The Double Standard Sporting House, page 23
We did open for New Year’s Eve, regulars and friends only, but notably, Peter Sweeny, George Barnard, and Oakey Hall stayed away. The city paused on the brink of 1869, and New Years’ Day brought a bit of snow and quiet. Meg dared venture the possibility that Vivie, in her refusal to submit to abuse, had saved the Double Standard.
And then this limbo ended. Early on the second as Nina, Betsy, and I resupplied the exam carts in the clinic for a full day, a loud knock sounded at the door. Betsy opened it to four puffed-up men, two in uniform, asking for me.
“Nell Hastings, you’re under arrest.”
I asked, “What’s the charge?” aware that Tammany didn’t need a pretext to punish me.
He said, “Kidnapping and procurement of Lavinia Curtis.”
Part 3
THE FALLEN WOMAN PLOT
ELEVEN
Thirty years past, the city of New York built a jail atop the old Collect Pond that straightaway began to sink. The stench inside the hulking Egyptian revival mausoleum known as the Tombs was a fair effigy of hell. Did ancient Egyptians believe in hell? I retched upon entry and remained sleepy and nauseous as long as I was there. It’s a miracle anyone functions in that miasma, and it explains why it took me days to question why they’d bypassed the local precinct and brought me straight there.
At the entrance a hulking pharaoh bedecked in diamonds enthroned himself on a prehistoric easy chair. His duty to wear jewels fulfilled, he asked no questions and showed no interest. A holding cell was next. A gray matron opened an iron gate and one of the arresting party pushed me through and vanished. The room was fifteen feet by forty with a slab along one wall where sat several young harlots. None looked up, so I sat apart.
Sooner or later someone at Tammany would realize the gravity of their error. The longer my stay, the more they would owe or fear me. Meanwhile I was a girl on the bench: slattern, dollymop, whore. Or rather, profiteer, procurer, slaver.
Had I not paid Emily Wrigley $650 for Lavinia Curtis and kept her within the Double’s walls for months? In Vivie’s absence any defense might as well be stated in German. I bought her to free her, absolutely.
I slid toward sleep and dreamt of rooms and roof lines and earthquakes and mudslides and woke to a girl rummaging in my skirts. I grabbed her wrist and bent her to her knees, the offending arm twisted behind her. “Oy!” she yelled.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“Okay, okay, I didn’t think you could fight.”
I jacked the arm just to the point of shoulder dislocation and she howled before I released.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said and she scurried back down the bench.
Fatigue, nausea, and shortness of breath registered. No wonder I slept but this was no time to be unguarded. Israel would have fits.
“Hold up,” said another girl. “Hold up, I know you.”
I shook my head no. “You don’t.”
She understood. I remembered her, but not her ailment. Termination? Syphilis? No recollection, but I’d seen that daffy sneer before. She said to her companion, “Leave her be. She’s all right.”
“Fuck I will, Daisy! Twat almost broke my arm.” Right, Daisy.
“You were rolling her! It’s only fair. Leave her be, I’m telling you.”
“Bloody hell, it was you who said that’s a prize and no mistake.”
“Sorry Doc,” said Daisy. “I’ll keep these ruffians off you.”
I blinked my thanks and wondered how long before I was hearing their stories and inspecting their vulvas. All I wanted was to close my eyes.
Soon a skinny goon was calling out, “Nell Hastings!” The three girls were gone. I had slept for some time, my joints stiff. My jailer gripped my biceps and steered me down the hall to a room marked, “Court of General Sessions.”
It was a busy place, full of defendants and their warders. I was the only visible woman. The judge was predictable in his type and manner, peremptory and flashing his authority. Any kind of resource detectable in the defendant and bail was set; you could buy your way out. That was easy. I imagined the twins securing lawyers and bail bondsmen and whatnot. Most cases were of drunkenness and vagrancy, disturbing the peace and disrespecting officers.
Memories of Newbury pushed up through the trance of charges and dispositions. I had glimpses of my parents in a rare relaxed mood in high summer sun, striped patterns on the swaths of sea at Plum Island, light shining green through mounting swells and breakers. I was held tight in vast cold water against the weight of wet fabric. Later I learned to swim, to submerge my face between inhales, slicing circles and kicks with my limbs. I shared precious little with my parents now beyond medicine, certainly not the small-town rectitude that dignified our poverty. I retained their arrogance, anyway, despite unpromising circumstances.
That was a waking memory. Drifting into sleep in the long hours of lengthening light, I dreamt I was sent to the hospital laundry for clean sheets. I set my lamp on the floor and was grabbed from behind. I yelled and kicked but was quickly insensible. I woke to Wren taking the cover from my face and cutting the bonds from my hands. “Oh gosh, you’re alive. What do I do?” she whispered, panicked. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”
I dropped my chin to see fields of blood across my breasts and belly, feeling the penetration and seepage of my vulva. I tried to speak but my jaw wouldn’t move, and felt my eyes roll up as I passed out.
When they called me to face the Court of General Sessions, daylight was gone and the place nearly empty. My warder steered me to a platform before the judge. I felt myself waver and pressed my feet into the floor. “Miss Hastings, are you drunk?”
“No sir, I’m a bit ill from the air in here.”
He didn’t hear my answer, as he was reading a set of papers. “What the living hell?” he said, looking up at me. “This is most irregular.”
“I would have to agree, sir.”
“This is a warrant from Commissioner Goodson.”
“Commissioner of . . .?”
“Police, Madam.”
“Thank you.”
“He alleges you procured a young girl.”
“I did not, sir.”
He peered down his nose at me. “I wouldn’t think so. He’s a lame duck.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s January the second. Well, I can’t sort this, I’m sorry. I’m remanding you to the Court of Special Sessions. You’ll have to wait until they can schedule you.”
“Pardon sir, but what does that mean?”
“It means they’ll give you over to the matron and set a date for another hearing where evidence will be required. It’s not in my power to let you go on bail.” He banged a gavel that startled me and waved his hand. “Next!”
Turning to my warder to ask the meaning of January second I realized: the new Governor was sworn in on the first. The office had swung from Republican to Democrat, and the Governor appointed the three Metropolitan Police Commissioners. But that meant it wasn’t Tammany who charged me. Why would some outgoing Republican be bothered?
The women’s block was much smaller than the men’s, three tiers of about fifteen cells, each with a narrow bed and a tiny window, the cell doors standing open. Clumps of girls sat chatting and sewing along the galleries and on the main floor, with Sisters of Charity moving here and there. At suppertime a silent functionary distributed a hunk of bread and a ladle of tea. Breakfast would be the same with rye coffee; at midday the meal was a thicker stew, just enough to keep one alive. More than half the girls had friends bringing food from outside.
I asked for nothing. I was tired of talking, reacting, adjusting. None of my choices mattered and for the moment I found that freeing. A swarm of opportunists tried to sell me their services. Called steerers or drummers, they would make sure a prisoner’s case made its way through the proper channels or died a proper death. Some worked for lawyers, some operated singly. Some were charming or funny; I sent them all away. On the men’s side a squad of keepers reigned and all they understood was money.
On the women’s side everyone answered to the matron, who was out when I first arrived. I heard her long before I ever saw her. Girls called out, “Oh Miss Foster, oh Miss Foster, I’m back!”
“So you are, poor dear,” came a strong voice. “Maybe this time we’ll get you to the Home for Fallen Women, and let the good shepherd fill your soul.”
“Oh now,” said the girl. “Not sure I’m ready for that.”
Later the matron stopped by my cell and watched me try to wake and sit. A bright presence with a prow of a bust and shrewd expression, she turned her head back and forth as she assessed my situation.
“Never mind, Miss Hastings, we’ll speak tomorrow.” Her expression said she’d heard about me. “I hope you get some rest. The first night can be confusing.”
“Thank you, Matron.”
Soon we were locked in darkness, light not worth the risk of fire. I shook all night with cold.
I woke to Gwin praying, which she did in silence. It was two weeks before I could stay conscious, and two months before my broken jaw healed enough for speech. They gave me soups and juices through a straw, made me drink even when not fully awake, even when it dribbled out of my shredded bladder. I knew when Gwin was there, her eyes closed, her breathing regular. More than regular: controlled, intent. Fully present. I woke enough to tell her not to bother, to leave me in that basement. My body was evidence. I was looking for a way around my shock and pain, which she well knew. I choked on sobs that compounded my wounds. Gwin prayed at my bedside several times a day, and breath by breath I sank into her resolve that I should live.
My first visitor in the morning was Meg. She brought clothes and blankets, food and money, a hair brush and soap and towels and candy.
“Thank you,” I said, leaving it piled on the bed, except the cash which I put in my stocking. “Next time, water and tea. It’s foul in here.”
Meg looked horrified. “What happened?”
I shook my head.
“Oh Doc, don’t be discouraged! The charge is groundless and you’ll be out soon.” She withdrew a Standard from the pile and brought me up to date on all the fallout from the first article. Benno and Hank, found hiding in an attic at the Eureka, had been arrested. Asa or someone had gotten to the new District Attorney, and Tammany had sacrificed Benno faster than you could say “liability.” So much for his lifetime of loyalty. Even so, he had a lot of friends, and plenty of money, and probably wouldn’t do real time. New York would never be quite safe for me.
Martin Mitchell had finally taken a squad to break up Trent’s crib, which was all the way west on Fifteenth by the river. The two goons keeping watch had been arrested. There were eight girls but they said there’d been many others. I was glad for that. Eight was plenty. Martin brought the freed girls to the clinic, and Nina sent for Minnie.
Meg reported, “They all stayed, it’s like a party. Phila’s giving them clothes, Bert is feeding them beefsteak and soup and cake. Laure’s moved in too as mama bear.”
I smiled at that and teared up. “Did you open the house?”
“Sure! Why not?”
I admired her brass but said, “I’m not sure I would. We’re still exposed.”
She said, “Benno’s in jail and Vivie’s hailed as an avenging angel! This is our against-all-odds best-case-scenario victory, no?”
I cocked my head and looked at her, given that Vivie was on the run and I was imprisoned.
She sighed. “Fair.”
I said, “Benno might be back. And if he’s not, who’s the successor? It could get even worse.”
Meg put her hands to her face, which had no makeup. “Tweed’s no fool, Doc. I bet he leaves the Sixteenth alone, for months at least. He’ll let the dust settle and see who bubbles up as a likely boss. We’ve got a little breathing room, I’d bet my life on it. Or Tweed’s, anyway. And George and Oakey can be useful now as well, they’ll put in a good word where it’s needed.”
I shook my head over those two. Spending years in prison would certainly set back my plans for a third act. Her confidence that the house was safe gladdened me, but I was pretty sure I would not be going back.
She put her arms around me and I rested my head on her shoulder. “Oh Doc, it’s everything, isn’t it? Vivie, and being in the paper, and telling your story to the girls—you shook up even Tati with that one. And Asa Vanderpoel showing up, twice. In here at least you can rest!”
I laughed and cried at that. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For all of it. For not protecting Vivie and everyone better.”
“None of it is your fault and I sure hope you’re not sitting here blaming yourself. I wish we knew why they arrested you.”
I told her about the Republican police commission and the Court of Special Sessions having to sort it. “Did you get a lawyer?”
“We sent word to George and Oakey but haven’t heard back yet.”
“Find out if they’ve appointed new commissioners.”
She asked if she should go to Peter Sweeny, and I said no. “He may realize on his own, but don’t ask him for a favor.”
“Why not? The slavers are done.”
I was in the Tombs because of Vivie. Sweeny might read a request for help as a threat, as extortion. I said with a warning, “Leave him alone. Let him come to me.”
She said, “Okay. The courts will figure out you saved Vivie, eventually, I suppose.” I wasn’t counting on that. We shared a pained look. She said, “Remind me the locations of those affidavits.”
They were in my safe, with my attorney and man of business, and Junius, plus one I didn’t tell her, Bim Farley at the Wayward Academy. “Please don’t mention it to anyone, though. Let someone in Tammany remember the secrets I keep.”
I once asked Wren what she said about me that Gwin would treat me in the basement of a hospital full of doctors, and once they’d moved me, give up her own bed, an ancient woman sleeping on a pallet on the dispensary floor. Wren said I was kind and that was all. She must have mentioned my attempt to save Lily McBride.
When I could stay conscious for more than a minute and insisted on trading beds, Gwin said only, “What do you do to prevent apoplexy?”
I wrote with chalk on a slate she had given me, “A vegetable diet and a light sedative, Madeira or small doses of laudanum.”
“Never laudanum,” she said. “Puts the bowel to sleep and it’s hard to shake. Madeira or brandy if they can afford it. If the person is impoverished?”
I wrote, “Patent medicines.” High in alcohol but cheaper than wine.
Gwin narrowed her eyes. “Your father is European.”
“Was. German. Both parents.”
“A doctor?”
“And a midwife.”
“She died first.”
“By seven years.”
She said, “Cannibis, betel nut, coca, even tobacco, can all be grown and in some cases are more salutary than alcohol. You can have the pallet.”
I heard what I took to be a Sister of Charity interrogating a young Negro woman. The Sisters worked for the matron. “Are you a Christian?”
“No Ma’am.”
“Have you heard of Christ?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And you don’t love him?”
“He’s very lovable, I’m sure.”
“So why not be a Christian if you love him?”
“I’ve seen many things, Sister. I’ve been a servant to them who called themselves Christian and I can’t be one.”
My heart sank for that girl, not least because the idiot nun lectured her on forgiving sin and not holding herself above others. When that had gone on for more minutes than I could stomach, and more loudly than would allow me to sleep, I stood up. In the next cell I found them, a vagrant and this parasite. They both looked at me. I nodded to the girl.
Turning to the nun, I said, “Do you ever try listening instead of prattling on about a God who has clearly forsaken them? I mean, do you have any curiosity at all about what those so-called Christian employers did to her, or are you that intent on making it worse?”
I winked at the girl while the nun said, “It’s up to us to seek God. He doesn’t forsake us.”
“Go away,” I said. “You’re unequipped for this work.”
She was so shocked she forgot to be angry. “You could do better?”
“A toddler could do better. She wouldn’t shame this girl for what she’s done to survive. That’s against God, and no mistake.”
“Are you an apostate?”
“Are you a moron?”
The woman was literally cloaked in charity but wouldn’t have known it had it smacked her.
“How dare you speak to me that way?”
“How dare you speak to her that way, without empathy while blathering on about love and faith. How many have you saved? Can you count to one?”
Her jaw flapped up and down a few times before she fled. “Bye,” I called. Girls in the nearby cells applauded.
“You all right?” I said to the girl on the bed. “I’m Nell.”
“I’m Josephine.”
“Talking to me right now might not be a good idea, but later I’d be keen to hear what you have to say about those employers of yours.”
She said, “I got nowhere to be.”
The matron’s summons came quickly. Her office on the ground floor was ringed by flower pots. In the depth of January she had blooming geraniums.
“I see you’re awake Doc Hastings, and eviscerating a young Sister.”
“She has no aptitude for this work whatsoever.”
The matron pursed her lips but did not disagree. “And who are you to tell her so?”
I told her I’d helped hundreds of girls find employment to suit them.
