The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (28 page)

“I don't care,” Bessie said, reaching for the doorknob.

“Please.” I started to get up from the couch when Bessie turned to look at me one last time. Chilly air blew in from the open door. “Surely someone knows where they've gone. Please, Bessie. Pay close attention for me.” She shook her head, but as she stared into my face, I knew she'd agreed. She was my sister and could tell I was miserable. She'd help me if she could.

The door slammed behind her and I watched her amble across the lawn, sling open the fence, and turn back to close it. Life confused me. The mix of pain and love and suffering and happiness didn't make sense. Neither did the timing of it all. I opened the envelope beside me and withdrew the magazine. I flipped past the index to find a short note from Mr. Gilder printed before the first story. I scanned it, found my name among the words, and closed the volume. A month ago, this page would have filled me with satisfaction and joy. Now, I felt nothing. Charlie's efforts on my behalf had been selfless and kind, but thinking of him at all only reminded me that I'd been deceived by every man I'd ever loved. I flung the magazine across the room, satisfied with the loud smack of the spine meeting the wall. I plucked my notebook from the arm of the couch and my pencil from the table beside me, thoroughly angry with everything and fully prepared to pour all my bitterness into my novel.

A
levia was sitting on the spoon-backed velvet armchair in the parlor staring out at the blue sky through the frosted windowpanes. There had been clouds or rain for the past two weeks, ever since the first of December, and a bit of sun was welcome.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” I sat down on the tufted couch behind her and opened my notebook, relishing the warmth from the fire in the hearth. I'd poured myself into my novel over the past month and had finally worked out a daily routine, though I still had days where I did nothing but make myself sick thinking of John and Franklin.

Alevia's hair was down, black waves cascading down her back, and she nodded, without bothering to look at me. It was ten in the morning, but she hadn't dressed. She hadn't changed from her sleeping gown for days now.

“Are you all right?” I asked, fully knowing she wasn't. I wasn't either. Our bank account had dwindled to nearly nothing. Yesterday, while Mother, Bessie, and Alevia gathered around our ledger
trying to figure how we could survive the next months, I'd retreated to Frank's room. With the sound of my family's muffled worries in my ears, I'd cursed him until my rage turned to despair and I'd crumpled on his bed weeping, guilt threatening to overtake me. Frank said he hadn't agreed to sell for Doctor Hopper on account of me, but he'd begun right after Charlie's proposal, right after Charlie had made it clear that he'd asked for Rachel's hand because she had money he needed.

Alevia sighed, eyes rolling toward the whitewashed ceiling before finally making their way to mine.

“Of course I'm all right. What do you think? I'm positively thrilled that I've been dismissed from the Symphony.” Her sharp response startled me. I'd expected a muted “no.” She kept her gaze fixed to mine and I noticed the swollen bags under her eyes. Her misery filled me with remorse. If I hadn't let Charlie's betrayal consume me so entirely, perhaps Frank would've remained at J. L. Mott, leaving us poor but safe from ruin. “I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, Gin,” she said softly.

“You can't let Damrosch defeat you. He's only one conductor. There's still the Philharmonic and the Women's Symphony. You can't let him stop you from playing. You're too talented.”

“You don't understand.”

“Really?” I said angrily before I could stop myself. I was tired of Bessie and Alevia moping around as if they were the only ones who'd lost everything. “You of all people should know that I've stomached my fair share of disappointment. I was rejected from
The Century,
only to find out that a work Tom plagiarized was accepted
.
You were there when I lost Charlie and you've watched as I've suffered through the great possibility that I've lost John as well, not to mention our brother.” Alevia looked down at her hands, long fingers drumming anxiously in the air.

“I know. But Harvey hasn't stopped believing in your work. You know I've never cared much about men or marriage. All I've ever wanted is to play the piano and Franklin has taken that from me.”

“That's ridiculous. He has not. In fact, if it hadn't been for Franklin, you would've never met Lydia and Damrosch never would've accepted you.” Alevia remained silent. “Futhermore, Franklin hasn't stolen your ability to play. You still have all ten fingers and I guarantee that if you sat down at the piano right now, you could play whatever piece you wanted.” I pursed my lips at her, trying to channel Mae. I didn't have her gentle-mannered bluntness and wished she was here. She'd come to loan us some money yesterday with the promise that she'd return after school today. She and Henry had come to the house for dinner almost every day since Frank's disappearance. I was thankful for their company. Although I was certain her nerves were as frazzled as everyone else's, she was a calm presence.

“That's not what I meant, Virginia,” Alevia whispered, though her words were edged with ice. “I could sit in the corner and play brunches and parties until I'm too old to see the notes, but I don't want to. That's not excellence, that's average. And I had finally made it. Now I'll never have another chance.” I started to disagree, but Alevia kept talking. “I know what you're going to say. I love you for trying to cheer me, but Damrosch won't change his mind. Franklin isn't here for a reason. Whatever he's done, he knows he can't return and Damrosch won't consider me unless Franklin redeems himself, whatever that means. And I won't audition for the Philharmonic again. They won't hire a woman.” Alevia took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. I had never heard her speak this directly. Tragedy and worry had hardened her, as they had Bess. Anger had drawn them closer together. In contrast, I found myself rattled, vacillating between moments of calm and alternating fury
or melancholy—though I never let my family see me break. I couldn't, lest they believe that I, too, had turned my back on my brother and John.

“I
am
right,” Alevia said. As much as I wanted to argue with her, I couldn't. “You love Franklin and nothing he could ever do, even this, will make you stop loving him. You've always been his pet and him yours, but he's ruined us, all of us . . . our livelihood, our dreams. I've watched you try to write. It takes you hours to pick up the pencil. I know it's because you're worried. He's killed your creativity, your ability to breathe.” She was wrong. True, I was worried, but over the past several weeks, I'd written better than I had in months, writing through my pain, using it for good.

“Don't act as though you don't love him, too. He's your
brother
, Alevia, and whatever he's done—” She cut me off, shaking her head.

“I hope that I'll be able to forgive him later, but right now, I am too angry. I hate him.” She said it quietly, turning her gaze to the jumping fire. I remembered his face stretched with worry in the dark. He loved our family. Alevia's words would break him. I inhaled the yeasty scent of baking bread as the logs popped in the hearth. Mother had been making a loaf first thing in the morning for the last few days.

“Hate him if you want, but it won't change anything. It's Damrosch you should be angry with. He let his emotions get in the way of his work.” I stood to leave before she could disagree with me. I started toward the front door. I needed to walk, even if it was just to the end of the street and back. The gloominess of the house was weighing on me.

The street was silent save the distant clanging from the iron factory. My breath hovered in front of me. Smoke trailed from the chimney of each house, puffing toward the blue sky like steam
chugging from a train. A door echoed up ahead and two children sprinted down the front steps chasing each other and laughing. Obviously not siblings—the boy had a full head of bright red hair, while the girl's was raven black—they ran round and round the yard until the boy pulled up a handful of grass and threw it into the girl's face. Her smile drooped and she stopped running to wipe the blades from her eyes. The boy stopped then, too, and walked toward her.

“I'm sorry,” I heard him say as I passed. He hugged her, little arms wrapping tightly around her back. She threw hers around him in turn and tossed him to the ground. She laughed at his surprised face, and at once I was reminded of Charlie. We'd only been children, maybe eleven or twelve, and we'd been playing cowboys and Indians in the snow during that lazy lull of a week between Christmas and New Year's. Santa Claus had given Charlie a bow and arrow and Frank a cap gun. Though I hadn't received anything remotely useful to bring to the game—my stocking had been filled with colored pencils and an orange—I'd insisted on playing, too, wielding a sling shot made from a leather strap cut from one of Father's old suitcases and whatever rocks I could find. Charlie and I had been chasing Frank, and after our third lap around the house, I'd decided to hide in one of the bushes and scare him. Hearing a running stride, I'd jumped from my hiding place at the wrong time, startling Charlie instead and causing him to scream at the top of his lungs like a little girl. Thinking it hilarious, Frank had doubled over laughing, but Charlie's face had burned red and he'd leveled his bow and arrow at my chest. The felt-tipped arrow hadn't hurt me, but his anger had, and before I could think twice I'd raised my slingshot and hit him in the forehead with a rock. I'd regretted it immediately, but he'd touched the red spot, raised his face, and laughed.

The familiar feeling of Charlie's friendship flowed through me and I urgently wished he were here. Even though I'd always been a believer in the idea that things happened the way they were supposed to, I couldn't help but wonder how differently things would have turned out if Charlie and I had married. I know I would have been happy because of my love for him, but also because I wouldn't have known anything else. I would have written exclusively for the
Bronx Review
until I felt like quitting. I never would have written my novel nor gone to the Society nor fallen in love with John nor met Frederick Harvey. The thought of John made my heart still. If I concentrated, I could feel the way his gaze set my stomach tumbling, longing for his touch, and the way his surety, the promise of his love, settled it. But his memory was so muddled now. I longed for the man I'd known, grieved for the torn part of him I hadn't, and despised the darkness he'd hidden from me. In spite of my confusion, the possibility of how different my life could have been without him was startling. Even given the hardship, I was glad for the opportunities I'd been given.

I started back home. After the rain, the sunshine made the paint slathered on each identical home look surprisingly fresh. I waved at Mrs. Jacobson who'd stepped onto her porch in her late husband's buffalo fur coat to collect her paper. Nearing eighty, she was the oldest and last original owner of the houses on our block.

“Do be careful out there, Miss Virginia. It's been raining for days and bound to be icy!” she called out. I nodded at her and kept on, refreshed and glad for the warmth when I finally made it inside. I unbuttoned my kid leather boots and left them on the front rug. As I'd come to expect, the house was quiet save the sharp dinging of the grandfather clock in the drawing room.
Hanging my mink coat on the rack next to the door, I started toward the stairs. I paused as I passed the dining room. Mother had just set out the plain white china bowls—we were having barley stew again for lunch—and was staring at the portrait of my father. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn't blink. A cup of coffee steamed next to the open newspaper in front of her and I walked into the room and sat down across from her.

“Mother,” I whispered. She didn't acknowledge me at all, but kept staring over my head at Father, hand pressed to the lapel of her gray flannel walking suit. “Mother,” I said again. This time her eyes landed on mine.

“Now I know why he hasn't come home. Your brother . . . he's ruined. He's ruined us.” She said it evenly, but her words stung like a stitch threaded through an open wound.

“What do you mean?” I started to think she'd lost her mind before she lifted her hand from her lap and scooted the newspaper across the table. I didn't want to look, but forced my eyes to the page. The headline, “
Blaine Family Suspects Murder in the Death of Daughter”
was in bold on the right-hand side of the front page next to an article detailing Jack Astor's new home plans. Suspects, not confirms. I comforted myself before I started reading.

            
Authorities in Manhattan are searching for self-made physician to the elite, Doctor Jacob Hopper, his son, Mr. John Hopper, and business partner, Mr. Franklin Loftin. A source close to the Blaine family of Manhattan says that the three suspects have been prescribing and distributing an expensive unpatented drug called Optimism Solution, prescribed to patients for depression. After much digging, it appears that the drug, injected intravenously, was verbally said to be perfectly safe for use, but according to a waiver
that many users were forced to sign ahead of time, Doctor Hopper, his son, and Mr. Loftin knew that there was a possibility that the drug could be lethal. Thus far, it has been determined that Miss Blaine's death was not the only casualty. Others, including the death of Mr. Marcus Carter, are thought to be a result of high dosages of this drug. Authorities fear that the Hoppers and Mr. Loftin fled the city after the death of Miss Blaine. The source has disclosed to us that a toxicology analysis found Miss Blaine's body to be flooded with lethal doses of both cocaine and morphine. An official warrant has been awarded authorities in order to bring these men to justice.

I dropped the paper and looked at Mother. Her face was pale, wrinkles etched deeply into skin taut with worry. I cursed under my breath. Damn them for doing this to us. Regardless of what I'd promised Franklin, I had no choice.

“I saw Franklin.” Mother's eyes flashed at my words and I stood from my chair. “I'm going to get the others. It's time you knew.”

H
e's destroyed us.”

That was the first thing Bess said after I'd gone on for nearly half an hour explaining how I'd come to see Franklin, what he'd said, and why I hadn't told them any of it. She glared at me, fluffing her enormous gigot sleeves. I slammed my hand on the oval walnut dining table and stood up. Mother's head jerked up from her lap.

“Don't you understand?” I said. “Frank and John didn't know—well, Frank suspected, but he didn't know for sure. Our brother is somewhere out there running for his life and all you worry about is our reputation?”

“Sit down,” Mother said and I did, seething. None of them understood, not even Mother. As horrified and filled with rage as his actions made me, I'd seen his remorse. I knew his heart.