The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Hello, Mr. Brooks,” I said, finding one of Franklin’s counterparts lounging back in the desk chair, clearly not working. Spinning around, he straightened quickly, and smoothed his jacket over his sizable belly.

  “Miss Loftin,” he sputtered, as though his boss had just caught him sleeping on the job.

  “Have you seen Frank? I need to talk to him.” Mr. Brooks’s brows furrowed and he twirled a pen between his fingers.

  “No . . . he’s not here.” He tilted his head at me. “Haven’t seen him in months, actually.”

  “I know. He’s been traveling a lot,” I said, “but he’s home this week, working from here.”

  “No, he’s not. Actually he’s not working this week at all.” My heart began to race. “Surely you know that he asked to be taken down to part-time. It’s a damn nuisance to Rich and me, having to pick up the slack and all.”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “Why . . . why would he do that?” All of the extravagances—the Benz, the fancy new suits—jumped into my head at once. How could he possibly afford all of it on part-time wages? The sudden thought of my mother panhandling for coins, all of us thrown from the comfort of our home, made my stomach turn.

  “Surely you know the answer to that,” Mr. Brooks said, exasperated. “To help your mother around the house of course, since none of you women seem to be up for the task.” I stared at him as though he’d sprouted two heads, wondering what in the world he was talking about. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but it’s about time she abandon her paralyzing grief. Your father passed three years ago.”

  “Just a moment. You’re saying Frank’s been part-time for three years?” I expected my voice to shake, but it didn’t. Franklin had been lying to me, to all of us, and we’d suffered the consequences. I recalled December last year, a month we’d made so little money that we’d had to forgo coal and firewood to afford food. My hands were clenched at my sides and I gripped them tighter. Mr. Brooks laughed.

  “No, Miss Loftin. Just the past four months or so. You know, about the time your mother fell down the steps and decided she would rather go be with your father than get better?” His lips turned up in a sneer, no doubt thinking I’d lost my mind.

  “Oh . . . uhh . . . that’s right,” I said, clearing my throat. My mother of course hadn’t fallen down any stairs. “Well then, good day to you.”

  I stumbled home unable to grasp what I’d heard. What was he doing? Where was he going when he said he was going to work? Where was the money coming from? Whatever it was, I would find out. My brother was a liar, but I wouldn’t let him ruin us.

  I avoided my family the rest of the evening with the excuse that I was writing. Instead I paced back and forth across my room waiting for Franklin to come home, wondering what I would say to him, imagining his protests and my demands. I eyed the small wooden clock at my bedside. It was nearly eleven in the evening. Where was he?

  I plucked Mr. Hopper’s new manuscript from the top of my dressing table. I’d returned from Frank’s office to find a package from Mr. Hopper with the mail. He hadn’t written a lengthy letter, just a short note to say that he’d only had time to revise a bit of it, would appreciate my thoughts, and was looking forward to seeing me upon his return from visiting a cousin in Philadelphia. I couldn’t help but think of the society women he was sure to meet while he was away, torturing myself with visions of his tall frame bent over a beautiful face, his mouth against her ear. Though I wanted to believe that his reputation had only been won by innocent sociability, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

  I sat down on my bed, huddled close to the oil lamp, and tried to force my mind blank. Mr. Hopper thought me talented enough that he wanted my opinion. I couldn’t bog my mind down in jealousy or worry over Frank. Whenever Charlie used to ask me about a piece, I would wait until my mind was completely clear to appraise it. The thought made me realize how little my opinion should’ve mattered. I’d always been honest, but what had I known of sketching? Charlie had needed to consult with other illustrators, just as I’d needed the thoughts of other writers.

  I closed my eyes, ran my hand over the paper, turned my gaze to Mr. Hopper’s words, and began to read.

  “Middle of a scene, well into the last third of the novel.” He’d scrawled at the top. “Mr. Michael Wells finds himself in Newport, penniless. He’s been gone from his wealthy family for five years and has been making his way round the world, as I mentioned to you earlier.” Mr. Hopper wrote out of order. I’d heard of other writers drafting this way, but hadn’t ever done it myself.

  It was summer again. June, to be exact. It was raining, but the salt-air breeze still wavered over Mr. Wells. A horn sounded from the sea, signaling to the ferry docks in front of him. Newport in the summer. It was familiar, a thousand memories. He walked closer and sat on a boulder along the carriage drive. Drivers scurried from their coaches holding umbrellas, some two to a hand. The ladies mustn’t ruin their fine clothes. Mr. Wells looked down at his saturated trousers and dirt-stained shirt. The brim of his tattered felt derby barely provided relief from the driving downpour. The passengers were disembarking now. He would know most of them.

  The front door creaked open, startling my reading. Rushing down the stairs, I caught Frank just as he was closing the door, his gray bowler hat under his arm, fingers clutching his black briefcase. He turned toward me and jumped.

  “Ginny,” he breathed. “You about made my heart stop.” Franklin set his briefcase down. Relief flooded through me, but I ignored the urge to convince myself that Mr. Brooks must have been mistaken. “What’re you doing up this late?”

  “Where have you been, Frank?” He stared at me as though I should know the answer and started to tell me so, when I cut him off. “I went by your office today and you weren’t there. Mr. Brooks said that you’d decided to go to part-time on account of some fabrication about Mother’s grief and her falling down the stairs? Why would you do that? What’s going on?” I hissed. I wanted to yell, but didn’t want to wake the others. Franklin sighed.

  “That was just a tale Mr. Mott came up with so Bob wouldn’t know I was getting promoted and he wasn’t, to explain why I wasn’t around,” he whispered. Mr. J. L. Mott was the big boss, the owner, and Franklin’s boss. The other rank-and-file workers similar to him were under various department heads or executives, but because Father had grown up across the street from Mr. Mott’s father, Jordan—the founder of J. L. Iron Works—Franklin was advised by Mr. Mott only, which had turned out to be a blessing and a curse.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry.” Franklin edged out of his camel hair blazer.

  “Poor Bob. If you want to come find me again, Gin, you’ll need to go on into Manhattan. I’m at the warehouse now . . . whenever I’m home, that is.” He grunted as he lifted his black briefcase from the ground, random bits of iron clinking around as he did. Relieved, I began to follow him up the stairs. Without the anger that had been keeping me wide awake, I was exhausted. He stopped in front of me and turned around.

  “I forgot to ask why you’d come to see me in the first place,” Frank whispered. He set his hat on top of his briefcase on the steps and sat down next to it, waiting. I ran a hand along the long braid down my back, unsure if I should even bother explaining.

  “I had a question about Mr. Hopper,” I started. Franklin nodded for me to go on. “We went to the opera and everything was fine, but then at his house something happened. He was terribly angry at Charlie for . . . for everything, wracked with fury, actually, and he’d had a bit of alcohol. He fainted, Frank, right in front of me, but it was different somehow. He was trembling and his eyes were rolled back.” Hearing the words come out of my mouth made me realize how frightened I’d been. Franklin was looking down at his hands, brows furrowed, twisting Grandfather’s gold wedding band on his pinkie. “I want to know if he’s ill . . . if you’ve ever seen him that way.”

  “No,” Franklin said softly. “No, I haven’t.”

  �
��After he woke up, he begged me to forgive him. I think he startled himself as much as me.” Franklin nodded, keeping his focus on Grandfather’s ring.

  “I have no doubt. He cares for you.” I nodded, glad for the reassurance that he did. “Without question,” he reiterated. Something in his words made me think of him and Lydia and of her former fiancé. Was Frank sure of Lydia’s feelings?

  “Do you know that Lydia was once engaged?” I blurted the words, suddenly feeling a need to tell him, to protect his heart. Frank’s focus jerked up from Grandfather’s ring, a grin on his lips.

  “Of course,” he said. “Marcus Carter. The man’s a lunatic. Wasn’t always, according to Lydia and John, but after his brother passed on, something changed. Apparently he became reclusive, keeping to his room for weeks at a time, only emerging when he’d had too much liquor and was in the mood for violence. During one of these outings he found his way to the Blaines’ in the early morning, kicked the servant’s door in, and pulled Lydia out of bed demanding they marry that moment. His intrusion woke the servants who got to her room in time to dismantle the gun he’d placed to his head after she told him she was calling the engagement off.” Frank paused. It was then that I realized I was holding his hand, stunned at the horror of what Lydia had had to encounter. “Evidently, Marcus has recovered now. He’s tried to reconcile with Lydia, but she swears she can’t bear to look at him and that her heart is mine.” Worry coursed through me.

  “Please be sure, Frank. The thought that she could break your heart—”

  “My affection isn’t misplaced. I promise,” Franklin said, patting my leg. He started to stand. “But if John collapses again . . . in fact, if anyone is ever hurt at the Society . . . you should summon Doctor Hopper.”

  “I was on my way to do just that when he woke up,” I said.

  “You never fail to know what to do.” Franklin leaned down from the stair above me and wrapped his arm across my shoulders. I took his hand. “I’m glad that you asked after John. I hope it means your heart is beginning to heal.” Franklin let me go and started to stand. “There aren’t many men worthy of you, Gin. I’m certain of that. But John might be one of the few.”

  Chapter Eleven

  MAY 1892

  Chamber Music Hall, Carnegie Hall

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  I looked down at John’s hand clutching mine and wondered what I was doing. I questioned our involvement from time to time even though we’d been getting together for months now—attending operas, concerts, and plays with Franklin and Lydia, and meeting in his study to discuss progress on our novels each week.

  It wasn’t that I thought us unsuitable. We were practically the same person in terms of our passions, our motivations identical. But still I wondered if our connection was best for me. It wasn’t that I questioned his reputation anymore—he’d proven it incorrect in his singular pursuit of me—but I’d known Charlie for eighteen years and thought I’d been certain of his feelings, of his intentions. I’d been wrong. How was I to trust John? It made me feel uneasy, as though I were walking a tightrope that could at any moment snap.

  At first I’d tried my best to lock my heart away, to keep myself from feeling for him, but despite my intentions, the iron was eroding. My affection for John was growing and it terrified me. It was unfamiliar and new, completely unlike the passion I’d felt for Charlie. I couldn’t define it. Though our bond seemed much deeper than attraction, I couldn’t be certain, and from time to time when I recalled that both John and I had loved others so deeply before, I worried that we were only using each other to heal. Even so, I couldn’t deny the way John made my heart quicken, the way we understood each other.

  John turned to look at me, eyes black in the dimness of the hall and smiled, squeezing my hand as though he somehow knew what I was thinking. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps whatever Charlie and I had shared was merely a consequence of familiarity and immaturity. My relationship with John was built on a foundation much steadier than the seesaw of emotions that had kept my heart tethered to Charlie. We respected each other. Ever since the incident in the study, John had been a perfect gentleman, and I’d been happy in his company. He still apologized for his anger that night at least once a week—even though I knew it had been on account of his care for me—and assured me that he’d never before collapsed. I knew he’d spoken to his father about the episode and Doctor Hopper had found nothing amiss. I was relieved and reassured—it wouldn’t happen again.

  The hall was empty save a few people scattered here or there waiting for their loved ones to come onstage to audition. I held my breath as the back of Damrosch’s head tilted to the music stand in front of him to read another name.

  “James Browning,” Damrosch’s throaty German accent echoed through the auditorium and I leaned back against my seat, wondering if he would ever get to Alevia. John’s coach had dropped us off nearly two hours ago.

  “Darling, I’ve been meaning to tell you something, and I apologize in advance if it upsets you,” John whispered. He avoided my eyes and smoothed the front of his gray sack coat. “I waited to tell you in here so that you wouldn’t be able to kill me without a witness.” He chuckled and I wondered what he’d done.

  “It’s dark enough. I think I’d be able to pull it off.” I tried to lift my fingers from his, but he tightened his grip.

  “I gave your book, The Web, I gave it to Frederick Harvey.” At once, I wanted to both kiss and throttle him, but did neither, gaping at him instead. I’d just finished the latest revision last week—my fifth—prompted by my reading at the Society in March. Several people had commented that Eleanor’s character could be deepened and I agreed. “Are you pleased?” he asked. I didn’t know. On the one hand, it meant that John truly thought my book—we’d begun to call it The Web after the fact that life was never a straight line, but rather a web of interconnected circumstances—was truly ready to be considered for publication. But, on the other hand, he’d taken the liberty of giving it to his editor without thinking to consult me first. In a way, it felt like cheating. The only reason Mr. Harvey had agreed to take a look was because of John.

  “You know, it’s just that—” I started.

  “I know. I should’ve asked you, but Harvey and I went to lunch to talk through my gentleman-turned-vagabond story and I shared your brilliant comments. He inquired about you, The Web came up, and he asked to see it. I thought you’d want me to give it to him right then instead of risking that he’d forget about it, but perhaps I’m wrong.”

  “Alevia Loftin.” Hearing Damrosch’s voice state her name interrupted any thought of my book and I sat forward in my chair. Alevia walked slowly across the stage in her handsome new silk performing jacket with ruched organza sleeves, tipped her demure black hat to Damrosch, and slid onto the bench. I closed my eyes and prayed that she would play perfectly. Admittance to the Symphony would make her whole. She desired nothing more, save the love of her family. Though she’d always been perfectly clear about her hopes and desires to all of us, John and Franklin had attempted to introduce her to several of their friends recently, thinking that despite her protests she must be forlorn to be the only one of us without a beau. Mother had tried in vain to encourage a romantic interest, but Alevia had dismissed every prospect.

  “Johannes Brahms, second concerto, second movement,” she stated. Her voice shook, but only slightly. Lydia had spoken quite earnestly with her cousin-in-law a week prior about her possible admittance to the Symphony as well as Alevia’s—if their skill sets were equal or above their male counterparts—and he’d agreed to take them, as well as the backlash for their participation, if he did so.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered and saw Damrosch’s head tip toward her, inviting her to play. It wasn’t the first time she’d auditioned for him, but it was the first time she had an actual chance. Brahms’s second concerto wasn’t a safe choice for an audition, in fact it was notorious for its difficulty, but I knew that if she could manage
it, he would be impressed. She’d played it flawlessly at home this morning; she could do it again. Alevia’s hands hovered over the keys, eyes fixed on the music.

  “Come on,” John said under his breath. She was stalling. Damrosch cleared his throat and Alevia’s hands finally lowered to the keys, flying over the keyboard as they introduced the stormy theme. I held my breath as each note fell into place, and relaxed as Alevia closed her eyes, sinking into the music. I watched the back of Damrosch’s head tip and turn with the notes, showing an interest he hadn’t demonstrated in her previous auditions. As impressed as he was with her, I knew his open reception was mostly due to Lydia’s influence.

  “She’s wonderful,” John whispered, leaning into my ear. “And you, my darling, are going to be just as marvelous. Harvey is going to love you.” His thumb drifted across my knuckles. I squeezed his hand. Though Mr. Harvey wasn’t George Putnam, he was highly respected and well known just the same, and the thought that my book was in front of an editor of his caliber thrilled me.

  “Thank you for all that you’ve done,” I said, truly meaning it. As Alevia’s fingers lifted from the keys, Damrosch stood from his chair and clapped. Goose bumps prickled across my skin as my sister smiled. He hadn’t so much as moved at the end of anyone else’s set. I looked over at John who was beaming at the stage and realized, quite suddenly, that even if the realization of our dreams were helped along by our friends, it didn’t matter. The important thing was that they happened. John glanced at me.