ORINDA
1898
We Work Out a Song and Dance—The Parasol Number—A Warning Is Given
Monday days at The Paradise were not the relaxing holiday the mornings promised. After a few bits of peace and a strong coffee, the girls lined up outside China Mary’s private rooms at the rear of the first floor to await their weekly pay and receive their health checkup.
Pip went first, as she always did; I didn’t go at all, as I was not on the squeaky-bed payroll and did not require a health checkup. China Mary took my tips as rent and said I cost her more than I was worth.
Afterward, the girls returned to their rooms to strip the Sunday night linens and drag the mattresses to the back yard for their weekly airing. But most gave a penny to Tommy Gee to do that, and to bring up stacks of clean sheets from Mr. Wu Lin’s laundry. Pip gave Tommy triple what the others did, and she had the nicest room that faced north-east and avoided the worst of the heat.
Pip and I used the remainder of the day to choreograph and rehearse the next week’s show, then climb to the attic to sew the costumes. She had a clumsy hand with thread and needle, which left me as head costumier after all. She took her new free time to peek out the front window and pace, and fool around with a few of the new steps I’d given her, as I had seen the latest in dance while down in Tucson.
“It’s ball-change and two snaps.” I knotted the thread along a corset stay and set it on a crate. “Like this.”
“Flip my head back like that, too?”
I repeated the move. “Just a small come-hither look, not too much.” I held the position, my foot pointed teasingly out from my invisible skirt, as we were both in camisoles and drawers to keep cool. I tapped my bare heel like a flamenco dancer and arched my back so my tits faced the ceiling. “You could add in another snap and sigh. Like so.”
“What’s wrong with your eye?”
“What? Nothing.”
“You look like you got a shard of glass in there.”
“Ha ha.”
She smacked my bottom and waved me aside. “Let me do it.”
There was no doubt she could twist, turn, tease, and trouble any sort of man. Graceful as a butterfly, virtuous even, in her choice of lines. She knew when to hold them, until her arms quivered and she took in shallow breaths to stretch and hold the pose that one second longer. Then with a spin and smirk she was nothing but pure sin.
I pierced my finger one too many times, my attention on her hips and shimmies instead of repairing a velveteen hem.
“Come over here.” She waved her hand for me to step to her left. “I want to practice the Tally Ho number. You were late on Friday with the crop.”
“You were in the way. I didn’t have room to spin it. It’s a great big stage; you don’t always have to be in the center of it.”
She took my arms, moved me back a few inches. “Now strut.” She hummed and started the routine.
“I am five feet and a drop of water; how come I am playing the man?”
“Because I got the better breasts for baring on the last note.”
There was no argument to that. We shared any coins thrown our way, and her tits, to be honest, were more valuable than mine.
I hooked a crop under my arm to walk like a gent, kicking my toes out just so and tipping my head as I passed her.
She curtseyed and simpered and counted under her breath. Then, she straightened and set her hands to her hips. “Stick your chest out and give me a wink as you pass.”
A wink seemed a smallish effect, so I added a good lookaloo up and down her figure. To which she gave me a funny look and stopped humming.
“What?”
“Is that your I-am-extremely-attracted-to-you look?”
“It’s a brush look with a wide eye.” I moved my hand as if I was painting a wall.
“Just wink. The other looks like you have gas.”
* * *
If a man wanted a seat in the Paradise Dancehall, he had to run a gamut of obstacles, all of which had been calculated to withdraw funds from pockets. The miners, having come clean-shaven and short-nailed from the barbers, dropped ten cents in the box by the door and received a token and a paper ticket to reserve a seat. The token then could be used as partial payment on a whiskey or single dance with one of the girls. If a patron wanted a closer seat to Pip’s and my frills, trills, and bums, two tickets could be purchased from Maggie Halloran, bartender and flirt. Three more tokens gave a fella entrance to the Paradise parlor and all the intimate hoopla that came along with that.
A long mahogany bar ran the right wall of the room, its silver-backed mirror reflecting the card tables lined opposite. Access to the poker tables cost a dollar to show your seriousness in the game. Faro seats were on the house, but that was because the house always won. China Mary softened that losing blow with the choice of one drink and one dance. She herself sat queenlike in bombazine silk on a raised velvet chair set within the cashier’s cage, her view unobstructed from the front leaded-glass door to the painted backdrop of the stage.
The whole of it smelled of kerosene and after-shave and, on that Tuesday night, of head spinning lavender soap, which Pip had shaved in curls into her bath water. She also exuded Bohemian Malt Tonic, which she had imbibed throughout the day.
Her eyes worried me greatly. They had a sparkly sharp edge—the green one more pronounced in its anxious anticipation than the copper. The hiccups that afflicted her the last hour threatened to return; she swallowed over and over, then bent down with another small beer glass and took a swig. She popped up straight, stretching her back. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Who?”
“Cullen.” She pulled her lips back in a feral way and said nothing, instead pranced onto the stage, making small curtsies, and blowing kisses hither and yon.
Pip, being the Paradise’s star draw, opened the show with a solo act—a dance of startling contortions. I watched from backstage, my riding crop in one hand and her costume change for our routine in the other. I had a shiver of pride at the efficacy of the design I had created, for the dress could be shrugged on and tied down in a matter of seconds, thus keeping the show going at a gay clip.
She raised and stretched her billowy leg, frowned at the twirl of a red stockinged ankle, then shook her head at the parasol balanced on a slippered toe. She grabbed two more parasols from a stand near the upright piano, and somehow lost a petticoat along the way. She slid her eyes across the rough audience of men and sprung into a back flip. The parasols twirled and floated above her, then descended and were caught—one, then two, then three—between her waiting knees. I do admit it was some trick to go from a backflip to such an arch of the body, her hips thrust from the stage, her silks slipped up her thighs.
I took a quick peek at the house. I didn’t know who she was referring to; all the men looked alike, shiny heads of just-been-to-the-barber oily locks and foam mustaches atop the real ones. The only one I recognized was Joe Harper, who sat at the bar nursing a sarsaparilla and not at all interested in Pip’s earthly delights.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Four nights in a row the fella had been in, and truly, the outrageous clapping at my performance had embarrassed even China Mary, who threatened to cut off his root beer and force him to sit outside.
Then I saw Cullen. He sat up front, rangy and narrow faced, with long black hair oiled to keep the curl and a neat mustache that exaggerated pouty lips. He took a sip of a gold-hued liquor from a miniature wine glass, swirling the drink around his mouth as his eyes roamed the room. They were the same honey color as the liquor. His suit had creases where it had been folded. He crossed a leg, and his shoe shined too bright in the flicker of the lights.
Not someone I would think twice about; a two-bit dandy showing off his expensive aperitif.
There was something about him, though: how his eyes caught on Pip as she strutted and bowed, as if he ogled and owned her at the same time. He took a small sip of liquor and turned to talk to someone at the table, but I could not see who he addressed from my angle.
His eyes glided around the room, slowing on a table of men involved in a friendly shell game involving three silver thimbles. He gave a nod to Verna, who tucked her neck into her shoulders like a tortoise and hit the wrong key in the next chord. Darby dropped her eyes to the floor when he looked to her. Maggie nearly tipped her tray of drinks when she saw Cullen’s attention turn to Darby. Then he lazed his gaze back to Pip and took another sip of his foppish drink.
Verna plunked out a ragtime. Pip crawled on the piano top and fondled one closed parasol between her thighs. She pursed her lips, licked them. Slid one hand up and down the parasol. Fluttered her lashes and wiped her brow. Her feet soon tensed, and her toes turned out in a quiver. And poof! The parasol floated open, the fabric a riotous mess of red poppies and yellow daisies and green glass beads.
A few gents lifted their arms to toss daisies and assorted wildflowers they’d plucked on the way to the show, the blooms a cascade of color that fell and tumbled on Pip’s corseted curves.
Verna played the introduction to a popular song, old and familiar to all.
Pip opened her mouth with the shine of tongue and teeth and let out a first warbling note—Ohhhh…
The floor shook as the men stomped boots, releasing the smells of sawdust, shoeshine, and leather, and swayed as they joined her in a booming Ohhhhh…
…he floats through the air with the greatest of ease…
The boom rolled around the dance hall and saloon mirror, bounced off the low ceiling and got stuck in the wings. I was deaf save the barreling of voices and stamp of feet, and overwhelmed with the commingled stinks of stale beer, whiskey, and crushed mint.
Pip swung her arms around like a conductor, her ruby-tipped nails glittering, palms spreading open to grasp the coins that flew around her and stuffed them quick between her breasts and bodice. “Sing it out fellas.” She gave a great big smile. “…once I was happy but now I’m forlorn…”
Then she gave a big wave and flounced to the wings.
I held out her dress. She gripped my elbow. “Don’t let me go with him.”
She shoved her arms through the sleeves, turned for me to button up the back, then took the blue straw hat I’d hung on a hook. Her hand trembled so that I took the long pin from her and set the hat myself.
“Damn man.” The words came out through clenched teeth.
Verna thumped the intro, signaling our cue. I started my trills, and we skipped out.
Pip tripped and took tiny steps to keep herself from bowling over the lip of the stage.
“What the hell, Pip?”
She gave me a quick smile and a dip of her head, as if I needed such an apology. What I needed was for her to get her shuffle step in gear.
A single red rose arced in the air. It landed at Pip’s feet.
She looked down at it, not moving, not scooping it up as per normal and sticking in between her teeth. She curled her hands tight against her sides.
“Pip…”
Verna riffed a bit on the piano, her shoulders hunched over the keys.
“You gonna dance?” Cullen crossed a leg and leaned back in his seat. His eyes drifted to Pip’s tits. Then he knocked his knuckle to the table, in time with the music. Loud and hard and mean.
China Mary’s head swiveled. I paraded by Pip, trying to entice her back into the song and dance. But she was stone still. Her face looked like a chip of granite.
“Come on,” I whispered as I pulled on her shoulder and did a wiggle to tease the crowd. The men were growing restless; the room took on a dull thrum that most often preceded the throwing of bottles and rocks.
Verna cut a look at China Mary, who rolled her hand for us to move the show along. I smacked my crop on Pip’s bum, which got her to jump and say “Oh!” But did not garner another move.
I removed my derby, flipping it down my arm to catch in my fingers.
“There once was a fellow from Essex,
who knew not at all about Sessex.
A maid came along with a wink—”
“At his dong!” Verna called out and I did want to kiss her on the lips for the rescue.
I slapped the bowler over my nether regions and lifted a finger to quiet her. “With a wink and a song. This is a family establishment. We don’t speak of dongs and dingles and pickles and pipes.”
Pip snapped to life with a shuffle-step and a toss of the rose back Cullen’s way. “Nor willies or winkies or widdlers.”
“Say that thrice.” I rolled the hat back up to my head and popped the top like a drum.
And we continued the show.
Pip proceeded through the act as if a pole had been shoved up her ass. She crowded me in the exact same stanza of the exact same song she always did and did not apologize for stomping my foot during the last pas de deux. She was mad as hell, and only took two stiff shallow bows before prancing off stage.
We sat in the smidge of space behind the muslin backdrop, keeping our voices low. It was Darby’s turn to sing, and any loud noise set her crying and off-key.
Pip humpfed and tugged at the ribbons and buttons of her bodice. I whacked her hand to keep her from ruining it.
“That’s the last bit of lemon silk.” I smacked her hand again and unbuttoned it myself.
I switched from my duds to a skirt and blouse. She sat in her chemise and garters, knees struck out and an elbow to her thigh.
“You mind giving me a hint as to your sour demeanor?”
She swung her gaze to me. There was something forlorn in it, I dropped my costume to the bench and bent to grab her in a tight hug.
Her jaw clenched and unclenched against my cheek. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a hug.”
“Well, don’t.” She wriggled and pulled herself free. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Is he your damn bastard?”
“Don’t make me sick.”
And thus, I had my answer.
“Let’s sneak on out to Pascoe’s, get drunk, and watch the sun come up.” I thought a night sitting out with Big Henry might bring her spirits up.
Her fingers picked at the back of my shirt. She rested her forehead on my shoulder and a great shudder traveled through her.
“He’s damn ugly,” I whispered. “Ogrelike.”
Pip’s head snapped up and she smirked. “He has his moments.”
“You’re not supposed to go with him.”
“What?”
“You told me to tell you that, so I am. Damn bastards bring damn problems. Now let’s go get drunk.”
Out front, Darby hit a high note that made me wince.
Pip shuddered and clapped her hands to her ears.
“I hope she has other talents.”
* * *
I stuck a boot to the fence at Pascoe’s Livery, slung myself up, sat on the top board and keened a look down Broad Street. A smattering of people idled near the entrances, ambling from the 638 to McQueen’s, zigzagging their way to the Eagle and The Cabinet. The Paradise had all its lamps blazing and a crowd of men sitting along the wooden sidewalk chucking dice and smoking.
Big Henry chomped a carrot, happy to be out of his stall and free to roam the paddock. He did one roundabout, giving a headshake and prance by a little filly in the corner stall, before ambling to me, and nuzzling my neck with those soft whiskers. But I wasn’t Pip, so he took to yanking a tuft of grass that shot up near a post and masticated and ground his teeth.
“I believe I am drunk.” I determined this by the half empty bottle of whiskey I swung in my grip, and the way the other half sloshed in my belly. I held the bottle to the moonlight and squeezed an eye shut. “And I’ve been stood up.”
* * *
A sharp prod to my left hip forced me awake. I tepidly opened an eye, blinked, and thought better of it, so closed it up.
“You drank all the whiskey.”
I waved a hand in Pip’s direction and patted the straw under my head. “You just let me sleep.”
She poked a finger to my leg.
“I am paying no mind to you.” I hadn’t the energy to tell her that, in the pecking order, friends and horses came before lowlife two-timing bastards, so I wrapped my arm around my head.
This did not stop the poking and prodding and tapping on my forehead.
“Stop it.”
She tapped once more. I cranked open my eyes.
Pip tilted her head and crouched down. She wore her riding duds and silver trimmed boots, which was a common sight. It was the ring she flapped in front of me that wasn’t.
I grabbed and held her hand steady and pressed my thumb to the gemstone.
“It’s a garnet,” she said.
“Am I supposed to give congratulations?” I let out a small belch. “For that bitty thing? That’s just a piece of glass.”
Pip chuffed a breath and shook her head. “I know you don’t like him.”
“I did not like his tone with you tonight. Other than that, he’s a blank to me.”
“You’re going to ruin this one moment I got something nice.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“What’s to understand?”
“Are you leaving the act for him? Because if you are, I’ll ask Verna to join me. It’s no skin off my nose if you go off with the damn bastard.” I rolled onto my hands and knees, then stood, knocking the muck and dirt from my skirts. “It’s your funeral.”
“Who said anything about leaving the act?”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t. I just wanted to show you the ring.”
“All right then. You did. I’m going to bed now.”
The sun was on the brightish side when I clomped from the stall to the paddock. My stomach churned a great deal when I stumbled to the street. I thought Pip might follow me out, to show off the bauble and maybe apologize for leaving me to spend the evening in conversation with her horse. But she didn’t, so I made my way to the Paradise alone.
I stopped once, holding a post to keep my balance as I turned back around to her. “You got some worthless taste in men.”
She was too far away to hear, already near the tack room and swinging her saddle to her shoulder, that damn cut glass ring catching the light.