The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Oh, poor Franklin. He’ll be shattered when he finds out,” Alevia sniffed.

  “I think he knows.” My voice shook as I said it and everyone’s eyes snapped to my face. “When I left . . . when I ran out of the house to try to find him and John, Tom’s words were, ‘Damn your brother, John, and his devil doctor father.’ I can just feel it, he was there, he knows.” Henry turned and punched the doorframe.

  “Then where is he?” Mae asked calmly, though I could tell that it took considerable effort for her to maintain her composure.

  “I don’t know.” I looked down, fiddling with my collar, seriously questioning whether or not I’d gone insane. I thought about turning and going back to the Hoppers’, thinking I’d surely been mistaken. Lydia wouldn’t be dead. John would be sitting in his study writing and I’d walk in and tell him that I would marry him after all. “They’re gone,” I said, as reality set in once again.

  “What do you mean ‘they’re gone’? Who’s gone?” Henry’s voice was strong, but it broke on the last word, and I remembered how close he was to John.

  “I’m . . . I’m hoping Frank’s gone home, but I know for sure that John and Doctor Hopper have vanished. I’m not sure where. I went straight to the Hoppers’ after I got off the steamer and the front door was wide open. The tables and chairs were overturned. And Lydia. She’s in the drawing room.” I cleared my throat. “They left her there. She . . .” I started to explain the way I’d found her, but stopped myself, unable to vocalize what I’d seen. Alevia was staring at me, waiting for me to continue, but I shook my head. I ran a hand through my hair, and pressed my temple hoping the pressure would get rid of the aching beginning to pound at the sides of my head.

  “That’s ridiculous. They must’ve been robbed or attacked.” Henry paced to the other side of the room. “I’m sure Lydia’s death was shocking, but why would they run? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I suppose if they had something to do with it,” Mae said. She glanced at me apologetically for the statement.

  “I don’t know how they would have. They couldn’t possibly,” I said. I prayed that the uneasy feeling in my gut was wrong, that they hadn’t fled after all. I thought of the gentle way Frank loved Lydia, the way John had saved her after Mae’s wedding. Even if she’d died in their presence, her death had to have been nothing more than a horrible accident—something to mourn, but nothing to run from. I was amazed that I could think at all, let alone discuss this situation. “The way she died . . . the way I saw her body. She wasn’t murdered. At least I don’t think so.” Alevia stood up and smoothed the black bands along her skirt, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

  “Mother must be beside herself,” she whispered. I hadn’t thought of Mother since I’d run from the house this morning.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I just left her with Bessie and Tom. I didn’t even think to tell her where I was going. All I could think about was John and . . . and Franklin and finding them.”

  “We need to go to your mother’s house now,” Henry said, turning to Mae. “We need to find your brother. Maybe John is there, too.” He paused to glance at me. “And for the love of god lend your sister a proper dress.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Loftin House

  BRONX, NEW YORK

  Franklin wasn’t home and John wasn’t there either. I knew that the moment I walked through the door. The house was startlingly silent save for sobs coming from the drawing room.

  “Is that Mother?” Alevia whispered behind me. Mae nodded and trailed down the hallway on my heels. An ear-splitting shriek came from upstairs. Mae’s eyes met mine and she sprinted up the stairs. Bessie. I started running down the hallway, wondering if something else had happened while I was gone. I stopped at the sight of my mother doubled over on the love seat in front of a dwindling fire. Her face was red from the strain of crying. She hadn’t even heard us come in.

  “Mother?” She stood slowly, crossed the room, and hugged me. She was still wearing her nightgown.

  “Thank goodness,” she whispered. “I was so worried about you, Virginia. Did you find Frank and John?” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “No, but Alevia was at Mae’s.” I couldn’t bear to tell her that the Hoppers’ house had been ransacked, and that Lydia’s body still lay on the floor of the drawing room.

  “That poor girl.” Mother started to cry again. “And my dear Franklin. He loved her so.” Alevia walked into the room, placed a hand on Mother’s back and they both sank onto the love seat.

  “I can’t imagine life without her,” Alevia whispered. “At first I was frightened that she’d steal Franklin away from us, but she gave him . . . all of us . . . so much vitality.”

  I sat down in my father’s leather chair, John’s face in my mind. John loved me. Surely he wouldn’t leave without sending word, without coming for me—unless he’d lied all along, unless he’d never loved me. The sinister thoughts came from nowhere and I pushed them away. They weren’t true. He’d proposed twice; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. Then again, I thought I’d been sure of Charlie and he’d betrayed me. My thoughts flit to John’s reputation, the blemish on his character I’d so readily believed untrue. Maybe he hadn’t fled to escape Lydia’s death at all. Maybe he’d only fled to escape the promises he’d proposed to me.

  None of us said anything, choosing instead to stare at the fire, absorbed in our own minds. I could hear Mae trying to calm Bess, her voice lulling serenity to Bess’s intermittent hysterics. Alevia began to hum the opening notes of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23. The tune was dreary and slow. Mother sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  “There’s a letter in the post for you today, Ginny.” Mother straightened. She reached to the table in front of her, extracted a letter, and handed it to me, as though diverting the subject to something mundane had the ability to shift our minds from worry and grief. I stared at the choppy cursive handwriting on the envelope. I didn’t recognize the hand and there was no return address.

  Dear Miss Loftin,

  Mr. Tom Blaine sought me out a few days back to inform me that the story we printed, attributed to him, was not, in fact, his work but yours. I certainly hope you will trust that myself, our staff, was entirely in the dark as to Mr. Blaine’s plagiarism. The thought that we have printed your work as his absolutely horrifies and appalls me. Please accept my sincerest apology. A correction will appear in this month’s issue.

  In earnest regret,

  Mr. Richard W. Gilder

  I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. Yesterday, I would’ve rejoiced at the news. Today, amid all of the confusion and sadness, it meant nothing. Why had Tom decided to admit his wrong? It couldn’t have been John’s doing. He hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with Tom prior to last night. A pang went through me at the thought of John.

  “Mr. Gilder is going to print a retraction. Tom admitted that the story was mine.” My voice came out in a sigh.

  “What wonderful news,” Mother said, as sincerely as she could. Alevia’s eyes met mine.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  “So had I,” I said.

  “No.” Alevia shook her head. “Not about your story. I ran into Charlie a few weeks back. I was on my way to Symphony rehearsal when I saw him walking by Wanamaker’s. He mentioned reading Tom’s story in The Century and said he knew it was yours.” She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Apparently, he was on his way to depart on a holiday, but had decided to pay Tom a visit before he did. He said he told Tom you’d shared an early draft of the story with him and that he still had it in his possession. Charlie threatened to show it to Mr. Gilder unless Tom confessed. The threat apparently worked.” I stared at her, unable to fully register this piece of news. “Please don’t be cross with me for hiding this from you. Charlie begged me to keep his actions in confidence in case Tom didn’t comply. He was quite
awkward about explaining why he was interfering. He kept saying that anyone would do the same for a friend, that it was the right thing to do.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m not angry with you, Alevia.” It had been kind of Charlie, but any thought of his gesture faded as Bessie’s voice echoed through the quiet house.

  “I love you!”

  “Is Tom still here?” I asked, wondering if Bess’s outcry meant he was with her.

  “No,” Mother whispered. “I’m afraid he’s not.” Tears threatened her eyes. “He’s furious about something and hurting. He told Bessie he never wanted to see her again, that we’d all be ruined, and that he couldn’t stand to spend another moment in Franklin’s home staring at the sister of a . . . of a murderer.” The words shocked me. Mother clearly hadn’t mentioned them earlier because she hadn’t wanted to tell us. Mother started crying again and I shook my head. It wasn’t true. Tom was being irrational. He was mad with grief and looking for someone to blame. Whatever had happened to Lydia wasn’t Frank’s fault. He loved her, so did John, and the thought that they’d harm her was insane.

  “It’s not true, Mother,” I tried to say softly, but could hear the defensive edge to my voice. “You know Frank. He’d never lay a hand on anyone, let alone the woman he loves.” Mother sniffed.

  “I know, Ginny. It’s just that I don’t know where he is and the longer it takes him to get home, the more I worry about him. Where is he?” Her eyes searched mine as though I knew a secret she didn’t.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But he can’t be gone forever. He’ll be home soon and John will be with him.” My mind flashed to the destruction of the Hoppers’ drawing room and I prayed that I was right. “Where are you?” I whispered, as though they could hear me.

  It had to be two or three in the morning, but I hadn’t slept at all. I doubted anyone else was asleep either, but the house was silent. I stared at the curtains puffing and deflating with the fall wind seeping in from the crack in my windowsill. I’d been listening for the creak of the front door for the past eight hours, ever since I’d returned home, but no one had come in or out. Mae and Henry were in Mae’s old room, too shaken with sorrow and perplexity to forge the journey back to Manhattan, and Alevia had insisted on sleeping with Bessie—a gesture Bessie had refused over and over until she’d simply run out of energy to argue. We’d all slept together as girls—Mae and I in one bed, with the occasional midnight addition of Frank, and Bess and Alevia in the other. As the oldest, Bess had been tasked with making sure our youngest sister didn’t fall out of bed in the night. It was a comforting sort of thing, to know that your sister was beside you, that you weren’t alone. If Mae hadn’t had Henry I would have petitioned her to come to bed with me tonight.

  I’d thought Frank would come home in time for dinner and that he would bring John. As crazy as the assumption seemed now, hours later, I kept thinking that perhaps he and John had been trying to find Tom or had gone to talk with the Blaines and that they’d make a point to be home by dinner. That way, they would know we’d all be here and could fill us in all at once. Instead, dinner, which had consisted of cold meat and bread, had been consumed in silence. The only conversation we’d made had been through glances from one miserable, swollen face to another, though during that time, I’d made up my mind: if they didn’t show up by morning, I’d go looking for them again. This time I’d check all the places I could possibly think they’d be and I’d find them.

  “How’d you ever get over it?” A soft voice came from the doorway and I jolted upright, finding Bessie’s silhouette. She sat down on the foot of my bed. Her auburn hair hung down her back, tangled from tossing and turning. She opened her right hand and stared down at a burned cracked hazelnut shell in her palm. We’d played the game years ago as young women, writing the names of our favorites on the shells and tossing them into the fire to see if they’d crack or remain whole, to see if our supposed love would stand the test of time or end. Mother always reminded us that it was only a silly game. When we played, Charlie’s name had always emerged from the flames burned but whole—proof that it was just a silly, childish amusement. The memory made me think of what he’d done for me. I didn’t know why he’d felt the need to defend me after everything, but I was thankful that he had. I leaned forward to take the shell from Bess, but she pushed my wrist away, hand closing tightly around the hazelnut.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose I had to.” I recalled the sting of Charlie’s proposal, the melancholy that gripped me at every suggestion of him for months afterward. I didn’t know if I could endure that kind of misery again. “However, this time I don’t know if I’ll be able to if . . . if—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I’d spent all day trying to block the possibility that John could’ve left me, too, that in less than a day’s time we’d gone from talking about marriage to silence. Bess was still staring at me, oblivious to my worry about John and Franklin, absorbed in her own. “You’ll never forget him, but eventually, you’ll learn to live with the heartache and you’ll be able to move on.”

  “I’ll never move on,” Bessie said fiercely. “I’ll never forgive Franklin. He’s ruined my life.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Lydia died less than a day ago. Tom is hurt. You know Frank would never hurt Lydia. Tom was probably just reacting out of anger. He’ll come around.”

  “No, he won’t. I know him, Gin, better than anyone, and he won’t. Whatever he believes, even if it isn’t the truth, it’s real to him, and he won’t ever change his mind.”

  “What exactly is it that he believes? He’s a liar through and through,” I hissed and then closed my eyes to calm my anger. I couldn’t believe that Tom thought my brother a murderer. “He didn’t tell you anything at all about why he was mad at John and Franklin? He didn’t mention anything about last night?” I asked gently. Bessie shook her head.

  “I don’t know. And I already told you he didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t even give me the chance to ask. As soon as you left, he said . . . he said he never wanted to see me again and stormed out,” she said, her eyes pooling. “I swear I’m going to kill Frank when I see him,” she said, fidgeting with my quilt.

  “And if he never comes back?” The question was out of my mouth before I thought it through and Bess stared at me, lips pressed together in disdain.

  “I hope he doesn’t,” she said evenly. “And I hope wherever he is, John is with him. They can rot in hell together.” Her words knocked the breath from my lungs and I felt my hand lift from the blankets. One more word and I would slap her.

  “I know you’re upset, we all are, but you’re being dreadfully heartless.” She glanced at my hand hovering a few inches over the bed, and crossed to my doorway. I heard a sob echo in the hall as she shuffled back to her room and I collapsed against my pillows. I tried to focus on Franklin’s warm smile and John’s face pressed against mine, but couldn’t. All I saw instead was a harrowing vision of both of them dead in an alleyway. “Please,” I whispered to the darkness. “Let me be wrong.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Central Park

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  The day was uncharacteristically frigid for September. Suiting, I thought, as I huddled into my shawl. I’d been wandering the city all day, staking out any place that meant anything to John or to Franklin and so far had found nothing. Wind swept over me, lapping the water in Central Park Lake onto the shore. I looked out at the stone bridge. An old oak leaned over the water right before it, its leaves barely dappled with yellow almost masking an elderly woman in a gray wool cloak clutching the stone railing, watching a wooden sailboat glide under the bridge. A couple laughed at two little boys squealing in delight as water sprayed their faces and matching cape overcoats.

  Reminded of John and Franklin, I turned and started up the hill toward Fifth Avenue, determined not to look back at the unoccupied white cast-iron bench under the cherry tree across the lake, but did any
way. John had told me that he came out to the lake when he needed to get away, when he couldn’t think. I could picture him there—notebook in one hand, staring out at the water while park-goers promenaded and picnicked around him.

  “I love you. I do,” I said, stricken by the possibility that I might never see him again. I pushed the thought from my mind. It had only been a day and a half, I reminded myself. I closed my eyes, retracing the steps I’d already taken in case I’d overlooked something. I’d started at Randall’s Island, at the rocky point where Frank always loved to picnic in the summertime. Finding a cluster of fishermen, but no sign of Franklin, I’d boarded the next boat and had practically sprinted to the park when I’d reached Manhattan. Whether it was desperation or my blatant refusal to believe they’d disappeared, something in my gut told me that I would find John here. But I was wrong again. Perhaps I was wrong to trust my intuition at all. It had only led me to false hope and heartache.

  I reached the street in front of Ward McAllister’s gargoyle-adorned mansion. A carriage stopped on the side of the home and a finely dressed gentleman got out, tipped his hat at me, and smiled. I stared at him, unable to move my lips to return the gesture. It was difficult to comprehend how my whole life could fall apart overnight while the rest of the world kept moving along undisturbed.

  The Hoppers’ home was just a block away to my left. I focused straight ahead as I neared the edge of the mansions that would shield me from the towering brick home, but at the last minute I couldn’t take it. I gave in and looked. Gasping, I ran into the shadow of the house next to me as if the group of men dressed in black suits standing on the Hoppers’ front stoop would somehow see me from a block away and know who I was. My heart continued to pound in my chest as I made my way toward the main office of J. L. Mott. It was Monday; perhaps Franklin had gone to work.