Free Ladies In The Parlor by Jim Tully

again. “A drunken rascal was in here last night singing sad songs, and I made him stop—then I made Mary Ellen—you know Mary Ellen—” she said to Alice—”well, I made Mary Ellen sing something gay—and she sang

    'Oh for the life of an osteopath,
    To play rummy dum diddle
    On somebody’s middle—’

    The watch shook as Mother Rosenbloom chuckled.
    Dr. Farway did not like osteopaths. The girls looked at each other.
    “Alice, dear, will you press the bell?”
    The housekeeper answered. Mother Rosenbloom did not notice her for a moment. Severely dressed in black, with white apron, cuffs and collarette, and grim as the last hour, she stood, her fleshless six-foot body rigid. Had Mother Rosenbloom searched the world, she could not have found a woman who seemed more out of place.
    “Matilda,” she asked, “will you bring us some coffee and toast?”
    The housekeeper bowed, smiled grimly at Alice, glanced casually at Leora, and left the room.
    Within a short time they were seated at an improvised table.
    “Now, dear,” began Mother Rosenbloom, as she looked at Leora, “Alice has no doubt told you considerable about our house. I try to run a respectable place, and only cater to the best people.
    “Upon your deportment here, often your future may depend. It is not my policy to keep a girl over two years. If she hasn’t feathered her nest with some good man in that time she may as well become a street-walker or join a church. Wealthy men come here from everywhere, and you must treat them with the respect which their position implies. You’ll find, of course, that men are all alike—once in the bedroom they will ask you personal questions—where you are from—who took your virginity, and if you don’t think that they are the greatest lovers you have known. You must remember, though they come here, they still like innocence—they will keep you awake bragging about the virtue of their daughters. They will try to rescue you from the life of shame which you lead, forgetting indeed that without them you could not lead it—and, as I explained to Alice when she first came here—you must not go to a room with a man unless you are able to make him believe that you’ve been waiting for him since you were a child. If you cannot respond to his caresses, you must pretend. You must never tell the truth to any man—always color it up with a little romance. If a bricklayer has seduced you, he immediately becomes a millionaire. A successful girl in a house like this always knows how to imply a great deal. You must listen always. . . . no matter how silly the story—or how many times you have heard it. Give me two beautiful girls and I will always take the good listener—a woman who can’t listen is worse off than a rooster who can’t crow—as many men come here to be listened to as for anything else. You must laugh at the proper time, and always call me Mother—even if no one is around—then you will not make a slip when men are about.”
    Mother Rosenbloom sipped her coffee and sputtered, “This damn stuff tastes like rusty water—I’ll fire that Nigger.” She became calm again.
    “And this is for your good as much as mine—” she paused. . . . “I don’t allow men lovers in the house—or pimps, if you’d rather—that is—you can have a lover here every night in the week, so long as you pay me my half of fifty dollars—the charge for the night, and he buys liquor as often as any other man. This, I have found, protects the girl as well as the house. A man likes what he has to pay for. The minute you start shelling out free, he goes elsewhere and pays for it.
    “And you must remember that even a hangman or a lawyer feels superior to a girl in a sporting-house; so always be dignified, for they must not feel that you’re anybody’s dog who’ll go hunting. Every man who comes into the place will talk to you as though he would give you the earth—just let them rave, but don’t lose your head, for if