The Way of Beauty

by Camille Di Maio

“I don’t think you are, dear. Your father and I have been very worried about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be okay.”

  Vera sighed. “Do you remember your favorite treat as a little girl?”

  Alice grinned. “The hot chocolate at the café in the station.”

  “It’s a cold afternoon. Wouldn’t it be like old times to go get some together?”

  Her mother’s eyes pleaded, and Alice knew that she couldn’t refuse.

  “Let’s get our coats.”

  They crossed the street, always without the crosswalk, as it would have meant walking far out of their way to do it correctly. Alice had grown up dodging the cars, and it was second nature. She could always tell the New Yorkers from the tourists by where and how they got from one place to another. The locals acted as if they owned the sidewalks. The out-of-towners treated them with deadly trepidation.

  They had no trouble finding a seat in the café. It was a Wednesday, and the commuters would not get off work for another hour. Then the train would be bursting, people jockeying for a table as train delays were announced, and the inevitable grumbling would begin. But in this quiet space they could hear each other without the competing noises.

  As the hot chocolates were placed in front of them, both of the women held their mugs to their noses and smelled. It was one of the many points where Alice knew that she was just like her mother. And yet she’d shut her out when she needed a mother the most.

  “I’m so sorry,” she began. And her tale about Emmett and William began.

  As Alice spoke, she wished that she had talked more to her mother about these feelings long before it all got this far.

  Vera patted her daughter’s hand, encumbered by the table between them. But she leaned in as close as possible.

  “That is a terrible dilemma, darling,” she said. “And I’m afraid that I don’t have an answer. If it is an answer that you are looking for.”

  Alice spoke through tears, dabbing her eyes with a paper napkin that already had drops of hot chocolate saturating it. “But it would make you and Papa so happy if I were to marry William.”

  “Of course it would, Alice. But if that has contributed to your pain, then I hold myself solely responsible. You see, I have always loved William as if he were my own son. To have him taken from me was the most dreadful thing I would ever hope to endure. To have him return has been one of my greatest joys. Certainly seeing my William and my Alice together would be a dream I never dared to have. But not if it means you sacrificing your happiness. A mother always wants her child’s happiness over her own.”

  “But that’s just the thing, Mama. I wouldn’t be unhappy with William. He is so good, and I like him very much. I would even say I love him, although I’m not sure I can totally say what kind of love that is. Do I feel about him like I feel about Emmett? No. I’m not sure that I can ever love anyone in that same way.”

  “You will learn, though, dear, that passion and love are not synonymous, as the world would have you believe. Love is honesty, loyalty, and putting the other first. Can you say that Emmett is all those things for you? Can you say that William is?”

  Alice thought about that. There were moments when she knew that Emmett bared his soul to her in such raw, honest ways, but that knowledge couldn’t be put into words. And yet he was secretive. Was that pure honesty, then? Was he loyal? If so, where was he? William sent postcards faithfully and spoke of all these places that he wanted to take her to. She had heard nothing from Emmett after receiving his note.

  Trust me. Trust us.

  His words compelled her to wait. But was she being a fool for doing so?

  She felt smothered by the reasoning, although it was exactly the light she was hoping her mother could reveal for her.

  She answered slowly. “By your definition, William’s love for me is truer.”

  “Alice, I don’t mean to pry, but there are some things you may need my advice on. Has this Emmett—has he defiled you in any way?”

  She knew what her mother meant. But it was a coarse word for something that had been so beautiful between her and Emmett. It was love—love of some kind—she was sure of that.

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to be proud, Alice. We have all had our errors. Including me.”

  “I don’t think so, Mama. You’ve never done a wrong thing in your life. I’m sure of it.”

  “I fell in love with a married man.”

  “What!” That, indeed, was an unexpected revelation.

  Vera laughed. “Your father, Alice. I fell in love with your father. But you know he was married.”

  “Oh, that. Well, of course I know that story. But you knew him before he knew Pearl, so it doesn’t really count.”

  “That doesn’t matter. He chose her at the time, and I still harbored those feelings.”

  “But you didn’t act on those feelings. And that makes you even more saintly, if you ask me. Because to deny yourself someone you feel passionate about is just—is just the most noble thing.”

  Even as she said these words, she knew that it was analogous to her. There was something that felt so right about being with William. Even if what she felt with Emmett was the kind of passion that people wrote books about.

  They’d both reached the dregs of their mugs, and Alice needed to return to the stove, which she’d turned off while they stepped out. She was making the lasagna that her father claimed was better than his own mother’s.

  As they walked back down the Penn Station steps, Vera looked up at the eagles.

  “Did I ever tell you what your father named the one that looks into our window?”

  “I don’t think you did.”

  “Saint Michael. Like the archangel in our faith. A protector and defender against evil. Those eagles have seen much in their thirty years and will see even more in hundreds to come. If they could talk, I wonder what wisdom they would impart?”

  Alice smiled. She had always felt safe under the gaze of the eagle.

  And then she stopped in her tracks. A long-ago childhood memory came to her. A German picture book from which her mother tried to teach Alice a little of her native tongue so that she could talk with her grandfather. It made him so happy to hear the German when he was in a fit with the bends.

  “Mama,” she said, “what is the German word for eagle?”

  Vera paused and thought. “Adler. Yes, that’s it. Adler. Why do you ask?”

  A chill went through Alice’s spine. “Oh, just because we were talking about them.” But inside, she knew.

  Emmett was her eagle. He’d told her that he was protecting her, and now he seemed to have disappeared. Whatever happened, whomever she chose, Alice trusted him. But she also feared that he might be in danger.

  She had to find him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Something was wrong. Alice recalled her conversation with Emmett about it being dangerous for them to be together. And then he’d distracted her in the most expert of ways and the details blurred, but her pulse quickened at the feeling that his absence meant that he’d been gravely serious.

  She had to try again. And this time she wouldn’t give up.

  She stood from the table.

  “Sit down, Alice,” said her mother. “Let’s have another cup.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve got to go.”

  She kissed her on the head and raced out the door without looking back.

  Though it was just on the other side of Penn Station and down a few blocks, Alice felt like it took her forever to run to Emmett’s apartment. She was angry with herself for waiting for him to come to her just because he always had.

  She saw her breath as she ran. The evening chill had set in, fall was coming soon, and the sun was nearly down all the way. The streetlights would turn on at any moment.

  She tripped over a bottle that had been thrown on the street and scraped her elbows on the pavement. She saw them bleed, but she had no time to stop
to tend to them.

  The feeling that something was wrong nagged at her and spurred her on even faster.

  She pulled his keys from her purse. She’d never had a chance to give them back. She put the wrong one in first—the one that was meant for upstairs.

  “Come on!” she yelled, and tried the other one. She hurried up the flights of stairs until she came to his door. She went to knock, but the door swung open at her touch.

  “Emmett?” she called. But there was only silence.

  And devastation.

  What little he owned had been turned over. The couch on which they’d laughed and loved had been sliced open and its cotton batting pulled haphazardly out. Kitchen drawers were opened with their contents emptied onto the floor. The wallpaper gallery made up of all his glossy photographs was torn into ragged strips. No regard for their beauty.

  She peeked into the bathroom. The shower door was open and its little metal grate lifted up.

  Nothing there. Her heart pounded.

  She went into the darkroom.

  The door there was open as well, although he always kept it closed. The black curtain over the window had been shredded, revealing the window that she’d never seen. The red bulb was broken into sharp points; drawers lay scattered, even one that had always been locked. She looked at it closer. Its metal hinges had been pried open. Whoever wanted something might have found it in there. Why had she never pressed him about it?

  If she’d known what it was he was secretive about, could she have helped him?

  Where was he?

  She needed to find something that gave her any kind of clue. But she might be looking for the very thing that someone else had—and they might have found it.

  But what if they didn’t? That was her only hope.

  Chances were it had something to do with that drawer. She went back to the entryway to shut the door and connect the chain and then returned to the darkroom.

  Whoever had been here had been thorough. The drawer was ordinary. No secret compartments, as she would have hoped. But that was probably just true in spy novels. It was empty, as was every other drawer. She looked inside the gallons of chemicals, the shelves, the few albums that he had. She pulled down the clothespins in case the pictures had been arranged so as to hide something. But there was nothing.

  Either they’d found it or there was nothing to find. She sat on the floor and pulled her knees up to her chin. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to breathe.

  Where was Emmett?

  Who was Emmett?

  The possibilities terrified her.

  Someone was at the door.

  Her heart raced.

  The doorknob was moving, and outside it, two voices expressed some kind of frustration that it was locked. Her heart pounded. She looked around the tiny room. She might be able to fit behind the table, but she’d still be too exposed, and there was nothing with which to cover herself.

  The window.

  Whoever was at the door had managed to remove the doorknob, and now they were kicking it in. The chain would not hold. It was meant to keep out snooping landlords. Not whatever kind of thugs were there.

  Her legs felt like jelly, but she had to hurry.

  She crossed the room to the window, but its sills had been painted over several times. Old white had yellowed and new white covered it. It budged only a tiny bit, not nearly enough. She found scissors lying on the floor and opened them to use their blade to cut through the paint. It crackled as she did so, but she made progress and was able to open it enough to slip through. She closed it again and pressed her back against the brick wall outside. Thankfully this was the window with the fire escape landing. To release the ladder, three stories down, would have drawn attention she didn’t want, so she waited on the small ledge.

  With the window closed, she could not hear what was being said, but the muffled tones had recognizable sounds.

  German. Whoever was in there was speaking German.

  She saw their shadows moving across the darkroom. Her pulse raced. As the figures disappeared, she thought they must be crossing into the other room, so she let herself peek in.

  Emmett! Emmett was one of the two men. Her heart leaped—but then she saw him. He looked gaunt and worn, but he stood straight and argued in effortless German with the other man.

  Someone must have knocked on the door, because both their heads turned in that direction. While the stranger walked to answer it, Alice saw Emmett step over to the counter and write something down on a piece of paper. He stuck it in his back pocket.

  The door closed behind the man who’d just arrived, and he spoke with the first one. They also appeared to speak quite harshly.

  Then one saluted the other, tapping his heel and giving the Third Reich salute that Alice had seen in newsreels.

  Emmett followed suit.

  Emmett was—a Nazi?

  She wanted to be sick.

  Alice leaned back against the wall and covered her mouth to avoid crying out. Of course. It all made sense. The blond hair. The blue eyes. The German name. She’d suspected that he was of that descent, as she partially was, and she’d heard that trace of an accent just once and forgotten about it. And it would explain why, at his age, he was not drafted into military service. Because he wasn’t American.

  Could he be a spy? She didn’t want to believe the horribleness of the other possibility.

  It was like something out of a movie. But she had no other explanation. Why would people be looking for things in his apartment? Why had he not used his key?

  Maybe because he’d wanted to delay their coming in here. Could he have smelled traces of her perfume as he entered and been trying to protect her?

  But if he wasn’t one of them, why was he speaking in German and returning their Nazi salute?

  She dared to peek in one more time. The three stood by the door, arguing but keeping their voices down. Then the first man raised his fists and brought them down across Emmett’s shoulders like a hammer.

  Alice felt a scream rise in her throat, and she bit her lips to avoid it escaping.

  When the second man punched him, Emmett collapsed to the floor.

  They repeated their beating on his back, and she saw him spit out blood. It pooled on the floor, and as they shoved him, he landed in it, staining the knees of his pants.

  Whoever he was, Alice wanted to run to Emmett and help him. Her muscles ached with the effort it took to hold herself back.

  But there was one hope—if they were the bad men doing this to Emmett, maybe he wasn’t one of them after all.

  Her blood raced with anger and fear, desperate to help him, paralyzed with the knowledge that to reveal herself would only make things worse. She put her fist to her mouth again to avoid crying out and watched as they dragged him to his feet and smoothed his clothes, presumably to avoid a scene as they pushed him outside. One of the men took off his overcoat and put it around Emmett’s shoulders.

  Emmett held his hands behind his back, hunched over in obvious pain, and she winced in sympathy. Just as they exited, Alice saw him pull something from his back pocket and drop it on the floor, unnoticed. It fluttered, just missing the blood streak.

  Yes, he must have known she was there.

  The door shut without a noise.

  Alice counted to thirty, pressing sweaty palms together in a desperate prayer, thinking that this might be how long it would take them to reach the street. She did not want to stay out here and have them look back and see her on the fire escape.

  She slid back in and ran over to what he had dropped.

  It was the piece of paper, and on it he’d scrawled:

  Under paint.

  Under paint. What could that mean? She wished he’d had even two more seconds to write more.

  She looked around the room. Under paint. Under paint. It made no sense. The room was too bare to hide gallons of paint, and the only other thing it could mean was the trim. But what would be under trim? She ran her hands a
long the crackled baseboards as flakes fell to the floor.

  Nothing.

  She tried the window. But just more flakes.

  She returned to the darkroom and repeated her efforts.

  But then she got to the window. The discolored paint, yellowed with time. And the fresh white coat along the side.

  Fresh white paint.

  And then she saw it.

  A small, rounded bulge, obscured unless you knew to look for it. She tried to pull it out with her fingers, but it was wedged into a niche that must have been carved for this purpose. She found the scissors that Emmett used to cut the negative strips splayed open on the floor. She used its metal tip to gently slice a line around the perimeter. That loosened the item.

  She pulled again with her fingers. It was a roll of film, undeveloped. This must be what he’d originally hidden in the drawer.

  What did Emmett want her to see on it?

  The darkroom was bathed in light from the shredded curtain, and it was too damaged to repair. Alice looked around the apartment for anything that might serve her purpose, but her sweater was too small and thin, and the only blanket Emmett seemed to own had been similarly destroyed, though how anyone thought something could have been hidden in its wool strands, she didn’t know.

  She would go fetch one from her apartment and return.

  Alice planned to be home for only a few minutes, but when she got there, Opa was in a state.

  “Nein! Nein!” he was shouting to Celeste as she tried to coax some broth into him. He tossed it aside, splashing most of its steaming contents onto his caretaker. She screeched when it landed on her arm.

  “Enough!” she cried. She turned and saw Alice. “I have looked after more ill people in my life than I care to count, but there has never, ever been anyone as cantankerous as your grandfather.” She shuffled over to the countertop and wrapped a towel across her arm. She put her coat around her shoulders and slung her purse over her arm. “I don’t mean to pry, Miss Bellavia, but he is not well enough to be cared for at home. He needs to be somewhere where he can be tended to round the clock. And not by you and your parents. His time may be near. I’ve seen it before. And it will only get more difficult for you all. Mark my words.”