Parlor games : a novel.

Maryka Biaggio.

For my parents, Phyllis and Bill, who made it all possible.

A single bad act no more const.i.tutes a villain in life than a single bad part on the stage. The pa.s.sions, like the managers of a playhouse, often force men upon parts without consulting their judgement, and sometimes without any regard to their talents.... Upon the whole, then, the man of candour and of true understanding is never hasty to condemn.

-HENRY FIELDING, Tom Jones.

THE TRIAL.

YOU BE THE JUDGE.

MENOMINEE, MICHIGAN-JANUARY 22, 1917.

I believe, dear reader-and these words come from the bottom of my heart-that I can truly trust you. Look at yourself. You've sought out my story; you're willing to hear me out through these many pages. Who but a worldly and curious soul would undertake such a journey? Why, already I discern in you the intellect and refinement of a person with an open heart and nimble mind. You and I, my new friend, will become well acquainted over the course of this tale.

But you'll want me to proceed with the telling. That's what you've come for, and I'll not thwart your wishes a moment longer. So choose your favorite spot-a divan in a sumptuous hotel suite, the leather chair in front of your blazing fireplace, or a sun-soaked bench in a sculpture garden-any place, really, where we might enjoy the luxury of uninterrupted time together, and I will tell you the tale of the most dangerous woman in the world-or so the Pinkertons dubbed me.

Today was the first day of my trial in the booming metropolis of Menominee. I narrowed my attire choices down to an indigo dress or a modest black dress with fluted collar. Looking at the black dress, I thought, heavens, it's no funeral, and donned the blue one. It hugged my torso in a becoming manner, but still struck the serious and formal note required of the occasion. I kept my jewelry to a minimum: a simple sapphire necklace and matching earrings; the carved gold bracelet the Baron gave me on our first wedding anniversary; and my three-stone diamond ring with garland filigrees. As much as I love my jewels, this was no time for ostentation.

With the trial slated to open at two in the afternoon, my brothers and I enjoyed a leisurely luncheon at home. Then Paul drove us through swirling snow to the courthouse in his 1916 Apperson Jack Rabbit. He's so proud of that car-with its spruce-green exterior and leather seats as comfortable as a sofa. But, then, his automobile business does stock the latest models in the Upper Peninsula.

"I believe, Paul," I observed from the back seat, "that Mr. Apperson has taught Henry Ford a thing or two with this car."

Gene, who sat beside me, said, "Taught him how to build the most expensive thing on wheels is what he's done."

I chuckled-Gene and I fell easily into the sport of teasing our older sibling-and added, "Now, if only you could find a buyer for it in Menominee."

Paul pivoted his blocky head in my direction. "If I get the chance to sell it."

I resented Paul's insinuation that he stood to lose property in the lawsuit. After Papa's pa.s.sing, Paul had ordained himself head of the family, even though the best he'd ever managed was a lumber worker's salary-that is, until I financed his automobile business. In truth, the responsibility for substantial support of the family had always fallen to me.

I reached over the front seat and patted Paul's shoulder. "You needn't worry. Have I ever let you down?"

"You're coming d.a.m.n close," said Paul.

"Oh, don't make it harder than it already is," Gene said. "None of us likes being dragged to court."

I could always count on Gene to take my side whenever Paul goaded me. With a winking nod to Gene, I said, "I'm sure it will all come out fine."

Everyone should have a brother like Gene. He's as loyal as a musketeer, always ready to serve up merriment, and dashing to boot. Today he sported a trim charcoal-gray suit; Paul wore a baggy black jacket and shiny-with-wear wool pants. Gene, at six foot two, surpa.s.ses Paul in height and carries himself as erect as a proud stallion. Gene has the sort of looks that beguile women-twinkly blue eyes, a shapely mustache, and tawny-brown hair. Paul, stouter of build and perpetually glum, has only managed to attract a dowdy wife who disdains the revelry Gene and I naturally fall into. How perfectly provident that Gene, and not dull Paul, was named after our charming father.

Paul eased up on the accelerator as we rounded the corner onto Ogden Avenue. Wagon and car wheel ruts grooved the snow-packed streets, and our car jostled over the ridges, bouncing us up and down on our seats. Between buildings and in storefront cul-de-sacs, a gusting wind played the snowdrifts, skimming snow off their thin peaks and carving them into lopsided mounds. The drying cold of winter that hangs in the air even during a snowstorm p.r.i.c.ked my bare cheeks and neck; I clutched the folds of my moleskin coat against its bite.

We approached Foster's Dry Goods, and I spied Mr. and Mrs. Foster standing as still as mannequins, gazing out the window. As we drove by, the couple stretched their necks to study us, making no attempt at a greeting.

Gene leaned forward and gripped Paul's seat. "Look at the Fosters admiring your car."

Paul trained his eyes straight ahead. "More likely trying to spot our notorious sister."

"Well, you're wise to drive this car around town," I said, intent on nudging Paul back to some measure of civility. "Surely it's good for business."

Not that Menominee offers much by way of business. I've seen cities all over the world-Chicago, sparkling and booming after the Great Fire; Portland, brash as the Wild West; Shanghai, steeped in trade and mystery; and London, civilized and regal. This town, however, has "bust" written all over it: the sorry storefronts bleached as ashen as driftwood; many of its once-booming lumber mills shuttered; the ice-encrusted sh.o.r.es of Lake Michigan impa.s.sable for months on end; and the surrounding forests, once thick with white pine, nearly all logged out. All in all, a rather pitiful place. As for me, I'd rather roast in the Mojave than live in Menominee. The only good thing that comes of being stuck here for this trial is the chance to enjoy my brothers' company.

We parked beside the courthouse, among a hodgepodge of Tin Lizzies and horse-drawn wagons and carriages. The piebald mare only a few feet away drooped her head as snow collected in splotchy blankets on her contoured back. At the slamming of our car doors she neither budged nor blinked. The poor thing-what a shame that this trial forced her to endure such numbing cold.

Positioning myself between Paul and Gene, I hooked a hand under each one's arm, and they escorted me through the front door and up to the second-floor courtroom. Paul opened the door and I stepped forward.

Townspeople had absolutely mobbed the courtroom-to say nothing of the eight to ten newsmen with writing pads at the ready. As we walked in, heads turned and followed us. On the water-stained wood floor, snow melted and puddled around the onlookers' feet. Coats, gloves, and farmers' boots gave off wet-wool, stale-dirt, and manure odors. The pungent brew tickled my nose; I swept my wrist under my nostrils to supplant the stench with my Jasmin perfume.

As we marched along, Gene exchanged soft h.e.l.los with several people seated on the aisle. Holding my chin up proudly, I smiled and nodded at those who dared to cast their probing gaze my way.

I wasn't surprised that nearly half the town had shown up for the trial; it's been the talk of the Upper Peninsula for months now. If I had to live here season after season, I'd consider it the highlight of the year, too. Imagine how it's been these past months: On afternoons when their husbands toiled at the mill or factory, women gathered over their needlework to speculate and gossip about me. That's not to say the men are uninterested. Oh, no, I can't walk ten feet in this town without a man's eyes trailing me-surrept.i.tiously if his wife is on hand, but even if she isn't, never so boldly as to require a chastening from a sister, the pastor, or whoever might observe him ogling that "swindler May," as the town's women have likely christened me. Why, I wasn't even surprised to hear they'd been rehashing what turned out to be a mistaken pregnancy by hometown boy Robby Jacobsen.

Oh, yes, the womenfolk of Menominee had flocked to the courthouse, and as I stood unfastening my coat at the defendant's table, I noticed they weren't too proud to stare. Most of the crowd was older-women without children or ch.o.r.es, I imagine-all gussied up in their Sunday best with their hair neatly combed and hats pinned in place. They packed into the rows and chattered away like youngsters on a sleigh ride. The smattering of husbands accompanying their wives sat hunched over, clutching their hats two-handed, pretending a lack of interest. The fact is, they were all there because this trial is the most exciting thing that's happened around here since the great train heist of '93. Well, who can begrudge them the diversion and entertainment my trial offers?

But such a bleak place the courtroom was, with plain, stiff-backed chairs in the jury box and pew benches for onlookers. Bare lightbulbs hung from twisted brown cords and lit the room as bright as new snow. All the sounds around me-the bailiff's clacking heels, my lawyer and his a.s.sociate's whispered exchanges, and the buzz of conversation from the crowd-bounced off the high, unadorned white walls like the bleats of animals shut up in a barn.

I took my seat on the hardwood chair next to my attorney, greeted him, and smoothed the folds of my skirt. Through the tall windows lining the room, only bare, spindly treetops could be glimpsed, as if the architect intended to intimidate with narrow, jail-style windows. Radiators pinged, wafting the tinny scent of melting snow on their waves.

The bailiff announced, "All rise," and the a.s.sembly shuffled to its feet. Judge Flanagan strutted in, his black gown trailing over the bench steps.

And so began my trial. Now, I've made a bargain with you, gentle reader, and I intend to keep my end of it. I will tell you my story-all of it-and truthfully, as I've never been able to tell anyone before. Then you can decide: Were my actions justified? You, my discerning reader, are the most important juror. You have the advantage of hearing the whole story, straight from the one who lived it. So I say to you now, without hesitation or compunction, hear me out, and then you be the judge.

MY HUMBLE ORIGINS.

FROM ILLINOIS TO MICHIGAN-18691884.

For the longest time my mother claimed I was born in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Being French Canadian, she loved all things French. French women, she told me, grasp the importance of appearance and station-they never pa.s.s up a chance to impress with looks or feign eminence with the little white lie. And Eau Claire is a lovely name for a town. But I wasn't actually born there. Not that the place of one's birth matters much, but I've promised to tell the whole story.

I was born in 1869 in the village of Fox River Grove, about forty miles northwest of Chicago. My family moved away before I took my first steps, so I never explored the sh.o.r.es of the Fox River myself. But it was an auspicious place for my birth: It's become a lovely resort area, with a gorgeous luxury hotel and famous ski jump.

Back in the 1860s, the Ojibwa Indians gathered in Fox River Grove every winter to sell furs and beadwork. My older brother, Paul, told me Papa used to visit their settlement and trade firewater for beaded necklaces and bracelets, which he sold to laborers in the area for gifts to send their wives. That Papa, he was an enterprising sort.

We came to reside in Fox River Grove because a Mr. Opardy had purchased eighty acres on the Fox River and set out to build a vacation estate there. When Papa heard about the big purchase, he hastened to Illinois and offered his services. He told Mr. Opardy that he'd managed a restaurant in Michigan, and Mr. Opardy hired him on the spot to cook for his building crew.

Papa had never actually managed anything before that job, but he always said you've got to sell what you've got, even if all you've got is salesmanship. By the time the cooking job ended, Papa had acc.u.mulated sufficient funds to move our family to Muskegon, Michigan. He secured a contract on a saloon, a simple log-cabin affair on the sh.o.r.es of Muskegon Lake. He named it Dancing Waters, but the locals called it The Watering Hole. Papa loved being by the water and dreamed of sailing up the St. Lawrence and all the way to France to see Paris, which he p.r.o.nounced "Pa-REE." Someday, he promised, he would take me there, to see the Seine and a ballet.

What can you say about a child's life? My parents were strict about school. Papa lectured me dozens of times about how I'd need an education to land a well-to-do husband; he made me promise I'd never settle for some idler who rented a room over a tavern. After dinner each evening, Maman insisted that Paul and I sit at the table to recite from our McGuffey Reader while she stoked the stove and scrubbed the dinner plates and pots. I was always ahead of my cla.s.smates because of listening to Paul reel off his verb conjugations and multiplication tables. If you ask me, Maman made us recite our lessons as much for herself as for Paul and me-I believe it counted as entertainment for her, since Papa was away for long hours and she spent her days baking, laundering, cooking lye and potash into soap, and filling seamstress orders.

My fondest memories of childhood are the times I spent with Papa, especially my visits to the saloon. Papa always greeted me the same way, bracing his hands on the bar and announcing, "Gentlemen, chere Mimi has come to entertain us. Make way."

The men hugging the bar would take their drinks in hand and ease back. Turning to me, Papa would hold out his arms and say, "Mimi, your admirers await. Come."

I'd run in under the bar gate-I was little enough not to need to duck-and sprint toward him, striding high so as not to slip on the slick floorboards. He'd catch me in full stride, hoist me over his head, and swing me around. As soon as he plopped me onto the bar, I launched into my pirouettes, holding Papa's hand as if we were ballet dancers. How I loved the sound of the men clapping and hooting. I don't believe I've gotten the thrill of it out of my bones, even after all these years.

And to think some people claim I hate men. Such nonsense. Papa was the sweetest person I've ever known. Maybe if I could find a man who's as carefree and cheerful as Papa I'd settle down. But, then, Papa wasn't much for settling down himself. That's what made life with him so exciting.

Ah, Papa. I miss him still. What a thrill it would be to recount all my adventures to him: I believe he'd be proud. But when I was fifteen, just as I was growing into a young lady, Papa was shot and killed trying to break up a fight at the tavern.

I vividly recall the night he died. I stole off by myself to the sh.o.r.es of Muskegon Lake. There I sat watching day's color drain from the scattered birches and jagged-edged firs. Wind sweeping in off the lake lashed the loose strands of my hair against my bare, chilled neck. I blinked back tears as I recalled him once telling me, "You have more gumption and sense than your mother and Paul put together."

My ears hummed from veiled noises skittering through the forest, as if ghosts stirred among the fallen leaves and floated through the trees. I felt Papa all around me-in the shifting shadows, in the rustle of branches, in the lapping of the lake-and heard his voice: "You have to take care of the family now, Mimi."

I knew that that was what he expected-and that I would have to be cleverer than he was, for the sake of all of us.

We buried Papa the next day, and by then Maman had attained an icy composure. Right after the burial she ordered all of us, "Pack up your clothes. And anything else you want from this miserable place."

Our forlorn family-Maman, Paul, little Gene, and I-took the last ferry of the season across Lake Michigan and boarded a train for Menominee.

MY PRELIMINARY EDUCATION.

MENOMINEE-18841887.

By the tender age of fifteen, I had set my sights on Chicago: What youngster didn't dream of strolling its modern streets, shopping at the crossroads of America, and gazing upon the sparkling new buildings that had risen after the Great Fire? But Menominee was as good a place as any in 1884 to acquire an introduction to commerce and society. It had over a dozen lumber mills roaring away and possibly the busiest port on all the northern lakes. Maman had a cousin here then, an ox of a man who supervised at Spies Lumber Company. We stayed with his family for a few months, until we took a home of our own on Ludington Avenue.

I finished high school in Menominee and found the teachers much better than the ones I'd had in Muskegon. One of my teachers, Miss Apple, taught me how to manipulate numbers so I could do calculations in my head. I can ill.u.s.trate. To determine if a number is divisible by 3, add the digits. If the sum is a multiple of 3, then it is divisible. Or, to add 148 and 302, take 2 away from 302, add it to 148 to make 150, and you quickly arrive at 450. I've had innumerable occasions to thank Miss Apple for all those little tricks.

I never did develop any affection for Menominee, though I admit I partook of my share of gaiety in town. Any young girl with a sense of adventure would have found her way into the vaudeville shows and the stores selling fine fabrics, table damask, and hammered-bra.s.s lamps. It was in Menominee that I acquired my taste for elegance and lovely things. In fact, before I graduated from high school, Maman had introduced me to the society ladies in town by making certain I was in the parlor whenever they came to order or pick up a dress from her. I reveled in their proper speech, with its oh-so-carefully enunciated words, and their proud, erect carriage, which I practiced in the privacy of my bedroom.

When I started seeing the son of one of the town's lumber barons, Robby Jacobsen, Maman was so pleased: "Oh, May"-as I'd begun insisting everyone call me-"you've landed a real prize in that young man." What she didn't know was that this prize behaved like a gentleman only in the presence of adults.

One spring evening, Robby escorted me to dinner at the Stephenson Hotel and for dancing afterward in their ballroom. I remember the dress I wore that night, though I wouldn't show up at a country fair in it now-a baby-blue cotton thing with puffy sleeves and a high collar. Fit for a child, but not a grown woman, which I'd become as I approached eighteen. Two dances into the evening, Robby walked me back to our table, clapped his hand over mine, and said, "I've got a surprise for you at my house. Do you want to see it?"

Now, I always enjoyed visiting Robby's house. Or should I say "mansion"? It was without a doubt one of the finest homes in all of Menominee-a solid two-story wood building with turrets on the two front corners and a wraparound veranda. Everything about it-the translucent globe lamps, elaborately carved handrails, and Haviland china-declared: We are wealthy and know high style. Still, so as not to show too much eagerness, I said, "After one more dance."

It was early April, and we'd had a long string of nice weather. The snow was nearly all melted, but mud puddles still dotted the streets. Whenever we came upon a mucky stretch, Robby swept me into his arms-he was a strapping five eleven and I a blossoming five six-and gallantly carried me over the puddles. Oh, we did enjoy each other, laughing like youngsters on a lark, both of us playful and without a care in the world. We pulled off some clever high jinks together-once even switching a bottle of cheap champagne for the best in the house at his uncle's hotel.

That night, as we walked up the front steps of his house, Robby looked up and down the dark street, apparently checking for any nosy neighbors, and then lifted me into his arms and carried me over the threshold, as if he were welcoming a bride home.

Setting me down in the entranceway, he hollered, "h.e.l.lo. Surprise."

His voice echoed into the s.p.a.cious parlor and down the first-floor hall. No one answered. I was well acquainted with Robby's rapscallion side, so suspicion overtook me. "I see there's no one here."

He dropped to a knee and grasped my hand. "Marry me, May, and together we'll scandalize the town."

"Why, Robert Jacobsen, I had no idea," I exclaimed, for I had no intention of marrying Robby: I wished to try my hand at Chicago's extravagantly wealthy bachelors.

Rising, he scooped me into his arms and bounded up the stairs. Forcing the partly closed door of his bedroom open with his foot, he whisked me into the room and plopped me on his bed, then dropped on top of me and smothered my neck and cheeks with kisses. "Ah, my little bride," he said, ma.s.saging my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Robby," I cried, bracing my palms against his shoulders and pushing with all my might, "you mustn't."

He budged not one bit. "Please, my beauty."

My b.r.e.a.s.t.s tingled, not unpleasantly, beneath his touch, but I persisted in my attempts to push him off me. "I ... I don't want to get pregnant."

He bounced up on his knees and smiled devilishly at me. "But I've got a sheath."

"A sheath?"

"An English riding coat, a love glove."

"Oh," I said, comprehension dawning on me. It had certainly behooved me, a young woman with men flocking about her, to acquire some understanding about the prevention of pregnancy. So I had educated myself through medical pamphlets.

I don't imagine I need to spell out the rest of the evening. I hadn't planned on entering womanhood that night, but curiosity and the pleasant sensations Robby aroused in me overtook the ill-formed fears conjured by schoolgirl whisperings. For years it'd been clear to me that I had a certain power over the male s.e.x-that is, if Maman's warning to keep my admirers at a distance was any indication. Still, I knew little of the allure of the bedroom. Robby was as good a teacher as any, old enough to have had some experience, not terribly unpleasing in appearance, and a spirited sort. So I allowed the galoot to school me in the ways of love.

By the time I graduated from high school, a few months later, I had completed my preliminary education in the mysteries of the bedroom. But poor Robby, once the deed was done, always fretted about the complications a pregnancy would force upon us.

It wasn't a happy day when I broke the news, over my graduation dinner in the Erdlitz dining room, that his fears had been realized. Once I'd urged him to ingest the only reliable antidote to his unflappable verve-three after-dinner Cognacs-I whispered, "Robby, we have to talk. I'm afraid I'm with child."

Robby scooted his chair toward mine, b.u.mping the table and nearly upending our candle. His broad nose and plump lips, which always gave his face the impression of looming too near, pressed close to mine. "But I thought, that, uh ..."

"I know, I thought so, too." I glanced around nervously. It was Sat.u.r.day night, and the town's bankers and lumber barons, accompanied by wives in fresh spring fashions, huddled around dimly lit tables, abuzz with cozy conversation. Blinking my eyes, I said, "I don't know what to do."

"We'll get married right away. I'll tell my parents tomorrow."

I clamped my hands together and widened my eyes. "No, I can't ruin your and my reputation. The baby will be born in under nine months."