“Hell of a lot better than that hole you’re living in,” Elliot murmured, too low for the landlady to overhear. David nodded, looking appreciatively at the clean counterpane and Franklin stove. There was no comparison to the unsavory waterfront boardinghouse that sheltered seamen on leave and newly arrived immigrants. And the location of Mrs. Chapman’s, on Broad Street near the corner of Wall, was just a fifteen minute walk to Leslie’s.
Still, six dollars was a lot, over half his weekly wages. Zach caught his eye. David smiled at him, unaccountably pleased at the thought of moving into lodgings with this friend.
“I’ll take it, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Chapman.
Chapter 5 — 1856-57
AT LEAST HE’D MOVED TO A DECENT BOARDINGHOUSE before his father’s visit. David sat stiffly on the horsehair sofa in the boardinghouse parlor, searching for a topic of mutual interest. George Carter gazed around the parlor, which they had to themselves on this warm Sunday afternoon, equally at a loss for conversation.
In the two days since his father’s arrival, David had shown him through Leslie’s, explaining the publisher’s innovation in dividing the wood blocks into sections of ten, twenty or more parts, tightly joined with screws on the back. “Then after the drawing’s completed, the block is taken apart for the engravers, so each section can be engraved by a separate man. It’s how we publish illustrations in the paper so soon after events happen. Otherwise it would take days to finish one picture. The engravers have to cut away the entire surface of the wood, except for the lines of the drawing. It’s an incredibly painstaking process.” George Carter had nodded dutifully at David’s words. He’d looked with polite interest at the steam engine that powered the printing press and the overlay forms that produced the effects of tone and shading in the printed illustrations.
That morning, they’d attended services at Trinity Church, returned to Mrs. Chapman’s for Sunday dinner. Now George Carter pulled out his watch. There were several hours yet till the scant supper Mrs. Chapman served on Sundays. He cleared his throat. “Your landlady sets a good table, though a bit heavy for this warm a day.”
David nodded. “How was your visit to Boston?” he inquired, certain he’d asked the question at least once.
“Very pleasant.” The older man brightened. “I accompanied Michael to a lecture by Dr. Bowditch on thoracentesis. It’s a procedure developed a few years ago to remove fluid accumulations in the chest. It’s quite simple really. A long needle is inserted into the chest, and then—”
“Good Lord!”
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t interest you that much.” His father smiled ruefully.
“I’m afraid not.”
There was another silence. “We went to the Common for the July Fourth celebration,” George Carter said finally. “It was quite spectacular. The highlight was a balloon ascension.”
David smiled. “I know. Elliot—he’s the younger man I introduced you to—made a copy of the balloon on the wood block, from a sketch done at the site. The children must’ve found it terribly exciting.”
“Yes, Becky especially. She talked about it for days.” His father shook his head, smiling. “She’s growing up so fast. She’ll be starting school this fall, you know.”
“It hardly seems possible. It seems just yesterday she was a baby.”
“That reminds me. Have I told you Rachel and Michael are expecting another child? A little after Christmas, they think.” He sat back, beaming.
“No, you hadn’t. Well, they must be pleased.”
“Very much so.” George Carter fell silent a moment. “I’m hoping, if it’s a boy, they’ll consider naming him after me,” he added, his voice suddenly shy.
“He’d still have a different last name though.” David wished he could call back his words, as his father’s face fell.
“Even so, it would be something. Though you’re right. I’d always hoped to have my son carry on my name.” The older man’s voice trailed off wistfully. He straightened his shoulders and looked at David. “Haven’t you ever felt that desire yourself?”
“I’ve never given it much thought.” David fell silent, plunged into introspection by his father’s question.
“I’m afraid I can’t picture myself the head of a household,” he said finally. “What I really hope for, to tell the truth, is to be remembered as an artist. That is, if I ever grow good enough,” he added, embarrassed.
His father nodded slowly. “I see. Well, you may yet change your mind about wanting a family.”
There was no sense upsetting him further. “Well, perhaps so, Dad,” David answered, sighing under his breath.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The supper dishes had already been cleared from the boardinghouse table Monday evening, by the time David returned from New Jersey, where he’d seen his father onto the overnight train to Washington.
“I knew you’d be late,” Zachary told him, “so I thought I’d wait and join you at Pfaff’s. I’ll be glad of a change from boardinghouse food.”
David smiled, glad of Zach’s company.
“Your father didn’t visit very long,” Zach said, once they’d settled themselves at a table and given the waiter their order.
“No, he’s eager to get home. He’s been away over a month.”
“He’s been up in Boston all that time?”
David nodded. “He likes to spend as much time as he can with his grandchildren. And Mike and Rachel too, of course.” He fell silent, reaching into the bread basket for a roll.
Zach reached into the basket without taking his eyes from David, his thick brows rising in silent inquiry.
“To tell the truth, I’m afraid Dad and I don’t have much in common.” David tore the roll in two. He stared down at the two halves. “I’ve always been a disappointment to him. He wanted a son like Mike,” he said, unable to stop himself.
Zachary stared in astonishment. “I don’t see how you can say that. You’ve told me he could never even bring himself to acknowledge him.”
“Well, of course, he was ashamed to admit he’d fathered a colored son. That’s not what I meant.” David hesitated, his fingers shredding the roll into crumbs.
“I think Mike spent more time with Dad than I did,” he said finally. “Dad always had him doing some job around his office. And he was always pleased with Mike. Well, not when he’d grown old enough to defy Dad, though I’m sure he cared for him, even then. But when he was a child, nine or ten, maybe....”
His words trailed off as his mind shifted back in time to another hot August evening. He sat in his room, staring idly out the open window, watching the shadow of the shed slowly creep across the yard. He could see his father’s stocky figure pass the entrance to the alley, Mike trotting alongside him, lugging the heavy medical kit proudly. He could hear them talking, though their words were too faint to make out.
David crossed the hall to his father’s room, looking out the window as his father and Mike came around the corner and passed beneath him. He could hear Mike’s words clearly now.
“Yassuh, but how you knows when his leg be healed enough so he don’t need the splint no more?”
David watched another moment as his father turned his head toward Mike, his expression softening into a smile as he started to answer. He didn’t feel like hearing any more. He walked back to his room and sank down on his bed.
He heard the door open. His father’s footsteps sounded on the stairs as he headed to his room to wash up for dinner. He looked in on David. “Good evening, son.” He paused. “What are you doing?”
David shrugged. “Nothing much, sir.”
His father sighed. “Surely you could find something worthwhile to fill your time. If nothing else, you could review your school lessons from last term. I’m expecting you to bring home better school reports than last year.”
“Yes, sir,” David mumbled.
He forced his thoughts back to the present, surprised to discover that his dinner had been set in fron
t of him. Zach was still staring at him in surprise.
“He was always so damn eager to learn. Mike, I mean.” David smiled ruefully. “He was just the way Dad wanted me to be, to tell the truth.”
“The father... manly, mean, anger’d, unjust. The blow, the quick loud word.”
David blinked. “What’s that?”
“A poem, or part of one anyway. By a man named Walt Whitman. He’s had a number of poems published in the Tribune the past few years. I’d like you to meet him one day. I warrant you he’ll be known as one of the great American poets, one of these days.”
“Oh. It didn’t sound much like poetry. Dad wasn’t like that though. I mean, he wasn’t harsh. He didn’t beat me. He never raised his voice much, for that matter. It’s just that he always let me know he was disappointed in me.”
Zach’s wide mouth curved upward in a smile, goodhumored lines forming above his silvery wreath of whiskers. “I didn’t mean Whitman’s words as a literal description of your father, David. They just came to mind.” He took a bite of his food, chewing with relish, then set down his fork.
“That’s not quite true, either. I guess you could say that quoting him was my roundabout way of saying it’s the nature of fathers and sons to disappoint each other.”
“Oh. Dad’s not disappointed in Mike though,” David blurted. “I mean, they’re always arguing about something, but you can see they like each other. And Dad’s forgotten he was ever ashamed of fathering Mike, he’s so proud to have a son who followed in his footsteps.”
“Not every son turns out the way his father hoped.”
“I suppose not.” David picked up his fork and pushed his food around his plate.
Zachary watched him a moment. “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but I am your friend. Why worry what your father thinks now? You’re not a boy, after all.”
David flushed. “That’s just what Dad’s always saying.”
“Well, he’s right. About that.” Zach smiled. “But far as I can see, you’ve turned out fine. You needn’t doubt yourself.”
David smiled back, warmed by his friend’s regard. “I try not to. Anyway, thanks for saying so.” He looked down at his plate again, in mingled pleasure and embarrassment.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
By the time a year had passed, David was surprised how much at home he felt in the chaotic, noisy metropolis. Lodging with friends helped, and agreeable evenings drinking with Elliot and Zach. He spent more hours with Zach alone, attending theater or wandering through one of the many art galleries that lined lower Broadway.
An exhibit at the National Academy of Design, early in 1857, attracted all three men. As usual they ended up at Pfaff’s. The smoke-filled cellar was crowded with hard-drinking, argumentative newsmen, tired doctors from New York Hospital, the clique of Bohemian artists and writers that out-of-towners flocked to see.
“I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit,” Zach said, hoisting his tankard, “especially the Hudson River landscapes. They put me in mind of the country upstate, when I was a boy.”
David voiced his admiration of William Mount’s rural Long Island scenes. Then, his tongue loosened by the beer and companionship, he blurted, “When I was a boy I used to dream of seeing my drawings hanging in a gallery.”
Elliot snorted. “We’re a damn sight better off with steady jobs. For every artist whose work’s in the Academy, there’s twenty sleeping in their studios because they can’t afford a boardinghouse.”
“Still, it would be good to have our drawings last longer than yesterday’s newspaper.”
Zach touched his arm. “More people read the daily papers than ever set foot in an art gallery, David.”
“I suppose.”
“And our work has an influence on the public. Yours more so than mine: one picture’s worth a thousand words. Take your drawing of those new immigrants just landed at Castle Garden.”
David nodded, pleased that Zach remembered his sketch of the sweating, stoic immigrant women, nursing their infants under the furtive privacy of a woolen shawl, keeping anxious watch over frightened, eager children while their menfolk went in search of ticket agents and information bureau.
“Even the Know-Nothings among Leslie’s subscribers were bound to see they’re just families no different than their own. And at least a few will see immigrants as being a little more their fellow men as a result. Just as Greeley’s efforts at hammering away at the institution of slavery will change our readers’ sensibilities on that score.”
“Huh!” Elliot scoffed. “Nine out of ten of those immigrants are ignorant, Pope-ridden scum! Is there anything that isn’t a mission with you, Zach? You don’t even have the excuse of being a churchgoer like Dick.”
“You don’t have to sit in church to feel the sufferings of your fellow men! I learned my zeal at my mother’s knee. More than one occasion, she fed some poor runaway at our table, and rested uneasy till she knew him safe.”
Elliot snorted again. “Anyhow, drawing’s just a trade like any other. And a damn sight easier way to make a living than most. There’s no need to make more of it.”
“I doubt you’d find many at Leslie’s agreeing with you,” David said. “Most of them would give notice in a minute if they could live off the sale of their paintings.”
He fell to thinking of Zach’s words. He’d rarely made a conscious effort to influence others with his sketches; in fact, his own feelings toward a subject were often unclear till he’d captured it on paper. “I’m afraid I never gave thought to changing the Know-Nothings’ views,” he confessed, hoping he hadn’t lowered his friend’s opinion of him.
Zach smiled. “I daresay you give yourself too little credit,” he said, laying his hand warmly on David’s a moment.
The night air struck their faces in chill contrast to the crowded tavern as they climbed back to the street. Zach shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’re in for another cold snap. A fire in our stoves will feel good tonight.”
Elliot laughed. “I intend warming myself at a better fire than that. I won’t bother asking you to join me, Zach. David?”
David hesitated, feeling urgency stir within him. But he’d accompanied Elliot to one house or another some half dozen times, joining in hurried, joyless union with women whose faces and bodies he barely remembered by the morning after. Each time, the warnings voiced by his father sounded louder in his mind. This wasn’t some small town. Who knew who had lain with these women or what diseases they carried? He’d thought of asking Zach to recommend a clean place, but it didn’t seem a thing he could ask this friend.
He shook his head. The chance of infection wasn’t worth the brief respite from lust lying with whores afforded.
Elliot turned away with a nonchalant wave of his hand. David turned his collar up against the wind and fell into step with Zach as they headed back to Mrs. Chapman’s.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Sleep eluded him that night. He tossed restlessly, his efforts to summon drowsiness driving it further from him. He turned onto his back, trying to ignore the urgent throbbing in his member, regretful now that he hadn’t accompanied Elliot to the brothel despite his fears.
Yet he’d never found more than brief, unsatisfactory respite lying with women. He thought suddenly of that first time he’d gone to a bawdy house, in company with his college friend, John Eustis. He’d been far too embarrassed to admit his disappointment to John afterwards. He’d walked alongside him in silence as they returned to the dormitory, trying to emulate John’s cocky, carefree grin.
He’d never approached—then or afterwards—the ecstatic heights that John had boasted of as they ambled back together, John smelling pungently of rich, masculine sweat, his broad shoulders straining his carelessly fastened shirt, his arm circling David’s shoulders in brief, warm comradeship.
David’s hand crept down of its own accord. Moaning in reluctance, he gave in to his pulsating need, surrendering himself to the relief of the familiar, lonely massage.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“The Glory of Young Men is their Strength.” Elliot’s voice wavered midway between scorn and envy as he read the caption printed under David’s sketch of a massively bulging bicep. “I suppose it’s all right for those with nothing better to do than stand around posing like Greek statues.”
David laughed. “That is a statue, so to speak. I drew it from a plaster cast Ottignon keeps in the lobby of his gymnasium to demonstrate his results. But the exhibition was impressive. I’ve never seen feats like some of his athletes performed.”
Zachary turned over his copy of Leslie’s, studying David’s half-page sketch of the gymnasium, the spectators in the flag-bedecked hall gazing open-mouthed at the gymnast soaring effortlessly on the flying rings—the highlight of the establishment’s semi-annual public exhibition. “I’ve let a few years go by since I last set foot in a gymnasium. I wouldn’t mind using some of Ottignon’s apparatus myself,” he mused.
Elliot guffawed, causing several heads to turn toward him with disapproval in the crowded boardinghouse parlor. “I’d like to see that, Zach, at your age.”
“You needn’t be so quick to sneer. I wasn’t referring to the rings. But I daresay this muscle building apparatus could benefit any of us. You’ll note,” Zach added, his finger lighting triumphantly halfway down the accompanying text, “that the list of members includes many persons of mature and even advanced ages.’”
David smiled. “Ottignon invited me to come back and try out his facilities with no charge.”
“Then by all means, let’s take him up on his invitation.” Zach folded his newspaper, beaming.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Without the hoopla of flags and orchestra, the gymnasium presented a different spectacle. A lone gymnast hoisted his body slowly above the level of the flying rings, toes pointed as he raised his legs to the horizontal, his biceps quivering as he held the position, then lowered himself into a straight-armed back somersault. The young men using the various pieces of apparatus paid him no more attention than they did the oversized mottoes on the walls. Their grunts and explosions of breath came at regular intervals in their rhythmic, self-absorbed repetitions. David stood a moment, eyes glued to their powerfully developed bodies.
Different Sin Page 5