Chapter 1 - The Mercy Cage
The opening chapter of The Mercy Cage, our thriller novel, introduces Anne at the lively Coney Island Dance Hall—unaware of the danger that awaits her.
Anne - New York City, 1899
I feel the buzz of excitement coursing through my veins. Every night is a little dance with heaven, an intoxicating jolt of adrenaline as the lights come up, while the smoke of cigarettes outline our bodies, and a feather tickles underneath my arm. Then, it happens. The band plays the first chord, the curtain opens, and the crowd roars, as we take them to their wildest fantasies to forget the woes of the world. Most of the crowd is men, but occasionally a lady will linger, and I will never know whether she feels engulfed with fantasy, or the urge to climb onstage with us. A little boy runs through the crowd with his ticket in his hand, arms raised high in the air, and the smell of popcorn fills the room with the most delicious buttery aroma.
Something takes over me onstage. I do not know how to articulate it or explain it, but it almost feels like I am possessed by the divine, and the adrenaline turns to an out of body experience where I feel like I’m watching this character of myself that is far more bold and brave than the Anne that walks the streets of New York. The Coney Island Dance Hall is paradise, where I go to heights that I could never experience walking the cobblestone roads of the city. Tonight the girls and I perch first for our swinging bird number, a crowd favorite. The gasps as they see us off the ground makes my heart swell and I can’t help but drink in their amazement, it is dizzying. It fills me like a fire. Firebird. They are going to gasp tonight. I sit in the hazy bokeh, slowly gaining momentum with the push and swing of my legs, and I look over to Florence for synchronicity. Soon, it feels like we are flying high over the crowd as the band climbs higher to the peak of the song. At the front of the stage, a little boy’s eyes light up as we swing higher, and after I come to a stop, I backbend and flash him a big smile and a wink as I come back up. He smiles back, blushes, and then quickly buries his hands in his face.
Each weekend, I find something new with the girls to keep it fresh and exciting for the audience and regulars. After four years of dancing here, I can recognize the regulars in the crowd from the fresh faces. I rarely go out after, but from time to time, I see someone intriguing and find that they have come from somewhere exotic like Paris. When I ask, “Why here, when you have been to the infamous Moulin Rouge?” I find that Parisian visitors from the past have started to talk about this little club in Coney Island. While I’ve never been to the Moulin Rouge, it is talked about everywhere, in the papers, churches, and whispers after the show. Someday I want to entertain there, or at least visit.
We end the first dance, and as I drop my top down to reveal my pasties, the feathers fan in to cover my chest. A loud cheer roars through the men as they raise their beers and cling them together, and one drunken man yells “Marry me!” Soon after, I hear a thud to the ground. The men around laugh as the girls and I shimmy off stage, with the feathers covering me. Offstage, I’m snapped back to reality and the quick change before our next number: the birdcage.
As I look at myself in the mirror, placing the last few pins in my feather headpiece, that makes me almost two feet taller, Florence stands behind me beaming from ear to ear. “Are you euphoric? " she asks. “I think the men out there are squealing” I tease and continue, “They will be thrilled over something they have never seen before.” The patrons love when we premiere a new act that they can brag about outside these four walls; that they were the first to experience. I was especially proud of this dance; creating movement connects me in some deeper way to what I am feeling or lacking. I hate feeling confined, and dancing has this way of liberating me. Elisabet, Florence, and I have been dancing together for a few years now.
Florence is breath-taking, a stunning Irish immigrant with flowing red hair that blazes like the sun. On her long voyage to America, she and Rose bunked together, and they took care of one another through all the illness, storms and troubles of the treacherous journey here. Many of the immigrants on the boat did not even live to make it to America, but when they arrived, they vowed to care for another as family. They have a language without speaking, knowing what the other is feeling or needing without asking. I envy and hope to share that connection with someone. Every word said without being spoken.
Will a man ever truly love me? I don’t know. I only ever experienced my mom in a loveless marriage, forced by her mom in Sweden. After having me, my mom fled Sweden and immigrated to America, and decided to settle in New York City with the glamorous promise of a brand new life, a far better one than religious and famine-torn Sweden. I wish I still had memories of Sweden, but I was too young when my mom brought me over. I wonder if my father is still there, or if he knows she left, or if he’s trying to find her here. Everyday, I meet a new person who escaped from Sweden for a better life here. My mom doesn’t know I perform here, but I know she suspects something peculiar with how much I bring home each night.
I am lost in thought, wondering what my father must look like, and if he will ever find me, when Florence and Elisabet let me know the announcer is calling for us again. I hear the perfectly harmonious “Welcome… Welcome… Welcome'' from the Coney Island Quartet, and it is mere seconds from us onstage again. The stage hands lift the birdcage, ready to transport it across the stage. After the final quartet note, the curtain drops just behind them, and the stagehands scurry the cage on stage. We follow a few steps behind, prepped in our first poses inside the cage. No one has ever done this. The first chord plays, dissonant, as the curtain slowly rises, revealing us inside the birdcage. I am posed in the center of the bird cage, and Florence and Rose have their fans positioned to cover me.
The audience quiets. Besides the music, one could hear a pin drop inside of the club. The waiters stand off to the side, and a hush comes over the audience. Again, I am transported to another universe, lost in the music and the lights, and everything swirls around me. I catch eyes with Florence before the music starts and she flashes a quick smile and wink, hidden from the audience underneath her feathers. We share the same sentiment as immigrants here in New York, escaping a cage we have felt trapped in since we stepped on to vessels from our home countries and landed.
When I was creating the dance in the birdcage, I was sitting on a bench in the freshly finished Prospect Park, watching birds play and drink together in the fountain. Their wings flapped so freely as they bounced across the water and almost seemed to tease one another. While the playfulness of this moment inspired the bird wings in the dance, as I walked home one late evening, I found a bird in a cage left outside near a pile of trash. Stooping down, I looked at the bird for a long time, and assumed maybe they took the bird out because they thought it was dead, but the little bird was slowly and carefully breathing. Opening the cage, I assumed the bird would be excited to fly free at last! Can you imagine how many years it was subject to this cage? However, I was surprised when the bird looked up at me and they slowly lowered itself back down. I sat with the bird for what felt like hours, keeping the door open, and at one point the bird walked to the edge of the opening, looked out, and then went back into the cage. Maybe it was the chill of the night? I took the birdcage with me as I finished the walk home, determined to set my new friend free.
From that point on, I left the door of the bird cage open, hoping that the bird would find the courage to step out, but imagine my surprise after weeks, not only did the bird never step out, I found him dead in the cage one morning. Finally, all of this freedom, and the little bird never tried to leave. I wish I would have taken the bird out of the cage and placed it on the window sill. Maybe it would have flown to paradise with that little nudge, but now I will never know and that guilt lies with me forever.
Through the dance, I am trapped in this cage, unable to escape it, and for so long I have been confined to this cage, that even when the door opens, I fear leaving it, subject to the cage forever. Florence and Rose hold up two big wings, so that when the audience sees the cage from their angle, it looks like we move as one majestic bird. At the end of the bird cage number, the door opens, so do I try to step out into this world? But, without my wings, I am naked and afraid, and will I even survive? On the floor, in front of the cage, I collapse and a solemn moment passes over the crowd, before they all erupt into cheering. I feel my cheeks turning red, as the audience is merely entertained without understanding, and when I look back at Florence, we share a moment of understanding and exit the stage.
This time in the dressing room, we are less giddy, and I can feel the other girls sharing the same weight of the birdcage. Like every other night, we put up our costumes, headpieces back in place, and carefully place the feathers. I slide back into my dress and boots, and take one last look at myself in the cracked mirror, catching the sadness in my eyes. I glance over at Rose and Florence, a tinge more solemn than before the birdcage, but moving hastily to find a matching color of thread for her costume. “I am going to the tavern” I shout, as I make my way up the steps. “I have a few things to finish repairing and then we can meet you there” Florence yells back. I climb up the last few steps, remembering to skip the second to last as it wobbles, and then I push the door open to the brisk night air of New York. In the quietness of the late evening, I can hear the waves crash and smell the ocean air; one of my favorite moments of the city, as it is far too loud to hear during the day.
Only a few blocks away, the tavern knows to expect us each evening after a performance, and some of the regulars head there after the dance hall closes for another round of drinks. Some nights, we dance until the sun rises in the morning, and other nights we quietly reflect, losing ourselves in sad tales about ships missing in the passage to America. Oftentimes, we are reminded of how lucky we are to have made it to America, as it seems more ships are forever lost at sea than make it to America. Even if you survive the voyage and your ship docks with the view of the Statue of Liberty, life on land as an immigrant is far harder than the tales spread at home. More whispers of “The European migrant crisis” begin to circulate the tavern between the strokes on the fiddle and the clangs of the steins. Some nights, the only way forward is to dance.
On this night in my sadness, I hum “Night Hymn at Sea”, detouring my usual path to follow the sounds of the ocean, and as I pass the last row of buildings, the sea stretches endlessly and almost blends into the blackness of the night sky. For a moment, I lose myself thinking of how many hundreds of ships are out there sailing to New York City at this moment, and how many ships must be lost in the bottom of the ocean at their final gravesite. How many people are forgotten forever, only carried by the memory of a family member that either arrived safely in America or stayed back in Europe? How many families will never be heard of again because they traveled all together, only to meet their demise. Sometimes I wonder how God could let that happen, but then again, maybe life here is worse than landing at the bottom of the sea and going to heaven. Maybe that is a gift, to shield some from the heartbreak of promise they face, especially after weeks at sea enduring every weather condition, illness, and tragedy possible. Relief from it all.
Pulling out my tips, I have more than enough for a few drinks to drown my sorrow at the tavern, and plenty to give to my mother. The more days that pass without my father, the more I see and feel love slip away from her demeanor. She grows colder and angrier by the day, traversing from house to house to find any bit of work, but as a woman, it is much harder. I often wonder if she regrets leaving Father. One time, I brought it up, and she snapped at me to mind my own business and find gratitude for this new life, so I never brought it up again. The breeze picks up as I walk across the dimly lit, cobblestone street to reach the tavern door. Finally, I step into the tavern, and the bartender glances over and then walks over to pour an ale. By the time I make it to the counter, and put down a few cents, he already has the pour ready for me. “Miss Anne”, he nods his head, politely. “What exciting news do you have for us tonight?”
He’s quite the lovely fellow, having been here at the tavern as long as I’ve been in America. He always kindly asks about the nights at the hall, and new stories and adventures about the dancers. I think he has a fancy for Florence, and I don’t blame him, with her beautiful green eyes and rich red hair, who couldn’t be in love with her? But she never seems to show much interest in him. Many nights, I watch him, watch her, as she dances around the tavern, and is truly the life of the party. I wish I had half of her allure and presence, as she seems to be capable of an entire room staring at her and taking in everything she says and does.
Soon after, Florence and Rose come in, laughing, and before they have even come up to the bar, the bartender has a full beer ready for Florence. Facing away, I watch as he frantically brushes off his apron and tries to shape his hair. When he turns back around and catches her, he tips his hat and says “How do you do on this mighty fine evening Miss Florence?” Rose snorts laughing before she can stop herself and starts humming the wedding processional.. “I think you have quite the admirer there, Florence,” she whispers loud enough so that only Florence and I can hear. I giggle with her. Before I can stop myself, “Maybe you should give him a chance. Immigrant girls don’t stand a chance here with these American boys.” Although I had nearly perfected my American accent, it was hard to hide the fact that I was an immigrant.
“I don’t need a lover to take care of me. I can take care of myself!”Florence retorts as she grabs me into her arms and swings me around the dance floor. The fiddler, who has resorted to ballads by that point in the evening, sees Florence, and gradually picks up the tempo. Before long, the whole bar is dancing, laughing, and cheering. These are the moments that made life in the new country so much more bearable, and dare I say, even fun. Everyone in Sweden only spoke of famine, many of the bars even having to shut down as alcohol became harder to come by, or even sell. There were more and more funerals as people starved to death. After my auntie, my mom’s sister passed, my mom took what she had left and used it to buy a voyage here to America. We arrived with almost nothing but the clothes on our backs and a photo of my father. Even our suitcases, once we were caught in a storm, were thrown over the edge to keep the ship afloat.
I imagine Rose and Florence left for similar reasons, but after one conversation touching on it, I have to admire that Florence unabashedly chooses to focus on the joys of this new world rather than staying stuck in the past of the world left behind. I suppose it’s easier if you don’t have a mother who continually brings it up and reminds you of it. My parents were fairly wealthy from farming until the famine. I even had the opportunity to study ballet, which was an investment for a family in Sweden. I guess it would be hard to go from a life where you were taken care of and happy, to having to fight and scrape for every little thing. Maybe that’s why I am such a fighter? I have limited memories of the good times, and mostly remember having to fight and scrounge for much of anything. My mother lacks that fighting spirit, and I wish she could move on and see things through the lens of Florence.
After we dance until our feet feel like they are going to fall off, I bid everyone a goodnight and farewell until tomorrow. Or, I guess it would be today, since it is long into the night, past midnight. The girls decide to leave with me, and together we make the journey home through the waves crashing along the shore and the cobblestone streets of New York City. Laughing, we round the corner home, and Florence motions to take the back way. I don’t like taking the back way as much at night, as I have seen some questionable figures hanging in the back alleys. But, we can look out for one another and it’s late enough that the sun should start rising soon.
Florence dances, almost floating through the streets as if she has been swept off her feet into a waltz. Rose and I hold one another arm in arm as we admire Florence laughing and dancing, “How many people can say they have danced through the streets of New York City?” She yells. “Only one, Florence!” Rose calls back. Replacing walking with a full waltz, Florence begins to hum and sing as if she is onstage in front of an audience of thousands. “Florence! Do you know how late it is? You will wake everyone!” I call out to her, and then start humming along. “The Bowery never sleeps! What a time it is to be alive and free and dancing through the streets of New York City!” Florence yells and sings even louder. “This isn’t the Bowery”, I laugh back. Rose and I look at one another, nod, and then begin to waltz. Since both of us usually dance the follow’s part, and not the lead, I step on her foot, and Rose falls over into a fit of laughter. I peel over laughing, and before I can help Rose up, Florence skips back, and pulls her up. Florence takes Rose into her arms, leading her around the alley, singing and dancing. Time stops, and for a few moments, everything about the world feels beautiful, magical and perfect. Dancing and singing at who knows what hour? Who cares about jobs and money when they cannot bring the joy that can be created in a single moment by someone like Florence. Well, until someone opens their window and screams “Pipe down or I’ll call upon the police” from the window, to which we all yell back, “The Bowery never sleeps!”
We stop laughing long enough to hear screaming, but cannot tell where it is coming from. I grab Florence and Rose and pull them into a corner out of site. We hold our breath, listening to the screams and noise come closer and closer, until it sounds surely like it must be in the same alley as us. Rose looks at both of us in panic, and I hold my finger up to my mouth. As they get closer, it’s two policemen dragging a woman and she screeches at the top of her lungs. The same man opens his window, “Did you hear what I said? I will call upon the police!” The screaming continues, and the same man quickly slams his window shut, but not before a baby cry sails through the window into the alley.
The police shove the woman past us, as we try to hold back our breathlessness in the alley. She struggles, as the police yell, “We have just the place for you. Don’t you know a woman cannot be out alone at night?” I cough, the police pause a moment to listen, and then continue on, “Only troubled women are out alone after dark. We have a place for troubled women.” I cough again, and this time, two hands grab me, with one hand over my mouth.
PS -We are releasing the first chapter of our novel to paid subscribers (but all free subscribers will receive the prologue and a few chapters for free) beginning October 1st. If you are willing to share my writing with someone who you think would resonate, that would mean so much to Cat & I as we build our path to making the series!
 | A guest post by
|