The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “That’s too bad,” the young man said, shaking his head. “I’ll call for Mr. Harvey. Have a seat over there if you wish.” He gestured toward a circle of leather chairs situated on a red oriental rug and I took a seat with my back to the desk.

  I ran my hand along the smooth leather. Had John sat here before me? The hollow feeling of betrayal and abandonment started to rise, but I refused to let it overtake me. “You’ll never be alone, Gin. I’ll be here. I promise.” Charlie’s voice. He’d stayed in Mott Haven for a week, spending every waking moment in our company. On the last day, I’d been unable to let him go. I could still feel the grip of my fingers holding on to him next to the front door. His presence had done what I’d hoped. For a while, it had prompted my family to talk again—old friends tended to know just the thing to do to block out misery—and for a moment, while we’d all sat laughing around the fireplace, I’d tricked myself into believing the peace was permanent. As he’d gone to leave, though, I could feel sorrow seeping back in and worried the moment he left we’d go back to our own rooms, to silence. “Write. Art has always healed our wounds,” he’d said, touching my face. “But there’s no escaping the scars and I hate that I’ve contributed to them. Please know that I have one, too.” He’d traced his index finger across my chest as he said it and then across his own. “But mine will never close up. Even if you’ll not allow me to be with you, I can’t stay away. I need you.”

  “Miss Loftin.” Fred Harvey’s deep voiced boomed from behind me, disturbing the memories. I smiled as he walked toward me, realizing I hadn’t had to fake it. The void in my chest was gone.

  “Good to see you,” I said. His lips turned up and I noticed that his mustache, usually trimmed to immaculate precision, hung long across his top lip. “Are you all right?” He looked around and nodded.

  “We’ll discuss in my office,” he whispered. “Can I have any refreshment brought up, Miss Loftin? Coffee, tea, water?” he asked, much more loudly. “Scotch?” he asked softly, eyebrows quirking up. I laughed and then cleared my throat.

  “No. I’m fine, thank you,” I said. “Actually, scotch sounds wonderful,” I whispered, even though it was still morning.

  “Thank goodness. I need it today.” We didn’t speak as the elevator launched upward and stopped at the fourth floor.

  “Here we are.” He led me into a sizable office lined with inset bookshelves on three of the four walls. A picture window overlooked the city . . . and the side of the J. L. Mott building. My breath hitched in my throat when I saw it, and I looked away. Harvey circled his desk and gestured at the chairs in front of it. I took the seat with its back to the windows. Reaching into his desk, Harvey pulled out a crystal decanter and poured us two large glasses of scotch. “Here,” he said, setting it in front of me. “I know it’s not yet noon, but it’s been a difficult day already. The law paid me a visit first thing this morning asking me yet again if I’d heard from John. They’ve come every week since the first of January—the three-month anniversary of the filing, I suppose. I figured I might be called if it went to trial, but didn’t think they would bother potential witnesses beforehand. They’re probably just getting desperate thinking they’ll never find them.” Harvey took a long sip of scotch. “I certainly hope they’ve had the decency to leave your family alone.”

  “They haven’t. They don’t come every week, though. If we were in Manhattan, I’m certain they’d come more often. It’s a haul out to the Bronx to hear the same response each time.” They’d come for the third time two weeks ago while Charlie was in town. It had been Detective Barfield again, a short waif of a man who—you could tell from his tone of voice—hadn’t wanted to ask us again. Unfortunately for the detective, Charlie had reached the door before any of us had had a chance and told him in a cacophony of curses and shouts that no we hadn’t heard from Franklin and that he couldn’t believe he was bothering us during this difficult time.

  “I’m just tired of it all. And worried for John, too, I suppose. He was . . . is a good young man. I’m sure your brother’s the same. I can’t imagine they’d hurt Miss Blaine.” Harvey sighed and lifted the glass to his lips. He gulped the scotch as if it were water and leaned back in his chair. “But that’s not why I asked to meet you, Miss Loftin.” He swirled the liquid around and set the glass down on the desk with a clink. I lifted mine, took a small sip to steady my nerves, and nearly gagged. It was scotch all right, but very low quality. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and tasted the same. “Suppose I should’ve warned you.” Harvey laughed. “It’s a friend’s homemade formula. A little stronger than the bottled variety.”

  “I’d say,” I said and waited. Harvey stared at me as though he’d asked me a question. “You were going to tell me why you wanted to meet?”

  “Ah, yes.” He took another swig from his glass and stood up, pacing behind his desk chair. “You took my advice. You channeled your heartache into something truly remarkable. I thought that you nailed the revision.” His tone was flat and emotionless. “The trouble is . . . Mr. Holt did not. I’m sorry, Miss Loftin, but I have to release you from our contract.” I stared at him, feeling the breath flee from my chest. “I’m so sorry. Please know it wasn’t my decision—”

  “Just like that?” Surprised I could find my voice at all, it came out in a screech.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re saying that Mr. Holt found my book so awful that he forced you to fire me without a chance at revision? What was wrong with it? Did he hate the characters? The plot? Is it because I’m a woman?” Words were flying from my mouth as quickly as I thought them. I tried to calm down, but couldn’t, and started to stand. I had to get out of there.

  “Of course not. Please, Miss Loftin. Let me explain.”

  “There’s apparently nothing to discuss.” I opened the door, but Harvey edged in front of me and slammed it shut.

  “You deserve the truth,” he said. His eyes were watery, and I noticed on second glance that veins had started to snake across them as if he’d been up for days. “Please sit.” He whispered the words and when I complied, he exhaled loudly and ran a hand across his face. Practically falling into his desk chair, he yanked the wire-framed glasses from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. I waited, counting the muted ticks coming from the cuckoo clock on the wall so as to keep my composure. In truth, I wanted to throw something. I wanted to go to John and let him tell me how unfair it was, to hear that he’d endured similar hardships, but he was gone and the Society that had inspired me gone with him.

  “This is hard for me to discuss, Virginia, as I don’t agree with any of it,” Harvey started. Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out the decanter and poured himself another glass. He took a gulp and cleared his throat. “It comes down to this: the association with . . . with your last name. Mr. Holt feels that we can’t afford an additional connection to this scandal without compromising the firm’s reputation and—”

  “That is absurd!” I was out of my chair before I could stop myself. I slammed my hand on his desk, rattling the pens in his holder and sloshing the liquor in his glass. “I don’t even know where my brother is! Why should I have to pay for what he’s done?” Harvey pressed his lips together. He wasn’t going to say anything because he didn’t have the answers. I whirled away from him and glared out of the windows at the J. L. Mott building that I’d worked so hard to avoid minutes earlier. “I hate you, Frank.” The words came out so softly that I barely heard them myself. I knew Mr. Harvey hadn’t heard me, but I clapped my hand over my mouth, shocked by the words I loathed hearing Alevia and Bessie say, words that I’d said countless times in my head but never permitted myself to say aloud. I swallowed hard, hoping to dissolve the lump in my throat, but it didn’t budge. “I didn’t mean that,” I whispered again, as if he could actually hear me. “Please. Just come back.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Harvey’s voice came from behind me. I faced him, not entirely sure what he meant. “You shouldn’t have to pay for w
hat he’s done,” he clarified. Running his finger around the rim of his glass, he shifted in his chair and the old wood screeched. “It’s not fair and I told Holt the same, but he won’t listen. For what it’s worth, Holt has asked me to revoke John’s contract, too . . . if he’s ever found.” He flipped his hand at the desk, but his breath hitched on the last syllable. He clenched his jaw to stop the emotion.

  “I know they couldn’t have done it on purpose if they did it at all,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. I heard Harvey sniff once and glanced up at him to find his eyes dry. I wasn’t quite sure why John’s disappearance was affecting him so deeply—other than the nuisance of having officers barging into your workplace once a week. He didn’t say anything, but plucked the glass from his desk, stood, and swirled the scotch once more. Staring out of the window at the street below, he shook his head. Unable to bear the silence, I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair. “A while ago you told me to turn my sadness into something good. I think it helped,” I said. “Perhaps you should try it.”

  “I know,” he said, gripping the top of his chair. “You’re probably wondering why I care so much—or maybe you’re not.” I shrugged, figuring he had his reasons. “It’s hard to explain, really, and you may not understand, but I chose not to have a family. As a young man, I wasn’t interested. I was too involved in my work. When I met John, I knew I’d met the man my son would have been if I’d had one.” Harvey’s words didn’t surprise me. John’s kindness and wit had affected so many people. “I know it’s silly, but with him gone, it’s like I’ve lost a son, and a writer, and I worry for him.”

  Harvey took a deep breath and sat back down in his chair. He yanked at a drawer, withdrew a checkbook, scribbled on it, and handed it to me. “It’s only for half of what I promised you, but it’s all I can personally afford.”

  “I can’t take this.” I pushed the check back on his desk. As much as we needed the money, I couldn’t.

  “You’ll take it. I promised publication and failed you.”

  “You didn’t fail me. It’s not your fault.” I fiddled with the ivory ribbon at my waist and concentrated on keeping my breath steady. Even though my greatest dream had been dangled in front of me and taken away, I couldn’t blame Mr. Harvey. It was done—at least for now—another casualty of Franklin’s misstep, and neither of us could do anything to change it.

  “Look at me,” he said. I met his eyes and he smiled. “I know this is a defeat, but this is not the last the world will see of The Web. Someone will take the chance on it. I promise you. Just give it time. The world will know your writing, Miss Loftin.” I nodded, appreciative of the words, even if I didn’t believe them. So far, he’d been the only one to take an interest in my novel. In three months I had yet to hear anything from G. P. Putnam’s Sons or Charles Scribner’s Sons.

  “Thank you for believing in me.”

  “I don’t say it to humor you either. It’s the truth.” He grunted as he leaned across the desk, snatched the check, and forced it firmly into my hands. “And you will take this,” he insisted and then leaned back in his chair and laughed. I looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “I’m sorry. But it just dawned on me. The saying is right. You know the one—money can’t buy happiness. In this case, it can’t. Not even close. If it could, I’d clean out my checkbook.” He reached once again into his drawer, and lit a cigar. The sweet smell of charring tobacco drifted through my nostrils.

  “If only it could.” I flattened the check onto Mr. Harvey’s desk. “It would have been a pleasure to work with you.” Mr. Harvey started to insist that I accept the payment, but I shook my head and left his office.

  Please don’t tell me any of you have forgotten Father at Great-uncle Edmund’s funeral.” Mae started laughing and I coughed, choking on the sourdough bread I’d just shoved in my mouth. Even though I’d tried to forget Mr. Holt’s rejection and move on—I couldn’t do anything about it, after all—I hadn’t laughed in weeks, and it felt good. Mother started giggling at the head of the table.

  “I don’t think there’s any way we could,” Alevia said. “We were all shoved into Edmund’s little general store on the corner sitting two to a chair around his open casket. The priest—”

  “Who just happened to be wearing some unofficial yellow robe on account of the fact that he’d been defrocked,” I interrupted.

  “Kept droning on and on about what a good man he was,” Mae continued. “It was so hot in there and suddenly a loud snore rose up next to Mother.”

  “He never was one to fake interest in something,” Mother said. She glanced at the portrait of Father over my head.

  “I don’t think it was a matter of interest. The man couldn’t sit down without falling asleep. Mr. Mott always said he’d fall asleep on a break in the middle of the iron plant during peak hours,” Bessie said. Her lips turned up slightly and she tucked a loose auburn tendril back into the black paste jeweled pin at the side of her head.

  “I did try nudging him during the funeral. It was rude.” Mother swirled her fork in her mashed potatoes and Alevia giggled.

  “But he didn’t wake up. He snored through the entire thing and everyone else just pretended they didn’t notice,” I said, remembering my father’s head tilted back against the chair, mouth gaping open.

  “Until the end when—” Bessie stopped abruptly, momentarily forgetting that Franklin was no longer a part of the family. Only six years old at the time, he’d pinched Father after an especially loud snore. Father had jumped in his chair and bellowed “damn it” at the top of his lungs, right into the face of the priest.

  I laughed to myself, but the rest of the table sat in silence. I looked around at my family. Merry just moments earlier, their faces had suddenly turned to stone as they stared at their plates. I recalled Mr. Harvey’s words dismissing me and clutched my fingers into my palm, willing the fire away. I was tired of it—tired of our anger. I’d lost my brother, a love, the Society, my chance at publication, and still, despite my fury at Franklin, I missed him.

  I glanced down at my half-eaten rosemary chicken breast and set my fork down. In the few years since we’d lost Father, we always had a family dinner on his birthday. We laughed about our memories, what he would say about the mischief we’d gotten into over the past year. Franklin had been here last year, sitting at the head of the table across from Mother. I could still see the way Mother had looked at him as he’d told a story, the way her eyes had gleamed with simultaneous hilarity and grief. Franklin had always reminded her of Father. He had his sense of humor, but more than that, he had his heart.

  “Ginny?” Mae nudged me, forcing me back to the silence of the dining room. Silverware scraped across china and I had an urge to yank the tablecloth with all of its contents off the table. “I thought you’d fallen asleep like Father.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I stood from the table. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, so I turned at the doorway. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, knowing the tone of my voice had given me away.

  “Don’t do this, Virginia. Not now. We’ve been having such a pleasant evening. I’ve made Father’s favorite, Grandmother Loftin’s coconut pound cake. Have a seat and celebrate with the rest of us.” Mother’s blue eyes were soft with fatigue. For a moment I felt sorry for her—sorry that my father was gone, sorry that she couldn’t reconcile the faults of her son—and then the pity flung away as quickly as the drawing of curtains at a play. Did anyone else miss Frank? My hands clutched my silk skirt and I scanned each of their faces, at Bessie then Alevia, who was wiping a drop of mashed potatoes off her brocaded bodice, and finally at Mother. None of them seemed to mind that he’d been removed from our family, that he was gone forever. The front door flew open down the hall and I jumped.

  “Hello, Gin.” Charlie smiled at me. His cheeks were rosy with cold and he was covered head to boots in snow. He held a box and turned for a moment to brush the top of it before stepping inside. At once, my fury settled.

/>   “Charlie? Is that you?” Mother called from the table.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Give me a moment to dry off and I’ll be right in. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner. I know it’s a special day.” Charlie glanced at me, eyes flickering in the candlelight. He set the box down next to him and hooked his black bowler hat on the coatrack. I left the dining room and started down the hall toward him. He stared at me, gray wool coat dripping on the rug. “Wait a moment, I’m soaked,” he said, but I didn’t listen. Relieved at the sight of my oldest friend, I wrapped my arms around him, fully aware of the snow melting down the front of my dress.

  “Recently, you seem to appear the moment I need you most,” I whispered into his ear. He leaned back, and planted a kiss on my forehead.

  “I’m glad for it,” Charlie said. His eyes dropped to the ground in front of him, but I could see his telltale dimple emerging. “But if you’re not going to agree to be my wife, you can’t keep doing that to me.”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes met mine and his head cocked to the side.

  “As if you don’t know,” he whispered, glancing down my neck to the saturated pink silk now clinging to my body. “The moment I walk through the door you throw yourself into my arms and press against me. It takes all of my willpower to avoid pulling you down on that couch right there.” His words conjured John, the way he’d pulled me onto his couch the last time, the way he’d kissed me. In spite of the melancholy that seeped in at the memory, my stomach fluttered with desire for Charlie. As much as my heart longed for me to accept him, my mind refused. I didn’t know if I could trust him, and until I could be sure, I couldn’t consider his offer. I grabbed his hand.

  “I’m sorry.”