I liked them instantly. And if I didn’t think to ask Rose if it was all right if they stayed, I also didn’t ask Pie. That’s how much had changed.
Tan, of course, had an opinion, but the women were careful to lavish him with praise, as if he were their funny, taciturn uncle. They told him how much they’d missed his Sunday dinners at The Rose.
I went upstairs to tend to Rose, and when I came down Sophia had arrived. She was the oldest, trained in the burlesque shows in Paris. She didn’t bother with the front door but came around back, meeting Bobby first.
So it was Bobby who announced we had another boarder.
“Listen to me,” he said—always like that, his voice like velvet. He was the only person who could tell me to listen and I would. “There’s plenty of room in the stable. I could make room.”
“You mean you want to be with her,” I said.
He chuckled. “Watch it now, Versus.”
I thought about it for exactly a second. “She can sleep in the attic with the rest of us.”
And that was that. Capability, Mercy, Valentine, and Sophia settled in the rooms next to mine; they hung their corsets and bloomers from the attic beams. At night, there were games and readings and songs in the parlor.
The women had come to Rose but were in no hurry to see her.
“That young man. Bobby. Is he your fella?” Mercy asked.
“God no,” I said.
They paid nothing, slept till noon, and awoke famished. Once they took up residence in the gold house, they didn’t bother to dress and instead lounged all day in their silk dressing gowns.
One afternoon in the kitchen, they were peeling potatoes—always piles of potatoes that Tan bartered for on the black market. Mercy had her feet propped on a chair and was begging Valentine to fetch her a bowl.
“Get it yourself, baby.”
“Aw, can’t you see my bunions are hurting?”
“Aw, can’t you see I’m beau-ti-ful?”
They all laughed.
I couldn’t stop staring at them. I couldn’t stop staring at Valentine. She wore white gloves except when she was cooking, her hair waxed and pinned tall in shiny curls; she wore a pair of red satin slippers that a customer had made especially for her, she said, with a wedge sewn inside to save her arches.
When I asked Capability what it was about Valentine, Capability shrugged. “Darlin’, I guess you could say she was just born with the wrong hat on.”
“The wrong hat?”
“Oh, you know.”
But I didn’t know. Valentine called everyone honey, and from the first day she called me Honey V.
Seeing me stare, Capability snapped her fingers in front of my eyes. “Now, baby, why don’t you come sit between my knees, and let’s fix your hair for that nice boy.”
“There is no boy,” I insisted.
“Oh, right, I forgot.” Capability laughed sweetly.
“I’m serious,” I said.
“Serious, darlin’, is this rat’s nest on your head.” Cap pulled a comb from where she kept it hidden in the nape of her hair and got to work on me.
There was so much laughter that even when it was at my expense, I couldn’t see the harm. Their laughter washed over me. The women talked and sighed and exclaimed. They forgave themselves and all of humankind for its folly. The one thing they could not forgive was violence or abuse, of which they’d each had their share. Mostly, those early days, they marveled to find themselves on hiatus, for the first time in their lives. They hadn’t just escaped the fires; the catastrophe had landed them in a gold palace.
Each had a story of how she’d made it through. Capability had been visiting a private customer at his home on Russian Hill. They’d hunkered down in the man’s basement and waited out the fires, until Cap couldn’t stand holding still anymore.
Mercy had been visiting an aunt in Santa Rosa; the quake leveled the town. It took weeks for her to make her way back.
Valentine was walking down Market Street when the quake struck. She witnessed a dazed Caruso standing in the road outside the Palace Hotel; he was dressed in his bathrobe, his valet hustling to carry down Caruso’s many trunks.
“Let me tell you,” Valentine said, “Caruso was terrified. Ell of a place! Ell of a place! he kept on saying. I told him, ‘And you, Caruso, are an ell of a singer!’ ”
“You did not!” Mercy batted Valentine’s shoulder.
“Honey, were you there? Were you?”
As luck would have it, the night of the quake, Sophia had the evening off. She was in North Beach visiting her sister, who’d married an Italian. Sophia helped them save their house. For the three days that the fire threatened North Beach, they soaked burlap sacks in the homemade Chianti they kept in the cellar and spread the wine-soaked sacks across the roof, just like their neighbors. They managed to save that part of town.
But after the fire was out? Sophia’s sister let her know she wasn’t welcome anymore. Her sister had young children and she didn’t want them damaged.
“Damaged! What, did she think you’d give her children the pox?” Valentine asked.
“Something like.” Sophia pouted.
They all agreed they were lucky to have been away from The Rose. The fire swept that part of town first. But there were others—Frankie, Bess, Sally, I can’t recall all the names—who hadn’t escaped. Neither, of course, did Hank.
“Damn shame,” Mercy said.
“Quelle horreur,” added Sophia, who always used French when making a point.
They were quiet then, shelling peas and peeling potatoes while Cap finished combing the snarls from my hair.
“Oh-oh, did I mention? I saw Jubee,” Mercy said. “She’s got herself a little thing of a baby.”
“Aw, what’s his name?” Capability asked.
Mercy’s whole face lit up. “Tellem.”
“Tellem? What kind of name is that?”
“Tellem when you see him, he’s a father!” Mercy sang.
Oh, they laughed, even if the joke was as old as a worn penny. They slapped the table, slapped each other’s knees; Cap nudged my shoulder to let me know
