I was never permitted to enter through the front door.
Up the alley we came, like the farrier and the butcher and the ragman. Like the milkman pulling his dray cart. Up the wood stairs and into the kitchen, where Tan, Rose’s butler and spy, was just finishing icing my cake.
“Oh, hello, Tan,” Morie said in too jolly a tone. In the bright kitchen light, I could see she was perspiring. She dabbed her forehead with her lace sleeve and examined the tray of spirits Tan had set out on a cart next to a silver tea service.
“What kind of cake have you made for Vera’s birthday?”
Tan shook his head contemptuously. “Lemon.”
My heart sank. I liked all cake except Tan’s lemon, which tasted both too sour and too sweet.
He’d made it for Rose. There was no love lost between Tan and me. Tan stocked our larder and cooked the only edible food served at Morie’s table, but he did not appreciate that I was the reason for his extra work. Every Tuesday, he arrived in a buggy pulled by General, Rose’s horse, and we had to pretend that Tan was just a tradesman come calling, though surely no one on Francisco Street believed that. The rig was too fancy and Tan was too polished, in his spotless black silks and starched white apron that fell below his knees, his impeccably braided queue hanging off his shoulder like a rat’s tail. We ate his food mixed with his disgust, as he performed services that were beneath him. In short, he was a nasty piece of work, ol’ Tan, and he impressed upon me early that while he worshipped Rose, he had no use for Morie or Pie, and viewed me as a particularly irksome opponent.
“What do you want?” he barked when he noticed me eyeing the cart to see what else he was serving.
“Send them in, would you!” Rose boomed from the parlor.
“Go, go,” Tan hissed.
In we went. Rose had positioned herself on the velvet divan—my high-bosomed, terrifying mother, done up for the night in a lustrous green gown, fashioned by none other than the great Callot of Paris. Ropes of pearls covered Rose from neck to knees. They coiled in her lap.
“Ah,” she said, “here you are: the whole uninvited kit and caboodle.”
Rose’s trick knee was propped on a silk cushion.
“Yah, and how is it today?” Morie asked.
“Killing me. Now, sit.”
Rose never bothered with niceties, that was understood. She nodded in Morie’s direction: an up-down jerk of the chin, sufficient to affirm their contract and to reduce Morie by a fraction, all in one economical gesture.
Pie got the next going-over: a fleeting glance, less business, more pleased. Rose was expert at assessing a girl from limbs to lips, and one raised brow told us that Pie was in good form, nothing new there.
The last and most piercing look Rose saved for me. “Your hair’s thick; men will appreciate that,” she announced on my tenth birthday, her hand hovering so that I could feel her heat on my scalp. When I was twelve, she declared, “You’re developing. Now let me see your teeth.” I thought I’d die.
This birthday night, Rose looked me over and said nothing. And with that nothing, I decided to stand as far away from her as I dared, by the bookshelves in her wide parlor.
Next to Rose’s divan, Morie settled into the settee, where a loose spring gonged in protest; for the rest of the visit, she would have to hold still so it didn’t repeat. Pie took the low stool next to Morie.
Rose lit her pipe and puffed the fumes at the ceiling. “Tan!” she shouted.
Tan appeared at once, pushing the polished brass cart across the parlor’s thick Persian carpet. These midnight soirees were a time for Tan to shine, since he’d worked at The Rose before being sent uptown to serve as Rose’s majordomo, and ours. He halted his refreshment enterprise in the middle of the room. Here, I supposed, they might sing “Happy Birthday” to a girl. But no. Tan sliced the lemon cake and offered Rose the first slab. She ignored him. He set that piece aside and poured whiskey from the decanter into one of the china teacups with pansies blooming on its side, which Rose greedily accepted.
“I’ll also have a nip,” Morie ventured, eyeing the decanter. Rose shot Tan a severe look and he filled Morie’s cup with tea.
“Tickets,” Rose declared. “I’ve got tickets for you three to see Enrico Caruso at the opera house next week.”
“Ca-ru-so!” Morie panted, taking her tea with a shaking hand.
It was to be the social event of the year in our newish city, where the popular tastes ran more to watching Miss Flora, the roller-derby queen, perform, or visiting amateur night at The Chutes. I’d read to Morie in the Call that the highest-priced tickets for Caruso were selling for one hundred and twelve dollars, an outrageous sum, given that a fur-lined lady’s coat cost seven dollars and a Ford cost five hundred. The soprano singing the role of Carmen was Olive Fremstad, a Swede from Stockholm. Morie was dying to go.
“What Morie means to say,” Pie suggested, “is that we’re excited, really, this is beyond thrilling. Everyone in town is talking about Caruso.” Pie’s voice wobbled as she struggled to say something amusing to Rose, who was looking at her with a flat, bored mouth.
“I wonder,” Pie continued, “do you think the mayor will attend, given
