Chapter Forty-Nine
New York
Manhattan’s Favorite Girl Is Dead!
I stare down at the newspaper headline, saying, “Hilde the hippo has replaced me as Manhattan’s favorite girl.” Or at least, she had replaced me. Poor thing. She collapsed in the Central Park Menagerie because of this ungodly heat. “Ah, and look here.” The column just below bears the headline:
America’s Eve Returns to the Big Apple!
“Yes, the hippo bumped me down.” I fold up the newspaper and use it as a fan, as the heat hangs all around like a thick soup, wet and sticky.
“At least the heat will mean thinner crowds,” Hal grouses, tugging on his shirt collar. “Everyone with half a nickel between their ears will have fled. And yet here we are.”
I ignore his complaints, refusing to let anything dampen my mood or distract me, even as I, too, can feel how the sweat has begun to pearl along my temples.
“This heat makes me crazy,” Hal gripes. Oh, it’s the heat, is it? I quit the room, in search of a lady’s maid.
We are staying in the grandest suite in the Hotel Lorraine, and one of the staff is soon drawing me a cool bath as I shed my sweat-damped silk.
“Make it as cold as can be,” I say, eager to slip under the water. Even more eager for a few minutes to collect myself and run through my plans for the next few days.
As I close my eyes and slide under the water’s surface, the rowdy noises of Fifth Avenue below our windows dissipate, muffled by the cool embrace of the marble tub.
I float in that suspended silence, forcing my mind to calm itself.
To focus. To recall how it felt all those times I slid into the massive bathtub back in Pittsburgh, staring up at the harrowing image of Mary Thorne.
How her ghost had first haunted me and then inspired me—that glowing kernel of desire her story had kindled within.
I can feel the resolve hardening deep in my core now.
I rise above the water and draw in a long breath.
I blink my eyes open and grab the fresh, unopened bar of soap. I can’t help but grin: there I am. The Fairy Soap wrapper has my image on it. What was I, sixteen, when I posed for this campaign?
It all started with fantasy, I suppose. Stanley Pierce telling me I’d dropped from heaven just for him.
And me, for a while, I fell for it. But like all fairy stories, it had only ever been an illusion.
A glittering but fickle mirage that kept shifting all around me.
I’ve never had any choice but to learn how to kick higher, put on the next costume, recite the new words, and then, even when it was darkest, find the light.
Tonight shall be my grandest performance of all. Regardless of how the story may end, this I know: tonight, America’s Eve performs her finale.
I take my time in the bath, knowing that this may very well be my last peace for quite a while.
Drying off, I step into my outfit for the evening.
Costume, more like it. Beige slip, the color of my skin.
Then floor-length white satin, also light, for the heat, with a cinched waist and pearl and crystal trim, a bolero frothing with wispy white ostrich feathers draped over my shoulders.
Sinners don’t wear white, I was told when, as a bride, he made me wear black. Well, tonight, this sinner is wearing white.
With just one touch of green. I can’t help but sneer at my reflection in the mirror as I pull my hair high, nestling the green silk hat on top of my dark waves.
This thing that I’ve managed to keep and not yet wear, ever since Violet handed it to me years ago on another evening out, right here in Manhattan.
The gift from Leah, the snake forever coiling around the silk brim in tight circles.
My eyes stare into the serpent’s emerald gaze, and I think: What if Eve used the beast to escape?
A rope of pearls around my neck, then I roll my sable gloves to my elbows and rearrange my face. I survey myself in the sweep of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I’ve learned how to dress the part, haven’t I?
I leave the bedroom to meet Hal, who is freshly shaved and dressed for the evening in a black tuxedo with golden cuff links, boater hat in his hands.
But even though he’s groomed and stylishly turned out, it’s with bloodshot eyes that he takes in the length of my figure.
He doesn’t say anything about my white attire, though I wouldn’t have minded if he had.
He is already deep in the drink; I can smell it.
There’s an empty scotch glass on the table, still perspiring in the heat.
Beside it, that small black bottle with the stopper top.
Morphine, as well as the booze. Usually these twin facts would fill me with molten dread, but tonight, they’ll work in my favor.
“One last drink before we go, Mr. Thorne?” I ask, my voice silky.
He helps himself, I decline, and then he pats the pocket of his trousers.
“Let me just…” I can tell he’s feeling for that god-awful revolver.
Especially on a night like this one, out in Manhattan, his town, Hal will want it.
Another fact that would ordinarily chill the blood in my veins.
But tonight, it’s exactly what I was hoping for.
Exactly what I planned for. My tone low and conspiratorial, I whisper, “It’s in the bedroom, on the dresser.
” A helpful wink. “Right where you left it.”
“Oh, thank you.” And to my relief, Hal doesn’t look surprised at my assistance—only relieved that I know where he can find his gun.
—
We drive south in an open-topped motorcar, down along the Hudson in the direction of Bowling Green, where the crowds of humanity will be teeming in the streets, hoping for fresh breezes as the sun begins to dip.
“The chorus girl is back in her playground,” I say, throwing Hal a nostalgic look as the city streets slip past.
I see the spasm of his cheek, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw.
And then, with timing so perfect that I could not have orchestrated it had I tried, the hulk of the tower looms over us as we speed past Twenty-sixth Street.
“Oh, look!” I point up at it, my features spreading into a broad beam. “So many memories.”
A prick. And then another. I need to allow the slow boil to build. It appears to be working as he asks, without looking at me, “Memories…of?”
I sigh. “Oh, just of my jolly years here.”
He nods once, a tight jerk of his chin, and then he glances out over the street. “Well, booful, tonight you make your triumphal return to New York City as Mrs. Thorne. Seated in the audience. Respectable. Saved. Beside me.”
In response to my repeated requests, he’s booked us two tickets aboard the Virginia for a pleasure cruise that offers dinner and drinks along with a variety show for entertainment.
I always saw it as a step down in a girl’s career, to move from a Broadway stage to a dinner cruise ship that tours the harbor.
But this evening, it is precisely what I need.
The auto rolls to a slow halt before the pier, and Hal looks out at the scene. “I won’t be sorry to sail from this Sodom,” he says as the chauffeur opens the door.
As it always used to do, our arrival sparks a flurry of excitement from the small crowd milling about. New York’s favorite starlet and her playboy millionaire, returned for a night on the town. I smile at them all as my husband steers me toward the walkway.
But I take my time, drawing in deep breaths, knowing what it is that awaits me once I board that cruise.
It’s like stepping from the wings out onto center stage.
Just before we reach the gangway, I pause, feeling my stomach dip.
Can I really go through with this? I close my eyes, my mind spinning back to only a few hours earlier, hoping to draw some much-needed fortitude from the memory.
My solitary outing to the park, my discreet rendezvous with Penny.
How I pulled my friend into a hug, whispering into her ear so that only she could hear, just in case Hal was having me followed. “You made it! Oh, thank you, Pen.”
“Didn’t I tell you I’m your lucky Penny? I’ll always show up.”
“Will he be there tonight?” I asked.
“Oh, he’ll be there. I’ve fixed it all.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice low and thick with the threat of grateful tears. “I’ve always been able to count on you.”
“Who said you can’t count your pennies?”
She’d given me a heartening wink, and then I’d said, “I wish you could be there with me.”
“Ev, it’s down to you now. You know it’ll only work if I stay behind.”
I leaned toward her for one final, bracing hug. “You know I’ll never say good luck,” she whispered into my ear.
“Naw,” I agreed with a smile. “No showgirl worth her salt would dare. Besides, it’s never been about luck, has it?”
“It hasn’t,” she said, brow creasing. “So you go out there and you stun them. No one can put on a better show, Ev.”
And now here I stand, amid the din of the crowds and the rolling water and the waiting cruise, my husband turning to throw me an irritated look, wondering why I’m tarrying.
“Showtime,” I whisper to myself, pulling my shoulders back.
And then, pretending that I don’t see Hal Thorne’s outstretched hand, I stride out over the water.