City of Liars and Thieves (3 page)

Eventually, new scandals arose, as they always do in a small town, and the neighbors tired of Elma's biography. Still, Mother maintained her distance. Despite her delicate health, Elma always tried to be helpful, hanging wash or sweeping. But Mother behaved as if she was in the way, muttering “useless” under her breath as she took the laundry or broom and handed it to me instead. Undaunted, Elma would shrug at me and smile, and when Mother turned her back, she would help. I admired Elma's efforts, but I could see they were in vain. Mother's affection was not easily won.

Elma's vulnerability made me love her all the more, her beauty heightened by the sadness she buried beneath a brave smile. She became my sister. Growing up, I saw myself as her champion, and now that she had joined me in the city, she was my ward.

“Elma!” Charles called, racing away. It was all I could do to keep him in sight.

I hugged the baby to my chest, pushing and apologizing through a maze of carts and people. Splashing through a dirty puddle and stumbling over chicken crates, I strained to keep my eyes on Charles's bobbing head. He vanished behind a steamer trunk, and the baby began to wail. Breathless, I was debating whether to follow or try to cut him off when Elias came up, panting, behind me.

“Where'd he go?” he asked.

The baby's cries grew louder and I bounced her on my hip, soothing us both.

“He's—” I took a few steps, then stopped dead.

A ship bearing a boldly striped flag had docked and was unloading its dreadful cargo. Emaciated prisoners, most of them all but naked, staggered down a gangway into the noisy crowd. Flies swarmed their faces, but shackles prevented them from shooing them away. Each man, woman, and listless child looked more desperate than the next. Some of their eyes were dark and dead, while others were alive with terror.

I did not like the idea of being so close to such suffering. “Elma!” I called, but she did not see me or could not hear.

Charles stood yards shy of the gangway, paralyzed by fascination and fear.

“Come away,” Elias hollered, and Charles startled as if he were at fault, his eyes filling with tears.

This was not the welcome I had in mind. In my year in the city, I had seen slaves as well as freemen, but I had never before witnessed such ravaged souls, in limbo between a floating coffin and an unknown, perhaps even worse, fate. As a rancid stench flooded the dock, I had the distinct sense that misery was contagious. I wanted to rush to Elma's side and tell her that New York was nothing like this, but I was still a newcomer myself, constantly on guard against unknown dangers.

From the schooner Elma had disembarked, sailors were shouting orders and tossing thick ropes. As the anchor chain rattled and water slapped the hull, I fought an urge to scoop the children in my arms, snatch Elma by the sleeve, and demand passage back to Cornwall.

“Caty,” Elias said, “get her and let's go home.”

For the briefest instant, I thought he had read my mind. But I quickly realized my mistake. Home for Elias meant the Greenwich Street boardinghouse.

“Who's that?” Charles asked, scowling at a tall boy with sandy hair and blemished cheeks, who stood an inch or so too close to Elma.

The boy was pointing into the crowd, while Elma pinched the bridge of her nose. A distraction to fight back tears—I had seen her do it hundreds of times when Mother scolded her or neighbors wagged their tongues.

“Elma!” Charles shouted, having finally pushed through the crowd.

Elma looked up and smiled broadly as she took Charles's hands, swinging him in a wide circle the way she used to do in Cornwall.

“Thou will rip his arms from the sockets,” Elias said when we caught up to the pair.

Elias held propriety in as high regard as Mother did and had never warmed to Elma—whether because of her disgraceful origins or her playful nature, so at odds with his own sense of rectitude, I was never quite sure. I once again questioned the wisdom of inviting her to join us in New York City. If my behavior was irresponsible, though, I refused to care. A fresh environment was exactly the opportunity she needed to escape the confines of Cornwall and the scandal of her birth.

“More, more,” Charles begged.

Elma set Charles down. “We mustn't disobey Father,” she said, sounding as if she would happily ignore Elias's scolding. She draped her arms around my neck, nuzzling with reassuring weight and warmth. “Caty,” she sighed. “Has it really been a year?”

I rested my head on her shoulder and inhaled a familiar whiff of lavender. “How was the journey?” My fingertip traced a teardrop. “Elma, what's wrong?”

She waved away my questions. “Who's this little one?”

I introduced the baby with exaggerated formality. “Allow me to present the newest member of our family.” I straightened the baby's bonnet and wiped a bit of drool off her chin. “Her name is Patience.”

Elma dropped into a deep curtsy, burst into laughter, and reached for her. “Oh, Caty.” Her voice softened. “I wish I could have been here for the birth. Mama was so reluctant, it's a wonder I came at all.”

I nodded, but I did not understand my aunt's behavior. Over the last year, we had exchanged half a dozen letters, but she refused to part with Elma. Finally, when I had given up hope, a letter arrived.

“Mama is unaware that I know of your invitation,” Elma wrote, “but I would cherish the opportunity to visit New York City.” The letter was formally signed “Gulielma Sands,” as if Elma had taken much pride in writing her signature, but there was a hastily scrawled footnote. “Caty, please don't misunderstand. I love Mama and value the home your father was generous enough to provide, but a visit…” Her penmanship ran to the edge of the page and blurred.

If I was concerned by Elma's duplicity, I set those worries aside in favor of my own interest. From the Christmas Eve that she first arrived in Cornwall until the day Elias and I were wed, Elma and I had lived under the same roof. Though quick to speak her mind, she rarely judged the misfortune of others. Hardship had given her a perspective few shared. I confided in her about girlish infatuations and Mother's resolute ways. After our marriage, Elias and I moved just down the street, close enough to race back and forth in wind or rain, for a cup of sugar or a dose of frank advice. I shared the news of my pregnancy with Elma even before I told Elias. She was by my side when Charles was born and helped me endure those long early nights. Later, she was wonderful with him, playing games and telling stories with childlike mischief.

Now I was lonely and I missed her. I understood her desire to leave a rural home where her shame was common knowledge, and I had no reason to think it went any deeper. Not bothering to wonder why she had read her mother's mail or, more important, why my aunt had not shared our original correspond
ence, I crafted a carefully worded letter.

“Though we have lived here nearly a year, the city remains new and strange.” I frowned at the page, aware that words like
new
and
strange
would hardly convince my timid aunt. “Elias has purchased an entire building and is setting up a dry-goods store on the ground floor. With the remaining space, he plans to take in tenants.” I gripped the pen tighter, and it sputtered and squeaked as my argument took shape. “With a household of men to manage”—I scratched the phrase through and began again. “With a household to manage, Charles, and the new baby, Elma's help would be a great comfort to me.” I set the quill down, certain my aunt would never refuse a request to help others. And I was right. After eleven long months, Elma now stood beside me.

I watched in awe as Patience, my colicky baby, nestled happily in Elma's arms and was satisfied that the Greenwich Street house would soon feel more like a home. Inviting her had been the right decision after all. Here, she would not be haunted by her past. Here, I thought, she would have a future.

That night I dreamed of a building made of weathered red bricks, wedged in the middle of a bustling city block. The upstairs windows were dark and grimy. Dormers rested on the roof like sleepy eyelids. Inside was a tavern with a stale odor and an ethereal light. It was empty except for a long bar and round tables covered with starched white linen. Shadowy murals of distorted figures decorated the walls, and a narrow staircase ran down behind the bar.

Descending, I smelled dampness and decay.

The cellar was like a crypt. All was still. The brick walls were bound with crumbling mortar. Five strides into the darkness, I was confronted by a door. When I took the knob in hand, it refused to turn. The door looked weighty and impenetrable, but when I pushed, it swung easily open. The air was thick and beads of condensation ran down the wall like tears. I stumbled down a few more stairs and saw it framed in a cobwebbed alcove: a cylinder made of coarse bricks, stacked higher than my head, as wide as a tomb.

“Elma!” I called, certain she was there. My elbow scraped the wall. Dust trickled to the ground, and I pictured a swampy meadow and stagnant water. Just as I had at the docks, I called for her, but she did not see me or could not hear.

I woke with a jolt. Tears were running down my cheeks, and my nightgown was drenched with sweat.

Disoriented, I reached for Elias, but the bed was empty and his pillow cold. I leapt to my feet and peered around the partition to the other side, where the children were sleeping. I listened to Charles sigh as I went to Patience and pressed my lips against her warm forehead, assuring myself of their safety before slipping into a dress. The house was quiet, the sun low in the sky, but birds were chirping outside.

Shadows spread in a lopsided pattern across the floor as I entered the parlor. “Elma!” I cried, as if still in the throes of my dream. A wave of fear washed over me as two figures spun around. Elma clutched a broom and Elias stood beside her, their shoulders all but touching. Between them on the floor, broken glass floated in a shallow puddle.

“Elias startled me,” Elma said before I had a chance to speak. “And I broke a glass. Forgive me.” She shook her head and offered an unfamiliar, stilted smile. “I'm here to help, not destroy things.”

“Charles is six,” I said, trying to console her. “Lots of things break around here.” The glass had been a favorite of mine, one of a set of pressed tumblers that was a wedding gift from my parents. Elma had been by my side when I first unwrapped them, and she knew how precious they were to me. I could not imagine what she had been doing with it.

Elma set the broom aside and knelt, picking up shards and using the hem of her skirt as a dustpan. Her dark hair, which had a habit of falling across her face, was held back by a bone-white comb. A silky ribbon wound through the teeth and dangled against her curls.

“What's that?” I asked, reaching for it. “Is it whalebone?”

The comb had a graceful curve and finely tapered teeth. It was no longer than my ring finger but masterfully crafted. I could not imagine owning it, let alone wearing it, and doubted whether my stick-straight hair would even hold it in place. It belonged in thick tresses, where it would not slip free.

Elma twirled the ribbon. A glimmer in her eyes mimicked the ivory's delicate sheen. The way she shied away made it clear she preferred not to share. I blamed her reticence on Elias. I was sure that, had we been alone, she would have told me the story behind such a treasure.

“It's lovely,” I said, resisting the urge to touch it.

“Is there toast or eggs?” Elias asked, though it was obvious there was none.

“It's early,” I said.

“That squeaky bed needs fixing,” he said, shuffling through a stack of newspapers.

The city had a handful of daily papers. My favorite was the
Commercial Advertiser,
which carried ads across the front in small boxes and even smaller print: listings for flax seeds, “female complaints,” Dr. Rush's Bilious Pills, “fashionable” hats from London, claret, and German linens, as well as notices about debtors and shipwrecks, dance schools and dentists. A column called “Public Health Notices” published lists of runaway slaves with details like “middling height” or “speaks indifferent English.” I especially hated seeing the ads for children. “Negro boy,” one read, “about ten with a homespun brown coat.” I imagined a tattered coat, short in the sleeves, with missing buttons. Had it been lovingly made by the boy's mother before they were torn apart?

I peered over Elias's shoulder to see what had captured his attention. A man had been found “with marks of a violent death,” under a dock on the Hudson River. It was suspected he had been murdered while patronizing a house of bad character. Wielding axes, brooms, and fists, a mob of eight hundred gathered on Murray Street and, with three cheers, threatened to demolish the seedy establishment. They dispersed only when the mayor threatened a night in Bridewell.

Elias shifted his weight so I could no longer read. “And those should be hung before the new tenant arrives,” he said, nodding toward a pair of unfinished curtains that lay across my favorite sewing chair. He had a habit of beginning conversations in the middle of a thought. When we first married, I worried that I had not been listening carefully enough, but I had come to understand that it was simply his way.

“We're leaving Cornwall?” I had asked when Elias announced we would be moving to New York City. We had spent six peaceful years together, and I assumed he was satisfied.

“In the new year, we shall have a fresh start,” he said.

“But my parents are here—and Elma.”

Resentment flared in his eyes. “My folks wanted to tether me as well, to make me stay on their barren farm, a slave to them and circumstances. I made the choice to leave then, and I am making it again now. There's no future for us here.”

I squinted at him. Elias was not from Cornwall, but early in our courtship he had told me about his recently deceased parents and his pain at leaving the small Connecticut farm where he was raised. “I thought thou moved here
after
they died.” I strained to recall the conversation.

“They were old,” he said. “They didn't need me.”

My mouth grew dry. It was more than mincing words. Elias had deceived me, for a reason I couldn't quite grasp. “I don't understand. Are they living or not?”

“They're dead now.”

I was not sure I believed him. “When did they die?”

“It's in the past.”

“Did thy mother die first or thy father?” I shuddered at the idea of being elderly and alone. “How did they die?”

“I refuse to dredge up the past while I am focusing on our future.” His gaze was intent, as if he were truly looking ahead to a place unknown to me.

Perhaps I should have protested or proceeded more cautiously. But Elias was hardworking and, though he could be exacting, he was a dependable husband and devoted father. Still, our marriage was not the partnership I had hoped it would be, and I never forgot that flash of disdain in his eyes.

“We have a new tenant?” I asked.

“Ezra Weeks. I met him at the docks yesterday,” Elias said, speaking with an enthusiasm I had not heard for months. “He is one of the city's best-known builders and is working on Alexander Hamilton's new estate.”

Broken glass jangled as Elma got to her feet. Bending to keep the sharp bits in her skirt and her hemline low, she transferred the mess to the trash. A damp stain remained on the floor, like the remnants of a squirrel run over by a heavy cart that someone had tried to scrub away—a common occurrence on Greenwich Street. I shook my head to dislodge the image.

I did not want to spoil Elias's mood, but something was amiss. “Why does a successful builder need a room in a boardingho
use?” I asked.

“It's not for him.”

I counted to three, reminding myself why I'd named the baby
Patience
: By repeating her name daily, I hoped to become more tolerant. Elias had taken a seat at the table and was absorbed in the newspaper. I counted to ten, waiting for him to respond, but he didn't look up.

“Who, then?” I asked.

“His brother, Levi Weeks, will be arriving any day.”

“Shall I make toast?” Elma said. Her voice had a false cheeriness I had heard her use hundreds of times with Mother, as if she were eager to mitigate tension. And, while I could not explain why, she was right: There was a strain in the room that went beyond a mild marital spat.

“If he is such a successful builder, why would he put his brother in a boardingho
use?” I persisted.

The newspaper dropped from Elias's hands and his brow creased. “That's neither here nor there,” he said. “They're a well-connected family, and we should be grateful for their patronage. Ezra Weeks said this was a smart location. He even advanced a bit of rent to tide us over until all the rooms are let.”

I couldn't say whether I was more surprised or confused. Borrowing money went against everything we Friends believed. Then again, since our move, Elias had worked more and attended meeting less, seeming to favor profit over prayer, explaining when pressed that a business that served the community was in keeping with our faith. He had evidently made peace with his conscience, rationalizing minor transgressions to suit his needs. But there was no excuse for being on the dole.

“Thou took money from him?”

“I did not
take
anything. Ezra Weeks invested in our boardingho
use,” Elias said, though he was now clearly annoyed. “It is nothing sinister.”

Elma set a slice of buttered toast in front of him.

“Thank thee, Elma,” I said while Elias ate in silence. “Is there no other way?” I asked him.

“I've tried, Caty. It's impossible to get a loan in this city. Hamilton and his cohorts lord over the banks, and their credit window's closed to the likes of us.”

“But Friends are hardworking and honest. Everyone knows that.”

“Friends?” He shook his head. “Hamilton runs a Federalist bank—it only grants loans to those who vote for their party.”

“Is that legal? Or fair?” I asked.

“Legal enough. No one said anything about fair.”

“Maybe—” Elma's dark eyes darted from me to Elias, then back to me, and her mouth twisted as if she were literally biting her tongue. Elma was never one to hold back, and I had the sense she was trying to be a proper guest in our home.

“Elma, what is it?” I wanted her to feel completely at ease. What's more, I valued her opinion.

“Well, if the fellow works with Alexander Hamilton, perhaps he can help,” she suggested.

Elias pushed his plate away.

“She's right,” I said. “If the Weeks brothers know Hamilton, maybe they can put in a good word.”

Elias turned to me, but he didn't object, making it clear the idea had already occurred to him. “One day, perhaps, but for now it's simply better to accept their generosity and move on.”