6
Despite its regular ruckus of hilarity, Tackett’s boardinghouse was a place full of silent sorrows. Perhaps this was to be expected; perhaps most brothels are full of such things, no matter how famous their “good-time gals.”
But in April of 1906, I felt a new darkness creeping into the house—something truly ominous. This feeling was persistent yet frustratingly vague. If I tried to close my eyes and envision the source of my unease, it was as if an evil shadow stood just out of sight.
It could not have been the impending earthquake, for while it would soon be upon us, how could anybody have imagined such a thing? There are those who insist that animals—horses and dogs and cats and such— can sense earthquakes beforehand, but I don’t credit it. When I think back to the week that led up to the earthquake, I remember the stray cats in the alley getting up to all their regular tricks, scrabbling and hissing over fish-heads, just as they always did.
No, we had no warning of the “Big One,” nor the terrible fires yet to come, and in any case the darkness I sensed presaged a different kind of evil—something that had nothing to do with the whims of Mother Nature.
* * *
—
Tackett vomited nearly two days straight, but eventually, he recovered from his terrible stomach ailments. One week later it seemed as though life had returned to normal, and I awoke early to begin my usual ritual of boiling coffee and grits and frying up eggs and bacon.
I enjoyed these morning hours. I liked filling the cool kitchen with the humid scents of coffee and hot food. When the smell reached the upstairs hall, it lured the girls, one by one, from their rooms. Once the house was full of giggling and teasing and gossip, the day truly began.
Flossie was almost always the first downstairs, and more often than not she was kind enough to lend me a hand in my work. Next came Henrietta, followed by Opal and Mary, then Cora, who—rather like a cat—liked to luxuriate in bed as long as possible. Blanche typically came down last. She and Tackett did not sit to eat with the rest of us. Instead, she expected me to ready a tray that she would bring up.
That morning, when Cora entered the kitchen, she eyed me preparing their tray.
“I shouldn’t bother with that if I were you,” she said. “Evidently he’s sick again.”
I stopped and stared at her. I still hadn’t told anyone about the empty bottle I’d found. The night I found it, I thought of tossing it into the alley, but wound up stuffing it under my bedroll, like a guilty secret.
“It was impossible to ignore his retching,” Cora continued. “Not to mention Blanche’s grousing. I’d wager she’ll be down here any moment, hollering at you to clean his mess and bring up a sick-pail.”
Sure enough, no sooner had Cora spoken than we all heard Blanche’s boots on the stairs. I gestured to Flossie to take over a frying pan of eggs and clambered to fetch the pail and a mop. By the time Blanche swooped into the kitchen, I was nervous, but ready.
The second her gaze fastened upon me, her frown deepened.
“I heard Tackett’s fallen ill again,” I said.
“Indeed.” She observed the pail and mop with narrowed eyes.
“Would you like me to take care of matters upstairs?” I asked haltingly.
“Well, I hardly want you to just stand there, now, do I?” Blanche sniped before finally turning away.
* * *
—
Upstairs, Tackett was sleeping, and I saw that he had vomited onto the floor beside his bed. He looked extraordinarily pale, his face shiny with perspiration. Even if someone had put something in his food . . . well, I had never seen ipecac take a body so violently. He was racked with trembling convulsions as his stomach turned out all its contents. He could do little more than sweat and sleep.
The acid bite of bile filled my nostrils until my senses dulled and I could detect the terrible odors no more. Once the floor was clean, I placed a sick-pail near Tackett’s head. Blanche stalked in just as I was finishing, and I hurried out. I spent the remainder of the morning ducking in and out to change the pail and trying to avoid notice.
* * *
—
Sometime in the late afternoon, as I attempted to cook supper, Blanche returned to the kitchen, and I was trapped. I’d burned the evening meal again, overcooking a pot of stew. She entered the kitchen just in time to catch me in a state of chaos and distress.
Blanche surveyed the job I’d just botched. Her yellow hair had been curled with tongs, and her rouge was painted onto her cheeks in two pink circles. I thought for a foolish moment that she was considering helping me, but finally she sighed with what I took to be disgust.
“Ugh. You hopeless idiot!”
I cringed, but this had a funny effect on Blanche; it was as if I’d waved a red cape in front of a bull. She twitched like an enraged animal and stared me down. At first, neither of us spoke, but suddenly, as though filled with a fresh wave of vitriol, she snapped, shoving me into a corner and pointing a finger in my face.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you never get it right; one night you burn the dinner and the next you barely cook it!” she hissed. “Why, who’s to say you’re not the one to blame for his getting sick?”
My eyes widened. Blanche’s own gaze narrowed.
“It had better not be something you’re doing on purpose!”
I felt the blood leave my face. Blanche stared me down further, leaning in until our noses were almost touching.
“But no . . . you’re too dull to be that conniving, aren’t you? I’m telling you: dim-witted or not, you had better watch out. He’s already realized he’d do well to move you down to the dancehall and hire a real cook.”
The kitchen began to spin around me until all I could see were different colored streaks. Ignoring my distress, Blanche continued berating me. I heard her voice dimly, as if from far away . . .
* * *
—
Such was my state of terror, I cannot recall Blanche leaving the room. The next thing I was aware of, I blinked my eyes and found myself standing in the cellar, clutching the body of a dead rat. The moment I felt its coarse, matted, flea-bitten fur in my fingers, I screamed and threw it away from me. It gave a gruesome, wet thump against the cellar wall, then slid to the ground. I stared at it, horrified.
My heart was racing, and I waited for my pulse to slow. There had to be a reasonable explanation for my present state; and of course, as I thought about it, there was. It had long been my task to lay the rat bait in the cellar, not to mention to collect and dispose of the carcasses. After Blanche’s dressing-down, I must have had a spell. Surely I’d come down here to escape, my trance leading me to the comfort of my regular duties.