Wednesday night was humid. Sunset spread like a rash over the water, and the reek of rotting pig guts in the river mingled with smoke from roasting nuts. When I arrived for pre-show prep, there was already a line forming outside the theater entrance. By the time we opened the doors, the crowd was twice its usual size and packed with people who were not men. They kept streaming in, filling the seats, taking Soph’s pamphlet about the spiritual meaning of the dances. There were performers from the Midway, some still in their stage costumes. There were Spiritualists looking high goth, and New Women from the university, wearing athletic outfits and smoking cigarettes. There was even a gang of young, Lucy Parsons–style anarchists looking fierce with their union sashes. I could see people with dark brown skin and pale pink skin and every shade in between; among them were immigrants and travelers. We made a spectacle of ourselves and enjoyed it.
When there were at least a hundred people crowding the theater, laughing or smirking, men in the audience started to look around them with discomfort. Why were there so many ladies in the room? They thought the point of this show was to stare at women, not to stare with them.
At last Comstock appeared, unfashionable muttonchops framing his round face like storm clouds. Trailing behind him were three of the wealthiest Lady Managers, famous society wives of hoteliers and industrialists. One of them had brought doilies to spread on the wooden seats where each would be placing her petticoat-muffled bum. A group of burly, cigar-chomping people in the front row ceded their seats to the ladies, and Comstock glared until a gray-haired suffragette, decked out in her lacy whites from the ’60s, offered him the seat alongside them. Soph surrendered her chair to the suffragette, and smiled sweetly at the Lady Managers as she gave them copies of her pamphlet. The four observed twenty minutes of dances with what appeared to be polite attention. None of them made faces or fainted. I watched closely, hypervigilant; we needed to keep track of their position if our plan was going to work.
By the time Aseel came out on stage, the men had forgotten their self-consciousness and stomped along with us. “LA-DY AS-EN-ATH!” We chanted her name, clapping for each syllable. As Aseel captivated the room with her movements, the whole audience—men, women, everyone else—hailed her with coins. Comstock and the Lady Managers collected themselves, stone-faced, and attempted to find the exit through the rowdy crowd.
Soph and I stood in the back, discreetly motioning for our friends to follow. The plan was to waylay our special visitors as they paraded out past the ticket booths. But then Sol erupted from the theater office unexpectedly, making a beeline for Comstock. Of course he was here. He knew the moralist’s reputation, but was always hopeful that showbiz professionalism could win the day.
The air had cooled down and a witchy-looking crescent moon rose alongside Venus in the sky. Boisterous crowds swirled past us on their way to the attractions of Cairo Street and the Ferris wheel.
“I hope you enjoyed the show!” Sol held out a hand for Comstock to shake. “I’m so proud of all these performers. They’re the first to bring these beautiful foreign dances to America. It broadens minds and creates a more educated people. Don’t you agree?”
Comstock refused to shake Sol’s hand. “I do not, sir. This is vile filth.”
As the men spoke, we formed a loose circle around them, as if this conversation were part of the evening’s entertainment.
The smile melted off Sol’s face. “How do you mean? This is a family theater.”
“You are corrupting the morals of everyone who walks through those blasted doors!” Comstock was spluttering with rage.
“Perhaps these dances are unfamiliar, but I can assure you they are innocent. They are enjoyed by everyone in Africa and the Orient, the way we enjoy ballet.”
“You must think I am a fool.” Comstock’s voice cracked as he hit a high note. “The entire Midway must be razed to the ground to stop this assault on womanhood. We’ll proceed to the police directly!”
I felt a gentle pressure at my elbow and turned to see Soph beside me, looping my arm through hers. All around us, the New Women and Spiritualists and Midway dancers and anarchists were linking arms, forming a closed circle around Comstock and the Lady Managers. Sol had a look of horror on his face. This was the exact group of rabble-rousers he’d told Aseel and me to keep away from the theater. I wondered if we would have jobs tomorrow.
We stood silently, dozens of us from dozens of places.
Morehshin spoke up. “You are one. We are many. You cannot make us feel your shame.”
Comstock was so livid I thought he was going to pass out. “Make way for us, sinners! The courts will not permit you to abuse God with your… your… hoochie coochie!”
Somehow, that caused me to giggle. I think it was the incongruity of hearing the word “hoochie coochie” coming out of this man’s mouth, with his erect whiskers and florid face. Then other people started giggling, and Morehshin hooted a laugh. There was a sudden, uncoordinated rush of shouts, in many accents.
“You are all alone!”
“Go back to New York City!”
“No one loves you! No one stands with you!”
“Your time is over, you moralistic hypocrites!”
“We are many! You are one!”
“Shame on you!”
“Praise be to hoochie coochie!”
Somehow that one caught on, and all of us began to chant: “PRAISE BE TO HOOCHIE COOCHIE! PRAISE BE TO HOOCHIE COOCHIE!” A few drunk union men on the Midway took up the chant too. When I stole a look at Sol, I was surprised to see that he’d linked arms with two Bedouin dancers and joined our circle.
Comstock headed straight to Morehshin and tried to rip through the link between her and a thick person in a newsboy hat. The person grimaced, shoulders squared and jaw set. “You’ll have to try harder than that, you weak little man.”
“Stand aside, Satanists!”
Morehshin held tighter. “Your god does not control history. Only humans can do that. Do you understand me?” Her eyes blazed like multi-tools.
Comstock looked uncertain, and the color drained from his face. He must have realized he was among travelers. Then he plowed into another part of the circle, dramatically shoving two women apart with his bulk. The spell was broken, and we stood aside to let the Lady Managers pass through.
Sol shouted at Comstock’s receding form. “You’ll never get away with this! If you sue, I’ll get an injunction! The city of Chicago doesn’t care about your goddamn… bullshit… New York Vice Society or whatever the fuck it’s called!”
Comstock and the Lady Managers did not look back.
The next morning, the Tribune had the story: COMSTOCK DRIVEN FROM MIDWAY BY ANGRY MOB. It was something that had not happened in the timeline I remembered. Our edit was starting to take.
NINETEEN
BETH
Los Angeles, Alta California… Irvine, Alta California (1993 C.E.)
A baby mammoth cried for her father, who was sinking slowly into a bubbling pit of tar, trunk curled upward in a hopeless bellow for his child. Probably he would be killed by sabre-toothed cats before the tar suffocated him. The cats, too, would be trapped and die. This scene, immortalized in a life-sized outdoor display at the La Brea Tar Pits, is where I fell in love with science. At first I was gripped by the horror of this ancient moment. As a kid, I understood helplessness. Standing at the edge of the stinking pond, holding my father’s hand, I told myself that I would never let this happen to us. I would watch for signs of the Earth melting. I would always be vigilant.