The lad was obviously stunned to see Rhianyn there in front of him, and likely somewhat afraid. But he tried to cover it by pulling out a switchblade, flipping it open, and leveling it in front of him.
“I don’t have time for crazy broads,” he exclaimed, his voice quivering a bit, but his urban ethnic accent revealing enough. Austro-Hungarian Jewish, Rhianyn thought. “Move it, Toots, or you’re gonna get cut, dame or otherwise!”
Rhianyn just glared at the kid. There was a time no doubt when such epithets would’ve been met from her with vindictive and wrathful retaliation. But those days were long gone. Rhianyn relaxed her stance and finally offered a thin smile.
“There’s a portal behind me with a ladder that leads to a stairwell that will take you down to street level,” she explained. “The back door to the alley is open. You can make a clean getaway. But you’ll have to get past me first… and kid, I’m honestly going to recommend that you just surrender the bag, put the knife away, and talk with me for a minute. Trust me on this, it will be a lot easier on you.”
The boy scoffed, laughing in ridicule. “Fine,” he said. “I warned ya. Have it your way, Doll-face.” And he lunged with the blade.
Rhianyn could’ve broken his arm if she wanted, but it wasn’t necessary in this case. For all the lad’s tough-talk, he wasn’t very strong nor terribly quick. She caught his wrist and gave it a powerful twist, enough to sprain it but not break it. The boy let out a pained yelp and dropped the knife. A moment later, Rhianyn had the same arm pinned behind him and his torso shoved up against the closed portal. His grip on the bag was lost a second after that, and he found his legs swept with a swift motion from Rhianyn’s foot, then his entire lanky frame prone and lying face down on the roof, Rhianyn’s knee pressed down on his back, her weight now holding him down. He tried to struggle, to flip himself over, but it was useless. She quickly pinned his other arm with her free hand. There was nothing he could do.
“Who… who the hell are you?!” the boy gasped.
At that moment, Lorewyn appeared on the roof herself, having followed the lad up the fire escape. She started running to where the commotion was, but soon stopped, seeing her wife in control of the situation, as expected. She couldn’t help but smile, and shook her head a bit.
“You okay here?” she asked.
“Yep, I got it,” Rhianyn replied, but motioned with her head to the knife and bag. “If you could just grab those for me… I’ll be done here in a little while.”
“You need me to…?” Lorewyn suggested, gathering up the items.
“No, I’m good, really,” Rhianyn assured her. “Check the apartment, make sure nothing else is missing or damaged. I’ll be down soon.”
Lorewyn nodded and exited through the portal. Rhianyn slowly relaxed her hold and helped the boy to his feet. He tried to make a run for it as soon as he was up, but Rhianyn’s lightning fast grip on his injured wrist stalled him and with another pained cry he stayed where he was, just looking at her in wonder and fear.
“You stay here and talk a bit, without running, and I won’t do anything else that will cause you injury,” Rhianyn promised. “Or embarrassment… seeing that you just got whipped by a Doll-faced Broad.” She paused, letting her words sink in. Then she finalized her offer. “Deal?”
The boy didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nodded. Rhianyn had a better chance to look him over now. From his clothing and personal upkeep, he didn’t seem impoverished or homeless. He looked like he could’ve been a local neighborhood youth. Lorewyn and Rhianyn had lived in Brooklyn for several months… they had never experienced a break-in before. Williamsburg was a decent community.
“Okay… so why were you in our apartment?” Rhianyn asked. “We don’t have anything of great value, as I’m sure you noticed.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but Lorewyn’s Phase Bow and Rhianyn’s Elven Defender were magically concealed. There was no way this boy would’ve been able to detect them. Everything else of value, such as wealth acquired during their lengthy tenure in Europe, was secured in a safe deposit box at a Manhattan bank.
The boy’s eyes narrowed, not sure whether or not she was going for a bit of humor in a moment that he didn’t find especially amusing. But maybe this was her way of trying to give him a chance?
“Yeah,” he replied. “I kinda noticed that. I guess I picked the wrong flat?”
“In more ways than one, yes,” Rhianyn said in return. “But why were you casing tenements here to begin with? I may not be much of a diviner, but you don’t seem to be starving from where I stand. What’s going on, kid?”
The lad’s expression became more stoic. “I have a name, Toots… I mean, Lady,” he shot back. “I’m not a kid.”
“Good,” Rhianyn responded with equal tenacity. “I’m glad. That means I can talk to you like a young man, not just some foolish child. And I’m not a Broad, or Toots, or Doll-face, or such. The Lady bit, well…” She couldn’t help but laugh to herself. Yellowfeather, you’d get a kick out of this. But she continued. “Anyway, my name’s Rachel… one of the occupants whose apartment you attempted to burgle.”
The boy sighed, but was starting to get the idea that this interaction was unavoidable. “Benjamin,” he stated in introduction. “But I go by Bugsy.”
“Bugsy,” Rhianyn repeated. “Okay, Bugsy, I’m still waiting for your explanation as to why you broke into our flat.”
“Look…” Bugsy exclaimed. “I’m sorry, okay? It was a mistake. A bad call. You got your stuff back. I’ll even fix your window for you, if you like. Can we just let this go? You showed me up, I’ll admit that. Pretty sharp for a d… I mean, a woman.”
Rhianyn had not expected this encounter to be as drawn out as it was proving to be. She had some choices, no doubt. She could just let him go right now, sure. She could also try to teach him a lesson by getting the police involved. But there was something here… something just told her that here, on this rooftop with this teenager, she had a chance to make a difference.
My experiences with Humans, she thought. Kids especially. She thought back to days long past. Libryll. Krysayra. She had come a long way.
“I really want to understand why you tried to steal from us,” she redirected, her voice more pleasant now but still genuine. “Were you trying to impress a girl? Or buy something for her with stolen assets?”
Bugsy just shook his head, but grinned at the insinuation. “Naw, nothing like that,” he answered. Then he appeared more sincere. “Okay, if I tell you, can you promise to keep it between us?”
Rhianyn considered for a moment. “I can promise if it doesn’t mean I have to turn my head while you do something else that’s going to hurt people,” she agreed.
“Fair enough.” Bugsy lowered his voice a bit, even though no one could possibly hear them up on the roof. “It was part of an initiation. I had to break in and steal something, you know… prove I was worthy. That sort of thing.”
Rhianyn nodded, beginning to understand. “A gang initiation. I see. And that’s important to you then?”
“Is what important?” Bugsy asked. “Initiation?”
“Proving yourself to someone else,” Rhianyn clarified. “Is that important to you?”
“Well…” He seemed to be thinking. “Yeah. I mean, if I want to be included, I gotta prove myself.”
“And by breaking into the apartment of two women when they’re not home and stealing stuff, what exactly are you proving?”
Now Bugsy just looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, what’s all this about, huh? I answered your questions. Can I go now?”
Rhianyn nodded. There was only so much that could be done on a rooftop. “Yes, you can go,” she stated. “But I want you to think about a couple things, okay? What exactly are you proving by doing what you did tonight? And is it more important to prove something to others, or to yourself? Can you do that for me? Think about that?”
Bugsy nodded in return and took a step back from her. “Yeah… I can do that.”
“Okay.” Rhianyn moved aside from the portal. “Just follow the ladder and stairwell, like I said earlier.” She started walking toward the fire escape.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Bugsy called after her. “Do I get my knife back?”
“No,” Rhianyn responded. “And consider this your one get-out-of-jail-free card. If I see you doing anything shady around this neighborhood again… Well, I’ll just leave it to your imagination.” And she slid down the fire escape.
Lorewyn was waiting in their apartment downstairs. Nothing else was missing, and she had recovered what was taken from the knapsack Bugsy had used. The broken window would be an easy fix.
“I imagine you made quite an impression on him, Blackbird,” Lorewyn commented. “The more I think about it, the more I believe you’d make an excellent mother. We should look at adopting.”
Rhianyn just laughed. “Do we have the option of exchanging them when they hit puberty?” She hung up her coat and sat down on the couch with her wife. “I think I’ve had enough Bugsy’s for the time being, thank you.”
“Bugsy…” Lorewyn pondered. “Wait, you mean Benjamin? Is that who that was? I’m pretty sure that’s Jennie Riechenthal’s second oldest. You know Jennie, right? They live in the next building over. She works at the laundry on Union.”
Rhianyn’s eyes widened. “Really, that was him? I thought he looked like a neighborhood kid. Do we know his father?”
“I’ve never met him personally,” Lorewyn replied. “But his last name is Siegel, I know that. Hardworking family, from what I gather. I would’ve never thought their son would be getting into a life of crime at such a young age.”
Rhianyn put her arms around Lorewyn and let out a gentle sigh. “You still keen on adopting, Yellowfeather?”
CHAPTER 3
Lorewyn’s work at Scribner’s was pretty routine until Spring of 1922. She had been with the publishing company for six months by then and had earned a reputation of being their fastest and most precise editing assistant. Max Perkins bragged about her constantly. She had just completed her proofreading of Edith Wharton’s The Glimpses of the Moon when Perkins called her into his office.
“I’m betting that’s gonna be Wharton’s second book that gets made into a film,” he commented, offering Lorewyn a drink from his private illegal stash. This was customary. Whenever she finished something or when there was some new project about to take place, he would always offer a drink or a smoke. She always turned them both down… cordially, of course.
“I wouldn’t be surprised at all,” Lorewyn agreed. “The Age of Innocence is a best-seller! And she won the Pulitzer with it last year too… first woman to pull that off, eh, Max? She even beat out Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street. You better watch out for us ladies in the book business!”
Perkins laughed and lit up his pipe. “Why do you think I hired you in the first place, Archer? You’re my inside gal! I need you to assess the competition!”
Lorewyn laughed in return. This was typical Max. He was keen on the banter, and Lorewyn could fire back with the best of them!
“And here I thought it was because you were afraid Goldberg would steal me away in the textile trade if you didn’t scoop me up first,” she countered.
Perkins offered another chuckle and shook his head. “Ariel Archer, you kill me… every time.” He motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk. Lorewyn took a seat. Max handed her a book that had been in front of him.
“But getting down to business,” he shifted his conversational demeanor. “You ever read this one?”
Lorewyn glanced at the cover. This Side of Paradise. “I’m familiar with the title. You edited this, didn’t you? But no, I haven’t read it.”
“He’s a brilliant young writer,” Max continued. “This was his first novel. Interesting story behind it. His first try to get it published failed, but he persisted, with some help from me I might add, and it did very well. He wrote some short stories as well, then started a draft on a second novel. His wife got pregnant with their daughter, beautiful baby girl, sweetest thing ever, and they moved to his hometown for a while. But they’re back in New York now, and he picked up the draft for this new work. I got a call from him saying that it’s ready for editing and hoping to be published as soon as possible. He wants a keen eye and a fast proof… and I told him there’s only one person I know who could do the job right.”
Lorewyn opened her mouth partway, but paused, surprised. “You want me to handle the final stages for his book?” she asked. “You want me on lead, running point?”
“Ariel, you’ve worked for me these past six months,” Perkins stated. “I would’ve never believed that a woman could be so skilled in this business, but you’ve shown me you got what it takes, and then some. This project’s all yours. I already arranged the meeting. Commodore Hotel on 42nd Street. Tomorrow lunch. He’s expecting you. You can get the manuscript from him then and work out whatever you need to, timeline, details, etc. We’re already preparing to print 20,000 copies on a first run upon completion of the edits and publication, based on how well his first novel did. Plus, some chapters of his draft were already serialized in Metropolitan Magazine toward the end of last year. Pretty good reception, so we’re confident.”
Lorewyn stood up and placed the copy of This Side of Paradise back on the desk. “Max, I’m… honored. Flattered even. I won’t let you down on this.”
“I ain’t worried a bit,” Perkins assured her, standing as well. Lorewyn was stepping out of his office going back to her work when Max offered one last comment. “When you meet with him tomorrow, do me a favor and check in with him about his title. I already gave him some advice, but… well, I think you’ll see what I mean.”
Lorewyn was too excited to wait until she and Rhianyn both got home that night to tell her wife the good news. She actually called Rhianyn during her rehearsal that afternoon at the Raven’s Nest. She skimmed through This Side of Paradise in preparation before going to bed. The next day, Lorewyn found herself on 42nd Street, entering the lobby of the relatively new Commodore Hotel. She spoke briefly to the Maître D’ and was escorted to a private booth in the hotel’s VIP lounge. A young man in his mid-twenties was waiting for her there. He stood up graciously and offered her a seat as Lorewyn was handing her coat to the Maître D’.
They made small talk for a bit and had some tea. Lorewyn got to hear about his wife, Zelda, their young daughter Frances, whom they had nicknamed “Scottie,” his time at Princeton, and his experiences in the army during the war. Lorewyn was careful with regards to her own personal details, of course, but mentioned that she lived in Brooklyn with her “sister,” never married, no kids. The spinster life. The author, who introduced himself as simply Scott, offered to “spice up” her tea with a flask he discreetly produced from under the table.
“I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Fi…” she started to say.
“Please, it’s Scott,” he insisted. “I so do hate the formalities of our day and age!”
“I understand that,” Lorewyn said. “Really, I do. But I don’t drink this early in the day, and certainly not if I’m working. And while this is a pleasant venue for a meeting, I am, in fact, working right now.”
The author understood and handed Lorewyn his manuscript. It was titled The Flight of the Rocket. Lorewyn subdued any outward reaction, but she now understood what Max had been talking about. She perused it briefly, checking its length, estimating word count, observing the author’s style.
“I’m sure I can have this ready for print in a couple weeks,” Lorewyn remarked. “I did a quick read through your first novel. I have a sense of your writing now.”
“Max speaks very highly of you,” the author stated. “And Zelda suggested that a woman’s perspective, as she called it, would be helpful. I agree. I trust you with it.”
“I appreciate that,” Lorewyn said in return and took a final sip of tea, preparing to leave with the manuscript.
“When this novel i
s published, I do hope you and your sister will come by for a visit. Perhaps supper sometime?”
Lorewyn smiled respectfully. “That’s a kind offer. I’ll bring it up with Rachel and see what we can arrange.”
“Zelda loves having guests,” Scott continued. “And I can’t resist introducing any and all of my friends to Scottie!”
Lorewyn signaled for her coat. She paused, however, and looked again at the author. “I have to ask, and this is more for me personally,” she said. “As I mentioned earlier, I read your first novel. It’s quite good. I’m fond of your short stories too. But you seem to be in a rush to get this second book published. Why? Why do you feel the need to write so prolifically? You’re a young man. You have plenty of time.”
The author considered for a moment, then responded, his mood taking a sudden dive from its joviality just seconds before. “Miss Archer… Ariel is it? I don’t have the physical looks to attract anyone’s attention. I don’t have the material wealth to be a mover or shaker in society. I’m not especially talented, nor bright, and I’m not even that personable. I’m the son of a furniture salesman from St. Paul, Minnesota. But I can write. I have things to say. I have ideas, experiences, and opinions. If I was a beautiful woman like yourself or a tycoon like John D. Rockefeller, I wouldn’t need words to make waves. But I’m not. So I use what I have. And as for being young and having time… well, youth is a dream, isn’t it? A form of chemical madness. And as for time… you can’t live forever, can you? I imagine that might be difficult for someone like you, whose beauty and youthfulness seem ageless, to understand.”
Lorewyn didn’t reply right away but just continued looking at him, donning her coat that had been brought to her. “I think I understand,” she finally offered. “In some ways it’s rather beautiful… and perhaps a bit damned as well.”
Two Birds, One Feather: The Lives and Times of Lorewyn & Rhianyn in America Page 4