Fern backed up a step at Mr. Clifton’s reply.
“Come on, she isn’t half as bad as I thought she’d be.”Mr. Halbert had lowered his voice in an attempt at a whisper.
“Thathalf, maybe.” Mr. Clifton sounded bored enough to yawn.
Fern touched the wall for balance. Her ears buzzed. She should have known better.Hadknown better.
“Nah, you’re right, Clifton. You couldn’t step out with a broad like that. Imagine what the boys would say. They’d know you were in it for the mazuma.”
Something that felt like hot lead dripped into her stomach. Mazuma.Money?What money?
“No amount of dough could bring me back here. Did you see the way her pops looked at me?” Mr. Clifton mumbled.
“What did you expect? You practically called him dirty.” Mr. Halbert tried to suppress a laugh, but it came out a choking gargle. “I doubt you’ll be getting your thank-you gift. I, on the other hand…” He laughed again.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Mr. Clifton said tersely.
Their feet shuffled away along the parquet floor, and Fern sagged against the wall, her legs weak and rubbery. Tears stabbed at her eyes. Money? Thank-you gift? Her parents werebribingthese men?
She flexed her fingers into fists. Were they payingallthe men who came to dinner? Mr. Clifton and Mr. Halbert had spoken of a thank-you gift like it was common knowledge. Or maybe her parents were only promising a bounty to the one who finally came up to scratch. The whole idea of these dinners had been vulgar to begin with, but now… now Fern’s stomach revolted. The cake and everything she’d forced herself to eat at dinner churned.
She raced past the turn to the White Room, toward the stairwell steps, which spiraled and whirled under her feet, her eyes hot with unshed tears. She couldn’t face the guests in that room. Any of them. Jane and her husband…her cousins, aunt and uncle…every single guest over the last few months.My God. Dideveryoneknow?
Laughter floated up the shaft of the stairwell in bubbles, popping all around, nipping at her heels. She imagined them all in the White Room, faces twisted in mirth and merriment, all of them relieved Fern was gone at last. All of them, all of them, laughing.
2
Not long after Fern fled to her bedroom, her mother sent Margie to track her down. Predictably, Mrs. Adair hadn’t dared to leave her guests to come sort out why her daughter was not in the White Room for after-dinner cocktails. Keeping the bedroom door closed to Margie’s persistent knocking, Fern mumbled that she’d developed a headache and planned to retire for the night. She was certain Margie would deliver the excuse to Mrs. Adair, and that her mother would know it was a lie. She would have to face her mother before too long, but first, Fern needed to speak to her brother about what Mr. Clifton and Mr. Halbert had said.
After waiting for all the guests to depart, she slipped out her bedroom and tread lightly to Buchanan’s room on the third floor. He’d be leaving shortly for one of his clubs, and after spending the last hour sequestered in her room, her gut slowly twisting, she wanted to catch him before he went out.
Buchanan was a social creature, like their mother, and nearly every evening he went out to restaurants, clubs, or whatever speakeasy joint he could slink his way into. He had a degree in business from Northwestern University, a managerial position at Sheridan Trust & Savings, and yet he still resided in his childhood home, a fact that his most recent attachment, a socialite named Gilda St. Riviere, had thought pathetic. At a Saturday evening dinner a few weeks back, she used her obnoxiously large mouth to express her discontent at seeing Buchanan still acting the part of boy rather than man. Gilda departed before after-dinner cocktails that evening, and Buchanan hadn’t made mention of her since.
Hesitating at the threshold to his bedroom, the door slightly ajar, Fern summoned a steadying breath and knocked on the carved oak door.
“Enter at your own risk,” came Buchanan’s voice.
It had been a long time since she’d set foot in her brother’s bedroom. She remembered the smell being worse than it was tonight when she nudged open the door. Instead of sweat and cigarette smoke, a musky cloud of cologne slipped right up her nostrils. Fern rubbed her nose to suppress the urge to sneeze.
Buchanan stood before the mirrored closet door, his fingers buttoning a pale purple shirt. At dinner, he’d been wearing white, but this color was probably more fashionable for a night out on the town. He saw Fern in the mirror’s reflection, and his thick, dark eyebrows jumped up hisforehead.
“Look who it is, our escape artist,” he said before focusing once again on the shirt buttons.
“I need to know the truth, Buchanan.”
He lifted his chin as he slid a black, silk tie under the starched collar. “The truth about what? Keep it short. I’m meeting some pals.” Fern shut the door, and his attention flicked toward her once again. “Jesus, you look like you just swallowed a toad.”
It felt more like a swarm of bees to her.
“Do they pay them?” she asked tentatively. “The guests.”
Her brother’s silken tie slipped out of its half-formed knot. He chewed the inside of his cheek, probably contemplating whether to lie to her. Sighing in resignation, he turned to face her, his suspenders loose at his sides.
“It’s not like that, Fern.”
“Then tell me what itislike.”
He ran his palm over neat waves of pomaded hair. “You’re no Dumb Dora. If there’s one thing I’ve always known about you, it’s that you see things like they are. You’ve gotta understand…they need incentive.”
