“Miss Ferber.” A gruff, unfriendly voice.
Standing inches from him, I sputtered, “Mr.…” I paused. Everyone called him Mac. I didn’t know his surname, and I couldn’t address an older man by his nickname.
He grunted. “Mac.”
“I had to pick up copy from…” I stopped.
“Nice June day.” When he smiled, he showed missing teeth, broken teeth, black teeth. What I didn’t see was white enamel. And that sickly grin, coupled with his fetid tobacco breath and the stink of unwashed linen, made me recoil.
“It is.” My head was swimming.
“A real nice day.” He was uncomfortable.
“It is.” I agreed again.
He leaned forward, and I moved back against the peeling balustrade. My Lord, the man behaved as though he’d rarely spoken to a young woman before. Well, perhaps he hadn’t. Awkward and gangly as a fifteen-year-old boy caught up in a forbidden apple tree, Mac shifted from one foot to another, unable to move. Cornered, I looked back at the house, but there was no escaping. He loomed before me, more giant-like, more-I hated the word but it had to do-primitive. Removed from the city room, Mac was a panicked animal.
The front door opened and the brothers Timm emerged, both startled by the sight of Mac and me facing each other on the front porch. The men were red faced from their brotherly spat, though Homer found his schoolmaster intonation. “Miss Ferber, my, my, you’re a visitor to Mrs. Zeller’s establishment? Are we newsworthy?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Gustave laughed at that.
But the appearance of the two snapped me from my inertia, and I took a few steps away from Mac, though he turned to follow my movements. “I was just leaving, have to get back to the office.” Wildly, I waved Boon’s copy as though displaying proof.
“Well, good day.” Gustave tipped his hat and walked by me down the steps. Homer stayed on the porch frowning at his retreating back. Mac followed the movements of both brothers, but then his eyes landed on me with that same penetrating stare. I fled the porch. As I rushed to the sidewalk, Homer Timm walked briskly by me. He said nothing as he turned onto the street. I was trembling, bothered by the collision with Mac. Nothing had happened, an accidental meeting with the mysterious man-towering, grim, so very close-but it seemed premeditated. Foolish, I told myself; nonsense. But I couldn’t get Mac’s horrible face out of my mind.
Crossing onto College Avenue, a little out of breath, I nodded to Gurdon Tanner, a lawyer whose business seemed to be drowsing all day in a swivel chair in front of his office and chatting with passersby; and then I paused to gaze at some framed lithographs in Mayes’ Emporium-sentimental scenes of the Italian countryside. I reminded myself to buy my father some cuff links I’d seen in town, the ones with the ivory cameos. He’d be able to feel the intricate carving…
Turning suddenly, I caught a fleeing shot of a hulking figure in the shadow of the Voight building, a few doorways away. I froze. I knew in that moment, even though the specter did not reappear, that I’d glimpsed Mac. He was following me.
Chapter Sixteen
I met Esther later that afternoon at the Temple Zion, where her father handed me a hand-written chronicle of social activities for the summer. Idly, I wondered how I’d enliven it for the Crescent. Lately, I’d been taking undue license with my matter-of-fact reportage. My account of the Annual Fireman’s Ball became an exercise in hyperbole: “Festoons of red, white, and blue crepe paper dipped and swirled above the candle-lighted dance floor; and the theme of Springtime on the Fox River brought to mind dances of Cleopatra on her barge on the Nile, with garlands of lilac and forsythia strewn on papier-mache columns.” Sam Ryan, peeved, had edited it down to a serviceable line: “The theme of this year’s Annual Fireman’s Ball was Springtime on the Fox River. Winner of the dance contest was…” He warned me: I was not Frances Hodgson Burnett gushing out Little Lord Fauntleroy; perhaps I should read Rebecca Harding Davis’ grim reportage on life in the coal mines. As I blithely told Sam, facts bored me. They were, paraphrasing Cervantes, the enemy of truth.
“Maybe you should write fiction,” he countered.
I was telling Esther about Sam Ryan’s comment as we strolled down College. We dawdled in front of shop windows. I didn’t want to return to the city room, so I’d implored Esther to walk with me. In front of the Lyceum, I pointed at the old building. “I don’t want to write one more piece on the Elks Club fund-raiser,” I whined. “I want to be Juliet on that stage.”
Esther smiled. She’d heard it all before, of course. “Edna, Edna.”
“Theater is in my blood, Esther.”
She yawned. We’d played this scene many times in front of the Lyceum. Edna the tragedienne? Edna the comedienne? Camille? Portia? Lady Macbeth? Edna ingloriously tied to the tracks as a locomotive lumbered toward her. But this time Esther seemed to have forgotten her lines, which annoyed me. This was a play we knew by heart.
Suddenly I was overcome with the image of the hapless Frana proclaiming herself the belle of Broadway.
Theo, Houdini’s brother, walked out the front door, sat down on a bench in front of the theater, and lit a cigar. I knew he’d been visiting friends in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and was just back in town.
“Is Mr. Houdini at the theater?” I called.
Theo nodded. “Yes, but…”
“Could I say hello? I’m Edna Ferber, a reporter.”
Theo smiled. “Oh, I read your interview. Quite…romantic.”
That cheered me. “Well, I did my best.” But noting the sardonic tone of his voice, I wondered if he was really complimenting me.
“My brother is rehearsing. I don’t know if…”
Harry Houdini was suddenly standing in the doorway, waving to me.
“Come in,” he called to us. “Come visit. I’m rehearsing.”
Meekly, we followed the brothers into the quiet theater. Onstage behind a dropped curtain, Houdini had set up some new paraphernalia. “I’m experimenting with both a straightjacket and this farm harness Theo located. It seems designed to limit the movement of frisky animals.” He tapped his foot nervously. “The straightjacket I got from a madhouse in New York. Bedlam and me. I’m going to escape from the dangerous combination of a straightjacket reinforced with this iron harness. I’m escaping from the inescapable.” He glanced from me to Esther. “Do you want to watch?”
Theo helped his brother into the elaborate contraptions, tightening the cords, binding the clasps, buckling the straps. The iron brace looked sinister and deadly. I imagined some roving heifer locked into panicked immobility. While Houdini maneuvered his body into the gear, he kept up a stream of chatter, enjoying himself, showing off. He danced around, the class clown in front of giggly girls. As we watched, wide-eyed and a little nervous, Houdini shrugged and strained and fretted and sweated-and seemed unable to extricate himself. He was having trouble.
Finally he mumbled, “This is new for me. I gotta devise a way out.” Unmoving, he mulled it over, his broad shoulders shifting under the restraint, his torso heaving, the tendons in his neck swelling. No progress. Theo waited nearby, tapping his foot. Houdini toppled onto the stage, rolled over on his side, huffing and puffing. Sweat poured off his face.
I couldn’t resist. “You seem to be concentrating, sir, but you don’t seem to be using your imagination.”
Theo glowered. Esther threw me a look that said-Have you gone mad? Gustave Timm had walked onto the stage, observing Houdini’s machinations, and my comment made him shake his head. But Houdini burst out laughing, a high infectious cackle, his body rolling back and forth in the ungainly jacket and irons. Tears streamed down his cheeks.