Ladies In The Parlor (14 page)

The turn of her life came suddenly.

Three older women sat in the kitchen and soaked their feet in vinegar and hot water at the end of a hard day.

Selma was mending a white blouse near by.

Finally a heavy-set waitress said, “If I was as purty as this kid here, I’ll be damned if I’d throw hash all day like she does.”

Selma looked up as another waitress asked, “What would you do—buy a mint?”

“No sir—I’d hustle, by God—it beats this all to hell —calloused feet, ugly red hands, fallin’ of the womb—and I don’t know what else.”

“You’d git a disease, and then where’d you be?” asked the third woman, as she lifted a soaked foot from the water.

“I’d be all right,” was the answer, “I’d a damn sight sooner have a disease than fallin’ arches. A dose ain’t no worse than a bad cold nowadays.”

Within a year Selma was in a dollar house. In another year she was in a five-dollar house.

She spent her earnings on her mother and child.

Besides these two, the dominant things in her life were memories of a turtle that once had a brass ring around its neck and a hobo boy who went down the river on a raft, and never returned.

Upon Mother Rosenbloom’s strict orders, the doors of her establishment were closed at four each morning. Her girls must have rest.

She had the names of more than a hundred young married women on her list. The hours and days upon which their husbands were absent, and their telephone numbers, the length of time which they could spend with a customer—all was typed opposite their names.

Mother Rosenbloom would often say, in checking over the lists of these young women, “Dear, dear, what’s marriage coming to?” and shake her head slowly.

Her six assignation houses were located in quiet aristocratic neighborhoods.

As many beautiful young women with devoted husbands needed time to make the necessary arrangements, her “matinées” were often arranged weeks in advance.

It was never proven that Mother Rosenbloom had ever been connected with blackmail.

Mr. Skinner once had an unfortunate experience in an exclusive hotel room. Two men suddenly burst into the room and caught him in a very awkward position. The girl was supposed to be a sixteen-year-old virgin.

He paid fifty thousand dollars to the men whom he presumed to be detectives when they suddenly displayed badges. Later, feeling that he had been framed, he complained to the police. The girl was questioned severely.

In the language of her world, she “stood up” and denied everything. Mr. Skinner had always been a perfect gentleman with her. Being one of “Mother Rosenbloom’s girls” her attitude started the rumor that such girls could be trusted.

Mother Rosenbloom was said to have received half of the fifty thousand.

The day after Mr. Skinner complained to the police, a newspaper reporter called upon him.

He knew the story in detail, and he would like to question Mr. Skinner about certain matters which he wanted to write for the syndicate of papers which he represented.

Mr. Skinner had become more experienced in such matters. He had the reporter’s claims investigated. To his horror, he discovered that he was the leading feature writer of the city.

The next day another gentleman called upon Mr. Skinner with an offer of “fixing” the reporter. Fifteen thousand dollars were needed. Mr. Skinner paid.

For future protection, Mr. Skinner was sent to Mother Rosenbloom. “This is one woman I can trust,” he said. He had nothing further to do with women outside of her house.

The girl later told her lover the entire story. It was repeated a few times about the city. Fortunately for Mother Rosenbloom, the girl and her lover were killed in an automobile accident soon afterward.

Mother Rosenbloom went to the funeral. Two days before, a gigantic bouquet of flowers had preceded her.

Mother Rosenbloom would sit motionless in her favorite chair for many moments. With her hands resting on her immense paunch, which rose and fell several inches with her breathing, she would stare straight before her.

Only once did she ever mention her husband. It was a quick eulogy to Leora. It was followed as quickly with, “And never get married, dear.”

If she had emotion at all, it was buried deep in her tremendous body. She was more kind to such girls as Leora, Alice, and Mary Ellen. But a serious expression followed her lightest caress. It was as if she were suddenly warned of an unseen danger.

Many years before she had become interested in a twelve-year-old orphan boy. He was dark and handsome, and was said to have resembled her husband. She engaged a woman to play the role of mother to him. Mother Rosenbloom visited him once a week, and lavished money and affection upon him. When the boy was sixteen, he ran away and was never heard of again. Mother Rosenbloom had given him money the day before.

Weeks, months, and years passed. Finally Mother Rosenbloom put away the gold-mounted miniature of him.

Mother Rosenbloom was more variable than April. When the man of all work nearly died, she was deeply concerned, and hurried him to the hospital.

He returned in two days.

Mother Rosenbloom looked at him in amazement and exclaimed, “My God, here you are again, and after all the damn trouble you caused me.”

A girl came to the house and was given a room. After a month she developed an intense drowsiness from which she could, with difficulty, be aroused. As in the case of the janitor, she was sent to the hospital, where she died. “She’ll get her sleep out now,” said Mother Rosenbloom, as she paid the hospital and funeral expenses.

Never an ignorant woman, she had no strong convictions. She did not believe in hell; though she clung tenaciously to the hope that all mortals would have a glorious resurrection, where a God would judge them.

She believed in a whole group of gods, on the theory that if operating one house of prostitution was so much trouble, that surely one world was enough for one God.

She was never more contented than when listening to discussions on the mysteries of life and death, and the riddle of the stars.

The easiest way to get her to buy liquor was to start a conversation on a subject which had no earthly solution.

She would lean forward in her chair, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, her eyes intent on the speaker. She would not voice an opinion. If the conversation lagged, she would ask another question.

One of the secrets of her popularity with men may have been that her curiosity made her an intense listener.

She cultivated the young man who whipped “Crying Marie,” until he came to her house regularly after the girl had gone. Her amazement always remained unbounded that a man would rather whip a girl than have sex relations with her.

For all the other sexual aberrations she had the utmost tolerance. It permeated the entire house, and no girl was allowed to discuss openly anything that happened in her room.

She set an expensive table. It was laden with choice fruits, wines, and pastries. She was not a heavy eater, and often lectured the girls on the dangers of sweets. The table was always covered with the rarest of linens.

She would sit at one end, and the girls remained standing until she had been seated.

A maid stood at her elbow. If a girl wished another helping, she asked Mother Rosenbloom. She commanded the maid.

Men of finance trusted her judgment. She believed in two commodities—steel and rubber. She invested ten thousand dollars in one of Everlan’s ventures. It grew to three hundred thousand. She then sold half her stock and invested the money in United States bonds, saying, “If the country goes, we all go with it.”

Many stories were told of her wealth. As nearly as could be computed, it was beyond a million dollars. A confidential secretary came every afternoon.

Her ramifications in sex reached over the city. She had young women on call at any hour of the day or night. It was sufficient for a man to know that a girl came with a recommendation from Mother Rosenbloom. She once sent six girls across the nation as entertainers for a banker and his party.

Though her name was never mentioned by the leading men among more orderly women, she was a power among them.

Taxi drivers worked for her on a percentage basis. If a man spent a hundred dollars in her house, the taxi driver received ten. Mother Rosenbloom’s word was never doubted.

Pay day was every Saturday.

One night it was announced that Judge Slattery was in the parlor. When Mother and the girls hurried down stairs, they found him in the kitchen explaining a new way to cook a turkey.

Mother literally dragged him to the parlor. Leora and Doris stood together near the piano. Mother, good as her word, led him to the girls.

Leora was confused, for the first time in her life, before a man.

He touched her shoulder and said, “Lovely girl, Mother—very lovely.”

“She’s been waiting to meet you.”

“That’s fine.”

He turned to Doris. “And how are you, Doris—it’s been how long now?”

“Over a year,” was the answer.

He turned to Mother Rosenbloom, saying, “It’s all very strange—it was done by a telephone message—otherwise they’d have hunted her for years—and for what?”

The women did not answer. The judge scanned both girls. “But it’s lovely to be young, eh, Mother?”

“But, Judge,” said Mother Rosenbloom, “you are always young, and your power is greater than your youth —why the very house blooms when you come.”

“It should,” said the judge, “it takes me so long.”

The women laughed merrily, and Leora patted his strong, florid face, and said, “You giant,” and cuddled close to him.

The girls were never so charming as when entertaining great men. It was a rule in Mother’s house that all men were considered great who spent freely.

They gathered about the judge, and Selma said, pretending to pout, “It’s the first time I’ve ever been jealous, Leora.”

The judge held Leora close to him and petted her, saying, “Don’t let them tease you, dear; you know a man when you see one.”

Leora’s heart beat too fast for words.

“How old are you?” the judge asked her.

She started to say, “Sixteen.” The words stopped in her throat.

“Never mind,” he said, “We’ll call you seventeen.” He smiled at Mother Rosenbloom—”Where do you get these beauties?”

“They grow like flowers,” replied Mother, “and I picked this one for you.”

The judge’s arm went about Leora. A current went through her body.

She held him closely for a moment.

He moved slightly from her.

“When is her night off?” he asked Mother.

Both looked at Leora.

“I’ll send her to you any night you say,” said Mother.

“Well let’s see,” returned the judge, “make it Thursday.”

“All right,” agreed Mother.

Doris impulsively turned to Leora and exclaimed, “You lucky thing.”

Selma joined them as the judge said, “I’d like to have you all if I were younger—even you, Mother.”

All laughed. Then Mother said, “You’d have to be a lot younger.”

“Mother’s a virgin.” Judge Slattery smiled. “Indeed I am—the second time in my life.” “She’s bragging,” said Selma.

“Who really is your lover, Mother?” asked Doris.

“Don’t you know?” asked Mother. “Why, he comes here, every night when you girls are in bed. He’s forty feet high, and he walks so fast he burns the pavement, and makes the breezes blow.”

Judge Slattery listened to the banter with an amused smile.

“Does he pay you in advance?” asked Selma.

“A year in advance,” answered Mother Rosenbloom. “And do you really love him?” bantered Doris.

“A woman would be insane not to love him,” was the

answer.

“And insane if she did, eh, Mother?” Judge Slattery moved toward the door. He still held Leora’s arm. “Remember, Mother—Thursday night—at my house.”

“Yes, she’ll come,” said Mother.

So happy was Leora that it did not dawn on her that she had not been asked.

“But can’t you stay longer, Judge?”

“Not tonight—the governor’s in the city.”

The room had the silence that follows a cyclone after he had gone.

Leora’s knees bent. She half fell on the davenport. “I wish I could go with him some time,” Doris said to Mother—”he’s been so good to me.”

“Maybe he’ll take you some time, dear—but it might cause a scandal if the newspapers found out where you came from.”

Mother Rosenbloom looked tenderly at Doris.

Leora went to bed that night with a head full of dreams.

She was really not ill, though she explained to Mother that she had a violent headache and would be unable to entertain any men that night.

Mother understood more than Leora realized.

“That’s all right, dear,” she said, “if any man comes, why don’t you close your eyes and think he’s Judge Slattery?”

The tears came to Leora’s eyes.

“I can’t, Mother—really I can’t.”

“All right, Child, go to bed then.”

Leora kissed Mother’s hand.

When she had gone, Mother mused a moment. “She’s hard hit—the poor little thing.”

It was a sleepless night for Leora. If she stared at the ceiling or closed her eyes the same man was always before her. His name lingered in her mind—Brandon Slattery. It made her ashamed. She felt as though she were walking through a woods and someone hid behind a tree and shot arrows at her. She could think of nothing but being possessed by Slattery, to be held in his arms forever. The thought made her body tingle.

In justice to Leora, she had selected an unusual man —more than six feet tall, and lithe as a hound, weighing above two hundred pounds, his wide mouth, protruding jaw, and heavy curly iron-gray hair denoted a man of tremendous force.

She could understand how Farway and Haley became what they were. They had gone to college. From all that Mother said, he had come from nothing.

“He was a beggar boy—and now look at him,” she had said to her.

And Alice had asked, “do you think, Mother, that Mr. Everlan is smarter than Judge Slattery?”

“There’s nobody smarter than Judge Slattery,” was the reply.