The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Mother,” I whispered. She didn’t acknowledge me at all, but kept staring over my head at Father, hand pressed to the lapel of her gray flannel walking suit. “Mother,” I said again. This time her eyes landed on mine.

  “Now I know why he hasn’t come home. Your brother . . . he’s ruined. He’s ruined us.” She said it evenly, but her words stung like a stitch threaded through an open wound.

  “What do you mean?” I started to think she’d lost her mind before she lifted her hand from her lap and scooted the newspaper across the table. I didn’t want to look, but forced my eyes to the page. The headline, “Blaine Family Suspects Murder in the Death of Daughter” was in bold on the right-hand side of the front page next to an article detailing Jack Astor’s new home plans. Suspects, not confirms. I comforted myself before I started reading.

  Authorities in Manhattan are searching for self-made physician to the elite, Doctor Jacob Hopper, his son, Mr. John Hopper, and business partner, Mr. Franklin Loftin. A source close to the Blaine family of Manhattan says that the three suspects have been prescribing and distributing an expensive unpatented drug called Optimism Solution, prescribed to patients for depression. After much digging, it appears that the drug, injected intravenously, was verbally said to be perfectly safe for use, but according to a waiver that many users were forced to sign ahead of time, Doctor Hopper, his son, and Mr. Loftin knew that there was a possibility that the drug could be lethal. Thus far, it has been determined that Miss Blaine’s death was not the only casualty. Others, including the death of Mr. Marcus Carter, are thought to be a result of high dosages of this drug. Authorities fear that the Hoppers and Mr. Loftin fled the city after the death of Miss Blaine. The source has disclosed to us that a toxicology analysis found Miss Blaine’s body to be flooded with lethal doses of both cocaine and morphine. An official warrant has been awarded authorities in order to bring these men to justice.

  I dropped the paper and looked at Mother. Her face was pale, wrinkles etched deeply into skin taut with worry. I cursed under my breath. Damn them for doing this to us. Regardless of what I’d promised Franklin, I had no choice.

  “I saw Franklin.” Mother’s eyes flashed at my words and I stood from my chair. “I’m going to get the others. It’s time you knew.”

  He’s destroyed us.”

  That was the first thing Bess said after I’d gone on for nearly half an hour explaining how I’d come to see Franklin, what he’d said, and why I hadn’t told them any of it. She glared at me, fluffing her enormous gigot sleeves. I slammed my hand on the oval walnut dining table and stood up. Mother’s head jerked up from her lap.

  “Don’t you understand?” I said. “Frank and John didn’t know—well, Frank suspected, but he didn’t know for sure. Our brother is somewhere out there running for his life and all you worry about is our reputation?”

  “Sit down,” Mother said and I did, seething. None of them understood, not even Mother. As horrified and filled with rage as his actions made me, I’d seen his remorse. I knew his heart.

  “Do you honestly believe he’d kill someone? Franklin, our brother, killing someone? He made a mistake . . . a bad mistake, one we’ll all pay sorely for, but still.” I looked from Bessie’s stony glare to Alevia’s eyes filled with tears to Mother’s tapered lids fixed on my face. No one spoke.

  “You’ve broken my trust,” Mother said. “To keep this from me, Virginia, knowing all the time I’ve worried—”

  “It would’ve made it worse, Mother. I didn’t know how it was going to turn out, neither did Frank. He didn’t want anyone to worry unnecessarily.”

  “So he hoped to get away with killing her? The woman he supposedly loved?” Bessie asked flatly. “I hope they hang him.” I heard Alevia gasp as my hand met Bessie’s face. My palm pulsed with the sting of the impact and Bessie clutched the red print on her cheek.

  “You little twit,” I said. “Didn’t you hear what I said? John administered the drug but he didn’t know either. He used it himself. He trusted his father and his father refused to see that people were misusing it, that it was dangerous.” My head started to spin with anger at John for his deception, anger at my family, and I stumbled into my chair. I clutched the edge of the table, trying to steady. The edges of my vision were hazy and I knew that if I didn’t sit down, I would faint.

  “Where is he now?” Alevia’s sweet voice drifted through my ears. Comforted, I looked up at her, thinking she’d finally come around, but her eyes, blurred with wasted dreams, said otherwise.

  “I don’t know,” I breathed. “He said he was going to get out of the city for a while.” Still light-headed, I turned my back on them, toward the portrait of my father leaning back in his leather chair. His stony glare hit me and I knew then what I had to say. I whirled back around and looked at my mother. “He’s your son, your blood,” I started. I plucked the newspaper from the table and held it in front of her face. “And you’re going to take the word of a stranger over his?”

  “I believe the only news I’ve heard. He didn’t care to tell me,” she said. I rolled my eyes.

  “I found him. Otherwise, none of us would know.” Mother was softening. I could see it in the slump of her shoulders. Bess and Alevia both stared at me, neither conceding, and I looked from one to the other, wishing I could shake them.

  “The two of you can think what you want, but it’s disgusting, really, how quickly you’ll forfeit our brother to the wolves,” I said. “If heaven forbid you should stumble off of your self-righteous paths someday, don’t count on us loving you.” I left the room. No one spoke as I slung on my cloak and buttoned my boots in the foyer. My one ally, the one person besides me that I knew would always love him wasn’t here and I needed to go find her. Someone had to tell Mae. But as I reached for the handle, the door flung open. Mae’s eyes were burned red, her cheeks chapped from the sting of the wind over her tears. She was clutching the newspaper in her fist.

  “Mae, I—” Before I could begin to explain, she lunged at me, buried her face in my cloak and wept.

  “Our brother. How could he?” She sobbed into my shoulder. “We’ll never see him again. He’s forfeited his life, he’s given up everything to sell that drug. He’ll never come home now, and I’m so angry and sad that I can hardly bear it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Loftin House

  BRONX, NEW YORK

  Silent night, holy night. Son of God, love’s pure light.” I was dreaming the hymn. Yawning, I opened my eyes to the windows displaying a perfect Christmas Eve. The snow had started falling in the afternoon and was still pouring from the sky in fluffy flakes. We’d shuffled through the thick of it on our way to church tonight, letting our boots dry where we stood in the standing-room-only sanctuary. I closed my eyes to go back to the hushed silence of the packed room lit only by taper candles. I could see the light flickering off the limestone walls and onto the stained-glass image of the Good Friday Jesus at the front. I’d focused on his face the moment we’d stepped through the door tonight—at his mouth pinched in pain and his eyes turned up to the heavens. Christmas was supposed to be warm and soothing, a time to revel in joy and forget grief, but I’d needed the reminder that I wasn’t alone, that an anguish much greater than mine had been endured by our Lord. I’d stared at the image throughout the entire service, barely aware of anything around me, until Pastor Worley called Alevia to the front to play “Silent Night.” At the last verse, right before we sang “with the dawn of redeeming grace,” Mrs. Aldridge, who was for some reason alone on Christmas Eve, crossed all the way from the front of the church to the back to put her arms around Mother. The gesture had gripped me, bringing to mind the grace God continually poured out on even the most undeserving—even Franklin and John.

  It wasn’t that the backlash from the article had been particularly awful—at least in Mott Haven. If anything, our neighbors and friends had responded with pity, but across the river in Manhattan we’d been blacklisted. It hadn’t been
obvious at first, but when Alevia—who’d slowly started playing again—wasn’t hired to play at the usual families’ Christmas soirees, the message was clear. The only families brave enough to employ her were the Vanderbilts and the Astors and that was because they tended to disregard the social stigmas and rumors originating in any home but their own. Bessie’s business had been slowing for the same reason. It seemed entirely unfair that they should pay for Franklin’s transgressions, but that’s how it worked. One misstep could devastate an entire family’s reputation with the upper class—Mother was right about that—and our income had been ravaged to the point that we’d sold the Benz and had to put in an inquiry at the Building and Loan. I’d volunteered to go into town and request the loan, to face the penetrating eyes of the banker who’d either grant us a moment’s peace or strangle us further. The whole way there, I’d blinked back tears. At one moment despair would hollow my soul, but then I’d recall the source of our agony, and my nerves would ache with fury until I wanted to scream.

  I pulled the quilt up over my shoulders. The small fire I’d made from kindling had gone out hours ago and the cold whistled in through the cracks in the windowpanes. Huddling on my side, I tucked my arms under my pillow, praying the loan would be granted. The banker hadn’t been sympathetic nor callous. I didn’t know what his decision would be, but we’d find out next week, which seemed like aeons from now.

  I must’ve drifted off for a moment before I was jarred awake by a sound downstairs. I stilled, listening, until I heard it again—the muted screech of wood sliding against wood and the soft rattling of a window. The sound was coming from right below me in the drawing room. Over the past weeks, a few neighbors had reported their windows knocked out and Christmas presents stolen. Robberies tended to happen more often this time of year, which is why we hadn’t put our gifts out until tonight. Thinking of the packages beneath the small balsam fir in front of the window, I knew they were easy targets. A deep grunt and the thump of what sounded like boots kicking the side of the house came from the first floor and I jumped out of bed. Grabbing my cloak, I glanced around the room for something to use as a weapon, finding nothing save the decorative knob on the top of my dresser. I twisted it off. Only about a foot long, I doubted it would do much. My hands started to shake and I clutched the knob harder. Tiptoeing out of my door, I glanced down the hallway, thinking that I should go down to Mae’s room and wake Henry, but a thud hit the floorboards below me and I sped down the stairs. By the time I woke Henry, the intruder would be gone.

  My heart pounded in my ears as I crept toward the foyer, but the scrape of wood against wood again quickened my pace. I sprinted toward the drawing room. Even though our gifts to each other were nothing but small trinkets—eyeglasses for Mother, a scarf for Bess, a day planner for Mae, music to Alexander Scriabin’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in F minor for Alevia—I wouldn’t let the thief take them. Not this year. Entering the room, knob thrust out in front of me, I stopped dead.

  “Frank?” I whispered. I didn’t believe what I was seeing. I rubbed my eyes, but he was still there when I looked again. His hair had grown long, curling around his ears, and he hadn’t shaved, a beard overtaking the bottom half of his face.

  “Merry Christmas, Gin.” He took two steps and gathered me in his arms. He smelled awful, but I didn’t care.

  “Thank god you’re all right,” I whispered into his shirt. “It’s been months since I saw you and the news hit the paper a few weeks ago. I thought you were dead.” I was babbling, but I didn’t care. My brother was alive and safe and home. He laughed softly. I heard the echo of it in his chest and stepped away to look at him. “Why didn’t you knock?” I asked, eyeing the cracked window.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Ginny,” he said. “In any case, I tried to open the door, but it was locked?” His eyebrow quirked up in question. We never locked our doors.

  “There’ve been robberies.”

  “Which is why you came down wielding the almighty dresser knob.” He chuckled. “I was hoping to sneak in and leave without waking anyone. I’m not staying, Gin. I only needed Father’s gold watch from my dresser. I haven’t any money, but if I sell it I’m thinking I’d have enough to travel abroad—probably out of Canada so they won’t recognize my name.” He stared at me. “I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, edged with strain. “I know I’ve left all of you in a terrible place.” I nodded, unable to pretend that we were all right. “Sell everything I own, Gin . . . my suits, my cuff links, my shoes, all of it. I’ll send money as soon as I can. I need to get out of here.” He started to push past me, but I grabbed his filthy wool jacket, yanking him back.

  “You can’t leave again, Frank. Just go to the police and explain. They’ll see you’re innocent.” My throat strained with the thought that I would lose him again.

  “No. They need a scapegoat.” As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew he was right. “And they won’t find the Hoppers.”

  “What do you mean they won’t find the Hoppers? Where are they?” I’d convinced myself John hadn’t written for fear that a letter would be intercepted, but it had been months and I had yet to receive a token of love or apology. The thought of his reputation pushed its way into my mind. I envisioned him reveling in a new life somewhere else, wooing women who would fall into his arms. Perhaps he’d only craved the pursuit. Franklin shook his head.

  “I haven’t found them. I don’t kn—”

  “Franklin?” Mother stood in the doorway in her cotton nightgown, arms clasped to her sides. Even in the dark, I could tell her face had drained completely, as pale as the white ruffled collar below it. Frank lunged toward her, gathering her in a hug so tight she had no choice but to remain still, though she stared blankly over his shoulder, dumbfounded.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry for what I’ve put you through.” Mother started sobbing as she clung to his jacket. I heard the creak of floorboards above me and held my breath. The others were awake. “I promise I’ll explain,” he said, patting her back. “It’s not what it seems.”

  “I told them,” I said. Frank jerked away from Mother and turned to glare at me. “Please don’t be angry. I had to. I stalled as long as I could, but when the article came out, I couldn’t let them believe it.” His face softened as an onslaught of footsteps rained down the stairs. “Come on.” I pushed Mother and Frank toward the parlor. “We can’t stand in here. I know it’s late, but in case anyone passes by . . .”

  We got to the parlor in record time, about three seconds before the rest of the family materialized in the doorway. They stared, hovered in a cluster of white cotton, bookended by Henry in a blue nightshirt. I stood between them and Franklin as if I could somehow save him from the anger radiating from Bessie and Alevia’s faces. Mae moved first. Stepping away from Henry, her lips lifted into a smile as she passed me and hugged Frank.

  “We’ve been worried sick,” I heard her say behind me. “I’m so glad you’re home.” The rest of them—including Henry, who’d been only mildly suspicious of what Frank had told me—remained in the corner of the room.

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” Bessie’s snarl cut through the silence. Her hands were coiled in the tiered lace at her sides, teeth gripped. “You’ve ruined us. Tom won’t answer my letters, he won’t see me because . . . because of you.” She stalked toward him, but I grabbed her arm.

  “He’s our brother and if you can’t control yourself, get out.” Bessie twitched away from me, stepped toward Franklin, and smacked him. He stared at his filthy leather boots, head hung in shame, as the red splotch from Bessie’s hand burned his cheek. I heard Alevia’s hushed voice start then, unfurling across the room like a toxic fog.

  “Why did you do it? Please, Franklin. Tell me why. Damrosch let me go from the Symphony because he said he couldn’t bear to see my . . . my face.” She sank down and began to cry, rubbing her fists into her eyes as if it would somehow numb the pain. I turned toward my brother who had so far said nothing and saw my mothe
r’s face beginning to cloud.

  “No,” I whispered. The initial relief of seeing him was over. My sisters’ words had made Mother remember what he’d put us through. “Mother,” I started, but she stepped away from Franklin to stand next to Bess, who’d begun to weep.

  “Explain yourself, son,” she said bluntly. “We need to hear from you.” Franklin lifted his face to the room, bloodshot eyes scanning the faces of the family he loved. At last, his eyes settled on mine. “I love you,” I mouthed silently. His lips twitched to a grin and then dropped back down.

  “I know I’ve put all of you through hell, but I’ve been through my own,” he started. Unable to look at anyone but Mae and me, he alternated from our faces to his boots. He told the same story I’d told them, but when he got to the part about Lydia’s death, he paused for a moment. “I didn’t give her the solution that night. I wouldn’t let her have it at all after Marcus’s death. Something just told me that it had killed . . . Marcus and the others. I couldn’t let her take it. Not that it mattered what I thought.” His words were a lightning bolt striking through Mother, and she stepped toward him.

  “If you knew there was a possibility of death, why did you keep selling it?” she asked. “You were playing God with people’s lives. How dare you.”

  “I asked Doctor Hopper. He said I was being ridiculous, that it was safe.” Frank’s voice was strained, cracking over the words. I desperately wanted to rescue him, to wipe away what he’d done, but there was no way I could.

  “And you believed him? Even knowing in your heart he was wrong?”

  “I . . . John was on it, too, and assured me it was harmless. He said there was no way it had killed them and that his father was right, Marc had died of heart trouble like his brother,” he protested, voice rising.

  “But you didn’t give it to Lydia, because you knew the truth,” Bessie screamed as tears ran down her face. “You knew people were misusing it, that they were dying. Why? Why did you do it anyway?”