I caught my smile beneath my hand, as if there were somebody in the room watching. All across the city people would turn to this page and see me. Those who were there would look at each other over their breakfasts and say, “Do you remember seeing that woman?” Wives would bristle in jealousy at their husbands’ raised eyebrows, but what did I care about that? I needed men to see me. Stately, eligible bachelors. Lonely widowers. Even a man living in the wake of divorce. Enough dining with businessmen and dignitaries passing through the city. I needed roots. A home. A means of support. I couldn’t live forever at the Menger Hotel—a sentiment truer than ever as I pawed through my resources to satisfy Mr. Sylvan’s demand.
My photograph did not bring throngs of curious men into the lobby of the Menger. I was not a showgirl or some other morally questionable young woman. I had not advertised myself as a good to be procured, merely as a woman with the possibility to be found. And, a few found me. Local men of quality, equal to those who took rooms on their travels, walked into the lobby, took lunch in the restaurant, took a seat at the bar—all with a roving eye that came to rest the moment it fell upon my person. Then, a tip of a hat, a lift of a glass, a feigned curiosity that began with the same question: “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” At which I would laugh and say, “My goodness, that photograph has proven to be more trouble than I could have imagined.”
One night in early December, my sixth week in residence at the Menger Hotel, I bid good evening to a man at the lobby door after a steak dinner that might have come from cattle on land he personally owned. He was a bit older than my preferred suitor (nearly the age of my late husband), and he confessed to have taken several whiskey sours at the bar for five nights in a row before summoning the courage to introduce himself to me. A sweet man, with florid cheeks and a hearty paunch, but by the time I was safely in my room, I’d set my mind not to see him under such circumstances again. It would be too cruel, I would tell him, to continue such a ruse when I was still in such mourning for my dear, recently departed spouse.
Safe within my room, I undressed, thankful to breathe deeply after such a satisfying meal, and unclipped my hair, letting it fall to its full length, just past my shoulders. Other women gave their hair full range to their waists and even lower, but such always smacked of a country hovel pioneer. I brushed and braided it loosely and ran a wet washcloth across my face and under my arms before donning a freshly laundered nightgown.
San Antonio, I’d soon learn, was not known for its harsh winters. That night was the first with a true chill about it—one that I felt along the edges of the room. This, and the fact that my nerves were still on edge from attempting to appear enthralled throughout the evening, took me to the small cabinet next to my washbasin where, tucked away from the chambermaid’s prying eyes, I kept a decent-sized bottle of very good brandy from my late husband’s cellar. I’d given precious trunk space to two bottles, from which I imbibed judiciously, just one glass a night, and not every night to be sure. But tonight I fancied a generous pour.
I didn’t hear the scratching at my door. Not at first. Or perhaps I did but dismissed it, thinking even an establishment as fine as the Menger was prone to have a mouse. Or two.
But then again. And unquestionably at my door. Not a knock but a scratch. A series of three. Somebody wanting in but not wanting to be heard.
“So,” I said out loud, hoping my voice would quell my misgiving, “it’s not a mouse so much as a rat.”
I’d been so careful, so very, very careful, not to give any of my suitors even a hint they would be welcome to my room. I never told them my number, or even which of the two floors I occupied, thus avoiding Mr. Sylvan’s wrath and preserving my person. I know more than most the consequences of letting a man assume liberties you have no intention of granting. I will admit to being an unrepentant flirt—a woman in my circumstances never had any other means of survival. I may have laid a trail of bread crumbs to the lobby door, but I never dropped so much as a grain in front of this one where the scratching continued.
I took another sip of my drink and had decided to ignore the rat-like plea, but his persistence unnerved me. Intermittent assaults upon my door: scratch, scratch, scratch. Then a pause before trying again: scr–scratch, scratch, sc–scratch. So purposeful, so unrelenting. Soon, I feared, one of my neighbors would hear and be bound by curiosity to investigate.
Taking careful steps across the room, I stood at the corner of my bed and stared through the slatted vent at the bottom of the door. Where normally I would see the spit-shined shoes of one of the bellboys (or, in this case, the ill-fitting brown monstrosities with my escort’s fat ankles spilling over), I saw only the pattern of the carpet in the hallway. This detail shook me, robbed me of my balance, and I gripped the footboard for support, breathing deeply until I felt my balance return.
One step, and I pressed myself against the door to hiss through the narrow crack. “Stop that. Do you hear me? Go now, or I shall call down to the desk and have someone sent to remove you.”
Why I hadn’t thought to do that in the first place I don’t know, other than the fact that it would bring an unwelcome blot to my unblemished residency.
I held my breath, hoping to hear his. It had been loud enough at dinner—wet and wheezing in between listings of his properties. But nothing. It occurred to me to open the door wide enough to glimpse him in retreat never occurring to me that he might be holding his breath too. Waiting for my moment of weakness to push his way through. Instead, I said, “Do you hear me?” with more authority than I felt.
Silence.
More silence.
Until… “Something for you, Hedda Krause.”
Even now, all these years later, I cannot forget, nor can I easily convey, that voice. It was at once like someone speaking from the bottom of a tureen, while simultaneously like a creature nestled in my collarbone, hands cupped against my ear. Tinged with echo, the words sounded like they were dragged across a dry streambed, each syllable caught on a pebble. It struck me like a splash of icy water, taking my breath as if I’d plunged below a frozen surface. My lungs burned with it and, in weakness, I fell against the door spluttering, “Who is this?” with considerably less strength than I’d had when I shooed away my suitor.
Nothing for what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few moments before it repeated.
“Something for you, Hedda Krause.”
A new burning set itself loose, one fueled by anger rather than fear. Mr. Sylvan, of course. The night manager must have phoned him, told him about my late arrival on the unsteady arm of a would-be flesh profiteer. Mr. Sylvan with his filthy mind and prudish demeanor. He who sent missives to my room at all irregular hours. Notes about my rent, about my accumulated restaurant bill, messages from callers, accounts of how many cups of coffee I’d consumed in the lobby and how many brandies I’d sipped in the empty bar. Here, almost midnight, and he’d sent some poor, sick boy with a note.
“Just a moment, please.” I made no attempt to disguise my irritation. I tugged on my dressing gown and cinched the belt before sliding the chain lock into its groove. The chain allowed little more than three inches, but enough to give some pubescent boy the sight of an attractive older woman in dishabille. I had barely enough room to snake my hand outside and say, “Give it here,” before noticing there was no one on the other side of the door.