Madam: A Novel of New Orleans Read online

  Josie made efficient small talk, asking where someone was from, asking what his favorite pastime was, asking if he’d visited the Arlington before. She did her best to remember faces and names and little trivia, as in, “Well, hello again to my handsome mistah from Mississippi, whose favorite color is redheads.” She could make men fawn like schoolboys.

  She also knew to do this little parade of hers early in the evening, before the alcohol had taken hold and loosened their tongues and their inhibitions. Even still, there’d always be the ones who couldn’t resist the urge to touch her, to rub or pinch her bustled behind, or daringly grab at her breasts. There was a time early on when she’d welcomed these advances, welcomed any sign of being wanted. But those hungry days were long gone and now, upon being touched, she had to stifle the inclination to flinch or, worse, to smack the perpetrator. Instead, she’d patiently remove his hand from where it had unfortunately landed and chide, “Uh, uh, uh, you mustn’t spoil your appetite for the delicacy that awaits.”

  Josie had trained her girls to keep a sharp eye out for this type of misbehavior toward her. The girls knew precisely when to swoop in and cause a distraction that would allow Josie to glide out of the parlor and, once out of sight, scurry up the back servants’ staircase, and up, up, up to the solitude of the fourth floor, forbidden to everyone else.

  But now, as she scanned the parlor, wanting to catch the eye of one of her girls and give the look indicating it was time to relieve her, she saw no one, only a sea of black worsted wool. No lace, no bustles, no feathered hats or hair bows. This was odd—the girls had been prancing around moments earlier. Josie strained to look to the foyer to see if perhaps the girls had been delayed with welcoming duties. But the foyer was empty, and Josie was suddenly struck with a sinking feeling that something was quite wrong. Maybe one of the girls was ill upstairs and the others were assisting? But why wouldn’t someone have informed her if that were the case? She could think of no other explanation, and, with no one near to rescue her, the circle of men hovering about her seemed to be closing in. As they leaned in, their bodies grazed hers. As they laughed, she could feel their hot breath.

  Her thoughts darted to Ferdinand—he would undoubtedly help her. But the idea of calling out to him was quickly dismissed, for she knew that if the colored piano player tried to break through this ivory circle, he was likely to get a beating. It was already considered generous that some of these aristocrats tolerated Ferdinand’s presence in the room, even though it was known throughout Storyville that Madam Arlington’s place was loose about these things. Josie strained to look beyond what felt like wolves circling. She narrowed her eyes in hope of glimpsing a single one of her girls.

  Just then, the lamps sputtered and, all at once, fizzled out. A jolt of panic shot through Josie, and she felt as if her knees might buckle. And then she saw glowing lights dancing on the ceiling.

  In paraded Josie’s girls, tossing streamers and confetti. The crowd parted to four girls precariously balancing an enormous layer cake covered in sugar roses. They tried to step in unison as everyone began to crow, “For she’s a jolly good fellow!”

  Josie’s jaw tightened, her fists clenched. She pushed aside the men in her way.

  “Stop!” she commanded. But she was drowned out as the entire room joined in singing. She gave a defiant stomp of her foot and bellowed louder, “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  At this, the singing trailed off. The girls exchanged fretful looks as the boisterous room was struck uncomfortably silent. Josie’s eyes darted to the piano. Under other circumstances, Ferdinand would have been quick on the pickup, joining right in with a clever little riff or even a snarky “ba-dum, dum” when someone told a particularly loud or groan-worthy joke. But this time he knew better, and he rose from his bench in hope of catching Josie’s attention.

  He was far from the only one trained on Josie. The entire room felt like nothing but dropped jaws and wide eyeballs, and it suddenly occurred to Josie they must all be wondering if they’d get to witness firsthand a notorious Madam Arlington tantrum, the last of which had made newspaper headlines.

  Her eyes found Ferdinand’s, and he gave a little shake of his head as if to gently remind her to hold it all in. She could hear his voice in her head, Aw, pretty Mary, don’t get all up in your shoulders and make a scene. It’s easier to stop now than it will be to take it back later.

  She took a deep breath, allowing her fists to unclench. With a nervous little laugh, she said, “There’s been such a mistake.” She forced a cool smile. “It’s certainly not my birthday.” She looked around the room. “Might it be anyone’s birthday tonight?”

  From the crowd, a man volunteered, pointing to his friend. “It’s his tomorrow.”

  “Perfect!” Josie shouted. “Then this is your celebration. And at midnight, I’m sure a lucky lady can figure out a way to make the celebration quite official.”

  At this, Ferdinand quickly started up “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” again, and the room confusedly resumed singing. In a shuffle of kid-leather boots, the girls awkwardly rotated the cake to face the patron, who was turning a deep red.

  Josie made her escape.

  Pulling a key ring from her boot, Josie unlocked a padlock, then turned another key in the doorknob. Hoisting open the heavy door, she quickly disappeared into her chambers, where she immediately bolted the locks behind her. Looking around, she moved through her nightly ritual: check the closet, part the heavy satin drapes to inspect the balcony, sweep up the lace bedskirts to peek underneath. There were people in this town who wanted revenge on her—or so she wholeheartedly believed—and she would take no chances. She was never sure what exactly she was looking for, but this had been her way since the birth of the Arlington on Basin Street, and she’d grown even more cautious and more rigorous now that she’d created what was arguably the most successful bordello. Her neighbors—those who should have been her sisters within the boundaries of Storyville—did not appreciate her success.

  Once satisfied that all realms were clear, Josie began undressing, attacking buttons and ribbons as if she couldn’t get out of her clothing fast enough. Off with that suffocating corset, shimmy out of those thick stockings, just leave the bloomers in a heap on the floor. She wrapped herself in a Japanese silk robe that was a long-ago gift from a well-traveled patron—during the time when she still entertained her favorites—and drew her bath.

  As the claw-foot tub filled, she dispassionately picked up a gold box wrapped with a bright blue bow that had been sitting all day atop her bureau. She knew whom the gift was from and lazily unwrapped it to find a silver picture frame, engraved in fancy script on the back side: To the woman who has everything, on her thirtieth birthday. Always Yours, Tom. She pushed the gift aside, letting the wrapping fall to the floor for the maid to pick up tomorrow.

  Except for when she was a very young child and Mama was there to dote on her, she’d always detested her birthday. By the time she was ten years old, she’d stopped reminding anyone of the day and simply let it slip by without a word. But in her own head, her own heart, she could never let it be just a day like any other. At first it held the near unbearable pain of how much she missed Mama. And when that pain eventually dulled with time, thoughts of her birthday became more like an itching under her skin, an annual reminder of how generally lonely the world could be.

  Surveying the medicine cabinet full of tinctures, drops, and glass apothecary bottles, she settled on a swig of coca wine. She felt herself begin to relax with just the anticipation of the cocaine that, true as touted, relieved fatigue of mind and body. She shed her robe and stepped into the tub, sinking under until the water was at her chin.

  She’d known no immediate blood relative who had made thirty years old. Ever since she could remember, she’d felt encumbered, as if she were decades older. But now, at thirty, the feeling seemed to overtake her, as if her life must be hastened because she, too, would succumb to a tragic end, just as everyone she’d dared to lo
ve. This birthday, one which should have been her prime, felt too heavy to bear. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes.

  “No, Tom,” she said aloud, “I have nothing.” She held her breath and let the water immerse her.

  Ten Years Earlier

  New Orleans, 1897

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Tell him.”

  The man’s face was pained and sweaty as he stared intensely at Mary. She noticed his eyes were a deep emerald. She didn’t usually notice such things. There was no point, she believed, in paying attention to any of their attributes, or lack thereof. No reason to bother over the broad swell of a john’s shoulders, or the cut of a jawline, or the color of his eyes. A john was a john—handsome or ugly, they were all just customers, blending together by the end of the day anyway, when the only important thing was the weight of Mary’s burlap purse.

  But this man’s gaze, his green eyes looking directly into hers, caught her. Most of the men, most of the time, their gaze looked right past her. They weren’t much interested in her face—they couldn’t care how full her lips were or how young and smooth her skin was. Or that, under the smudges of dirt and beneath the hard edge she wore, this alley whore was, arguably, pretty. Sure, pretty helped, but a pretty face wasn’t what these men came craving.

  This was Mary’s fifth john today. On the whole, he wasn’t much of a looker, his chin was too big for his face and his head too big for his body. But those eyes were warm pools that kept drawing her in. He smelled strong of tobacco—most of them did—but she could tell at least he’d had a recent bath. He gulped some air as he arched his back against the wall of Mary’s crib.

  Just a little shack, her crib was no different from the rows of other cribs that lined Venus Alley like chicken coops. There was room enough for a thin, saggy kip, and Mary also had squeezed in a tiny bedside table where johns could set their jewelry to keep in sight. She knew this was a nice touch. Likewise, she took pride in keeping her crib clean. She scrubbed it down regularly, and every night she brought home her kip and beat out any fleas that clung to its dried Spanish moss stuffing. The last thing she wanted was for a john to leave her crib itching; that was a sure way to kill any chance of a next visit. Mary liked to think of the crib as her own, and called it such, even though it wasn’t really. But soon enough, she hoped, it would come to be.

  “Tell him,” the john murmured again. He was a first-timer, and Mary suspected he wasn’t from New Orleans—she’d watched him take his billfold from his trouser pocket, setting it on the bedside table, and surmised that only a traveling man would walk around with that many bills. His origins were only important in that Mary could assess the chance that she’d ever see him again—with one-timers, she knew not to put herself out too much. Why wring yourself on someone who wasn’t likely to give you regular business? And yet, for some reason, she had a yearning to please this man beyond just supplying her body. Unlike all the others, this man hadn’t looked away, hadn’t looked beyond her, or through her. His eyes stayed locked on hers, searching, yearning to connect.

  “Tell him,” he said again. “Tell him he’s a good boy.”

  Mary leaned in, nuzzling his ear, then whispered, “You’re a good boy.”

  Suddenly, he pushed her. “Not me, ya dim whore!” he hollered. “Him!”

  He pointed to his crotch.

  The warmth instantly drained from Mary’s body. Right, she thought . . . him. Slumping a bit, she sighed to herself. She should know better by now than to let a man fool her. No matter how deeply he stared into her eyes.

  “Well?” the john demanded.

  Mary silently chided herself for having thought this john may not be trapped like all the others. That was how she saw them all: trapped, secretly coming to her for escape from their wives, their families, their lives. But just because they looked like men didn’t mean they weren’t still little boys. How many of them weren’t still fascinated with the toy between their legs? And how many of them weren’t still searching for Mama’s acceptance? For a quarter of an hour, she’d play with that toy, entertain it, satisfy it. For a quarter of an hour, she would also be Mama. She would smile as if she fancied him just the way he was. She would make him the center of her world no matter if he had tattered clothes, dirty fingernails, or a lifetime of failures; no matter if he had a face only his real mother could love but perhaps didn’t.

  Mary sucked in her breath. She sat back on her calves and mustered up her most sultry voice. Then she purred to his loins, “You’re a good boy.”

  His eyes urgently reconnected with hers.

  “A good boy,” he breathed. He let out a quivering sigh, then murmured reassuringly to himself, “A very good boy.”

  Mary watched him, feeling the vulnerability of the moment. On both sides. Maybe, she supposed, it wasn’t so bad to trip up every once in a while, to be able to hold hope for another person and expect them to be the best way. Yes, she thought, allowing her face to soften, perhaps it was nice to know that Venus Alley hadn’t completely hardened her.

  Grabbing Mary’s hair, the john finished with a yelp that sounded like someone stepped on a dog’s tail. And then, lightning-fast, he jumped up. The intensity was so abruptly broken, it was as if it had never happened. With a quick swoop, he pulled up his pants and snapped his suspenders. Then he reached for his billfold. For a moment, he paused, fingering the bills.

  Mary tightened the drawstrings of her chippie, its fraying, thinned cotton just barely serving the purpose of covering her. Eagerly, she watched the man touch each bill, his lips silently moving as he counted. If he could just give me an extra dollar, she thought, please, just one extra dollar—we could eat well this whole week and put some coins aside for the baby.

  Refusing to look at her now, he asked, “How old’re you?”

  Mary brushed wisps of her long, dark hair behind her ear. “Nineteen,” she said.

  The man’s jaw tightened. Without removing any bills, he pocketed his billfold and turned to the door.

  “Mistah . . . ?” Mary started, taking a barefoot step toward him.

  He unfolded his hand, and some change tumbled from his palm onto the floor. The crib door smacked shut behind him.

  The coins spun on the floorboards before falling. Mary scanned where they landed—a quarter, two dimes, and a muddy coin she barely recognized. She crouched down and picked it up, inspecting both sides. A picayune? She traced her finger along its weathered surface. 1853.

  “Dastard!” she announced to the emptiness of her crib. Although she was too young to remember when picayunes were penny currency, she knew of the coin from her mama’s stories. Mama would tell of earning a picayune per trick, only that was back in the days of the Swamp, which was as close as any place could come to Devil’s territory.

  The Swamp was filled with outlaws and outcasts and, as Mama would say, folks so poor they didn’t even own a last name. It was only right that these most undesirable folks of New Orleans staked their claim on the most undesirable part of the bayou.

  But her mama wasn’t undesirable at all, not with her auburn hair and dimpled grin—no, her mama just had the unfortunate luck to be born to a penniless drunkard who drove his wife to madness. And so, with nowhere else to go, Mama landed herself in the Swamp, where she lived in a brothel in the mud, among clouds of gnats and mosquitoes and wandering gators and copperheads. Murders would tally nearly a dozen a week in the Swamp, and it was common knowledge that even the police were afraid to enter. No wonder Mama had quickly learned to take care of herself—she kept a knife in one boot and a pistol in the other, and she could grab one or both faster than any blue nose on the police force anyway.

  It was this scrappiness she’d wanted to impart to Mary, and she would tell her little girl tales of life with the Swamp folk the way other children were told Mother Goose. She barely spared any details, knowing full well her daughter, with no father present, had little chance for a life much different.

  But, oh, did Mary love to hear
Mama’s stories! Stories of how the ladies would jig the night away to Fiddlin’ Henry and Banjo Jim, and how they’d dive stark naked into the Mississippi under a full moon, and bet on cock fights, and suck on berled crawfish heads. The people Mama spoke of were larger than life, and Mary wanted to be just like them.

  She’d curl up on Mama’s lap in a rocker on the porch of the brothel, back when whores could live a dozen to a house without fear of being cleared out by the police. “Did I tell you about America Williams, the World’s Strongest Whore?” Mama would ask. She certainly had, but Mary wanted to hear it again and again.

  “Men would pay a whole dollar just to try and beat her at arm wrestlin’,” Mama began. “And you should see how red those men’s faces got when they’d come to find America Williams’s arm bent over their own! Those men, they’d be so affronted that they’d pay up even more for a trick with America, wanting to see for themselves if she might be a fraudulent woman. Hard to say, though, what a man preferred to find when America pulled up her dress. A man’s pride is a strong and strange thing, Mary.”

  Then there was Red-Light Liz, the one-eyed harlot. As Mama told it, “If Liz took kindly to a john, she would let him peek under her eye patch. Those johns were sworn never to tell what they saw, but it was known that a glimpse of whatever was hiding there would bring all sorts of good luck.” Little Mary imagined a sunbeam of light shining from behind Liz’s eye patch.

  “And then there was the dimmest whore in the entire Swamp,” Mama would continue. “We called her Molly Ding-Ding. She once blinded a john when he stiffed her ten cents. But she hadn’t counted the coins right—the poor john had actually tipped her an extra nickel.”