to mind your own self. Which means the potash and the sandalwood oil, like I showed you. And the Dispensary. Soon as you can. Promise?"

Frieda pictures the clinic: blood-red arrows aimed at her.

"Promise?" Lou says.

Frieda tries to nod.

"All right, then. You're being a good Injun. We'd both better get some beauty sleep."

Lou hugs her—a snug, somber clinch—and Frieda hugs back, clutching tight. Before, all she wanted (thought she wanted) was seclusion. Now she wants Lou to stay forever. To give her secret remedies and gumption.

Lou lets go. Rising from the mattress, she knocks her head. "This room's for midgets," she says. "How do you stand it?"

"Get used to it, I guess," Frieda says.

Lou, shaking her head, says, "I wouldn't."

Does she mean that she herself wouldn't settle for such limits, or is this guidance? Don't get used to anything.

With a final blown kiss, Lou walks away.

The door slams. The room shudders as stale air is rearranged. Frieda, too, spooked by the change, shudders.

Alone again.

Reaching for the flask of Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup, Frieda notes her thumb, stained brown with Lou's tincture. Furtively, as though she's being scornfully observed ("Would our customers want clothes wrapped by filthy fingers?"), she wipes it on the underside of the mattress. She downs a throat-tingling draft of syrup. Then one more.

From adjoining rooms, she can hear girls settling in for the night. A muffled cough, the sulky sounds of plumbing. She pictures them brushing hair and teeth. Does any one of them picture her?

The need to pass water (the illusion of need?) flares. She could try, but she knows it won't come.

Unsure if the syrup has induced any effect, she thinks about chancing another swallow. From the eaves outside her window comes a pigeon's broody murmur. She moves to the glass but still can't see the bird. "Who who?" she mimics, and it seems to coo in answer. "Better now?" she says. The bird coos yes.

Minutes pass like silk; the air—time itself—seems softened. A milky and expansive smell engulfs her: baking bread? (Strange, the nearest bakery's blocks away.) Now it smells more like apricots.

Was she considering something? A task? An undertaking?

The syrup. She was going to taste some more. Like steam, though, that want has evanesced. She's syrupy enough herself: she's succulent. There are bubbles in her blood, smooth round o's of relaxation. Suddenly she wants Felix, the soothe of him, the touch. She wants him here, cradling her, nursing her to wellness. Or, no, not here, in his house, the mansion. A feather bed. Broth from a silver bowl.

But how could Felix find her, not knowing her address? If he came back to Jordan's, she'd be gone.

The pigeon purrs. Frieda's vision swims.

From the trinket box (a seashell, one of Jack's marbles) that Frieda keeps underneath the bed, she fishes out a stub of sharpened pencil. There's no paper, so the box itself will serve: she tears off a cardboard flap. On one side of the makeshift postcard she writes his name; following that, in parentheses, Private. (Let them assume she means his rank.) Camp Devens, she pencils. Ayer, Massachusetts. Then she flips the card to its blank side. How could she fit the thoughts that glut her mind?

How dare you, Felix?

When will you dare again?

In her hand, like a magic wand, the pencil throbs with portent. She marks down the fact of her address. Isn't that enough for now? Enough for him to find her. Above, she draws a monogram: FM. In this, she thinks—in this at least—they're equals.