Mrs. Houdini (8 page)

Harry bent down to retrieve something from the cabinet behind him. When he turned around, he was holding a glistening bottle of champagne. Bess clapped her hands. “Where did you get that?” They'd barely had enough money to buy the rings.

“Don't worry about that,” he said, and then, shrugging, “a gift from Dash.” He stuck a pocketknife into the cork, and the top popped off and shot across the room.

Bess shrieked. “Is it supposed to do that?” Harry filled a pewter cup with the shimmering liquid and handed it to her. “Aren't you going to have any?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “I never drink alcohol. It slows my reflexes.”

Bess considered her own glass. She had never had champagne before, and she'd been drunk only once in her life. “Well, fine,” she said and poured the contents down her throat in one gulp.

Harry blinked at her, then burst out laughing. “You'll feel that,” he said.

Her throat was already burning. She stepped toward him and, almost imperceptibly, brushed her hand against his. “But that's what I want,” she said. “I want to feel everything.”

Harry stepped back and looked at her, then reached out a hand and placed it on her back, where the laces of her dress were tied. Even in the dark she could sense his uncertainty, the utter seriousness of the moment. She turned so he could untie her. He fumbled with the knots, but after some effort they came free, and the dress slid to her ankles. She stepped out of it and stood before him, shivering even in the heat. He took her hand. Her corset and drawers had yet to be removed, but she could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the white flesh visible. She lifted his hand to her and stepped against him so she could feel his breath, like a sacred thing.

“We're married now,” she said quietly. “You can do what you like.”

His hand shook as he held it to her breast. “No one—no one's ever said that to me before.”

“You've never been married before.”

“Will you sing something?” he asked her. “I like your voice.”

She looked at him. Was it possible that he was nervous? The same Harry Houdini who had held her gaze so intensely on the beach, who was so sure she would marry him? The lyrics of an Irish love song she learned as a girl in school came rushing back to her. She hadn't heard it in a long time, but the words had etched themselves on her and she pulled them out like tiny, glimmering threads. “I'll take you home again, Kathleen,” she began, her voice quiet, “across the ocean wild and wide, to where your heart has ever been, since first you were my bonnie bride.”

“Keep going,” he begged. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, perhaps a longing for the old world his parents had told him about when he was a child, before the cold Milwaukee winters and the tragedy of poverty had hardened him.

Bess's voice shook. “To that dear home beyond the sea, my Kathleen shall again return, and when thy old friends welcome thee, thy loving heart will cease to yearn.”

Harry closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he said, “It's sad.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is sad.”

He took her to the bed and undressed her completely, then himself, so that they were lying against each other. The humidity pressed down on them, heavy as stone, and Bess pushed the blanket to the side of the bed. “I don't know what I'm doing, Harry,” she said softly. She had never seen a man's naked body before, except her stepfather's flaccid form when he was drunk and had fallen asleep, naked, on the kitchen floor. But there had been something pitiful and contemptible about him that was not present here, in Harry. She could see the dim form of every muscle on his chest, spangled with sweat, and he was beautiful, and she could feel him trembling, too. His breath was hot against her face.

“It will hurt,” he said.

“I know.” But she was brave. What powers she possessed beneath those clothes, she had never imagined. Her mother had never broached the subject with her, but her sister Stella, who was already married, had alluded to it. Tomorrow she would have to bring Harry home and tell them both, she realized, and she would not be a little girl in that house anymore.

“Do you think I look like a child?” she asked him. “Men have said I look like a child.”

Harry's eyes widened. “A child? Far from that.” He laughed, holding her against him. Her concern seemed to ease his nerves somewhat. She waited for what came next, for the agony of the wait to be over, and the rush of pain, but also the way she knew it would change them both, how they would emerge, not unscathed but happier.

“You are my own,” he said.

As a performer, Harry had determined that true power belonged to those who knew how to create not merely illusions but transformations. It was a fact of human nature, he said, that people wished to become something else. They wanted to travel to that mysterious in-between place that lives only in magic, which ordinary men and women cannot reach. Characters in fairy tales were awakened from death as if they had only been asleep—they hovered, suspended, between two worlds—and Harry knew that people wanted this experience for themselves. If they could go to that place, and come back from it, they would somehow be different—they, too, would be anointed and saved.

This was the secret that drove the success of Harry's Metamorphosis trick—when one person was locked inside the trunk, and disappeared, and then reemerged free and unbound; it was as if he had been able to pass through walls, to fade into the ether in which the secret, dreamed-about places lay, and come back from it changed.

It was with great surprise that after their first night together, as the morning breathed itself through the open window of Harry's room, Bess learned that she was expected to take Dash's place in the trick. Dash wanted to strike out on his own, Harry said; he had never quite been comfortable with the uncertainty of the profession, and he wanted to return to the city and try his hand at other things.

“You and I will be the Houdinis now,” he said, beaming. “Harry and Bess. We'll be on the billing together.”

Bess was aghast. “You can't be serious. A few days isn't enough time for me to practice all those tricks.”

“You'll be fine. You're much smaller than Dash—it will actually be better this way.”

Of course, she knew that what he was doing was merely deception, and if one knew the secret one could easily step into another's part. Surely, as a Floral Sister she had been playing a part. Still, knowing how tricks were done and doing them were two different things altogether.

“What should I wear? I don't imagine I could wear one of my singing costumes, with all those feathers.”

Harry went over to his dresser and pulled out a pair of thin black tights. “You can wear these.”

Bess took one look at the tights, hanging limply from his hand like a wrinkled snakeskin, and burst out laughing.

“I couldn't possibly! You'll—you'll have me look like a prostitute, in front of all those people?”

“Oh, don't be embarrassed, Bess. I've been to plenty of shows—circuses, things like that. This is what the women wear. You'll have some kind of a dress on, too. Just—not so much as you're used to.”

“I don't think I can step onto a stage in that.” Out of costume, her usual nonstage underclothes alone consisted of drawers and an undershirt, a drawstring corset, a petticoat, a long-sleeved chemise, silk stockings and garters. “I've never shown so much of myself.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, you have.”

“My singing costume wasn't that—”

“With me. Last night.”

Bess glared at him. “You're a lousy brute!”

Harry shrugged. He was much more cavalier when he was talking about his act—a different person altogether, not the tender, nervous boy of the night before. Still, his stage arrogance—the confidence, the clear-eyed determination—was alluring.

“Besides, I'll bet you know how to do half of my magic already. I'll test you. The ropes—”

She shook her head. “Now you are trying to fool me. That's the one thing that's not a trick. I'll bet you really do know how to break out of those ropes and all kinds of fasteners. It's your talent.”

He laughed. “You're a smart one.”

She hesitated. “There's one more thing, and it's something I can't control. Whenever I'm nervous, my hands shake. I've tried, but I can't stop it. What if they shake onstage?”

Harry smoothed her head. “You won't have to do any of the difficult restraints. Just leave those to me.”

“Fine. But you have to do something for me first.” She hesitated. Voicing her request made her anxious. She wasn't even sure it was what she wanted. “We're married now. I want to introduce you to my mother.”

“She's not going to like me, you said so yourself,” Harry said, frowning.

Bess thought about it. He was probably right. “We'll see.”

“I'm ashamed that I'm poor, but I'm not going to be ashamed that I'm Jewish.”

“No one's asking you to be.”

He folded the tights and put them back into the drawer among his other costumes, which had been carelessly stuffed inside. “Why does it matter to you that I meet her? You said you had moved in with your sister.”

“Because,” Bess said, “if you want me to meet your mother—and you said you did—it's only fair that you meet mine. We're not going to start this marriage off unfairly. You said it yourself—you want me on your billing, by your side. Not in the wings.”

Harry sighed. “All right. Let's go today then, and we'll meet each other's mothers. And anyway, we're leaving next week for the circus, and we'll have to tell them.”

Bess glanced around his room, seeing it clearly now, for the first time in daylight. It was disastrous. His clothes lay in piles in the corners, covered in dust and dirt, and the place smelled strongly of sweat. Empty lemonade bottles were stacked on the bureau. Harry came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It's only temporary,” he said, as if reading her mind.

Bess grimaced. “That's good.”

“There's a Yiddish word my mother used to use:
balaboosta
. It means homemaker. That's what she was. Always very organized. As you can see, I don't have those same skills. Now you'll be my balaboosta.” He grinned.

“Oh, I will?” Bess wasn't sure she wanted to be anyone's balaboosta. She had grown up in a house full of children and had never envied her mother the enormous tasks of housekeeping she faced every day.

Harry pulled her down onto the bed and flipped her over so he was lying on top of her. For a moment she wasn't sure whether he was going to smack her or kiss her. Then he ran his fingers under her dress and began to tickle her mercilessly. Bess shrieked.

“Say you will!” He laughed. “Say you'll do it!”

“Okay, okay!” Bess cried, squirming under his grip. “I'll be your balaboosta!”

Harry sat up and smiled at her. “Good. I knew you'd come to your senses.”

She tried to push him over, but he was too strong. “You are so infuriating!”

Harry took her chin in his hand and kissed her. “But I'll do my part,” he said. “I'm going to take care of you. I promise. You'll have everything you want.”

Looking around the room, she wasn't so sure this would be true. But despite his flaws, she already loved this stranger beside her. She had loved his swagger onstage and his dark, impenetrable eyes, and now even his incompetence at housekeeping.

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. “Have you ever been inside the Brighton Beach Hotel?”

“Not yet.”

“Neither have I. But I've memorized their menu. Littleneck clams, baked bluefish, meringue for dessert.”

“One day,” Harry said, “we can go there. We'll come with our servants and stay the whole summer. We'll watch the races along Ocean Parkway on Sundays. And we'll have one dinner in the hotel and after the fireworks we'll go over to Tappan's for a second dinner.”

Bess laughed. “Yes. Instead of Paddy Shea's. Anna thinks that's the height of elegance. But then again, she also dreams of staying in the Elephant Hotel on her honeymoon.” Compared to the Brighton Beach Hotel, with its white curtains and silver chargers in the dining room, the Elephant Hotel was garish; it was built in the shape of an elephant, with rooms that were cramped and dark.

“With the cigar shop in front? You're kidding.”

Bess shook her head. “What did you do before you were Harry Houdini?” she asked. “Do you have any skills beside magic?”

“Do you mean how will I support you if I fail at magic? Well, I won't fail,” he said. “But, to humor you, I can tell you I was very efficient as an assistant necktie cutter for a little while. At H. Richter's Sons in New York.”

Bess sat up. “H. Richter's? Next to Siegel-Cooper? I worked as a waitress in their café during high school! Do you think we've met before?”