Mrs. Houdini (9 page)

Harry thought about it. “I quit five years ago. So you would have just started.”

Bess tried to remember the faces of the patrons who used to frequent the restaurant, but they were only shadows. “I do think it's possible. The men from H. Richter's came in for coffee all the time.”

“What were you doing working at fourteen anyway?”

The hair rose on Bess's arms. “My stepfather was—is still, I suppose—a terrible drunk. I don't think he'll be there when we go to Brooklyn, thank God. He's never there. But after my mother married him, he used to come into my room at night. At first it was nothing—just friendly kisses on the cheek, to say good night. Then one night, when I was sixteen, he tried to climb into bed with me. I kicked him so hard he was laid up for a week. After that, I moved into my sister's apartment with her and her new husband. So I got a job to help pay my part of the rent.”

Harry stroked her head. “You poor thing.” His expression was pensive. “I think a part of me remembers meeting you and a part of you remembers me. Even if the memories are not on the surface right now. Maybe that's why I was so drawn to you.”

“I thought you didn't believe in things like fate?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, I believe in stories. Sometimes we can make them true even when they're not.”

Mrs. Weiss lived in a walk-up tenement apartment on East Sixty-Ninth Street with Harry's younger sister, Gladys, and brother Leo. Leo worked on the docks and was rarely at home, but Gladys led them into the living area. She was a tiny girl, barely twelve years old, and very frail, her wrists thin as rope. Bess saw her standing in the doorway—she was clearly blind and stared right past them into the darkness of the hallway; the right side of her face was marred with faint scars. Harry hadn't told her anything about his siblings, never mind a blind sister who had certainly been the victim of some kind of accident—but it was clear the girl worshiped him. She grasped his arm as he led her toward the faded pink sofa where Mrs. Weiss was waiting in a black lace church dress, hands clasped in her lap, to receive them. Her gray hair was tied neatly behind her head in a low bun.

“Mein geliebter Sohn!”
she cried, reaching up to embrace Harry, tears streaming down her face. She kissed both sides of his face three times. Harry had told Bess that Mrs. Weiss didn't know a word of English. German was the language of the household, and Bess had fortunately learned a conversational use of it in her own house, although her parents spoke mainly in English. She had not mentioned this to Harry; she was eager to hear how he would present her if he did not think she could understand him.

“Mother, dearest,” Harry said, motioning to Bess, “this is my wife, Beatrice.”

Mrs. Weiss looked at her sharply. “You love each other very much?” she asked Harry.

“Yes, we do.”

Bess could see Mrs. Weiss's hesitation as she considered her response. Finally she smiled. “Then I have not lost a son,” she said. “I have gained a daughter.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Bess responded in German, dipping into a relieved curtsy. Harry turned to her in surprise, and Bess smiled. She had managed to trick the trickster himself.

She had the sense that Harry expected her to treat his mother as he did, as one would treat a queen. She was suddenly grateful that her new name was Houdini and she would never have to be the second Mrs. Weiss. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to be held in compare by Harry with this woman, with her high, chiseled cheekbones and perfectly rounded nails. She had done more in her lifetime than Bess could dream of doing—moved across the world, survived ferocious Wisconsin winters, been widowed, and dragged her family out of abject poverty. And yet she still carried herself with the kind of softness and grace one saw in the most polished society women. Bess was terrified that Mrs. Weiss would secretly despise her for marrying Harry, but this did not appear to be the case. Instead, she seemed eager to impress her. She took Bess by the hand and led her to a far wall, where a worn prayer rug had been given a place of prominence, hanging beside the family photographs.

“Kaiserin Josephine walked on this many times. It used to belong to an orphan asylum in Budapest. This is a family treasure.” Her face lit up. “My husband was quite a well-known scholar in the old country. He was able to obtain artifacts like this. Ehrich is going to be equally famous here, in the new country.”

“Yes, I know,” Bess said, because she felt this was the proper response, although secretly she wondered what would come of his mother's dreams for him. Bess and Harry both had come from poor upbringings. The circus and vaudeville business was a tricky profession, and one did not easily find fame or fortune in it.

Mrs. Weiss leaned in so Harry could not hear her. “You know my son will be”—she began in English and then had difficulty finding the words, and finished in German—“always a boy at heart?”

Bess laughed, not sure how to respond.

“He has a soft heart but a fiery temper. You will have to learn to manage his moods.”

Bess glanced at Harry, and he shrugged.

Mrs. Weiss had made strawberry pie, Harry's favorite, and they stayed for lunch before leaving for the Rahners' residence in Brooklyn. Gladys chattered away about neighborhood gossip, and when the dishes were cleaned, Bess took Gladys's hand and squeezed it. “We will see you again soon,” she said in English, and Gladys beamed.

Before they left Mrs. Weiss went into the bedroom and came out with a paper bag. “Don't be offended,” she said, reaching in to pull out a woman's long skirt. “But you should not be traveling with Harry in those clothes. You look much too young. You will be turned away for lodging.”

Bess bit her lip. “Thank you,” she said, looking at Harry, whose face was frozen in horror. “That is very practical advice.” She glanced down at her own skirt, her face hot with humiliation, but knew there was some truth to it. Her small size, small breasts, and curly hair gave the wrong impression of her age. She did not want to have to pretend to be Harry's sister when she had only just become his wife.

When they left, after a long series of kisses and good-byes, Bess turned to Harry. “How did I do? Was I all right?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “But you didn't tell me you could speak German.”

She smiled. “Are you still glad you married me?”

He laughed and pulled her into an alcove at the end of the hallway. “My dear girl,” he said, wrapping his hands around her waist, “my mother might claim me as her son, but you are my wife. The two loves do not conflict.”

“But you love her so much.”

“Of course. She's my mother, and I have to take care of her. I have to do what my father could not.” He lifted the bottom of her skirt and ran his fingers over her knees. “I only have three devotions—you, my mother, and my magic act. I promise you I will be faithful to those my entire life.”

Bess pulled down her skirt. “Harry! Someone could come up the stairs.”

He grew serious. “What you told me about your stepfather—you should know, no one will ever hurt you again. Not while I'm here.”

Bess wrapped her arms around his neck. “What about you? Your mother warned me that you have a temper.”

Harry was horrified. “I would never lay a finger on you.”

“You can lay a finger on me,” she said playfully. “It's all right.”

He blinked at her. “But you just said—?”

“Don't you want to?”

“Of course,” he stuttered.

“You don't have to be gentle with me, you know. I'm not fragile.” She untucked his shirt. There was something exhilarating about hiding in the hallway of his family's building. She had never done anything so daring. “I'm your wife, Harry.”

Harry brought her leg up around him. He clasped his hand over her mouth and held on to her thigh so tightly that she could feel the flesh bruising. No one had ever loved her this much. She felt she had lived most of her years numb, and had come out of a white snow burning with life. She wanted to feel every part of her life now; she wanted to feel all the facets of love, all its joys and agonies.

Certainly, she was breathing, but she could hear nothing. Around them, there was only quiet, that beautiful, abundant quiet.

Mrs. Rahner's apartment was halfway down Driggs Avenue, in a decrepit building split into eight units. It was larger than the Weisses', but there had been twelve of them living in it at one point. It was not, however, nearly as clean, and as they climbed to the third floor Bess noticed the rows of dead plants, the carcasses of gifts her stepfather had brought home after his many binges, bought with money they could not afford to spend. Harry would not hold her hand, and she realized when she took it anyway that it was because his palms were wet with sweat. It dawned on her that Harry Houdini—who pretended to be afraid of nothing—was terrified of this meeting. It was a revelation that made him seem suddenly more human.

“We'll only stay an hour,” she whispered as they waited for someone to come to the door. “Don't worry.” Despite everything that had happened with her stepfather, she still felt an allegiance to her mother. Mrs. Rahner had displayed little affection as Bess was growing up, but there had always been love there.

Inside, they could hear the cries of Bess's younger siblings, and feet running across the wooden floors. Finally, the door opened, and Bess's sister Stella, a full-figured blonde four years older than Bess, stood in the foyer.

“What are you doing here?” Bess threw herself into Stella's arms.

“Mother's got a terrible cold,” Stella said. “She's run ragged. I came over to help.”

“Well, she's not going to like what I have to say, then.”

Stella glanced at Harry, who was frozen in the hallway, his hands pressed against his sides. “You're not . . . planning to move back in with Mother, are you?”

“No, it's the opposite. I'm married. I'm not coming home again.”

Stella laughed.

“I am, really. This is Harry, and he and I are married.”

Stella gaped at her. “That's ridiculous. How could you be married? You only just left for Coney Island a month ago.”

Bess thought back to Harry's own tactics with his family. “I know. But we love each other.”

Stella stared at them for a moment longer, and her face softened. “Well, congratulations then. I'm happy for you.”

Bess looked past her into the apartment, but she didn't see her mother. She had been inside the rooms only on Sundays since she had moved in with Stella two years earlier. “Darling, you have to tell her for me. I can't bear to do it. You know how she is. Go in and ask her if she'll see us.”

Stella wiped her hands on the dish towel she was holding. “Why are you so nervous about it? She wasn't upset when I got married at eighteen. If you've had a proper Catholic wedding, you know she'll be happy.”

Bess bit her lip. “Well, I didn't have one, you see.” She hesitated. “Harry's Jewish, for one, and—the other thing is, you see, he's a magician, and we're leaving next week for the show circuit in the South.”

“Oh, Lord Almighty,” Stella said.

“Please,” Bess begged. “Tell her for me and see if she'll see us?”

“Wait here a minute.” Stella shook her head. “I don't know what she'll say.”

Stella retreated to the back bedroom to find Mrs. Rahner. The smaller children, hearing voices, came running to the door, and squealed when they saw Bess. They clung to her arms and legs.

“Why won't you go inside?” Harry asked.

“I've got a frightful headache,” Bess said. “And I don't want to get into an argument. I'd rather go back to Coney Island if there's just going to be a row.” She paused, recalling Mrs. Weiss's gentleness. “Your mother was so kind to me. You won't understand mine. She won't be as kind to you.”

Harry seemed relieved to hear they might be leaving. He hung back awkwardly as Bess greeted the children.