The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Is that so? Did you know the funeral was a few weeks back?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “We had to miss it, unfortunately. We were all quite ill.” With heartache, specifically. That, and we’d all been afraid to attend, knowing Tom thought Franklin at fault. Instead, we’d had our own sort of memorial for Lydia. Even Mae had come in from the city to have tea and reminisce.

  The waiter materialized with our drinks and Harvey immediately raised his to his lips. I lifted my glass and took a sip. The memory of John’s late-night kisses in the study tried to force their way into my mind, but I blocked it. The liquid burned down my throat and I took another long drink, treasuring the sensation.

  “I hesitate to ask, but I must—how’re the revisions coming?”

  I set the glass down and looked at him. “They’re not.”

  “Ah. I had a feeling. If I may?” His eyebrows rose in question and I nodded for him to continue. “Years back, I had the pleasure of meeting the esteemed Emily Dickinson.” My mouth went dry at the mention of her, remembering Frank’s words after Charlie had crushed me. “I’ll not allow you to wither away like that poor Dickinson woman.”

  “She was the most miserable soul I’ve ever met. She was quiet and awkward, so paralyzed with grief that she couldn’t stand to be around anyone. But she was an amazing writer.” I thought of the weeks I’d spent writing after Charlie’s betrayal. The days I’d poured myself onto the page without knowing what day it was or what time. Those words had been my best. “You won’t be like her; you’re too strong. But learn something from her. She channeled her grief into marvelous writing. Do that. It’ll get you through.”

  “Thank you,” I said, raising my glass. I drained the last of the scotch and Harvey squinted at me over his glasses, likely wondering if he’d inadvertently signed a drunkard. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “You’re meant to do this, you know,” he said. I stared at him blankly and he laughed. “To write.” I grinned, genuinely this time. “You have a story to tell, one that people need to hear. Tell it.”

  Hours later, stomach still stuffed with filet of beef, preserved asparagus, and renaissance pudding, I clung to his words. It was only five in the evening, but the late October sky was already dark as midnight. The house was hauntingly silent. Alevia hadn’t touched the piano since she’d been dismissed from the Symphony and Mother was out at a neighborhood women’s sewing group—something I’d forced her to attend. She hadn’t told anyone about Franklin’s absence. I didn’t blame her.

  I braced my notebook on my knee, sinking back against the couch to look out the front window. It was time to begin again. I stared at the blank page, wishing inspiration would come. I couldn’t let my dreams vanish along with Frank and John. The crowd of commuters from the city still trickled past, wandering down our street to their homes. They huddled in their coats carrying briefcases or lugging bags of tools or sweat-soaked clothes from working in the factories all day. A man turned around in front of our fence, waiting for someone I couldn’t yet see.

  I saw John’s face and the memory of Frank propped in the corner of the Hoppers’ drawing room. The strange burn of anger and pain drifted through me. Though it had been nearly a month, I still didn’t know how to grieve for them if they never returned. I remembered the news of the Mud Run Disaster in Pennsylvania in ’88. The pictures of the sixty-six people who’d died on that train had been in the paper the next day, taking up five full pages. Whole families had been killed, but the worst was the story of a young woman who’d lost four siblings as well as her parents. I hadn’t understood, even then, how she could mourn all of them at once. At the time, I was heartbroken over losing my father. He was one person. Now, as angry as I was, I had no idea, if it came to it, how I would find a way to live with the fact that both my brother and my near fiancé were gone forever. I kept going to Franklin’s room to sit among his things—the scattering of travel pamphlets on his dresser, the discarded half-finished paintings under his bed—and then something, a memory or the scrawled writing on a letter would remind me of John and my mind would switch to him, equally broken and confused.

  “I’m going out. I’ll be back on the last train.” Bess materialized in the foyer balancing her supply trunk. Her bruised eyes were a startling contradiction to her cheery Christmas-red hat with pluming green feathers. “Here.” She withdrew an envelope stuffed under her arm. “It’s the new edition of The Century. Came in the post today and got jumbled with my things.” I took it from her and set it down on the hard upholstery beside me.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “The Carnegies’,” she said blankly. “Louise has written me five times begging me to come over and fit her for a new hat for the holidays. I don’t want to go, but . . .” Bessie pursed her lips and shrugged, not bothering to vocalize the obvious—that we needed the money. I’d found out gradually that Doctor Hopper was related to the Carnegies through Andrew’s father, William Carnegie. Doctor Hopper’s father, Thomas, was his cousin. Though I knew the Hoppers had never been close to their distant cousins, they were family nonetheless and I wondered . . .

  “If they mention anything—” I started, but Bessie cut me off.

  “If they so much as utter the name of . . . of those men or my brother, I’ll leave, I swear it.” As promised, ever since Tom had left, Bess hadn’t spoken their names. I’d overheard her telling Alevia that she’d tried to call on Tom last week—likely because he hadn’t responded to any of her letters—but had been quickly turned out of the Blaines’ drawing room.

  “I know you hate them,” I said softly. “But you don’t know what happened . . . none of us do,” I amended, catching myself. “John and Frank’s hearts aren’t suited for murder. There has to be an explanation.” I paused briefly, knowing even the clarification wouldn’t change anything in her eyes. They were liars. Soon there would be newspaper articles slandering their names and calling them killers—unless someone knew where they’d gone and could go after them. They could come clean about the Optimism Solution. Even if Doctor Hopper hadn’t patented it, the ingredients weren’t illegal. It was the high dosage that had taken Lydia’s life.

  “I don’t care,” Bessie said, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Please.” I started to get up from the couch when Bessie turned to look at me one last time. Chilly air blew in from the open door. “Surely someone knows where they’ve gone. Please, Bessie. Pay close attention for me.” She shook her head, but as she stared into my face, I knew she’d agreed. She was my sister and could tell I was miserable. She’d help me if she could.

  The door slammed behind her and I watched her amble across the lawn, sling open the fence, and turn back to close it. Life confused me. The mix of pain and love and suffering and happiness didn’t make sense. Neither did the timing of it all. I opened the envelope beside me and withdrew the magazine. I flipped past the index to find a short note from Mr. Gilder printed before the first story. I scanned it, found my name among the words, and closed the volume. A month ago, this page would have filled me with satisfaction and joy. Now, I felt nothing. Charlie’s efforts on my behalf had been selfless and kind, but thinking of him at all only reminded me that I’d been deceived by every man I’d ever loved. I flung the magazine across the room, satisfied with the loud smack of the spine meeting the wall. I plucked my notebook from the arm of the couch and my pencil from the table beside me, thoroughly angry with everything and fully prepared to pour all my bitterness into my novel.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  DECEMBER 1892

  The Loftin House

  BRONX, NEW YORK

  Alevia was sitting on the spoon-backed velvet armchair in the parlor staring out at the blue sky through the frosted windowpanes. There had been clouds or rain for the past two weeks, ever since the first of December, and a bit of sun was welcome.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I sat down on the tufted couch behind her and opened my notebook, relishing the warmth fro
m the fire in the hearth. I’d poured myself into my novel over the past month and had finally worked out a daily routine, though I still had days where I did nothing but make myself sick thinking of John and Franklin.

  Alevia’s hair was down, black waves cascading down her back, and she nodded, without bothering to look at me. It was ten in the morning, but she hadn’t dressed. She hadn’t changed from her sleeping gown for days now.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, fully knowing she wasn’t. I wasn’t either. Our bank account had dwindled to nearly nothing. Yesterday, while Mother, Bessie, and Alevia gathered around our ledger trying to figure how we could survive the next months, I’d retreated to Frank’s room. With the sound of my family’s muffled worries in my ears, I’d cursed him until my rage turned to despair and I’d crumpled on his bed weeping, guilt threatening to overtake me. Frank said he hadn’t agreed to sell for Doctor Hopper on account of me, but he’d begun right after Charlie’s proposal, right after Charlie had made it clear that he’d asked for Rachel’s hand because she had money he needed.

  Alevia sighed, eyes rolling toward the whitewashed ceiling before finally making their way to mine.

  “Of course I’m all right. What do you think? I’m positively thrilled that I’ve been dismissed from the Symphony.” Her sharp response startled me. I’d expected a muted “no.” She kept her gaze fixed to mine and I noticed the swollen bags under her eyes. Her misery filled me with remorse. If I hadn’t let Charlie’s betrayal consume me so entirely, perhaps Frank would’ve remained at J. L. Mott, leaving us poor but safe from ruin. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Gin,” she said softly.

  “You can’t let Damrosch defeat you. He’s only one conductor. There’s still the Philharmonic and the Women’s Symphony. You can’t let him stop you from playing. You’re too talented.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Really?” I said angrily before I could stop myself. I was tired of Bessie and Alevia moping around as if they were the only ones who’d lost everything. “You of all people should know that I’ve stomached my fair share of disappointment. I was rejected from The Century, only to find out that a work Tom plagiarized was accepted. You were there when I lost Charlie and you’ve watched as I’ve suffered through the great possibility that I’ve lost John as well, not to mention our brother.” Alevia looked down at her hands, long fingers drumming anxiously in the air.

  “I know. But Harvey hasn’t stopped believing in your work. You know I’ve never cared much about men or marriage. All I’ve ever wanted is to play the piano and Franklin has taken that from me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He has not. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Franklin, you would’ve never met Lydia and Damrosch never would’ve accepted you.” Alevia remained silent. “Futhermore, Franklin hasn’t stolen your ability to play. You still have all ten fingers and I guarantee that if you sat down at the piano right now, you could play whatever piece you wanted.” I pursed my lips at her, trying to channel Mae. I didn’t have her gentle-mannered bluntness and wished she was here. She’d come to loan us some money yesterday with the promise that she’d return after school today. She and Henry had come to the house for dinner almost every day since Frank’s disappearance. I was thankful for their company. Although I was certain her nerves were as frazzled as everyone else’s, she was a calm presence.

  “That’s not what I meant, Virginia,” Alevia whispered, though her words were edged with ice. “I could sit in the corner and play brunches and parties until I’m too old to see the notes, but I don’t want to. That’s not excellence, that’s average. And I had finally made it. Now I’ll never have another chance.” I started to disagree, but Alevia kept talking. “I know what you’re going to say. I love you for trying to cheer me, but Damrosch won’t change his mind. Franklin isn’t here for a reason. Whatever he’s done, he knows he can’t return and Damrosch won’t consider me unless Franklin redeems himself, whatever that means. And I won’t audition for the Philharmonic again. They won’t hire a woman.” Alevia took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. I had never heard her speak this directly. Tragedy and worry had hardened her, as they had Bess. Anger had drawn them closer together. In contrast, I found myself rattled, vacillating between moments of calm and alternating fury or melancholy—though I never let my family see me break. I couldn’t, lest they believe that I, too, had turned my back on my brother and John.

  “I am right,” Alevia said. As much as I wanted to argue with her, I couldn’t. “You love Franklin and nothing he could ever do, even this, will make you stop loving him. You’ve always been his pet and him yours, but he’s ruined us, all of us . . . our livelihood, our dreams. I’ve watched you try to write. It takes you hours to pick up the pencil. I know it’s because you’re worried. He’s killed your creativity, your ability to breathe.” She was wrong. True, I was worried, but over the past several weeks, I’d written better than I had in months, writing through my pain, using it for good.

  “Don’t act as though you don’t love him, too. He’s your brother, Alevia, and whatever he’s done—” She cut me off, shaking her head.

  “I hope that I’ll be able to forgive him later, but right now, I am too angry. I hate him.” She said it quietly, turning her gaze to the jumping fire. I remembered his face stretched with worry in the dark. He loved our family. Alevia’s words would break him. I inhaled the yeasty scent of baking bread as the logs popped in the hearth. Mother had been making a loaf first thing in the morning for the last few days.

  “Hate him if you want, but it won’t change anything. It’s Damrosch you should be angry with. He let his emotions get in the way of his work.” I stood to leave before she could disagree with me. I started toward the front door. I needed to walk, even if it was just to the end of the street and back. The gloominess of the house was weighing on me.

  The street was silent save the distant clanging from the iron factory. My breath hovered in front of me. Smoke trailed from the chimney of each house, puffing toward the blue sky like steam chugging from a train. A door echoed up ahead and two children sprinted down the front steps chasing each other and laughing. Obviously not siblings—the boy had a full head of bright red hair, while the girl’s was raven black—they ran round and round the yard until the boy pulled up a handful of grass and threw it into the girl’s face. Her smile drooped and she stopped running to wipe the blades from her eyes. The boy stopped then, too, and walked toward her.

  “I’m sorry,” I heard him say as I passed. He hugged her, little arms wrapping tightly around her back. She threw hers around him in turn and tossed him to the ground. She laughed at his surprised face, and at once I was reminded of Charlie. We’d only been children, maybe eleven or twelve, and we’d been playing cowboys and Indians in the snow during that lazy lull of a week between Christmas and New Year’s. Santa Claus had given Charlie a bow and arrow and Frank a cap gun. Though I hadn’t received anything remotely useful to bring to the game—my stocking had been filled with colored pencils and an orange—I’d insisted on playing, too, wielding a sling shot made from a leather strap cut from one of Father’s old suitcases and whatever rocks I could find. Charlie and I had been chasing Frank, and after our third lap around the house, I’d decided to hide in one of the bushes and scare him. Hearing a running stride, I’d jumped from my hiding place at the wrong time, startling Charlie instead and causing him to scream at the top of his lungs like a little girl. Thinking it hilarious, Frank had doubled over laughing, but Charlie’s face had burned red and he’d leveled his bow and arrow at my chest. The felt-tipped arrow hadn’t hurt me, but his anger had, and before I could think twice I’d raised my slingshot and hit him in the forehead with a rock. I’d regretted it immediately, but he’d touched the red spot, raised his face, and laughed.

  The familiar feeling of Charlie’s friendship flowed through me and I urgently wished he were here. Even though I’d always been a believer in the idea that things happened the way they were supposed to, I cou
ldn’t help but wonder how differently things would have turned out if Charlie and I had married. I know I would have been happy because of my love for him, but also because I wouldn’t have known anything else. I would have written exclusively for the Bronx Review until I felt like quitting. I never would have written my novel nor gone to the Society nor fallen in love with John nor met Frederick Harvey. The thought of John made my heart still. If I concentrated, I could feel the way his gaze set my stomach tumbling, longing for his touch, and the way his surety, the promise of his love, settled it. But his memory was so muddled now. I longed for the man I’d known, grieved for the torn part of him I hadn’t, and despised the darkness he’d hidden from me. In spite of my confusion, the possibility of how different my life could have been without him was startling. Even given the hardship, I was glad for the opportunities I’d been given.

  I started back home. After the rain, the sunshine made the paint slathered on each identical home look surprisingly fresh. I waved at Mrs. Jacobson who’d stepped onto her porch in her late husband’s buffalo fur coat to collect her paper. Nearing eighty, she was the oldest and last original owner of the houses on our block.

  “Do be careful out there, Miss Virginia. It’s been raining for days and bound to be icy!” she called out. I nodded at her and kept on, refreshed and glad for the warmth when I finally made it inside. I unbuttoned my kid leather boots and left them on the front rug. As I’d come to expect, the house was quiet save the sharp dinging of the grandfather clock in the drawing room. Hanging my mink coat on the rack next to the door, I started toward the stairs. I paused as I passed the dining room. Mother had just set out the plain white china bowls—we were having barley stew again for lunch—and was staring at the portrait of my father. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t blink. A cup of coffee steamed next to the open newspaper in front of her and I walked into the room and sat down across from her.