The Gilded Age, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason Page A

eager
gentleman as he negotiates with her in the downstairs smoking parlor. “And on a
Thursday, which, I’ll have you know, is my most magnetic day.”
    “Magnetic
day?” says the gentleman, feigning surprise. Jessie knows very well that his
wife, who also consults with the famed spiritualist Madame De Cassin, surely
possesses a most magnetic day herself. You don’t blow it in on a magnetic day.
Still, if Mrs. Heald was more of a slut and less of a shrew, Mr. Heald might
not be speaking so eagerly with Jessie right now. “What the devil is your ‘magnetic
day’?”
    “Sure
and it’s the day when I speak with the sweet spirits.” The bell chimes. “Ah!
There’s someone at the door.”
    Mr.
Heald twirls the graying tufts of his tremendous mustache and smirks. How
transparent men are. Plotting how he can convince her otherwise. He would not
dare broach the topic of the increase in the civic contribution he delivers for
her to certain persons in the mayor’s office. Not when he wants to dip his
wick. The biz is the biz, no less and never more when it comes to Mr. Heald.
Sure and Mr. Heald is such a dear friend from the days when she was the toast
of the town and the special gal of the Silver Kings.
    “Now,
Jessie. To hell with the spirits and your magnetic days. To hell with whoever
is at the door. To hell with the Fourth of July.”
    “Mr.
Heald! I thought you were a patriot.”
    “You’ve
had your breakfast and your outing. Now I want to go upstairs like we agreed.
Did we not agree?”
    Jessie
smooths the feathers of the pressed hummingbirds decorating her Caroline hat. She
brushes dust from the pink flounces and bows on her bodice. She spies a clot of
horse dung clinging to the hem of her pink topskirt, gives the filthy silk a
good shaking. Mariah will need to clean the carpet. “No, I’m all done in. Good
day, Mr. Heald.”
    “Now,
Jessie.” His tone deepens alarmingly, though he’s more or less sober. Mr. Heald
takes her wrist in his hands that have been known to throttle a man. She does
not struggle, but merely lifts her face and raises her eyebrows. He lets go,
but her wrist throbs. He broke it once. When was that? Years ago, so many years
ago, perhaps not long after the time when she was a mermaid at Lily Lake. Was
it really dear Mr. Heald who broke her wrist? Never mind. She’s lost track of
time, of men. “Do not get shy on me.”
    “Shy!
Mr. Heald, I cannot abide that ruckus in the park. It has made me weary.”
Cannot abide? She is outraged by the affront she witnessed in Golden Gate Park.
    How
she loves her traditional Fourth of July outing! A fitting tribute to the
United States of America, this great and marvelous country that has allowed
her, Miss Jessie Malone, once a penniless orphan, now a woman of nice
sensibilities and simple desires, to amass a modest fortune. Her custom on the
Fourth of July is take breakfast with a roast turkey, champagne, and a
gentleman. Then on to Golden Gate Park for a promenade through Concert Valley.
A breath of air, a shot of sunlight, and the company of fine, upstanding San
Franciscans. How she loves to see the little children skip and run, admire the
ladies in their frocks, nod to gentlemen she scarcely ever sees in the broad
day. She feels patriotic and righteous though her liver aches beneath the stays
of her corset. The Doan’s Pills this morning haven’t helped.
    There’s
a goddamn war among the tongs these days, as if a woman of her sensibilities
didn’t know. They’re gangs, of course, organized crime despite the excuses of
the Six Companies, Chinatown’s official liaison. The tongs deal in coolies,
slave girls, opium, weapons, extortion, murder-for-hire. They’ve got codes and
signals. Each tong man wears a special coil in his queue, a particular cap, an
earring, a snippet of embroidery on his jacket. There must be thirty tongs
operating in San Francisco, with rivalries and feuds bloodier than thirty
cockfights. Lately the highbinders have