Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  Visions of her grandparents and her father swirled in her mind. Somehow, she could imagine them smiling at her from far away. Tillie had meant what she’d said, hadn’t she? She’d be perfectly content in a boardinghouse. And she would learn to cook soup. Right now, all she could do was butter her toast. She was fairly sure she could live on soup and toast.

  One of the maids knocked on the door. “You’ve a visitor, Miss.”

  “I don’t want to see James,” Tillie said.

  “It isn’t Mr. Cutter, Miss. Your grandmother says to send them up.”

  A few minutes later, a woman entered the room. She wore a simple dress of brown poplin and a matching hat decorated with cream ribbons. She was older than Tillie, younger than her mother, with light-brown eyes that were large and steady. A tiny circlet of pearls was pinned at her throat.

  She looked about the room; looked at Tillie in her sickbed, the reddened but healing marks on her face; and sat down on the chair that her mother had recently vacated. Finally, she swelled her breath to speak.

  “Baked mud.”

  Tillie’s mouth dropped open in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

  “Baked mud. You wanted to know what elephants smell like. That and elephant feces. Really, they smell like a barnyard, though in the wild, I can imagine their odor is different.”

  “You . . . you’re Nellie Bly.”

  “Yes. I’ve only just received all your letters. I was in Europe, but I am back now.” A spasm of sadness constricted her eyes. “My sister died suddenly, and I had to come home.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tillie whispered.

  “It looks like we have suffered the same loss, though yours was more nefarious. Mine was just due to nature.”

  Tillie nodded. She was a little starstruck, sitting before the most famous female journalist in the world. Nellie Bly was right here, in her bedroom.

  “When I arrived, your grandmother asked me to speak to you about my life as it is now,” Nellie said matter-of-factly.

  “She did?”

  “Yes. To let you know that I have been married now for many years and am quite financially comfortable due to my advantageous match.”

  Tillie was taken aback at the disclosure of such personal information. Famous as she was, Nellie was still a stranger.

  “I see.”

  “Writing for a living is a perilous undertaking, Miss Pembroke. The work is hard, the pay is poor, and there is no guarantee that your editor will want your ideas.”

  Tillie’s shoulders drooped. “Then you think I should give it up, like you did? And marry?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Nellie leaned forward. “I kept writing after I married. I covered the National American Woman Suffrage Convention in Washington during my newlywed year. Granted, when we first were married, my husband gave me no sense of security. If he died, not a penny would come to me. That has changed since, but back then—I knew I had to take care of myself.” She leaned back.

  “But now that you have that security—”

  “I am not retired from my journalistic career, Miss Pembroke. In fact, I am far from done. There are some organizational items I must attend to in my husband’s business. I’ve been in Europe far too long. I may even try my hand at inventing.”

  Nellie rose to her feet. “I came here for three reasons,” she said. Tillie got the feeling, both from her articles and her current presence, that Nellie did not beat about the bush. “One, to make sure you weren’t dead. And here you are: you are quite alive. Your last letters were a bit worrisome. Two, to ask if you’ve found the monster who killed your sister.”

  “Oh. I have not. But I have an idea as to how to find them.”

  “I see. I assume I’ll read an article about that when it happens. Don’t get yourself killed in the process. The stunts these young journalists do to sell a paper!” She shook her head.

  “But weren’t you afraid to do some of these things you did?” Tillie asked.

  “There are stunts, and there is immersing yourself for the sake of gathering information for the public. Know the difference between them.” Her voice softened. “I have done some things because I hadn’t the courage to say I was afraid. And I learned more about myself in the process. Safe does not make for a good story.”

  “So . . . you didn’t come here to convince me to stop writing? Grandmama—”

  Nellie straightened, looking like a thousand-year-old tree, ever impervious to the wind. “I have told you the facts of my circumstances. As in the newspaper business, it is up to the reader to decide for themselves what to think. I think for nobody but myself, Miss Pembroke, and I suggest you do the same.” She turned, and her skirts swept the carpeted floor as she left.

  “Wait! What was the third thing?” Tillie asked.

  She paused at the door. “Oh. For the love of Pete, stop writing to me. Four letters to all my residences and my editor? It’s a waste of paper, and I shan’t write back. I’m too busy. Good day to you, Miss Pembroke.”

  CHAPTER 25

  But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!

  —Van Helsing

  All at once, just a week after the lesions had begun to erupt, they scabbed over, and Tillie’s reflection resembled a raisin-studded vanilla cookie. And then the scabs fell off, leaving shiny, reddened marks that sank into her skin, as if a tiny bite of flesh had been taken in the process. A hundred greedy bites, all over her body. A payment for sickness, as if the sickness were not payment enough as it was.

  “It’s not so bad,” Ada said. She had returned after Tillie’s lesions were deemed fully healed. “With a little powder, they’re less noticeable.”

  “Ada, they are as noticeable as a fly doing the backstroke in a bowl of cream soup.” She sighed. It didn’t bother her that much; what bothered her was how melancholy her mother had become, fussing over her situation. How everyone’s eyes would land on her and think the cruelest things, and those words would make their way to her mother’s ears. It was common knowledge that Tillie was once considered “a fine girl,” which was a euphemism for “not quite pretty but not absolutely ugly either.” Now, they feared she was intolerable.

  One good effect of her illness was that leniency had entered the household. Perhaps the fear of losing Tillie altogether had made them loosen their grip; perhaps since her prospects had plummeted as her pockmarks settled in permanently, they decided that all hope was lost anyway. No matter what the reason, it felt as though the giant’s fist around her had begun to uncurl. Tillie could breathe again. She could write letters and receive them, uncensored, and she had begun, with Ian’s help, to plan the final test of her hypothesis—the reason why she’d sickened herself.

  Accompanied by Ada, and with Ian secretly watching from a distance, she took three separate walks outside, sometimes in the daytime, when Lucy had disappeared, sometimes later. Twice, she walked in Central Park, hoping that being in the vicinity of where the victims had been found might incite an attack. She’d even convinced Ada to remain a good distance away. Ada would rub her growing belly and glance around, still looking and longing for John.

  Nothing happened.

  Somewhere after her fifth attempt in two weeks, she stopped trying. And then a letter arrived.

  It was from Tom Erikkson.

  Tillie’s fingertips went numb at reading his name on the envelope.

  Dear Miss Pembroke,

  If you have not already burned this letter, then call me blessed. There is no excuse for my actions. I have asked myself countless times why I acted so monstrously, but all the reasonings behind my behavior do not lessen what I have done. I am deeply sorry. My family have attempted to make excuses upon my behalf to prevent me from heading to the Tombs and being locked away at Sing Sing, which is where I belong. They were successful, for good and for bad.

  I am hoping that I can apologize in person. A letter can be written by anyone, and it can too easily bec
ome a mask obscuring true sentiment. I realize you owe me nothing, less than nothing, but I am begging for a chance for forgiveness. I dare to hope to become a better example of what God had intended me to be.

  I will be at Bryant Park on Thursday at four o’clock p.m. I hope to see you then.

  Yours in regret,

  Tom E.

  Tillie dropped the letter on the floor.

  Her first thought was to burn it.

  Her second thought was that an outdoor area at Bryant Park was an absolutely abysmal place to set up her murder. Public places were inconvenient in that respect. But perhaps it was chosen as such, a good distance from his home and away from the sites of the other murders, so she might feel safe. And she did, now that she considered it.

  I could see what he has to say and question him further about his father, Tillie thought. Ada could watch her from afar. And Ian.

  The next day, Tillie spoke to her mother. Tillie no longer woke up after noon; she was up by seven in the morning, tapping away at her typewriter after breakfast.

  “I’m to meet Tom Erikkson today,” she said. She and her mother had taken to walking together once the morning rush had sped by on the avenues.

  “That’s an absolutely wretched idea. You mustn’t.” Her mother held an umbrella above them both. She shunned the sunlight, but Tillie always ducked aside to absorb the warmth and light when she could.

  “Ada will be with me. So will Ian.”

  “Please stop communicating with that person, Mathilda.”

  “He’s just a friend, Mother.”

  “Womenfolk do not befriend men. It is exceptionally scandalous when both are unmarried.”

  Exceptionally scandalous. Tillie would like to embroider that on her lapel.

  “Well, it’s not like James Cutter is a better option,” Tillie said. “He hasn’t visited me once since I recovered.” Amongst his other terrible attributes, like having affairs under his fiancée’s nose and impregnating the maids against their consent.

  Her mother sighed. “Perhaps it’s for the better.” She tightened her grip on Tillie’s arm. “I should tell you. There are rumors that he’s setting his sights on Dorothy. He’s been to her home to visit nearly every day this week.”

  “He has? That’s terrible!” Even after she’d told Dorothy about James and Hazel?

  “Terrible? Well, for us, perhaps. It would be wonderful for Dorothy, though the Cutter family doesn’t get so much out of the match. The Harrimans’ fortune has taken a turn for the worse these last few years.”

  “You’re sad for me, Mama. Don’t be.”

  “I don’t want you to be alone in life,” she said. “Being alone is terrifying.”

  “Are you so terrified, now? You have me, and you have Grandmama.”

  “I’m not speaking of myself,” she said. “I had my time. I was married. I’m speaking of you.”

  Tillie reached for her mother’s hand. It had gone thinner of late. The tendons showed more clearly, as if a reminder to all that a Pembroke was flesh and bone, after all, not just gilt clocks and large mansions.

  “Mama. Do you miss him?”

  Mrs. Pembroke looked almost terrified at the question. She smiled, a plastic smile, and said, “I’m very happy, Mathilda.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Tillie waited, letting the silence stretch out thin as skim milk. Mrs. Pembroke suddenly inhaled sharply, as if she’d been holding her breath for a decade.

  “I do. I miss him.” She covered her mouth and looked away, her eyes tearing. “He was a good man, Mathilda.”

  “Then why, why is the mere mention of him such an atrocity under this roof?”

  “He was poor, and—”

  “He had an occupation. He was only poor by your standards!”

  “And his heritage . . .” She trailed off.

  “He had a Chinese grandfather, is that not so?” Her mother nodded. “Which means that I have a Chinese great-grandfather. Ought I to be ignored too? Do you love me less for that fact?”

  “God, no! Oh, Mathilda, I never meant for you to feel that way!” They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “It’s not him. It never really was him. He loved me despite everything. Oh God! It was him that tolerated Grandmama, not the other way around. She despised him! But I wanted to stay in this house, so he agreed. She knew he thought very little of her money, our wealth. And she hated him because he reminded her of my mistakes.”

  “But you had me. And Lucy. Was that wrong?”

  Her mother grabbed Tillie’s hand. “No. Never. But we Pembroke women have always had to push aside our passions for what was right, for the sake of safety and propriety.”

  “And has it made you happy?”

  This time, her mother didn’t answer.

  “I know what Grandmama would say. Happiness isn’t important, but family is.”

  Her mother nodded. “We Pembroke women are a long succession of broken hearts. Even your grandmama wears her pain like armor. It is and always has been.”

  “There’s a story there too,” Tillie said. “And one day I’ll learn it. Stories are how the world evolves.” She smiled. “I like to hear about my father and his family. It’s part of my evolution.”

  “You really want to write?” her mother asked after blotting away the rest of the moisture from her cheeks.

  “I do. I have a mind to keep myself occupied. So long as I can learn about this precious, extraordinary, and occasionally heartless world, I can be content.”

  In the end, Mama agreed to let Tillie meet with Tom. When the hour arrived, Tillie was more nervous than Ada. Ian had said he’d meet them at Bryant Park, and Tillie felt a terrible wanting the entire morning. She found herself looking for spare heroin pills on the floor of her bedroom and sniffing her perfume jars to see if they still perhaps held a little morphine.

  It was times like this, when she was distraught, that she felt unwhole. There was no other way to explain the feeling. It seemed that opium called to her wherever it was in the world. She knew it was waiting for her at the druggist on Third Avenue and Sixty-Eighth Street. That the opium dens near Canal Street issued clouds that would lure her to dreams mired in numbness. Going to meet Tom, who might invite her for another afternoon of morphine intoxication, she feared she might not be strong enough to say no.

  “It’s time. Let’s go,” Ada said. “The carriage will wait on the corner, in case we have to leave quickly.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” Tillie said. She sat back down on her bed and clutched the bedpost. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “You said yourself this was a good idea. You’ll be safe.” Ada smiled, a little too brightly. Why was she pushing so? “Even your mother agreed! Come now. Let’s get this over with.”

  Ada cajoled her to let go of the bedpost, then the bedroom doorknob. She practically pushed Tillie down the stairs and into the carriage. Tillie clung to the window, her head halfway out, for fear she would not get enough air, all the way down Fifth Avenue. She didn’t notice the nimbus clouds crowding the sky or the light rain hitting the ground, giving rise to a moist, muddied street smell. People were rushing indoors to restaurants and stores, ducking into carriages. A few prepared citizens deployed black umbrellas that bloomed darkly along the sidewalks.

  “Let’s go back. No one will be there,” Tillie said.

  “It’s only a light rain,” Ada said. “I’ve a stout umbrella for you.” It was as if she had prepared for any excuse.

  They arrived at Bryant Park at last. The grounds for the new library were still an awful mess, with piles of rubble slowly being carted away chunk by chunk. It was hard to believe that only last year, those massive Egyptian-style walls had held twenty million gallons of good Croton River water.

  The carriage parked on Forty-Second Street, just adjacent to the park. A slight fog had risen, but a single figure was visible on a bench near the main circle of greenery inside the park.

  “There he is,” Tillie said. She shivered. “I
guess I ought to go.”

  “I’ll be here, within sight. You’ll be all right. Where is that Ian fellow?”

  “I don’t know. He may be waiting for me to show up.”

  “We’ll drive around the park so it’s not obvious we’re waiting for you,” Ada said. She rubbed the small round of belly beneath her waist, patting it like an old friend.

  Tillie exited the carriage with the help of the driver, but the step was narrow and slick with rain. She slipped, twisting her left shoulder. Her bad shoulder. She bit down on her tongue instead of crying out in pain.

  “Upsy-daisy! Are you all right?” Ada asked.

  “I’m fine,” Tillie said. She rubbed her shoulder and followed the shining sidewalk into the park.

  It was quiet. The carriages had slowed in the rain, and the usual chatter of people was absent. Even the birds in the trees were close beaked. She stopped before entering the circular walkway inside the park and turned to see Ada and the carriage driving down the street and out of view as they turned the corner. Ada had said she’d stay in sight. Would they turn around soon and come back?

  A hand touched her shoulder, and Tillie inhaled sharply and turned.

  It was Ian. His hair was sodden, and tiny raindrops clung to his eyelashes. She had the strangest urge to lick them off.

  Stop that, she thought.

  “I’m sorry I’m a little late,” he said in a rush. “There was a problem with the elevated, and then I had to skip one because it was packed with passengers escaping the rain.”

  “That’s all right.” She lowered her voice. “I think that’s Tom over there.”

  They looked together. Sure enough, Tom Erikkson, looking oddly out of place wearing a long black woolen cloak, sat on a bench. He was peering at a pair of birds who kept hopping close, then away, then close. They seemed to have an eye on a biscuit in his hand.

  “He hardly looks like someone who would murder all those people,” Tillie said.

  “One way to find out. Ask.” Though it seemed a laughable suggestion, Ian didn’t smile.