Masen Residence, Chicago – March 1917
It had cost him two liquorice sticks, and a cuban stolen from his fathers vacant study.
But Edward Masen had secured the treasure.
Passed to him behind the hedgerow at school with the solemn gravity of a diamond exchange, the small, creased card now lay reverently in front of him on the bedspread.
A woman—barely dressed, arms lifted behind her head, lips puckered and eyes half-lidded—smiled up at him in grainy, forbidden color. Her legs were long, her waist impossibly tiny, and her brassiere seemed to defy both gravity and God.
She was everything.
He didn't even know her name.
But that didn't matter.
He lay back now, propped against his pillows, trousers loosened, hand working slow and dreamy beneath the waistband. Eyes fixed on the card. Breath shallow.
No guilt. Not yet. Just the kind of giddy, cheek-burning thrill that came from doing something very, very not allowed.
Nobody had ever talked about this—not his father, especially not his mother. But Edward knew. All the boys knew.
It was passed down like lore. Like legend. Like some secret, sacred ritual.
He was in the middle of it. Fully immersed. Sweaty-palmed and half-lost in dreamland.
He had to bite his lip, stifling a exhilarated laugh as his hand moved faster, pulling and pushing, and—oh, that felt—
Click.
The door creaked.
Edward froze, his hand still in place, heart skidding to a halt.
No.
He had locked the door.
Hadn't he?
He was sure he had.
But there it was, the unmistakable sound of it—his maid's voice, cheerful and slightly sing-song, breaking through the fog of his concentration. "Master Edward, your laundry—"
OH GREAT HEAVENS.
Edward yelped like a dog who'd had its paw trampled on. In a blink, the pillow was flung across the room, and Edward exploded into motion, lurching upright with a wild, startled scramble. He whipped his trousers back into place as though the fabric might leap off him of its own volition. His hand was still awkwardly caught in the process of pulling his shirt down, and he desperately kicked the chair away from the bed, attempting to cover up his entire life in one frantic motion.
"ANNIE, YOU—YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO—GET OUT! GET OUT, ANNIE, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING, PLEASE JUST—!" Edward bellowed, the words coming out shrill and panicked, almost girly, all of his dignity falling apart like sand through his fingers. His voice cracked halfway through, his nerves betrayed by the sheer horror in his chest.
The maid (Bless her soul, the poor thing)—Annie, sixteen, rosy-cheeked, and more horrified than he was, if possible—stood frozen in the doorway. Laundry basket on her hip. Eyes locked on exactly where his hands had been, and his frantic scramble to cover himself.
He couldn't believe this was happening.
"Oh my! Forgive me, master. I did not intend- I-"
He could hear his own voice ringing in his ears, "GET OUT OF HERE, PLEASE! NOW!" The words felt like they came from someone else.
Without a second's hesitation, she spun on her heel and fled, skirts flying behind her, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the hinges. Edward could hear her muffled footsteps disappearing down the hall as his heart thudded painfully against his ribs.
He sat there for a moment, absolutely still, the room thick with the echoes of the encounter. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
And then it hit him. The embarrassment—the shame—the overwhelming sense that he would die on this spot. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
For God's sake.
He was sure he had locked the door.
The pinup card—the card he'd traded for—was still half-buried under the pillow, now mocking him in its scandalous stillness. He looked at it and then looked away, as though the very image could punish him.
The next hour passed in a haze. He lay face down in the sheets, replaying the scene over and over in his head, wishing—praying—he could undo it, rewind time. He didn't want to get caught again. He didn't want anyone to ever know what he'd just been doing.
But in his panic, something else gnawed at him too: a deep, unsettling feeling that this wasn't the end of it.
"…Oh, no," he whispered into his elbow. "Oh, no, no, no…"
He stayed like that for an hour.
At one point, he considered running away to sea. Perhaps shaving his head. Joining a monastery.
At dinner, his mother said, "I do hope Annie remembered your shirts today," and Edward nearly died on the spot.
She had seen. Annie had SEEN.
His life was over. He'd read the article. "The Vices of Youth: A Warning to Boys." He hadn't taken it seriously before—not really. His friends passed the page around school like a joke. One of them had done a voice while reading it. They'd laughed so hard they'd had to pretend to cough into their sleeves.
He had always been a good boy. A gentleman. He bowed. He kissed gloves. He said "ma'am" and "sir." He folded his laundry. He volunteered for church collections when no one else would. And now…
…he would be blind before the summer.
He considered writing a note.
Something discreet. For his mother to find.
Dearest Mama, I am going blind. Do not weep for me. I did a terrible thing and am paying the price. I love you. Please forgive me. I will go to confession as soon as I learn Braille.
He buried his face again in the pillow and groaned.
The worst part was that it had been worth it. The card—the card—had been glorious. Traded for it fair and square!
Edward made a strangled sound and hit his face against the mattress again.
"Oh heavens, I'm going to hell."
Edward fell backwards, collapsed into his pillow, and whispered to the ceiling:
"Take me now."