It has allbeen a lie.
John’s words echoed in Ora’s ears, booming and incessant. Through the internal din, she managed to say, “Explain yourself. Right now.”
He tilted his chin down. “Ledford asked me to write you, to develop a rapport with you over time, and then, when he gave me the go-ahead, I was to concoct a fake sighting that would be too enticing for you to ignore. In exchange, he would give me the money I needed to keep my newspaper going for a while, and then at the completion of it all, he was to introduce me to a friend of his at theEvening Star.”
Anger flared like a firecracker that exploded and then ignited inside her chest. “ ‘The completion of it all’? What does that mean?”
John shrugged. “I’m not sure, actually. I don’t know his intentions beyond getting you out of Washington. That telegram that came the other day was him asking me to make sure you were gone for as long as possible.”
“You got us lost in the woods on purpose,” Ora accused.
“I did. Yes.”
Then she immediately felt absurd calling out that particular instance of his deception when the entire thing had been a ruse.
“I understand if you despise me,” he said. “I despise myself, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Oh, don’t bother, John. There’s no point in feigning remorse now. You pulled one over on me. Not only that, but you got more than you bargained for, didn’t you? You’re probably rather proud of yourself for making a fool of me, letting me think you might care for me, might want me. No need to insult me further by pretending—”
“I’m not pretending!” He whipped off his hat and scrubbed his free hand through his hair.
“You said it was all a lie,” she responded, and was discouraged to find she sounded near tears.
“Not that.” John brought his black derby to his chest, over his heart, and Ora noticed that he nearly vibrated with emotion as he spoke. “Not that part. My feelings for you, Ora, were always real. Ledford never asked me to fall in love with you. I did that all on my own.”
She froze at the words, the genuine ardor in them unexpected. Then she remembered her ire and its very valid origins. “And what? I’m supposed to be flattered that you threw that in for free?” she asked bitterly. Ora picked up her bag, adjusted her hat. It was accidental that she managed to elbow him in the arm as she marched past, but she was glad of it, especially when he let out a small “Ooph.”
She’d only made it a few steps when, through the fog of her anger, something in the distance stood out in sharp contrast toits surroundings enough to trigger her scientific instinct and natural curiosity.
Among the gaggle of Canada geese loitering by a small pond stood one quite unlike its brownish-gray and black brethren. Its body was all white, its neck a muted brown. And it simply stood there, folding and unfolding its broad wings, oblivious to the fact that it was the greatest consolation prize Ora could possibly imagine.
TWENTY-TWO
Callahan
Thankfully a websearch for “Baltimore burlesque Mother Goose” is all it takes to figure out that we can find Lylah’s roommate performing at a small club a few blocks from Penn Station at nine o’clock the next night.
“I’ve never been to a burlesque show before,” Annie says as we wait for the show to start Saturday evening. “How about you?”
“Oh, I go all the time,” I mutter.
“Really?”
I glance over at her with an eyebrow raised—a sarcasticWhat do you think?
“Right, right. I forgot. You and fun don’t get along.”
“The relationship has thawed a bit recently,” I say, catching her eye for a second too long for comfort. We both look away right as the lights begin to dim.
A curvaceous blonde-haired white woman in a short ballerina-type dress with a plume of large pink feathers atop herhead takes the stage and welcomes us with exaggerated coquetry and an accent that I think is supposed to be French.
“My name is Madame Belle Époque, and tonight, my darlings, we are going to tell you some bedtime stories. But of course not to put you to sleep.” She winks. “In fact, we hope that you will find our stories quite a bit more…rousingthan the iterations with which you might be more familiar.” She continues engaging with the crowd for a while, flirting with various members of the audience and cracking jokes relying on hyperlocal references that Annie seems to understand despite her short residency here. She does seem to have a way of instantly settling in wherever she pleases.
Finally, the show begins in earnest, the first performer introduced as Miss Mary Land taking the stage in several layers of gingham silk and a bonnet, a stuffed animal lamb tucked beneath her arm. She gyrates to the remix of a song I recognize from one of the playlists Inés sometimes puts on while cleaning—“Sheep” by Pink Floyd. It’s all more strange to me than enticing, especially when her attempt at removing her corset goes awry and she’s unable to get it off until the moment the music stops. Everyone applauds loudly as she gathers up her discarded garments and runs off the stage.
“Wow, that corset was harder to get off than me on an SSRI!” Madame Belle Époque quips. “But isn’t Miss Mary Land the loveliest little shepherdess you ever did see?”
“That’s Bo Peep,” I mumble to Annie. “She’s mixing up her livestock-minding girls.”
