The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  His words kept ringing through my head as I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling hours later. We’d talked about other things after—about my deal with Frederick Harvey, about what we’d been doing since we’d seen each other last, and of Tom’s plagiarism. A copy of The Century had been among a pile of mail on John’s desk, and he’d read the story immediately. He recognized my writing from the first line, his face burning with rage. John vowed to expel Tom from the Society and to speak with Mr. Gilder at an International Copyright League luncheon the following day.

  Even though the conversation had shifted away from his proposal, I couldn’t forget what he’d said to me or how the threat of his heartache had affected me. I shifted against my pillow and buried my face, hoping to force sleep. It was nearing early morning. The Society meeting would be almost wrapped up and everyone, possibly John included, would be retiring. The thought of him made my chest clench and I flipped back over on my back to stare out the window at the moon. As much as I’d thought myself confused for so long, I’d realized, wrapped in his arms, that it was a lot simpler than I’d made it to be. I’d been so worried about misreading my heart and about the implications of my career if I married John, that I’d been blinded. I’d only needed to feel his presence and to speak to him, to hear his adamant vow that my art would never be forfeited. I’d been right to hope for both all along; perhaps with John it was possible to marry and sustain my writing. Something in his words or his touch had allowed clarity. He’d been right about us. We had everything in common; furthermore, we were equals. We would only sharpen each other. More than anything, I wished I would have accepted him right then, instead of postponing. But I’d wanted to collect my thoughts first, to make sure my decision wasn’t based solely on the flood of emotions I’d felt in his presence.

  No one knew we’d talked, though I wondered if John had talked to Frank about it tonight. I’d arrived home in the early evening, in time to have Bessie plop an understated hat on my head, decorated only by a tiny praying mantis on the brim, and ask me what I thought. She hadn’t actually cared. What she’d really been after was my attention to tell me that she knew Tom was going to propose before a showing of the play The Masked Ball tomorrow evening. I knew she was waiting for a reaction, for my disapproval, but I gave none. As much as I wanted to tell her that John believed me about Tom, that he was planning to dismiss him from the Society and speak to Mr. Gilder, I held my tongue. None of it would matter. Bess would accept Tom regardless. I hoped she’d be happy.

  I tucked the thin cotton sheet under my chin and felt blindly across my nightstand for The Century. I hadn’t read it. I couldn’t bear to when it had first arrived, but now as I sat wide awake in bed with the knowledge of my deal and John’s promise to remedy Tom’s wrong, I flipped it open.

  I leaned into the moonlight, landing on a story about Andrew Jackson’s resolution following the Battle of New Orleans. I scanned it, rather bored by its dry tone. The next page displayed the article’s companion illustration—a gold pen and ink sketch of a two-sided coin. I recognized it immediately as Charlie’s work. Jackson’s face was contoured perfectly on one side, the detail on his uniform vivid and precise. I smiled, running my hand over Charlie’s scrawled signature before closing the magazine. His work had finally been noticed by an editor. My happiness for him surprised me, making me realize that as much as he’d hurt me in the past, I had been able to move on with time and John’s love. I wished him the best. I hoped he was finally happy, as I hoped to shortly be.

  I sunk back against the pillows and my mind wandered back to John. I’d missed Alevia and Franklin’s departure for the Hoppers’ as I’d planned, but wished, after the house was emptied and I found myself alone with Mother and my thoughts, that I could’ve talked to Frank for a moment, if only to tell him to remind John to wait for me.

  Instead of the chaos of the Society meeting, I’d enjoyed a delicious dinner of chicken potpie in front of a roaring fire with Mother. She’d asked me once about John and when I told her that I hadn’t decided, she let the subject drop. I’d appreciated the gesture. I could tell from her eyes that she’d wanted to ask more—she missed Mae’s unguarded confidences—but held back. Instead, we’d laughed and talked for hours about Franklin and Lydia and Bessie and Tom, wondering what Bessie would do if it was Franklin who proposed instead.

  Yawning, I closed my eyes again as I recalled Mother’s laughter, realizing something I hadn’t thought of before—she was alone. I wondered how many times she’d sat by the fire by herself after Father’s death. It had to be lonely when all of us were out. I couldn’t help thinking of the contrast between how her life must be now and how happy it had been with Father. I could still picture them together if I concentrated, his large calloused hand engulfing her small one as they stayed up talking late at night, and thought, quite suddenly, that that’s all John was after: a hand to hold in the small hours, someone to laugh with at the end of a long day. I wanted to be that person.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Loftin House

  BRONX, NEW YORK

  Someone screamed, a bloodcurdling yell that blasted straight through my bones. I jerked upright in bed wondering if I’d dreamed the scream, but I heard it again followed by the sound of a man sobbing. I hurled out of bed, crossed to my armoire, threw on the first dress I found, and ran down the stairs.

  “What in the world is going on?” I heard Mother say as I sprinted down the hallway. The wood was cool under my feet and I could smell traces of wood smoke from our fire last night. I waited for a reply to Mother’s question but didn’t hear one, only hiccups coming from the front parlor. Tom’s bow tie hung unbound at his neck, face red with hysteria as he looked down at Bess crouched on the floor in front of him. Neither could speak, that much I knew. Bessie’s face was buried in her tiered lace nightgown, arms across her knees, shoulders shaking wildly. I was surprised that she was home in the first place. I thought she would’ve been off to a fitting in the city by now. I could feel Mother’s concerned eyes on my face, but couldn’t look at her. Suddenly, Tom lifted his hands to his mouth and began to sob again. Unease churned through me. Mother crouched next to Bessie and rocked her shoulders gently.

  “What? What do you want?” she said, half-sobbing and then folded herself back into a ball on the floor.

  “Tom,” I said, forcing my voice to work. “What’s happened?” He took a heaving breath, wiped a hand across his nose and mouth, and looked at me. His eyes bore into mine, heavy with such a deep sadness and anger that it made the hair along my arms bristle.

  “My . . . my . . .” He started sobbing again, unable to get the words out. I reached down, snatched Bessie’s forearm, and yanked her up to face me.

  “Tell me what’s happened . . . now,” I said. She stared at me blankly. Her face had drained with whatever news Tom had shared. “Bessie,” I said. “Now.”

  “It’s . . . it’s Lydia,” she whimpered. “She’s . . . dead.” My stomach flipped at once and I gagged. Mother began crying softly.

  “What happened?”

  I felt strangely displaced from my body as if I were still dreaming. I pinched my eyes shut until they blurred and then opened them, finding I was still clutching Bessie’s arm, still hearing Tom groan with agony behind her. And then, I thought of my brother. “Tom . . . Bessie, where is he?” My voice rose hysterically and I walked toward the door. I had to find him. Wherever he was, he’d be inconsolable.

  “Damn your brother, John, and his devil doctor father!” Tom yelled, stopping me midstep. Mother grabbed my arm as I gripped the doorknob, but I barely noticed. I slung her off, pulled the blue velvet yoke of my dress around my neck, pushed my feet into my boots, and slammed the front door as Tom’s fist hit the window. The glass shattered, tinkling over the sill and the sidewalk, but I didn’t turn back. Lydia was dead and my brother and John were in trouble. The tone of Tom’s voice followed me as I ran down the street toward the train station and the canal. The trolley screec
hed passed me, and I skirted a pile of fresh manure, thankful that the street was mostly vacant. If John and Franklin had somehow been involved in Lydia’s death, they’d be riddled with grief and guilt. The thought swept through me. What if John had dismissed Tom from the Society and there’d been a brawl? What if Lydia had been caught in the middle? Surely they wouldn’t have allowed any harm to come to her. They both loved her.

  The station was empty, the roman numerals on the clock pressed into the crumbling redbrick reading six-twenty. The next train wouldn’t be here for another thirty-eight minutes. A whistle cut through the crisp early-morning air, followed by another. Shooting over the railroad tracks, I sprinted toward the canal right beyond it, and down the splintered wooden dock. Passing by shrimp boats and industry tugs, I crossed the gangplank to the ferry just as the side-wheel paddles began to chop the water.

  “Your fare, miss?” I stared blankly at the brass New York Ferry Company buttons lining the old man’s uniform. I hadn’t thought to bring money. I hadn’t thought of anything beyond getting to the Hoppers’ as quickly as I could.

  “I—”

  “You’ll pay me on your trip back,” he said hastily, withdrawing a dollar from his pocket and jamming it into the other as the ferry pushed away from the shore.

  I stood at the railing of the steamer watching Manhattan grow closer. My fingers tapped anxiously on the railing. I couldn’t accept the possibility that they were accountable. I absolutely could not, yet the thought kept pushing into my mind. Maybe Tom’s words meant nothing. Even so, I couldn’t shake a haunted feeling. They’d all been together at the Society. What had happened? I closed my eyes, trying to force my thoughts to silence, but Lydia’s wide Cheshire grin popped into my head, blue eyes dancing with merriment. One of my friends, a woman who could’ve been my sister, was dead . . . dead. A whimper came from my lips as reality sunk in, and suddenly, another series of images jumped into my head, startling me so intensely that my eyes flew open. I had no idea what had killed her, but the answer buzzed in the back of my mind as if I just needed to find the words. I felt her fingers trembling against my skin, words jumbled as they came from her mouth. I saw her playing next to Alevia, arm limp and lifeless against the bow, face deep in concentration as though she hadn’t any idea. Alevia, I thought. Where was my sister?

  “Are you all right?” My eyes snapped to the left, toward a black man with a long beard like Doctor Hopper’s. I tried to form words, but couldn’t. I lifted my hand to my mouth, realizing just hours before I’d been kissing John, considering marrying him, and now here I stood wondering if he’d even be alive when I got to his house. I didn’t know how I’d go on if he was dead. The man beside me was still staring. I could feel his eyes go from my unbound hair to my dress to my boots.

  “Yes. I’m fine,” I said quickly, unable to stand his gaze. I glanced down at my dress, realizing a swathe of brown paint was smeared down the side—a consequence of attempting to conjure words by painting. The steamer stopped at the dock and I fled from the railing, shoving past musky-smelling fishermen and pretzel, hot tamale, and candy peddlers readying for a day of selling their wares. I scanned the passengers lined up for the Bronx, but all I saw were strangers staring me up and down, wondering why I was running off the ship in such a state of undress. I bolted down the street, rounding left at Park Avenue.

  I looked up and down the avenue for them, but found only a few foreign faces as I went. It was early, not even seven in the morning, and the street was mostly deserted, save a few random coaches idling under the banners of laundry strung from apartment windows overhead.

  The stench of sewage and rotting garbage stung my nostrils. I breathed through my mouth and kept my eyes fixed to the brownstone on the corner of the next block, ignoring the cold filth squishing under my boots. I couldn’t believe I’d been born into an apartment similar to these. Someone called out at me, his Italian accent echoing between the buildings as I sprinted right on 106th and then barreled down the clean cobblestones on Fifth.

  Squinting out at the park, I slowed to a walk. A footman yawned on the stoop of the red brick and limestone Vanderbilt mansion, stretching in the early-morning sun. I took a deep breath, trying to free the strain of a cramp in my side, and was relieved to smell only the sweet fragrance of freshly cut grass. One more block and I would be there.

  I stopped dead at the gate. The front door stood wide open. My body felt stiff and I made my way up the steps. Everything was eerily quiet. Even the maids, who should’ve been cooking breakfast by now, were absent. I reached the porch, walked slowly through the front door, and a sob convulsed in the back of my throat. The ornate Italian table in the entry was toppled over and a few chairs in the parlor lay scattered on their sides. It looked like they’d been robbed, and they may have been, though I knew that wasn’t the case. Everyone had fled. Had all of the Society witnessed Lydia’s death? I swallowed hard, forcing myself to walk past the destruction and down the hall to the drawing room. Surely my brother and John were here. They had to be.

  I tripped over the leg of a stained-glass lamp in the hallway that lay shattered on the floor, catching myself on the wall. I tiptoed around the glass, but the edge of a shard pierced the sole of my boot. John was gone. I could feel his absence acutely. I closed my eyes for a moment, praying I’d find Franklin in the drawing room. Instead, I looked through the door, and screamed.

  “John? John!” I screamed his name. My voice echoed through the house, hysterical and breathless. My lungs convulsed. Lydia’s body lay in the middle of the floor under the chandelier. Her face was turned toward me, tongue curled in the back of her open mouth, eyes wide open. Her legs were bent, bare toes scrunched against the floor as if she’d been trying to hold on. As much as I tried to look away, I couldn’t. My head began to spin, static taking over my vision, and I stepped back, forcing myself away from the sight. I couldn’t faint. Not here, not now. Forcing saliva down my throat, I screamed again. “Franklin! Where are you?” My stomach lurched to my throat and I vomited. I fell to my knees on the sharp glass and shoved myself against the wall, hugging my knees. In a matter of hours, everything I had known, my entire happiness, had disappeared. I tilted my head back to look down the hallway toward John’s study. If he was in there, he hadn’t answered, and if I found him dead . . .

  I stood, clutching the top of a table still standing in the hallway. Closing my eyes, I tried to force the memory of Lydia’s face alive and laughing, but couldn’t. All I could remember was the stiff look of death. At once, a chill drifted up my spine and I ran from the house. I heard people’s horrified comments as I ran past, but I kept running, smelling the stench of the vomit in my hair. Where had they gone? They couldn’t have left long ago. Tom had likely come to find Bess as soon as he realized Lydia was dead, but why? If one of my siblings had died, I wouldn’t have left their body lying in the middle of a drawing room just to find John. And suddenly, the answer was clear. He hadn’t come to tell Bessie. He’d come to find Frank.

  I pounded on Mae’s door, first with my fists, then smacking hard with the palm of my hand. “Mae!” I yelled. I half-nodded at the neighbor’s gardener who’d stopped watering the plants to stare at me. The door finally opened and Henry stood in the foyer, grin lifting half of his mouth as he stared at me. Obviously, he hadn’t heard.

  “Ginny, are you—”

  “Where’s Mae?” I pushed past him.

  “She’s upstairs. We were just about to depart for a lecture on Johann Herbart. What is it, Ginny? What’s wrong?” I didn’t bother to turn around or answer him, but sprinted up the stairs. I yelled for Mae. She was talking to someone. I could hear her high-pitched voice coming from the ladies lounge next to her bedroom. I yelled again and her voice stopped when she heard her name.

  Mae materialized in the hallway, took one look at me, and her eyes went wide. I began to cry as much with relief at the sight of my sister as with fear and sadness, and she ran toward me, flinging her arms around me, despite
my filth. I squeezed her, comforted by the familiar lavender scent in her hair, the tight grasp of her arms, and then I saw Alevia. She craned her neck out of the lounge smiling, but her lips dropped immediately when she saw my face. I sobbed, disentangling myself from Mae to hug her.

  “Thank god,” I whispered. I should’ve known she would come here. Alevia pulled away, eyebrows scrunched at me.

  “What is it, Ginny?” Her eyes bore into mine. “You’ve been sick and you look frightful.” Even though she’d been at the Society last night, she’d apparently left before anything happened. I could feel Mae behind me and turned to face them both.

  “Have you . . . have you seen Franklin or John?” Mae shook her head, but Alevia shrugged.

  “I did last night. They were taking Lydia to the study to try and calm her down when I left. Franklin seemed like he was embarrassed. She was pitching a fit and crying hysterically over Mr. Carter.” Alevia looked down at her blue wool bolero jacket and shook her head. “I felt sorry for both Frank and John. John had already dealt with enough last night. No one seemed to notice, but he and Tom had quite a heated exchange at the beginning of the evening and Tom stormed out.” I swallowed hard, strangely relieved that her death hadn’t been a casualty of a brawl between Tom and John over Tom’s plagiarism, over my honor. Then again, why would it? They were both gentlemen, and even when I’d seen John angry—livid at Charlie for hurting me—he’d never resorted to violence.

  I took a breath.

  “Lydia is dead.” My sisters stared at me as though they hadn’t heard me. Then slowly, Alevia brought her hand to her mouth and sunk to the floor. Mae pressed her hand to the burnt orange satin at her chest, trying not to cry, though her bottom lip trembled.

  “How?” Mae whispered. Henry appeared in the doorway behind her, white-faced.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I woke up to Bess screaming this morning. Tom came by and told her, although I think he was looking for Franklin.”