CAN
YOU ESCAPE YOUR PAST?
In
1910, before her father was convicted of accidentally killing a woman during an
illegal abortion, Melanie Daniels was considered the most marriageable girl in
her tiny Adirondack village. Now, six years later,
the “Killer Doc” has been released from prison and the family are social
outcasts. To cope with her fear of ending up an “old maid”, Melanie loses
herself inside glamorous motion picture magazines. Until she meets James, a
handsome stranger who promises adventure and a chance to leave the stifling
small town life behind her. Shortly after they elope to New York, Melanie meets James’s ‘friend’
Gladys Dumbrille, a Broadway actress, and discovers he is not the man he seemed.
In an attempt to re-invent herself, Melanie lies her way into Gladys’s new show.
Their lives become intertwined in ways neither of them could have expected.
From
the backwoods of the Adirondacks to the
backstage of Broadway, The
Abortionist’s Daughter explores love, sex, work and freedom in the
first decade of the 20th century.
Filled with a colorful cast of supporting
characters and vivid depictions of social mores, fashion, and family, Elisa
DeCarlo tells one woman’s story with intelligence, passion, and wit.
ELISA DeCARLO was raised in Westchester County, New York. Her first novel, The Devil You Say (Avon, 1994) won both “Locus Best First Novel” and “Amazing Stories Best First Novel”, and received the CaB Magazine Special Achievement Award. Its prequel, Strong Spirits, was published by Avon in 1995. Her humorous essays have been collected in the 2002 Random House anthology “Life’s A Stitch: The Best of Women’s Contemporary Humor”; Morrow Books “The Best of The New York Times’s Metropolitan Diary”; and Freedom Voices Books “Goddesses We Ain’t”.
Elisa’s been a working journalist, an audiobook abridger, magazine staff writer, and comic performer. For 10 years she sold plus-size vintage clothing, both online and privately. She has a keen knowledge of both fashion and show business history.
Her latest novel, The Abortionist’s Daughter, reflects her passion for vintage fashion and theater while painting an elaborate portrait of New York City just before World War One.
REVIEWS:
"It is crucial that we understand the
historical challenges women have experienced regarding family planning and
reproductive choice and the sacrifices that were made because it also sheds
light on the very concerning roll back of rights in the present
day. Elisa DeCarlo's historical novel brings this to light in her
imminently readable, dramatically rendered and useful book."
-Joan Lipkin,
Artistic Director of That Uppity Theatre Company
"Elisa DeCarlo masterfully takes us back to 1916 New York City with a tale of romance and
betrayal that rings even more true for today."
- Mike
Player, Author, Viral - The Story of the Milkshake Girl, Out on the Edge
"Truly
entertaining and entertainingly true, DeCarlo's novel gives us
the unforgettable and flawed Melanie Daniels, a heroine not only of her
time, but of every time that women struggle to be fully human."
–Ruthann
Robson, Professor of Law & University Distinguished Professor,
CUNY School of Law, author of Dressing
Constitutionally: Hierarchy, Sexuality, and Democracy
Elisa DeCarlo brings the “risqué”
world of turn-of-the-century Broadway to life with the story of Melanie
Daniels, an aspiring actress who moves to NYC with a dream and violet-trimmed
toque. Melanie struggles with the puritanical morality of her upbringing and
her nascent feministic awakening against the backdrop of this captivating historical
novel -
–Lisa Haas,
playwright, In Heat, Crown
Hill Cemetery,
Rita & Inez: The True Queens of Femininity
EXCERPT:
Melanie
knew she was pretty, but a lot of good that did her. If only she were a movie actress, like Pearl
White, who was on the cover of that month’s Photoplay. Famous, rich, sought after. Actresses weren’t just people. Actresses didn’t
have to muck out stables or darn the same pair of wool stockings ten times
over. “I’d make a wonderful actress,”
she told herself. In school, she had
played Juliet in “Romeo and Juliet”. It
had been such fun, wearing the long romantic costumes and saying Shakespeare’s
words. And having everybody watching
her, with admiration rather than queasy curiosity, not like the way they stared
at her during the trial, or when she accompanied her mother to church. Instead of Shakespeare, she would have rather
done a rip-roaring melodrama like “The Drunkard”, but the school would hardly
approve of such a thing.
Her pace slowed. Unconsciously Melanie arranged her face into an
expression of languorous boredom and began to walk with her hips slightly
forward, head back. She saw herself, glittering and desirable. Away from her parents, she could transform
herself into a “vampire” like the screen actress Olga Petrova. A “vampire” was the antithesis of the sweet,
innocent blonde movie heroine: a coldblooded temptress with long black hair and
carmined lips. Melanie swayed down the road, the mud impeding her progress and
interfering with the attempted seductiveness of her walk.
She was in
a sitting room, filled with fine antiques.
A man in a velvet smoking jacket murmured, “Would you care for a
cordial, my lovely?” Her white shoulders
were magnificent in a backless evening
gown.
“Hey! Hello there!”
Startled,
Melanie straightened up and turned. A
tall man in gray lounged against the rail fence of Abercrombie’s meadow. It was the man from the ice cream
parlor. He was still in his gray worsted
suit and a dashing black fedora.
“Hello,” he
repeated. Melanie knew that she should
ignore such freshness. But he was good
looking.
“Good
afternoon,” she said, in what she hoped was a suitably uninterested tone. She kept the languorous expression on her
face, her eyes half-closed.
The man
straightened up and swept off his fedora. “If it isn’t Alice Blue Gown!” he
exclaimed, grinning. He had a wide, friendly mouth. Melanie remembered the
small, bright eyes, bushy black eyebrows, the small, bulbous nose. His skin was
ruddy, and there was a nice heft to his figure.
Her heart
accelerated: what would a “vampire” do at this moment? She wished she was wearing something more
alluring, but in this weather she would have frozen stiff. She favored him with a smile.
“You
remember my dress,” she said. Oh, mercy, why couldn’t she think of anything to
say?
“It was
some dress,” he said.
“I don’t
believe we’ve been introduced.” She fished for the right tone of indifference. “Do we have—ah—mutual
acquaintances?.”
“No, I
don’t know anybody here,” he said. “My name is James Louis Throckmorton. Won’t
you tell me your name? That’s a cute hat you got on.”
“Thank
you.” He was indeed older than Lawrence Badger. The dusty look to his hair was
caused by the gray sprinkled through his black curls. There were fine lines
around his eyes.
He fell
into step alongside her. “Come on, what’s your name? I’ll wager it’s an attractive name.” His accent was citified, with the r’s pronounced
very strongly, his voice deep.
Melanie
looked up and into his eyes, then looked away. Her throat was drying up. “I
ought not to tell you this, Mr. Throckmorton. I don’t, ordinarily, but those
who know me call me Miss Daniels.” She
cleared her throat. On impulse, she
added, “But you can call me Melanie.” She averted her eyes, her heart pounding.
She had gone too far.
“Say,” said
Mr. Throckmorton, “that is an attractive name. Are you from these parts, Miss
Daniels?”
A
gentleman! She smiled. “Yes.
Where are you from, Mr. Throckmorton? Tupper Lake?”
“No, I’m
just traveling through these parts. I was in Saranac Lake
and thought I’d take a look around.”
She felt
that he hadn’t quite answered her question, but she let it pass. “Oh, that’s
nice. My mother is from Saranac
Lake.”
Mr.
Throckmorton smiled, trying to see her face under the brim of her hat. “I might
be in Muller’s Corners for some time, Miss Daniels. Perhaps I might call on
you? You’re awfully pretty.”
Again, she
managed to look briefly at him, then away. She couldn’t look directly at
him. When she did, she could feel his
interest. She didn’t know why it scared
her, but it did. “I don’t mind,” she
said.
“How’s
about tomorrow afternoon? Or tomorrow night? If you’d let me, I could stop by your
house.”
“No, no.
Why don’t we make it in the afternoon? If it’s a nice day, we could go for
a--for a walk.” Melanie did not want Mr. Throckmorton coming to her house. That
would spoil everything. She wanted him to herself, without her mother languishing
over him.
“That would
be swell,” he agreed. “That would be grand. You know this town better than I
do, Miss Daniels. Where’s a good place to meet?”
“You can
meet me at White’s. I might want some ice cream, if it’s a warm afternoon.”
“You’ve got
it! Two o’clock all right?”
They had
reached the top of the steep hill that sloped down into Main Street. At the foot, Melanie saw
with dismay that the usual gang of boys was hanging around Saxton’s Garage. She
didn’t want them to see her with Mr. Throckmorton. It was bad enough having to
listen to their filthy remarks, without this man also hearing them. He would
find out her reputation in the worst possible way.
She stopped
and smiled at him as prettily as she could. “Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Yes, Miss
Daniels?” He held his fedora in his
hand, lightly tapping it against his thigh.
“Those boys
down there, by the garage.” She lifted
her hand daintily, the way her sister would. “It wouldn’t do to be seen
together by them. We haven’t been introduced, you know. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure,
I understand.” He nodded vigorously. “Wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea
about you.”
“No,” she
said with a light laugh. “People will talk. They haven’t got much else to do
around here.”
“I’ll wait
up here for a spell. It’s such a beautiful day, it’s a pleasure. You go on
home, Miss Daniels.”
“All
right.” She extended her hand. He shook it. His hand was fleshy and warm, the
skin surprisingly soft. Melanie blushed
to the roots of her hair.
“Until
tomorrow, at two?” Mr. Throckmorton said.
“Until
tomorrow. Good day.” Melanie hurried
down the hill, not daring to look behind her. If she looked back, he’d be
looking at her, and she didn’t know if she could bear that just at the moment.
Melanie didn’t know which frightened her more, his interest in her or her
reaction to his interest.
The gang of
boys in front of the garage were between thirteen and nineteen years old; a
cheaply dressed, loud, obnoxious crew. Sometimes their loitering spot of choice
was in front of White’s Candy and Soda Emporium; more often it was Saxton’s
Garage (Ford Authorized Sales and Service), because Saxton didn’t care if the
boys were there and White did. No unmarried woman in Muller’s Corners was safe
from the boys’ lascivious cat-calls.
Melanie was a particular favorite. It was a gauntlet she ran at least
once a week when she went to the market, because the garage was on the only
road leading in and out of the village. She didn’t dare look at any of the
boys, lest they take it as encouragement.
Melanie
went hot and cold all over, hearing the low murmurs begin. But she kept
walking, head high, eyes fastened on a point in the middle distance. I’m
better than all of you, I’m better than all of you, I’m better than all of you,
she repeated with each step.
“Hey there,
baby doll,” said Lucas Freeman, one of the older boys. He had been two years
behind her at school. “Have fun at the dance?”
“How’s the
old doc doing?” said another boy. “Killed any whores lately?”
“You rape
‘em, we scrape ‘em,” a youth said, to raucous guffaws from his fellows.
“How’s
about some squeezin’? Hey, Rufus, how’d you like to get her behind the baseball
field?”
“Ah, she’s
too old,” said Rufus, a virile specimen of fifteen.
Melanie was
shaking all over by the time they were out of her earshot. She wanted them all to burn in everlasting
flames. Thank heaven Mr.Throckmorton had
stayed behind. The boys only said what
everybody thought but was too polite to say.
