My Notorious Life (54 page)

—Confiscate it all, men, said my wheezing Enemy. He was a bagpipe on legs.

One of the traps began to pile the swag into a sack. Mr. Comstock crossed his arms over his chest and ordered me, —You’ll bring us to see the rest of the house.

—Certainly, I said. —I do so enjoy showing guests around in a tour. Wait until you see the
abattoir
.

My tormentor raised the pale slugs of his eyebrows in question marks.

—It is a French word for slaughterhouse, I said, —so my husband tells me.

Comstock flinched like he expected to find carcasses around the next bend.

—Oh dear, I said, —it’s only a joke.

—This is no laughing matter.

—Well, I don’t know what else to do besides laugh when a so-called GENTLEMAN pretending to be Mr. Cameron deceives me and barges into my house like a kangaroo, seizing personal articles.

—After you, he said, holding the door of my own dining room.

—Mother! said the little voice of my Annabelle, running fresh from her luncheon, arms wide. —Mama, she cried, and stopped short in puzzlement when she saw the policemen’s mitts on me. The traps loosed their hold and shifted uneasy to be holding a mother hostage in front of her own innocent child. It must be said in their defense they smiled in spite of themselves at the darling manners of my Annabelle.

—Who are all these policeman friends of yours, Mama?

—Why, sweetheart, they are here to see our beautiful home.

—Should I show them my room? They will like to see my dollhouse.

—I think they will like the busts of Washington and Franklin best. I think just like Papa and me, they will like the American flag.

—Oh silly Mother, she laughed. —No, they won’t.

Annabelle took my hand and we continued upstairs, much to the consternation of the Comstockian hanging party, who looked between her and me with bewilderment, surprised that the Witch of their imagination was a mother with such a charming child, who held my hand with affection and skipped and sang little snatches of a song in French, about sisters.
Mon enfant, ma soeur.
She had been teaching it to me.

—Brace yourselves, gentlemen, said Mr. C. from under his muttonchops. —This inspection could prove to be most unpleasant.

—What about the child? one of the traps inquired quietly.

—Unfortunately, said Comstock, —the poor innocent must be accustomed to all kinds of unseemly horrors and indecent sights and sounds, even in her own home.

The traps shuddered manfully. The two hacks scribbled in their notebooks.

Tibbetts from the
Tribune
fingered the panels of woodwork in the billiard room. —Excuse me, ma’am, is that black walnut?

—Indeed it is, I said. —From the forests of Borneo, or somewheres like that.

—What is that exotic fragrance?

—The smell of success, said I, —earned by a midwife’s dedication to
the nursing of society’s finest young ladies, who come to me when they are nearing their delicate hour. Your own sisters and wives would be lucky to be in my care, to deliver your own children in luxury at my lying-in facilities. Surely, you must agree, there ain’t nothing illegal in helping a woman in the hour of her greatest glory. Or, perhaps you’re referring to the fragrance of the frangipani flowers specially imported by me from Mexico and fresh cut from my greenhouse.

To dispel my nerves I showed off the fine points of the décor, while Mr. Comstock went truffling in the closets, rummaging through dresser drawers. He seemed most disappointed not to find the buckets of blood and baby skulls he expected. Instead, he came upon only shawls and dresses, hats and hairbrushes and underthings. He stood in my bedroom pulling the whiskers at his chops, gazing grimly at the walls and carpets like a revelation would show up in the patterns of wallpaper and carpet fiber.

—Mama, what is he looking for? asked Annabelle.

—Oh, he thinks he might have lost something.

—What has he lost?

—His sense of decency, I whispered. —Perhaps his mind.

—His mind, Mama?

—Now run along to your music lesson, ya wee larrikin.

I kissed her sweet face, and she embraced me with elaborate passion, as if I was going off on a long journey. Perhaps I was. —I’ll see you this evening at supper, I said.

—You will not see her at supper, said Comstock, when she was gone. —You are under arrest, Madame.

—For what, pray tell?

—For possession of illegal articles. We will leave at once for Jefferson Market Courthouse.

—Well, I don’t like your underhanded tactics, coming here under false pretenses. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

—You’ll come with us, said the trap.

—I’ll go in my own carriage, thank you. At least I am entitled to that courtesy. And you’ll allow me to take some oysters. I haven’t had no lunch.

They allowed me to go to the kitchen, where I sent Robert out to find Charlie, who was downtown at Liberty Street where we still maintained offices. What would happen? I did my best to eat a bowl of stew, as I knew
from sad experience it might be a long while before another meal would come my way. The beardless Officer guarded me. —Take your time, Madame, he said, so polite, the skin of his cheeks pink and smooth. —What’s in the stew?

—The hearts of my enemies. Their tasty livers.

The poor lad looked terrified, till I put my hand on his arm, gave him a wink.

—A good-looking young man like you ought to know, this is all c**p, this dirty snooping business of Mr. Comstock’s, I said. —Surely you can take one look at me and realize I’d never hurt a lady or any innocent, a gentlewoman and a mother such as I am.

He blushed to the roots of his baby teeth.

—How about you let me give you a good bottle of whiskey, I said, —and you’ll let me just slip upstairs and out the front door.

—I would ma’am, he said, scarlet, —but Mr. Comstock, he’s . . . phew. The officer wiped his brow and shook his head. —The man’s a terrier.

—He’s a regular bungstarter he is.

The whelp laughed but he would not let me go even for the whopping sum of money I offered. Comstock had the nerve to station him outside my dressing room while I changed to traveling clothes. Mr. Comstock would have to confiscate HIM for harboring sinful thoughts which was plain on the young trap’s face when I emerged dressed up in black silk and velvet. I was thirty three years old, but looked not a day over twenty five. —Would you help me on with this then? I asked the poor stammering red fellow. He assisted me with my sealskin cape, and I smiled full at him before I lowered my veil.

Outside, there was my beautiful carriage waiting, the horses sleek in the noonday light, the silver of their harnesses glinting. Behind was a police wagon lurking to follow it. John, my dear driver, handed me up to the seat and helped adjust the lap robes against the cold but gave not a crumb of assistance to the slab of bacon who trailed me out of the house and trundled down the steps and now stood pulling his whiskers and tapping his foot on the sidewalk. With great effort, he climbed up beside me, wheezing.

—The Tombs, John, I said, with grandeur, —and hurry. Mr. Comstock is eager to show off his trophy.

A
nd so we rode downtown together, me and My Enemy. He sat with both feet flat on the floor, his hands atop his knees, and looked straight ahead, barely disguising the smile on his lips. He was a tomcat, licking his chops, and yet strangely uneasy.

—You must be cold, I said, pleasantly, and attempted to spread the lap robe over his knees. —This is ermine from Russia, you know.

He blustered and refused it. —Never mind about that.

Oh brave and manly Comstock, refusing the ermine of a she-devil.

—Pray tell me, I asked, —do you enjoy your work? (It is always charming to ask a man questions about himself, says Advice to a Wife, by Mr. Chevasse.)

—Someone must rid society of its ills.

I laughed. He wheezed next to me and we rode along without speaking for a while.

—Did you have a mother? I asked.

—She died when I was ten. A sainted woman.

—I was twelve when I lost mine. She died in childbirth.

—As did mine, having her tenth child. God rest her immortal soul.

—We have much in common, then. Did yours ever sing to you?

—Yes, he said, very clipped.

—What songs did she sing? I persisted despite his evident annoyance.

—We sang Oh What a Blessing Is the Lord and other hymns. Many hymns.

—Ah. Well, mine sang Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder. She sang Toora Loora Loo and Kathleen Mavourneen and too many others. She had a fine voice, my Mam.

—Your point, Madame?

—No point, sir. Just an attempt at polite conversation. I sighed. —But you can be assured that, had a skilled midwife such as myself been present at labor, our mothers would be alive today.

He flared his nostrils. —I will battle the hydra-headed monster of obscenity and sin wherever I shall find it.

It is you who are the hydra-headed monster I wished to say. But instead I asked, —Would thirty thousand dollars make a difference to you?

He smirked and stroked down the flanges of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. —I have vowed, Madame, that every day I will do a good work for Jesus. Arresting you is my good work for today.

—Think of what good work you could do with thirty thousand dollars.

He did not laugh. He was a smug pudding of righteousness, and for my benefit, long-winded as a bellows, he recited me from memory what he called the COMSTOCK LAW. —Statute number 598 of the US Gov’t amendment to the Post Office Act is as follows, he said, and reached into his pocket handing me a paper he found there, upon which were printed the very words he said to me that day:

No obscene, lewd, or lascivious book, pamphlet, picture, paper, or other publication of indecent character, or any article or thing designed or intended for the prevention of conception or procuring of abortion, nor any written or printed matter giving such information shall be carried in the mail. Any person who shall knowingly deposit, for mailing or delivery, any of the herein before-mentioned articles shall, for every offense, be fined not less than one hundred dollars, nor more than five thousand dollars, or imprisoned at hard labor not less than one year, nor more than ten years, or both.

He recited the His Law aloud, with his Connecticut vowels all plum in his mouth, his pride wide as his midriff. You could see the boy in him and how this moment arresting me was revenge for some injustice he felt himself to have suffered. With barely a pause he carried on by heart, the hot wind of his breath steaming the February air:

Section 5389. Every person who has in his possession any drug or medicine, or any article whatever, for the prevention of conception, or for causing unlawful . . . a******* . . . or who advertises the same for sale, or writes or prints, any materials of any kind, stating when, where, how, or of whom, or by what means, any of the articles in this section herein before-mentioned can be procured, shall be imprisoned at hard labor in the penitentiary for not less than six months, nor more than five years for each offense, or fined not less than one hundred dollars, nor more than two thousand dollars, with costs of court.

—How about I give you fifty thousand and save all the trouble? I said, when he was done at last, but the beast only snorted.

At the courthouse men with notebooks pressed against the door of the carriage.

—What? Have you gone and alerted every newspaper in the country? for the purpose of furthering your own fame? I asked My Enemy, but he ignored me, adjusted the sleeves of his coat, and lumbered out ahead of me. John did not help him down, but gave me his hand, bowing. Immediately I was set upon by the jackals of the press and even John could not help as they jostled me and shouted questions.

—Do you repent your sins now, Madame?

—Where do you hide the bodies?

The pack pushed and shoved to get next to me, while Comstock preened his whiskers, oblivious of my terror.