"I asked her if she believed in love, she smiled and said it was her most elaborate method of self-harm." – Benedict Smith
When John walked through the doors of Miss Jennie Creagh's brothel, several people called out cheerfully, greeting him by name.
"Hello, handsome, long time no see!," a woman coo'd from the hallway, leaning her head back with a laugh.
John smiled but winced, realizing how much time he'd spent in these rooms when Madame Helene, who ran the brothel, sidled up beside him and curled a thick arm around his. "Here to see Flora, are we?"
"Yes ma'am," John said quietly, giving her a small smile that she cackled at, pinching him on the hip.
She flirted diligently before he managed to flee into the labyrinth of hallways and stairwells, heading for the large 4th floor room where Flora spent her days.
Walking through the opulent halls, passing women raked palms over him with whispered sweet nothings, but he continued until he found Flora's door shut. And so he sat on a bench in the near darkness, hat in hand, trying to ignore the rhythmic sound of the brass headboard knobs clattering against the wall, the strained sounds of sex. There was a loud crash down the hall and angry screams. Then not long after, from Flora's room, the unmistakable guttural noises that told him someone would exit soon.
A portly bald man with a wild mustache finally stumbled out slowly, red-faced and trying to adjust his clothes, collar unbuttoned and awry.
He avoided John's glance in passing, straightening his jacket, and John turned to find Flora in the doorway, one hand on her hip. She looked at him like a deadbeat husband had returned, empty-handed, to a house that had nothing for him.
John awkwardly worried the hat in his hands; but when he stood, she opened the door wider then walked back into the room without a word.
He entered slowly, studied the large bedroom as Flora silently fished through a warped dresser for the corset he'd bought for their meetings. Nothing had changed in the year since he'd last visited her. At least the room hadn't changed, with its aging, worn decadence. But Flora looked thinner…sadder, skin tight over her beautiful Mediterranean features.
She sauntered over, holding the corset to her chest then turned for him to lace the delicate boned garment, just so he could remove it. That was always part of the game. Preparing for the moment then living it out.
And in spite of himself, John laced it carefully, hands shaking a bit. His knuckles brushed against her back as he ran the soft ribbon through brass eyelets. Then she turned, bumped his knees apart with hers and edged in closer, her breasts inches from his mouth before she pushed him backwards onto the bed and held her hand out for the ring.
John fished for the jewel in his pocket, handing it to her with, "Flora, I'm not…here for this."
But she put the ring on her finger then leaned into him, adeptly pulling off his tie, working the buttons loose on his shirt.
"I'm here to give you the ring…again, but….not for this. It's…" John pushed away the hand she snaked inside his shirt, took a deep breath and sat up, guiding her backwards just a bit.
Flora looked confused, looking at him warily when she finally spoke for the first time, her voice tired as her eyes traveled down to the straining outline in his trousers.
"What do you want, John. Just tell me." As she edged back in, her hand reached down to his pants but he caught her gently by the wrist. His breath had quickened, but he finally looked at her with new eyes, like a drug had finally worn off. She wasn't Julia.
"Flora….the ring is yours now. If you want to sell it, I've spoken with James Burnett at Greenwich St. Jewelers. He'll give you nearly the purchase price for the ring since it has no wear. It's already taken care of, all you have to do is go there this week."
Flora's eyes narrowed and she shook her head carefully.
"I don't understand."
"Your son….he worked at Paresis Hall with...my adopted son. I've learned things from him, that your husband left you with four mouths to feed. Three who live in the basement here and your eldest is….he's working, as well. You've done what you can to get by and…I'm sorry that I've…"
John sighed deeply and looked away for a moment.
"There's an institute that helps troubled children, it's run by a friend of mine named Laszlo Kriesler. The facility needs a cook and a cleaner….he'd pay you a good salary, and there's housing just a block over with an opening, it's not large but it's clean and stocked with good furniture. And just two blocks farther uptown, your children could go to school."
John saw the confusion on her face, along with alarm that she didn't tried to hide.
"So please..sell the ring to get back on your feet and call on Dr. Kriezler regarding the position, get you and your son out of this life, and your children into something better? A new beginning, perhaps…"
Flora stayed quiet then asked, almost in a whisper, "Kriezler…he's the alienist. He's the one who found the boy killer, not the police, they say."
"He's an alienist, yes," John answered carefully.
Flora studied the ring on her finger then looked at John, her expression less guarded than he'd ever seen it.
"No strings attached, no whoring for this Kriezler or anyone else?"
"No, Flora, it's a regular job. And the ring can pay for whatever your family needs to start a new life. Medicine, clothes…whatever you need. I'm sorry that I've been a part of this…part of your condition here."
He looked around the room, felt a hundred betrayals coming from the walls, recalling every time he'd made her say, "I'm sorry, John, I love him."
But Flora still looked as if she wouldn't, or couldn't believe him.
"And what about you. You will come by when you visit your friend, for a taste, play the game some more, whenever you want?"
John shook his head, feeling defeated, and wondered if he should say more.
"No... It must have been hard for you…facing the harsh realities of what you've been dealt and having to deal with me…running from my reality. Playing games to cope instead of facing my life. It must have…"
John was embarrassed in spite of himself.
"Did it disgust you? The game?"
Flora was still for a long moment, studying him carefully, before she allowed a small smile. He'd never seen her truly smile before.
"I see worse here, every day, you were always easy. And maybe in a way I enjoy it too, get to be somebody else for just a little bit, somebody who left my husband instead of him leaving me, dream of that. Maybe I have been Julia and you were my Mario for me."
She laughed, almost shyly, to share the thought. "And when someone says, 'You pretend to be my ex- lover, that's never been sweet and simple with others. It's usually…men are very violent, you know. You've just been a broken boy in a man's body. Wanting to feel something. Did you ever actually fuck her? This Julia?"
John went a little red.
"No...I think it was already over for her before it began…our engagement."
Flora nodded knowingly. She looked at him a long time before pulling the ring off her finger and placing it inside the corset.
"Thank you, John Moore," then she leaned in, kissing him softly on the lips, two fingers gently holding his chin.
When he walked out into bustling streets of New York City, he remembered Sara's words when she met him at the door once, that she wasn't there on savory business. But what was savory these days. It was a gritty city with its own harsh realities, but he believed in what just happened. Just as much as he still believed in his love for Sara.
What was he doing? Playing different games with his mind? Was living in denial regarding Sara any better than reliving the pain of Julia in order to rewrite its meaning?
He decided it was better to focus on one emotional fiasco at a time. He'd shut one painful door for himself and maybe opened a better one for Flora.
And despite the stagnant, dusty air, John felt like he could breathe again.