Young readers, with all the advantages of modernity, cannot imagine what it meant to be a woman simply allowed to live. Independently. I was not kept by any man, nor was I in any danger of falling into poverty or degradation for lack of one. I had come to San Antonio with vague expectations of rebuilding the life I lived with my late husband, hoping that with enough charm and enough promise, I would fall into the circumstance as I had before. Mutual companions, mutual caretakers, mutual rescue. I had lived three weeks in the whirlwind courtship of Irvin Carmichael, my heart nearly bursting with love for him every moment of every day. That night, in the dark of the Menger Bar, with Bert watching in the shadows, I stood behind a closed door, choosing not to open it.
I had no model to follow in this course. Men, I understood. All my life—and, Dear Reader, it is without an ounce of exaggeration that I use the word all—my survival has depended on the lust-driven generosity of men. Early on, men who ensured my mother’s keep. But too soon, the responsibility fell on me, and I quickly learned my value. I’d been loaned out, sought out, and sold time and again. My late husband rescued me, Irvin Carmichael loved me, and now I had the means simply to exist. Not with money that originated in my husband’s death, but with the same he had given me in life. I recalled what I learned during my time going to my husband’s church. I had a value far beyond rubies and a Father in heaven who saw past my faults and would loosen the pain that bound me.
While some might define my life as one of leisure, my conscience pricks at the idea of perceived idleness. Opportunities abounded for me to fill my hours and occupy my hands as well as my mind while doing some good for a world that had, ultimately, been so good to me. I rolled bandages and knit socks during the Great War, though I pity the poor soldier who had to wear my first efforts. Later I knit hats and mufflers for the “Bundles for Britain,” sometimes working here by the roaring lobby fire, but other times with groups of women in church basements. There I came close to forming friendships, though I bristled at questions regarding my circumstances. It seemed the only way to avoid speculation and judgment was to keep to my own company. Occasionally I did agree to a dinner, even spending a vivacious evening with a certain undisciplined baseball slugger. Most of my outings, however, were with gentlemen I knew from my days before the robbery. These were the men who knew me at the peak of my beauty, and what a comfort they were to reassure me that it hadn’t faded. I saw the Menger nearly burn to the ground and then swell to twice its size, the bar moved to a place where I’d have to navigate a sea-sized lobby to have my occasional brandy with Bert. But my life, my room, my memories remained small.
Through all of this history—disease, depression, destruction, and war—I heard not a word from Detective Irvin Carmichael. And so I carved out a place for myself, vowing never again to measure my worth by a man’s words. Not that I would have turned him away, had I kept my power to bewitch him back to my side. Since the night all was taken from me, I wore only the ring given to me by my late husband, letting myself be haunted by the ghost of respectability.
As for that other haunting, I cannot say that Sallie White ever left me completely. I never abandoned the habit of listening for her in those moments of darkness between shutting off my light and drifting off to sleep. Like other guests, I have seen shadows, felt brushes against me, experienced the flickering of lights and the persistent sound of doors opening and closing, but I’m not so quick to attribute them to a phantom presence. Our hearts like to tease our minds and make our eyes see what will bring a rush of feeling—both in love and fear. In the dullness of life, I sometimes longed for the terrible jolt of seeing Sallie White.
Bert remained my constant companion, and once I’d decided my reputation was my own to determine,