“Then came the moment of truth, when Mr. Hearst turned to my father and said, ‘With your permission, I’d like to give the boy a chance.’ My father was in a tight spot and he knew it. The last thing he wanted was for me to forego Princeton to wander the streets of New York writing newspaper stories. But he also wanted to do everything he could to ingratiate himself, and attach himself, to Mr. Hearst, a powerful man deeply involved in some of Father’s business interests. In the end he had no choice but to agree, and so here I am, seven years later, still writing for Mr. Hearst.”
“What happened with the strike?” said Magda. In 1899, she had lived in a household in which any newspaper available was printed in German, so she knew nothing of the striking newsboys.
“Mr. Hearst says they reached a compromise, but the boys always said they won. The first thing I did after that conversation with Hearst and my father was to go to the rally on Frankfort Street. I met up with Tiny Tim and walked up Broadway with the boys as they carried their placards. I listened to what they said and took notes. I remember Kid Blink speaking to the crowd in his distinctive way.”
Tom stood and took on the pose of an orator, affecting a voice Magda and Gene had never heard. “Dey can’t beat us! Me nobul men is all loyal and wid such as dese to oppose der nefarious schemes, how can de blokes hope to win?” Magda burst out laughing at this performance.
“Did Hearst publish any of your stories about the newsies?” said Gene.
“No,” said Tom, “but he did read them, and maybe they helped him understand the boys a little better.”
“So why children’s books?” said Gene. “When you already have a successful career as a journalist.”
“That’s a story for another day,” said Tom, loath to discuss his experiences in San Francisco. “I’ve gone on long enough.”
With the other promenaders, they strolled the length of the Mall and descended to Bethesda Terrace and its magnificent fountain, surmounted by the statue of an angel. On such a beautiful summer’s day, people thronged round the fountain to feel the coolness radiate off the waters.
“Did you know,” said Gene, as they stood watching the crowd, “that the angel was made by a woman?”
“I wonder what Mr. Lipscomb would have to say about that?” said Magda.
Gene had it on good authority, though he did not share this information with the others, that Emma Stebbins, the sculptor, had spent much of her adult life living with a female lover. He had always felt a connection to that angel, as if it were watching over people like Gene and Princess Petunia and so many other men and women he had met in his nights at Paresis Hall—men and women who, like him, had to spend most of their lives pretending to be something they were not.
A sudden gust of wind blew spray across the terrace and, amidst little cries of mock terror, the crowd on the south side of the fountain moved away, leaving a wide-open spot along the pool just below the gaze of the angel.
“We need a photograph,” said Tom, whose Brownie camera hung around his neck. “A portrait of three writers on the brink of greatness.” A young man was standing nearby with his own Brownie, taking a photograph of the fountain, and Tom quickly imposed on him to take a picture using Tom’s camera. They stood at the edge of the pool, looking serious as the angel gazed down on them and keeping still as the young man pushed the shutter lever.
“That seemed a bit stiff,” said Tom. “Let’s do one more, only this time, let’s show the world Dexter Cornwall, Buck Larson, and Neptune B. Smythe.” Gene inclined his head to one side and placed a finger at his temple, in the way he imagined a young inventor would when pondering a new idea. Tom held out a palm and pretended to write on it with an imaginary pen, in the style of his invented cub reporter. Magda held one arm over her head and one in front of her, a pose she had seen acrobats take at the circus before beginning a trick. Once again, the young man pressed the lever.
XXI
New York City, Upper West Side, 2010
When Tales of Excitement for Boys and Girls arrived by messenger, Robert knew, even before he read the familiar chapter on pages thirty-six to forty-two, that he had found the source of the opening of The Last Adventure. Beneath the title on the front cover a banner proclaimed, featuring the long-awaited return of the tremendous trio. Robert guessed that the gaudily colored illustration on the cover showed Dan Dawson, Alice Gold, and Frank Fairfax—but the picture seemed unconnected to either the first chapter of The Last Adventure or to any other story in the magazine. It showed three youngsters sitting in the back of a fancy automobile, waving to crowds who stood on the sidewalk and leaned from the windows of office buildings (including the Flatiron Building). In the background, a driver struggled to control a runaway horse pulling a wagonload of vegetables, but neither the children nor the crowd seemed to notice this.
Of the twelve stories in the magazine, six were complete in themselves and six purported to be the first installments of various serials. In a “Note from the Editor,” on the first page, Mr. Herbert Pickering described the stories thus: “All of them are stories of vigorous adventure drawn true to life, which gives them the thrill that all really good fiction should have.” The claim that these outlandish stories were “drawn from true life” may have been the biggest lie Robert had ever seen in print.
He read through every story, but found none of the sort of subversive writing that characterized the first installment of the Tremendous Trio story. The rest of the content was poorly written and, despite the claims of the editor, dull. No wonder, he thought, the periodical had apparently folded after a single issue.
As he set the magazine on his desk, he had a sudden flash of memory, a cinematically clear picture of a spring day when he was twelve years old, walking on Rockaway Beach with his father, pausing their conversation whenever a jet roared overhead on the way to JFK a couple of miles away. He could feel the sand under his feet and hear the surf lapping the beach, and he could also feel that delicious sense of childhood excitement that came from living a fifteen-minute walk from the beach. Every time Robert stood on that strip of sand looking southeast across the water, he thought about the fact that the first piece of land in his line of sight was Brazil—where the Tremendous Trio had had their adventure in the Amazon. On the day that presented itself so vividly in his memory, Robert and his father had been strolling the beach, kicking the sand, and idly speculating on the fate of Dan Dawson, Alice Gold, and Frank Fairfax.
“Maybe they sail across the ocean,” said Robbie.
“Maybe they go into outer space,” said his father.
“Or to the center of the earth,” said Robbie.
“There’s only one problem,” said his father.
“What’s that?”
“Other adventure books had already sent people all those places long before the Tremendous Trio was written. That opening chapter makes it sound like this adventure will be something completely new.”
“Maybe it’s not about where they go,” said Robbie softly. “Maybe it’s about who they are.”
That comment rang in his ears as Robert returned his attention to the magazine in front of him. Advertisements mostly aimed at boys cluttered the final two pages. Readers could earn a hunting rifle or printing press or pocket watch by selling jewelry or sticking plasters or “popular articles.” They could become expert magicians or save their chewing gum wrappers to earn a stickpin or toothbrush or combination knife.
Besides the cover illustration, the only hint about the future of the Tremendous Trio came on the inside back cover where an advertisement proclaimed, “In Next Month’s Issue of Tales of Excitement . . .” This was followed by a short teaser for the next installment in each of the serial stories. About halfway down this list, Robert read, “The Tremendous Trio set out on their grandest adventure yet, but they each are carrying secrets that will shock and surprise their fellow travelers.” It wasn’t much to go on, and i
t raised more questions than it answered. How could this adventure be grander than a flight around the world? What secrets did they carry? Maybe he had been right that day at the beach—maybe the story was more about identity than adventure.
Robert thought how much Rebecca would love this puzzle. The two of them constantly solved conversational conundrums by looking up information online. Often, when whatever bit of TV they had chosen for the evening failed to stimulate them, they would each end up surfing Wikipedia and trivia sites, trying to surprise one another with obscure bits of information. “Did you know tug-of-war used to be an Olympic sport?” “Did you know the word Idaho was made up by a lobbyist?” They would work the New York Times crossword simultaneously, and on Fridays and Saturdays would offer each other help to finish the toughest puzzles.
It was all silly and pointless and Robert suddenly missed it terribly. He didn’t want to wait until Saturday to see Rebecca, no matter what he had said. It had been a stupid idea. Why should he hold her at arm’s length until he finished this journey? Why not let her travel with him? He carefully closed Tales of Excitement, picked up his phone, and called her.
“Hi, this is Rebecca,” said the message. Her voice was calm and measured. Robert could tell she had rehearsed this recording. “Leave a message and I’ll call you back. If this is Robert, I’ll talk to you on Saturday like we agreed.” Then, nothing.
So, he would have to wait until Saturday.
A few minutes later, Robert still sat staring into space, willing the time to pass faster when the phone rang.
“Mr. Parrish?”
“Yes.”
“This is Elaine, at the St. Agnes Library. We’ve had a cancellation by our reader on Saturday morning, and wondered if you would like to do story time again. Maybe read some more of the book you were sharing last week?”
Robert certainly wanted to read more of the story to the children at the library. But could he read to a group of eager children knowing he was little more than an hour away from meeting Rebecca? Last week, the children had clamored for more when he had announced that story time was over. He remembered the look of excitement and anticipation in their eyes as he read, the way they sat upright or grabbed a neighbor’s arm when something scary happened, the collective holding of breath when one or all of the Tremendous Trio faced danger. He had loved that and had imagined Rebecca would sit beside him the next time to share in that experience. But he could not resist saying yes to Elaine. Story time ended at eleven. That would give him an hour to get to the Ramble.
Robert sat back in his chair and dared to imagine their reunion—Rebecca’s curls sparkling in the sunlight, her smile as she looked up to see him. But before his mental movie had reached the point where either one of them spoke a word, the projector sputtered to a stop as a painful thought struck him—what if she didn’t come?
XXII
Summer in New York,
When the Giants Played at the Polo Grounds
Magda had finally stopped her hands from shaking as she sat in a chair in Mr. Lipscomb’s office in the guise of Marcus Stone of Philadelphia. They had been talking for ten minutes now, and Mr. Lipscomb gave no hint that he recognized either Magda or her gender. She began to relax.
Mr. Stone’s manuscript, Danger under the Big Top, had arrived in the post two days earlier, or so Magda had told Mr. Lipscomb.
“It’s the first in a series called Dan Dawson, Circus Star,” said Magda.
Lipscomb had read a few chapters and then asked Magda to set up a meeting with Mr. Stone, who had, she told her employer, been happy to take an early train up from Philadelphia.
“He needs to do more than just have adventures under the big top,” said Mr. Lipscomb, chomping on his gum.
“Oh, he does,” said Mr. Stone. “He travels around the country and—”
“That’s not enough,” said Lipscomb. “I had a manuscript in here the other day about a boy who saved people from disasters. What if your circus daredevil did something like that?”
Magda recognized the description of Tom’s proposal and saw an opening. She knew that Lipscomb had forced Tom to give up the idea of having his reporter rescue people, so why shouldn’t she use it in her book?
“A brilliant idea,” said Mr. Stone. “He’s an acrobat with the circus but wherever he travels he ends up in some sort of disaster—fires, floods, that kind of thing. And he uses his acrobatic skill to save people. He could climb burning buildings or swim across raging rivers.” Magda hoped Tom would be pleased she had found a way to keep his idea alive.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Lipscomb, leaning forward in his chair. “Now you’re talking like a writer of children’s series. Make the first volume about a storm. Something like what happened in Galveston back in 1900. How soon could you get me a manuscript?”
“How soon do you need it?”
“I want to launch three new series for Christmas,” said Lipscomb. “That means a clean manuscript by the first of October.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Mr. Stone.
When Magda came in later that day, Mr. Lipscomb asked her to please draw up a contract for Mr. Marcus Stone. She had sent a contract to Tom a few days earlier. It only remained to get Gene into the Pickering stable.
Magda now knew that Lipscomb wanted one more new series for Christmas. She had proposals from six different writers tucked away in her desk, hidden from him until she had a chance to make her own pitch. She did not feel particularly guilty about withholding these submissions, as none of them were as good as the ideas she, Tom, and Gene had. Most were, in fact, rehashes of series that Pickering was already publishing (or had already canceled due to low sales figures). On top of the pile lay what Gene had given her when he took her home after dinner at Delmonico’s—his proposal for a series called Alice Gold, Girl Inventor.
“Mr. Lipscomb,” Magda said the next day as the editor pulled on his coat to leave the office. “Did you still want one more new series for Christmas? Maybe something Stratemeyer doesn’t have?” She knew exactly how to pique Mr. Lipscomb’s interest. There was nothing he wanted more than that which Edward Stratemeyer did not have.
“That’s right,” he said.
“This one came in today, and I think it’s worth a look. It’s about an inventor who travels to different cities across the country solving problems.”
“Stratemeyer has inventors in the Great Marvel series,” said Mr. Lipscomb, reaching for the door.
“Yes, but this inventor is a girl.” Lipscomb stopped and turned back to Magda.
“A girl?”
“Fifty percent of children are girls,” said Magda, “and we publish almost nothing for them.”
“Yes, but an inventor? Do you really think a girl can be an inventor?” Magda seethed inside. She wanted to shout at him—Do you really think an airship could travel to the center of the earth? Do you really think a fifteen-year-old could pilot a submarine? Do you really think an acrobat would make any difference during the Galveston hurricane? Of course a girl could be an inventor. And a girl could be an author or a publisher. A girl could rope a steer or ride a runaway train or sail through a typhoon or any of the other things the heroes of Pickering books did. A girl could sculpt an angel for a fountain. A girl could even watch her family drown and burn in a horrible tragedy caused by men, and get a job to support herself, and fool an idiot of a publisher into thinking she was a man and into publishing her book.
But she said none of this.
“Fifty percent of potential customers, Mr. Lipscomb. And look at the new series Stratemeyer has out this year: Boys of Pluck, Boy Hunters, Boys of Business. You could have the field practically to yourself.” She did not mention that Stratemeyer’s Bobbsey Twins series had been selling well among girls.
“But this Alice Gold series, it’s not written by a woman?”
You filthy, smug, misog
ynistic rat, Magda wanted to say. But she cared about Gene and she cared about keeping her job, so she played Lipscomb’s game.
“Why of course not, sir. It wouldn’t be proper for a woman to write books.”
“Exactly so, exactly, so,” said Lipscomb.
“The author is a man named Eugene Pinkney, but he’s using the pseudonym Buck Larson.”
“Buck Larson,” said Mr. Lipscomb thoughtfully. “I like that. Sounds manly.”
“I’m sure Mr. Pinkney is quite manly,” said Magda, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks. Lately, she had been thinking altogether too much about Gene’s manliness.
“She can’t go traipsing about,” said Mr. Lipscomb. “This Alice Gold character. She needs to stay at home, invent things for the modern household.”
“It’s dizzying to watch your mind at work,” said Magda.
“Have this Mr. Pinkney come and see me,” said Mr. Lipscomb.
“I’ll set up an appointment tomorrow,” she said.
Two days later the three of them sat at Childs eating an early supper.
“I guess now we have to write the books,” said Tom.
“Easy for you two,” said Gene. “You’ve both already written one. You just have to change it around. I’m starting from scratch.”
“More than change it around,” said Tom. “No daring rescues, new type of adventure. The only thing that’s the same is that my character is a reporter.”
“And thanks to Tom,” said Magda, “my circus acrobat is the one who has to contend with all the disasters.”
“I really wanted to write about those,” said Tom wistfully. He did not say that his desire to invent fictional rescues stemmed from his frustration at being unable to effect real ones in San Francisco.
“You can help me,” said Magda.
“I’d like that,” said Tom, resting his hand tentatively on Magda’s shoulder.
Escaping Dreamland Page 20