The Chaperone (4 page)

This last question seemed an afterthought, a question that didn’t really need an answer. Cora almost nodded before realizing she should be honest and shake her head.

Myra appeared confused. “You don’t know the Denishawn Dance Company?”

Cora shook her head again.

“Well. They’re the most innovative dance company in the nation. Didn’t you see them when they came through last November? At the Crawford?”

Cora, irritated now, shook her head again. She recalled, vaguely, advertisements for a dancing group, but neither she nor Alan had been interested. Myra gazed back at her under slightly furrowed brows. Clearly, an opinion had been formed.

“You missed something, then. Ted Shawn and Martha Graham were the leads, and they were sensational. There was none of the tripe we usually get out here in the hinterlands.” She gazed out the front window, frowning. “Denishawn does modern dance that is truly modern, artistic. Their choreography owes something to Isadora Duncan, but not entirely. They themselves are innovative. And they’re the best.” She paused, looking down at her own hands. “I’m really so happy for Louise.”

Cora heard a distinct slap, and another scream that could have been attributed to an injured party of either gender. She cleared her throat, pointing at the ceiling. “Shouldn’t we… investigate?”

Myra gazed at the ceiling. “No need,” she muttered, smoothing her skirt. “You can be sure—she’ll come to us.”

Footsteps moved down a staircase, even quicker and lighter than June’s. “MOTHER!”

Myra gave no answer.

“MOTHER!”

“We’re in here, darling,” Myra called out. “In the parlor. Being civilized.”

A girl appeared in the doorway, her right hand pressed against her left shoulder, her dark eyes glassy with tears. Cora had no doubt she was looking at Louise: even crying, the skin around her eyes puffed with rage, she was strikingly beautiful. She was short and small like her mother, with the same pale skin and heart-shaped face, the same dark eyes and dark hair. But her jaw was firmer, and her cheeks were still as cherubic as young June’s. Framing all this was the remarkable black hair, shiny and straight and cropped just below her ears, the ends tapering forward on both sides as if forming arrows to her full lips. A smooth curtain of thick bangs stopped abruptly above her brows. Viola was right. For all her resemblance to her mother, really, this girl looked like no one else.

“Martin hit me,” she said.

“Hit?” Myra asked. “Or slapped? After years of living with you both, I suppose I can hear the difference, even a floor away.”

“It left a mark!” Louise moved her hand and lifted the sleeve of her cream-colored frock to reveal a patch of skin that was not only red, but beginning to bruise along the top. Cora gasped. Louise looked at her, but only for a moment.

“He’s bigger than I am. He’s older. And he was in my room, reading my diary! How can you tolerate that level of insolence from him?” She pointed to her arm. “And violence?”

Myra smirked, clearly amused by the drama of the girl’s words. But to Cora, both questions seemed legitimate. The mark on the girl’s arm was ugly. If this Martin person was older than Louise, he must be close to the age of the twins, and she couldn’t imagine either Howard or Earle striking a younger girl, or any girl for that matter. They simply wouldn’t do it. And if one of them lost his head and did, he would have to answer to both Cora and Alan, who would take such an incident far more seriously than the still-smirking woman seated across from her now.

“Your brother’s insolence and violence won’t be your problem much longer,” Myra said, stifling a yawn. “And you can keep your precious diary safe in New York, thanks to this woman here. Louise, I’d like you to meet Cora Carlisle.”

The girl looked at Cora. She said nothing, but the expression on her face was a clear mix of revulsion and forbearance. Cora couldn’t imagine what about her might invite such feelings. She’d taken care to look nice for this visit. She was wearing a modest but fashionable dress, and even a long strand of beads. She was certainly dressed as nicely as Myra. But there was no mistaking the contempt in the girl’s eyes. It was the way a child looked at the broccoli that must be eaten before dessert, the room that must be cleaned before playtime. It was a gaze of dread, made all the more punishing by the girl’s youth and beauty, her pale skin and pouting lips. Cora felt herself blushing. She had not been the subject of this sort of condescension in years.

She stood quickly, extending her hand. “Hello,” she said, smiling, her eyes locked onto the girl’s. The height difference, she decided, would be a help. “It’s nice to meet you. I hope we’re in for a wonderful trip.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl stammered. She wasn’t half as smooth a liar as her mother. She gave Cora’s hand a limp shake and then cradled her sore arm again.

“I’m sorry about your arm. It looks as if it hurts.”

It was only the truth, but she’d said it kindly, and it was as if she had turned an invisible key. The lovely eyes filled with tears again, and seemed to take Cora in anew.

“Thank you,” she said. “It does hurt.”

“She’s never heard of Denishawn,” Myra said. She remained seated, smiling up at her daughter, expectant. Cora felt the first risings of strong dislike.

“You’ve never heard of Denishawn?” Louise, too, seemed confused.

“No,” Cora said. She hoped that if she were clear on this, they would perhaps stop asking.

The girl and her mother exchanged looks. They stared up at Cora with matching dark eyes, looking more alike than before.

“Why are you going then?” Myra asked in a pleasant voice, though her smile seemed unpleasant. “What draws you to New York?”

Cora swallowed. She should have anticipated the question, and prepared an answer. Vague associations with New York City floated through her mind: The Statue of Liberty. Immigrants. Bootleggers. Tenement squalor. Broadway.

“I love good theater,” she said.

Louise gasped. Her smile was nothing like her mother’s—her pleasure was as sincere as her earlier scorn. “Well then! You’re not so bad after all!”

Cora wasn’t sure what to make of this.

“I think live theater is the snake’s hips. I want to go to all the Broadway shows.”

Cora nodded amiably. She didn’t mind theater.

Myra tilted her head at Cora. “Funny. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you at plays here in town.”

Cora worked to recall any play she had seen in the last five years. Nothing. She preferred the movies, seeing the faces up close. She didn’t mind reading along.

“She didn’t say she liked
local
theater, Mother.” Louise turned back to Cora. “You mean quality theater, don’t you? I don’t blame you at all. It’s a dreadful scene around her, just like with dance. I can’t wait to see a real show.”

“Nor I,” Cora said. She and Louise smiled at each other. She supposed she would like Broadway well enough.

“Louise dear,” Myra said, though she kept her gaze on Cora, “I’m so glad you two will be chummy. But Mrs. Carlisle and I have a few more things we need to discuss.”

Louise looked at her mother, and then at Cora, as if hoping to discern what, exactly, would be the subject of the discussion. When no sign was given, she shrugged and turned to go. As she passed the center table, she picked up the book from the top of the stack without looking at its title. She looked back over her shoulder. “See you in July,” she called out. She waved with the hand that held the book, and gave Cora the quickest of winks.

•   •   •

Myra filled her in
on the particulars: she and Louise would be staying in an apartment building near Riverside Drive that Denishawn had recommended. Leonard had already purchased their train tickets and paid in full for the apartment, although, Myra cautioned, it would probably be better to let Louise think he was paying rent by the week. Cora would be in charge of the spending money; he would give her at least a week’s worth when he saw them off at the station, and he would wire the rest at her request. The funds were hardly endless, but she needn’t be especially frugal: they wanted Louise to experience New York, or at least some of it. Museums. Theater. Restaurants. Really, any wholesome entertainment would be fine.

Watching Myra tell her all this, Cora softened a bit. Perhaps all the Denishawn snobbery obscured jealousy, or simple maternal worry. Perhaps Myra wished that she could be the one to accompany Louise. It couldn’t be easy, sending your daughter off with a mere acquaintance. And Myra had taken the trouble to arrange a chaperone, to require one. Obviously, she cared. Perhaps she was just worried, as any mother might be.

So when it was time to go, and she and Myra were standing in the cavernous entryway, Cora summoned her courage. “I want you to know,” she told Myra, slouching a bit so she wouldn’t feel so tall, “that I appreciate you telling me about that dance instructor, the one Louise didn’t get along with. But really, it seems to me that your daughter is a lovely young woman. I heard she even goes to my church.”

“She used to,” Myra said flatly.

“Oh. Well. In any case, I want you to know, you needn’t feel anxious about the trip. I know I talked about going to plays, but I assure you, I’ll take my primary responsibility seriously. I’m sure Louise is a decent girl, but I’ll be sure to keep her safe.”

Myra lifted her brows, smiling as if Cora had said something funny. “Leonard insisted on a chaperone,” she said, opening the door to the sunlight and heat. She shielded her eyes with the flat of her palm, though her smile remained unchanged. “Finding you was his idea. I just want her to go.”

THREE

Union Station was, perhaps,
the most elegant building in Wichita. It was still relatively new, built just a few years before the war, its front entrance adorned with granite columns and arched windows more than twenty feet high. Inside, it was all one grand space, and on this bright July morning, long slants of sunlight fell across the marble floor. People holding tickets and suitcases walked purposefully between shadow and light, their footfalls and chatter echoing. Cora and Alan, along with Leonard Brooks, sat on one of the wooden benches on the perimeter. The high-backed bench looked and felt like a church pew, and Cora sat very straight, occasionally looking up at the large clock positioned high on a wall. Louise had left to use the ladies’ room over twenty minutes ago.

“You’ll take the Santa Fe as far as Chicago,” Alan said, looking down at Cora’s ticket. “You’ll have two hours to change trains, which is plenty of time. But you should probably find your connection right away.” He gave her a meaningful look, using a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “Chicago’s station can be overwhelming.”

Cora managed a nod, her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was seventeen when she first arrived in Wichita, literally right off the farm, her train pulling into the old depot, which was so much smaller and less impressive than this new one. Yet at the time, she had been both thrilled and anxious at the sight of so many people and so much movement, and all the fashionable women with corseted figures wearing belted skirts and high-collared shirtwaists. To Cora, even now, Wichita was the big city. Alan had grown up here, taking the crowds and the bustle for granted, and he’d been to law conferences all over the country. Now he was telling her that even he could be overwhelmed by Chicago’s Union Station, which she would be navigating early tomorrow, so she could get on another train to an even larger city, all with her young charge in tow.

“That’s if your train arrives on time.” Leonard Brooks leaned back and pulled a pocket watch from his vest, ignoring the clocks on the column. “This strike could go on all summer. Harding needs to step in.”

He was a small but intense-looking man, his eyes more black than brown, his hair as dark as Louise’s and Myra’s. He wasn’t much taller than either one, but he, too, gave the impression of being at least average height. He had a long, pointed nose and a habit of staring off into nothing in a way that implied deep thought. Leonard Brooks had an excellent mind, according to Alan, with a solid chance of an appointment to the bench. He did seem obsessed with his work, Cora noticed. Moments after he’d cut a path across the station with a suitcase in each hand, Louise keeping stride beside him, he’d tried to strike up a conversation with Alan about a recent ruling on property taxes. Only after Alan cleared his throat and gave Cora a long look had Mr. Brooks seemed to recall that his business at hand was with her. Once focused, he was gracious, saying how pleased he and Myra were that Cora was taking on Louise. But now he was going on about the railroad strike, even though his daughter, who had yet to return from her exceedingly long trip to the ladies’ room, was about to embark on her first real journey from home.

“It’s an interesting debate,” he said, looking up at Alan. “The workers have the right to strike, but reliable transport seems a right of the people.”

“I’m going to check on Louise,” Cora said, her voice as smooth as she could make it. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was uncertain of the girl’s whereabouts before they even boarded the train. But she was getting worried, and she could hardly come up with another reason for going after her. Cora herself had just returned from the ladies’ room when Louise decided she needed to go. Now, as Cora made her way across the station, her low heels clicking on the marble, it occurred to her that the girl may have purposefully staggered their excursions.

That suspicion seemed more likely after she turned a corner around a shoeshine and found Louise leaning against a wall and drinking a Coca-Cola right out of the bottle. A tall boy in a dapper coat and flat-brimmed hat stood beside her, one arm against the wall, the better to turn toward Louise and get a better view, which he was clearly enjoying.

“Louise. There you are.”

They both straightened. Louise moved the bottle away from her mouth. The boy, Cora saw now, was actually a young man, in his late twenties at least, blond stubble on his chin. His light eyes took in Cora with an expression of utter disappointment.