The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (25 page)

T
he day was uncharacteristically frigid for September. Suiting, I thought, as I huddled into my shawl. I'd been wandering the city all day, staking out any place that meant anything to John or to Franklin and so far had found nothing. Wind swept over me, lapping the water in Central Park Lake onto the shore. I looked out at the stone bridge. An old oak leaned over the water right before it, its leaves barely dappled with yellow almost masking an elderly woman in a gray wool cloak clutching the stone railing, watching a wooden sailboat glide under the bridge. A couple laughed at two little boys squealing in delight as water sprayed their faces and matching cape overcoats.

Reminded of John and Franklin, I turned and started up the hill toward Fifth Avenue, determined not to look back at the unoccupied white cast-iron bench under the cherry tree across the lake, but did anyway. John had told me that he came out to the lake when he needed to get away, when he couldn't think. I could picture him there—notebook in one hand, staring out at the water while park-goers promenaded and picnicked around him.

“I love you. I do,” I said, stricken by the possibility that I might never see him again. I pushed the thought from my mind. It had only been a day and a half, I reminded myself. I closed my eyes, retracing the steps I'd already taken in case I'd overlooked something. I'd started at Randall's Island, at the rocky point where Frank always loved to picnic in the summertime. Finding a cluster of fishermen, but no sign of Franklin, I'd boarded the next boat and had practically sprinted to the park when I'd reached Manhattan. Whether it was desperation or my blatant refusal to believe they'd disappeared, something in my gut told me that I would find John here. But I was wrong again. Perhaps I was wrong to trust my intuition at all. It had only led me to false hope and heartache.

I reached the street in front of Ward McAllister's gargoyle-adorned mansion. A carriage stopped on the side of the home and a finely dressed gentleman got out, tipped his hat at me, and smiled. I stared at him, unable to move my lips to return the gesture. It was difficult to comprehend how my whole life could fall apart overnight while the rest of the world kept moving along undisturbed.

The Hoppers' home was just a block away to my left. I focused straight ahead as I neared the edge of the mansions that would shield me from the towering brick home, but at the last minute I couldn't take it. I gave in and looked. Gasping, I ran into the shadow of the house next to me as if the group of men dressed in black suits standing on the Hoppers' front stoop would somehow see me from a block away and know who I was. My heart continued to pound in my chest as I made my way toward the main office of J. L. Mott. It was Monday; perhaps Franklin had gone to work.

Past the lull of carriages along Fifth Avenue, the streets were bustling. Beggars were shouting, calling out for change or food, and businessmen whistled cheerily as they went about their days. My stomach growled as I inhaled the sugary scent of sweet bread.
I hadn't eaten all day, but didn't reach in my pocket for a nickel to buy one. I knew I couldn't eat if I tried. Even among the crowds of the city, I felt alone. I turned down an alleyway, wishing Mother or my sisters were with me. Bessie had gone to our neighbors' wedding anniversary tea—an engagement she typically would've thought below her—in an attempt to avoid her misery, while Alevia had refused to go anywhere, alternating between crying in her room and playing straight through her books of Mozart and Stephen Foster tunes. Mother had declined on the grounds that Frank might come home.

“Out of the way, miss!” A fat man lugging the wasted carcass of a gigantic catfish shooed me out of the way. The sulfuric scent of rancid fish flooded my nostrils, clinging to the inside of my nose. My eyes watered. The man flung the catfish and I ran to get out of the way.

I emerged from the alley right in front of J. L. Mott. The building was made of plain brick with tiny windows running along each story. Not nearly as fancy as the previous headquarters in Mott Haven, I had a feeling old Mr. Mott would have had J. L. fired for moving it. I grinned a little at the thought, but felt my palms tingle with nerves as I started toward the front doors. I adjusted my trilby hat over my hair and slicked the stray wisps behind my ear.

“Good afternoon.” I tried to sound pleasant to the man sitting at the reception desk, but my voice shook anyway.

“How do you do, miss?” He tilted his head at me as I gaped at him. I'd lost the ability to speak. Vaguely aware of the suited men walking from the interior of the building past me toward the door, I blinked.

“I-I'm sorry. I'm here to see Franklin Loftin.” The man snatched a huge stack of paper off the top of his desk and flipped to what I guessed was
L
in the directory.

“There's no one here by that name.” he said, still scanning the page.

“I promise you, he works here,” I said, exasperated.

“If he's not on here, he doesn't. I just received an updated list this morning. You must be mistaken.” I felt my face drain. It had only been one day. He should still be on the list even if he hadn't shown up for work.

“He travels. He's a salesman. Does your list include them? He only works here when he's in town and—”

“Yes, it does,” he said, cutting me off. I stared down at the directory, fingers gripped to the front of his desk, knowing that it was the only thing holding me up.

I turned, stumbling dizzily toward the door.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” the man called from the reception desk. I ignored him and stepped out of the quiet lobby onto the busy street. My mind whirled, bringing me back to my visit to Frank's office in Mott Haven. I'd been so angry, so confused, until he'd reassured me that my worries were in vain. I'd been wrong to believe him. Franklin had been lying to all of us.

BRONX, NEW YORK

A
vagrant sitting against the side of a new brownstone looked up at the sight of me, and scooted back into the shadows. The night was completely black.

As I'd expected, Franklin hadn't been home when I'd returned from the city and no one had heard any updates. I'd spent the afternoon pacing around my room avoiding my family, alternating between fury at Frank's lying and panic that he'd never return.
There was no reason to tell the others of Frank's deceit yet, of the job he'd lied about. It would only alarm them, so I'd kept the news to myself in hopes that he'd appear and tell us the truth.

I made a valiant effort to get some sleep, but darkness always tended to give reign to the devil, and the worst possible thoughts tormented me. The most horrible curse of all was that in the past hours I'd remembered what had been said the last time I saw John.
“God, Virginia, how you break my heart.”
John's words rang once again in my head, watering my eyes. I'd told him I loved him. Why hadn't I said yes? I cursed myself for being so fickle. And then, I thought of my brother. He had come to my room to try to convince me to be happy, insisting that John and I were right for each other, and I'd yelled at him to get out. Regardless of my anger at his lies, I couldn't bear the thought of that being his last memory of me. I prayed he knew how much I loved him, that they both did, but I couldn't be sure.

So I left the house, deciding that rather than wait until tomorrow, I'd look around Mott Haven. In the haze of early morning, it had seemed like a promising option. If they'd fled Manhattan, they could easily be hiding out here, a reasonably far distance from Fifth Avenue and the Hoppers' mansion. So far, however, I'd seen barely anyone at all.

I cut down a side street, through a grove of oaks to the sprawling lawn of St. Anne's Church. We were Presbyterians and most of us had only been to St. Anne's a handful of times for the odd wedding or funeral, but Franklin had told me a while back that sometimes on his way home from work, he'd find himself walking toward the church. He said something drew him there. Without him saying what, I knew it was the history, the strange need to hear the whispers of Lewis Morris III in the graveyard rambling about the Declaration of Independence or the first Gouvernor Morris ar
guing about his edits of the Constitution. Franklin and I had always reveled in the past, fascinated by not only our family's history but also by the history of the people our family must have known.

The brown stone seemed to gleam against the darkness. I tugged at the iron door, but it didn't budge. The handle was freezing in my hand, but I gripped it hard and tried again. The door screeched open. I scanned the pews and my heart dropped to my stomach. Unless he was lying down, he wasn't here. I walked toward the front anyway, past the Gothic stained-glass windows to the flickering oil lamps illuminating the cross.

“Father, please,” I whispered. “Help me find them. I can't do this on my own.” I stood there for a moment listening to the wicks pop, and then turned up the aisle and stepped outside, letting the door slam behind me.

I walked back across the lawn and through a thin patch of trees to a side street that ran next to the river. I suddenly felt hopelessly alone. John and Frank had abandoned me. They'd left me to agonize over the possibility of where they'd gone and what they'd done. I thought of the rest of my family at home. They'd been able to settle their minds—at least enough to sleep. Perhaps that was my curse. Perhaps I loved too strongly, gave my heart away too readily to people who gave little consideration to mine.

I could see the row of piano factories in the distance. The white block lettering on the Estey building was so huge you could spot it from about any point in the Bronx. I wondered if Alevia had gone to play after her appointment at the Carnegies'. She hadn't been in several weeks. Symphony practices had taken up much more of her time than she'd planned—not that I thought she minded.

Realizing my hand had been balled in a nervous fist in my pocket since I'd left the church, I stretched my fingers out as
I turned up Third Avenue. I hadn't seen anyone for at least five blocks and doubted anyone would be headed out toward the last bit of forest left in the Bronx at three in the morning. The moon was still dim overhead, but hung at eye level now.

“Where are you?” I wondered aloud for the hundredth time. I stepped off the road and strode up the small hill. The early-morning dew soaked through the bottom of my skirt and stockings, freezing my ankles. I was breathing hard under the strain of the incline by the time I reached the entrance to the cemetery. I didn't visit my father's grave much, mostly because I knew his spirit wasn't there. In life he'd thought cemeteries sinister and tended to avoid them, so I doubted he would be hanging around one now. Even so, sometimes I just wanted to talk to him, and knowing that the shell of his body—the smile I'd loved, the arms that had held me—was still there comforted me.

I tapped my grandfather's headstone and then my great-uncle's as I walked under an ancient oak. All of my family members on my father's side were buried here, sprinkled randomly throughout the graveyard. My father was at the very back of the cleared land in a secluded spot at the start of the forest. He'd ended up there because they'd run out of room in the graveyard proper, but at his burial I remember thinking that he wouldn't have minded. He'd loved the wilderness like his father before him and had resented modern conveniences like the trolley line, commenting often that Grandfather would turn over in his grave if he knew that the whizzing noise was drowning out the call of hungry owls and the crickets' hum.

As I advanced toward the patch of forest, my heart stilled with worry. Lost in thought, I almost didn't register that Franklin was in front of me. Kneeling at our father's headstone, his back was to me, heavy black overcoat pulled around his neck. I nearly
screamed. Instead, I stepped toward him cautiously, afraid that if I spoke his name, he'd run. Two feet away, I started to reach out and touch him, but thought better of it.

“Frank,” I whispered loudly. He whirled on his haunches and backed away, stumbling over a headstone behind him.

“Virginia,” he breathed, eyes wide with shock. “Get . . . get away from me. If they see you with me they'll . . .” He stopped midsentence and glanced around the cemetery. I kept walking toward him, but he held his hand out, keeping me back. Even in the dark, I could see that his face was haggard, stubble uneven and scraggly against his chin.

“What's happened to you? Where've you been?” Franklin backed into the woods and I followed. He remained half-crouched. “No one's here, Frank. I just walked through the whole cemetery.” He straightened a little at my words, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me further into the woods. He smelled awful, like unwashed skin. Frank turned to look over his shoulder, jerked me behind a mossy boulder, and forced me down next to him.

“You can't be seen with me, do you understand?” he asked softly, though there was a sharp edge to his voice.

“No,” I said simply. “I don't.” A thousand questions flew into my mind.

“We're . . . I'm being hunted and if they see you with me, if they see me anywhere near the house, they'll come for you to get to me. After Lydia . . . Tom sent the authorities to find me, John, and Doctor Hopper. Someone shot at me today as I was getting on the train; the police know I'm here.” Wind swept over us, unsettling the dry leaves on the ground, and Franklin's head twitched toward the noise.

“Why?” I asked. My hands began to shake in my lap and I gripped my fingers together to steady them. Frank leaned forward,
dropping his head into the shadow of the stone. “Why are the police after you? Why have you been lying to us?” Anger swept through me, but I forced myself to calm, bracing myself for what he'd say.