“Quick! Tell me something sad,” said Alice through giggles.
“Something sad? Let’s see. Something sad. I’m so h-happy in this moment, I don’t think I can come up with anything.”
“Oh, do try, please? I will fall apart laughing if you don’t, and they will kick us out of here, and I haven’t had my steak yet.”
“We can’t have that. Their steak is delicious. So—” He took a breath. “I’ll tell you that in that tree outside my bedroom window, there is a nest with three eggs. There used to be five, but a breeze knocked two of them out and they cracked on the pavement before the poor babes were ready.”
She felt a deep breath fill her lungs. “Oh, that is sad.”
“Did it help?”
“I’m totally cured.”
“Can I tell you something, then, since that seemed to help?”
“Yes.”
“There are still five eggs. There nearly weren’t, as the nest was in a precarious place, but I leaned out my sill and repositioned it.”
“Oh, you are a hero, then, William!”
“Only to the t-tiny sparrows, I suppose.”
“And to me,” she said slowly.
William reached again for her hand and placed his lips on it. They were soft, tender. If they were pressed against her own, she imagined that she might sink into them as onto a down pillow. A cushion to break her fall.
With Emmett, she was afraid that he might be the fall.
But sometimes falling was like floating, and that could be exhilarating.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Alice.”
She was leaning over the counter of the newsstand, absorbed in a news article about Princess Elizabeth registering for war service and finding it fascinating that a monarch—or a someday monarch—would descend to work among her people. Alice wondered if she would have the same grit. She’d certainly had enough examples in the stories about Pearl and in the witness of her own parents, and she wouldn’t want to be the first who was not brave in some way.
She looked up at the voice that was so familiar that she heard it even when he was not there.
“Emmett.”
It had been more than a week since their encounter in the darkroom. Since he’d kissed her in ways that made her feel all sorts of things she hadn’t known existed.
But was it love? After dinner with William, its definition felt elusive. The two men evoked such different reactions in her.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“Why haven’t you come by the station?”
“I wanted to come. But there are things that pulled me away.” He didn’t offer any more explanation.
But even as he stood here, he consumed the very air she breathed.
“What are you doing here, Alice?” he asked.
“I work here. For my father.” What a strange thing to ask.
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, what are you doing selling newspapers about other people’s stories when you could be creating your own?”
Her heart fluttered. No one ever spoke to her like that. As if they saw right into her truest self. She felt a magnetic pull toward him, and it made her light-headed.
“Why would you say that?”
“Your mind is elsewhere, just as it was the first time I saw you.”
He could see that? She’d just been reading an article about the upcoming twentieth anniversary of the opening of the tomb of King Tutankhamen and imagining what it would be like to see such a thing.
Emmett continued. “Your eyes reflect the small piece of me that still believes that there can be something better than what we have in this world. You make me believe in that again.”
“You are an enigma, Emmett Adler.”
“I’m—well, I don’t know what I am. Around you.”
Alice didn’t know how to respond to that. It might be the cocktail of war and infatuation that made him say such things, or there might be something particular in his life to which he was referring. His secrets.
“I have something to show you,” he said, standing straight. “Are you free soon?”
“Yes. There’s my father now.”
Emmett stepped aside. “Meet me at the clock in five minutes,” he whispered, and she agreed.
When she arrived, he was leaning against an iron light post that sported four white spheres on its stem. He was reading some kind of letter and had an agitated look on his face. But when he saw her, he stuffed the letter in his pocket and smiled.
“There you are,” he said, holding out a hand, which she accepted. “Are you ready for an adventure?”
Alice imagined that a life with Emmett would be one adventure after another, while a life with William might be charming and enjoyable.
“Yes.”
He led her down the grand concourse, and her pulse beat rapidly as his hand held hers.
It seemed as if he were leading her into the men’s lounge at the end of the hall, but just before then, he turned and looked around them and then darted through a small black door. Above it, in faded letters, it read: LOST AND FOUND.
She followed him in, and he shut the door behind them. And, like the darkroom, it was as if they’d entered an entirely different world. He flipped a switch, which illuminated several bulbs along a narrow metal stairway with holes perforated into its steps. “Follow me,” he said, and she knew that she would agree to go anywhere he wanted to go.
When they reached the bottom, another switch showed the way to a warehouselike room that was filled floor to ceiling with rows of black metal shelves. And on the shelves sat all sorts of everyday things that were orphaned in this basement. It had the stale scent of age and mold, but it also held a kind of magic.
“Lost and found,” she whispered, looking at all the items. “More lost than found, I’d say.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Isn’t there something haunting about such abandoned things?”
She nodded slowly, taking in the wonder of it. There were the ordinary items—suitcases, handbags, overcoats, dolls, books. And the unexpected ones—dentures, wristwatches, crutches, even a telephone with frayed wiring springing from it. Paper signs had scrawl written across them that seemed to point to a failed attempt at order.
“How did you know about this place?”
“You don’t have to speak quietly in here,” he said in a normal tone. “We’re too far below the main level for anyone to hear us. And they don’t come into this room until after hours.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been exploring the station and watching this door in particular.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It sounded like it would be interesting. The things that get lost in a train station. Supposedly they keep items here for forty weeks before disposing of them or donating them to charity. But I’m not sure that rule sticks.”
Alice wiped her hand along a shelf and uncovered a layer of dust that seemed much older than the time allotted for its residency here. She sneezed.
“I’m so sorry, Alice,” Emmett said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Should we leave?”
“No, it’s just the dust. I’ll be all right. I want to stay.”
“Okay. You say the word. But there is one particular thing I wanted to show you.”
He led her down the labyrinth of shelves, passing by more oddities—a Kurley Kew, a cigarette case with a comb sticking out from its side, a ski pole.
“Here it is.” He led her to a corner that had an enormous trunk sitting half open. It had rusted buckles and scores of stickers on it showing the destinations of the owner—mostly throughout Canada. “I waited to go through it until we could do it together.”
It pleased Alice that he would have thought of this.
The light here was not as bright, so Emmett took a silver Zippo from his pocket and lit it.
“Bertie told me you don’t smoke.” As soon as she said it, she regretted revealing that she and their mutual friend had
spoken of him at all.
“That’s not the only reason to have a cigarette lighter,” he said.
Indeed, as long as he held it open, as he did now, above his head, it gave off a warm glow that once again reminded her of his darkroom.
“Read what it says,” he told her.
A yellowed paper that seemed to have been glued to the inside lining read, “Marion Greenwood, Providence, Rhode Island.”
“I wonder who she is,” said Alice. “And why she didn’t collect her trunk. Or why they haven’t contacted her to pick it up.”
“You’re the dreamer. Tell me a story.”
Alice thought. There could be a thousand reasons why it was here, but she enjoyed the opportunity to try to imagine it.
“Let’s see what it contains first.”
“How about this?” he suggested instead. “You start the story, and as I pull out each item, you add to it.”
She grinned. “That sounds like fun.”
“So, the first sentence?”
“Marion Greenwood had a secret life,” she began.
Emmett lowered the lid of the trunk to within a few inches of closing. “Don’t look at it all,” he said. “Just the things I pull out. Or you’ll be cheating the story.”
She agreed. He drew out a string of pearls. What could she concoct with that? She thought about it and then continued. “Marion Greenwood was a housewife. A fat housewife. She wore a string of pearls around her neck that pinched her skin. But her husband had given them to her on their wedding day, and she never greeted him without wearing them.”
“Very good start,” said Emmett. “Let’s try another.”
This time he didn’t look as he reached in, perhaps wanting to let the tale reveal itself to him as well.
A small pair of ladies’ undergarments came out. Emmett grinned as the garment hung on his finger. It was a deep violet color with white lace trim. Alice blushed. “No, pick something else.”
Emmett’s eyes danced in the twinkle of the Zippo light, which he occasionally turned off and on to restart.
“That’s the game, Alice. Why does our Marion own something like this if she’s a fat housewife?”
Alice thought about this and began again. “Sadly, Mr. Greenwood died. He choked on a piece of pie that she’d made for him. An apple slice lodged in his throat. Or, at least, that’s what the police determined. In fact, Marion had forced it there while he was drunk, so they never caught on to her crime.”
“But how does it explain this?” He held up his prize again to her eye level.
“Oh, you see, Marion had lost so much weight that she was no longer fat. Her husband never looked at her much anyway, so he wouldn’t have known the difference. As she grew smaller, she kept herself rounded with pillows and stuffing and began to wear turtlenecks, but all the while, she bought herself things like this.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to pull out another item so that we can figure that out.”
“Right.” He closed his eyes and pulled out a book.
Shakespeare’s Sonnets. It was bound in red leather with gold lettering across the front.
Alice continued. “You see, as Mr. Greenwood ignored her throughout the marriage, Marion befriended a bookseller. A middle-aged widower who loved to have a pretty thing like her come and read to him after the shop closed for the evening. Their favorite was this book here.”
She knew the story was a bit convoluted, but the joy was in making it up as she went along.
She flipped through the book, hoping to find some kind of marking that would indicate what might be their mystery woman’s favorite, but the spine cracked as if it had never been opened. She decided to ignore that fact, as it didn’t fit well into the story she was weaving.
“How about my turn?” said Alice. “I want to pull an item out and you finish the story.”
“That’s only fair, but I can’t promise that it will have a happy ending. Flowery romances are for the ladies to read.”
“Poor Marion. Maybe I should finish it after all. We have to give her a happy ending. Won’t you at least try?”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Alice reached into the trunk. Some items were identifiable just by touch, many too commonplace to be useful in this game.
Until she reached something in a metal case. She felt around for it, trying to identify what might be in it, but she couldn’t. She decided that would be her item.
She brought it out, and it fit just right in both her hands. She flipped its lid open, and Emmett drew closer with the light, which shot small beams across his face. He looked happy in this moment. Not pensive, as he had been up above while waiting for her.
It was a camera. Alice’s first thought was that it might be some kind of providential sign, pointing her toward Emmett and away from William, but she had to acknowledge that it was a common enough item for a traveler to carry.
“A camera!” said Emmett. He pulled it from its case and looked it over. “You need one of these. I think you should keep it.”
“I can’t keep it. It’s not mine.”
“Well, it’s not our Marion’s. Look what else I found.”
It was a card that had fallen from the case.
To my darling niece, Catherine. May you enjoy many years with this and send some of your photographs to your aunt Marion.
“See?” he said. “It’s not hers. It belongs to some girl named Catherine. And it’s dated three years ago. I think there’s some kind of finders, keepers statute at work here.”
“Still.” Alice hesitated. She would love to have a camera. It would take her a long time to buy one like this, and now she even had access to a place where she could develop the pictures. She could walk along the streets of New York’s older buildings and photograph their arches, their tiles, their scrolls.
“It’s settled,” said Emmett. “I’ll finish the story if you agree to keep the camera.”
He placed it in her hands, and she looked at it. She didn’t see the harm in keeping it, especially if it had been gone so long. If it had been important enough, someone would have come looking for it. And this trunk.
“Go on,” she said.
Emmett handed the Zippo to her and crossed his arms. “The police accepted Marion’s story that her husband had choked, because they already knew her and trusted her. She secretly worked as an informant for them, spending evenings in her pretty underthings in the bed of the bookseller, but also in those of mafia bosses, learning their secrets and taking pictures of their belongings while the latest don would shower after their lovemaking.”
Alice blushed at this line of talk. The very word being spoken on his lips, and the way he looked at her when he said it, made her feel things she didn’t have names for.
“Is that the end?” she managed to ask in a shaky voice.
“No. You wanted a happy ending, so I’ll give one to you after all. There was one don among them, though, who stood out to Marion beyond the others. She knew that there were things that he could never tell her. Things that he had done, things that he might still have to do. But she loved him anyway. And so she never told anyone about him. Not the police. Not her parents.” Emmett drew nearer as he spoke each sentence, and Alice’s heart felt as if it might leap from her chest.
He continued, whispering. “He was the one secret that she kept all to herself. Because she was convinced that he loved her back and was going to set about making things right in his world so that he could be with her. But until then, she forgave the things that she didn’t know about and believed his promise that all would be possible for them in the end, if she would only wait. And trust.”
He stood so close to her now, and she trembled. She understood that they were not talking about some fictional story but that he was asking something of her. Telling her something in parable that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say out loud. It scared her. Excited her. Everything told her to run but also to stay. Her hand gripped the trunk so tha
t she could steady herself, as she again felt light-headed around him. It landed on something silky. She pulled it out, and it slid through the opening in the trunk. It was a long nightgown. White with white lace. Bridal. A neck in the shape of a V and capped sleeves at the shoulders. It was exquisite.
She was about to continue the story, although she wasn’t sure where to take it from there. Emmett saw the item and ran his hand along it.
“Beautiful.” He lowered his head. “How I would love to see it on you,” he said under his breath.
Her nerves tingled at these words and their meaning, and her mind continued the back-and-forth that had heightened with every encounter she had with him.
“Okay,” she said, her heart betraying her head. She laid it over her arm and tucked herself behind one of the shelves. It seemed overly modest to hide as she put it on, since it was so thin that the light from the Zippo would surely silhouette her slender shape. But she’d never held anything so elegant, let alone worn it. She felt like a Hollywood starlet.
This world down below the station gave the impression that everything above was illusion and that it only contained the two of them in this unusual room, void of rules and inviting of impetuousness.
As if the consequences of her actions here might not have any bearing on her life at street level.
She unbuttoned her dress and unrolled her stockings, shaking as she did so. The air was cold on her bare skin. She slipped the nightgown over her head, and while it offered no protection from the chill in the room, she found that she felt increasingly warm from the inside.
Alice took small steps from behind the shelf, holding on to the edge of it as if it were the last anchor to her old life on the precipice of a new one. She suddenly felt like their fictional Marion with a dual life. There, she was Alice Bellavia. Only child of Angelo and Vera Bellavia, newsstand owner and Macy’s shopgirl. Here, she would belong to Emmett Adler, a man whose history she knew nothing of but whose soul read hers with fluency.
Emmett’s eyes widened as he saw her.
“Beautiful,” he said again, and she knew he was not speaking of the gown.
He took a step toward her, but she stopped him.
The Way of Beauty Page 27