Cora had no idea what she was talking about. But everyone else in the room appeared to understand, and so Cora was very still and quiet. She’d brought The Age of Innocence, but she didn’t open it. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, looking as if comprehension of something artistic were beyond her. And truly, she wanted to hear what this woman was saying, even what she couldn’t understand.
“I want you to learn to feel the music,” St. Denis said, pressing her palms together. “Not to count nonsense numbers in your head. Certain composers facilitate feeling. Who here is familiar with Debussy?”
No one moved or spoke. St. Denis gave them a reassuring smile and started to speak. Louise raised her hand.
“I am. Of course. My mother plays him all the time.”
A few other students turned to see who was talking. Some of them glanced at each other.
After St. Denis and Shawn stepped off to the side, the red-haired instructor resumed class by asking the students to stand and move their heads from side to side while their shoulders remained perfectly still. The cobra, she called it. Louise excelled at this move as well, her cropped hair and pale neck seemingly disconnected from her shoulders. Cora, feeling inconspicuous in her corner, tried an abbreviated version herself, her head moving just slightly, her back straight and unmoving in her chair.
“Hello?”
She looked up. Ruth St. Denis was walking toward her, her bare feet silent on the floor.
“Oh, hello.” Cora stood, feeling bovine and graceless. Even in shoes, she was no taller than St. Denis, but she was certainly wider. Frumpier. Her hand went to her hair. “I hope it’s all right that I stayed. I’m with Louise Brooks. I’m her chaperone.”
“Ah yes. From Kansas.” St. Denis seemed amused. “So nice to meet you.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I heard Louise would be traveling with a companion. I thought that was wise on her mother’s part.”
“Oh. Have you met Myra?”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t on that tour. But Ted met both Louise and her mother when they came backstage after the show in…” She closed her eyes and tapped her turban.
“Wichita,” Cora said.
“Wichita.” She smiled. “The two of them made quite an impression.” She gave Cora a knowing look. “So. She seems arrogant. Is she?”
Cora looked back out at Louise, who stood with her arms crossed, her eyes focused as she watched the instructor. Cora wasn’t sure how to answer. Of course the honest reply was yes, but she felt suddenly, oddly, protective. “Well,” she tried, “she has good qualities.”
“Mmm.” St. Denis smiled, her thinned eyebrows raised. “Almost everyone does.”
The instructor had handed each dancer a square of diaphanous orange material. She fluttered and twirled her orange square over her head, and the dancers followed suit.
“But she is talented, isn’t she?” Cora watched Louise. “I don’t know anything about dance. But I’ve been sitting here watching, and she seems talented to me.”
St. Denis nodded slowly. “It does seem that way. For a beginner.” She smiled at Cora. “But then, we knew that would likely be the case.” She looked back out at Louise. “Ted told me what the mother was like backstage. We’ve seen that type before. Show me a mother with that much thwarted ambition, and I’ll show you a daughter born for success.”
Cora watched Louise turn in a slow, controlled circle, both arms raised and perfectly straight. Her face, glistening with perspiration, was tilted up to one of the basement’s overhead lights. It was something to think that St. Denis was right, that as beautiful and talented as Louise was, she was only here because of her mother’s drive. Surely some of her grace and talent belonged to her alone. But what would she have been without Myra? If young Louise had been sent off on a train to another life, never knowing the mother whom she resembled so much, would she have fared better? Worse? What would have been different about her?
The instructor called out to the dancers, “Turn. Again. Again.”
St. Denis touched Cora’s arm. “It was nice meeting you. And I meant to say, you’re welcome to come to the classes and watch, but they’ll be at it five hours a day. You should feel safe leaving her here. We keep them perfectly in line.” She smiled. “Even during the break.”
Cora had no doubt that even after St. Denis left for Los Angeles, her expectations would remain the law. She was clearly the sovereign, or at least one of two, ruling over this little world. She could leave Louise here without worry. Her afternoons would be free.
“You should go out and see the city.” St. Denis looked up at the ceiling of the basement, as if all of New York City were contained in the church above. “Have you been here before?”
Cora shook her head. Again, the easy lie. The instructor stood in the middle of the dancers, holding her orange scarf above her head. With an elegant turn, she wrapped it around her shoulders like a shawl, her face tilted down, her expression hidden.
Cora had to look away. She’d come so far, and now she was here. The address was in her purse.
She thanked St. Denis for the suggestion and agreed: Yes. There was so much she wanted to learn about the city. She would of course take advantage of the time.
The New York Home for Friendless Girls
355 W. 15th Street
New York, New York
Mrs. Alan Carlisle
194 North St. Francis Street
Wichita, Kansas
November 23, 1908
Dear Mrs. Carlisle,
Thank you for your generous donation, which we received last week. As much as we appreciate and rely on such charity to feed, clothe, and educate the girls in our care, we cannot respond to your third request, or any future requests, for information about your birth parents. We are delighted to know that you are now a married woman, blessed with two little boys of your own, and that you are doing well enough to help us in this way. Please consider that this success has come to you because of the opportunity you were given to start a new life away from the city, and to break ties with a burdened past. It is our policy to protect the privacy of birth parents, who may not wish to be known, and also the well-being of our former charges, who we believe are better off focusing on their current lives, and not their troubled origins.
I read what you wrote of your longing and confusion. Please know you will be in my prayers.
God bless,
Sister Eugenia Malley
EIGHT
Cora walked back up Broadway alone, grateful for the continuous shade of buildings that blocked the mid-morning sun. By the time she reached the luncheonette it was crowded. She waved away cigar and cigarette smoke as she made her way to the counter. The bow-tied young man who had flirted with Louise was still behind it. He smiled, tilting his head at two bar stools.
“Hello again.” He cleared dirty plates as he looked around. “Where’s your Kee-ansas friend?”
Cora slid onto a bar stool. “At class. I’ll take an iced tea, please.”
He nodded, clearly disappointed, though he adjusted an electric fan so it blew toward Cora. She glanced at him as he poured coffee for another customer. He wasn’t crazy to ask about Louise, to think he might have a chance. He was a good-looking boy, a little older than Howard and Earle, with sun-streaked brown hair and green eyes that the average teenage girl would likely swoon over. Louise hadn’t seemed to notice.
“What kind of class?” He set a glass and a sugar bowl in front of her.
“Dance.” She gave him a disapproving look. She wouldn’t give him any more information.
“She seemed like she might be a dancer or something.” He poured the tea without looking up. “She looks like she could be in pictures. I just asked what kind of class she went to because I thought she might be in summer school, and I wondered where. I go to Columbia. I just work here summers to help pay for it.” Now he looked up. “Maybe you could mention that to her for me?” He smiled and bobbed his eyebrows. “There’s a free iced tea in i
t for you.”
Before she could answer, a bell rang, and he turned to pick up an order of pancakes from the little window to the kitchen. Poor boy, Cora thought. Already smitten. But there were no points to be scored. Louise, she imagined, wouldn’t be impressed by his imminent degree. She could marry this college boy, be the envy of all, and still end up like her mother.
When he returned to offer her a refill, he leaned on the counter and lowered his voice. “I’m Floyd, by the way. Floyd Smithers. So are you two sisters or something?”
She rolled her eyes. He was trying a new tactic, flattering the guard. She took the paper with the address out of her purse. “I can pay for the tea,” she said casually, “but I’m hoping you can tell me how to best get to this address.”
He looked at the paper. “You should take the subway.” He took the pen from behind his ear and again sketched a map with directions on a napkin, this one on a bigger scale, less intricate than the map he’d drawn for them the previous morning. Cora looked over her shoulder. A woman with bobbed blond hair and a skirt clearly showing bare knees sat at a table by herself, smoking a cigarette. She turned, caught Cora watching, and Cora, embarrassed, looked away.
He slid the napkin across the counter. “That’ll get you there. Say, what do you need down on Fifteenth Street?”
“Oh.” Cora adjusted her hat. “Just looking up an old friend.”
“Yeah?” He tilted his head.
“Why? Is it a bad area?”
“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “It’s by the docks.”
Cora looked at the steel counter, her blurred reflection. Yes. Yes. She remembered the low horns of ships. She touched her tea glass to steady her hand.
“It’s not terrible.” He lowered his voice. “Mostly Irish. Italians. All kinds, really. You’ll be fine if you hold your purse tight. Some of those kids are quick.” He nodded at her hand. “You might leave that ring at home. Somebody could pawn that and feed a family of ten for a year.”
She looked at her wedding ring, the European-cut diamond. She and Alan had picked it out together. She looked back up.
“Aw jeez. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s not all bad down there. Not at all. You know what? You’ll be just a few blocks from the Hotel Chelsea. It’s famous. Mark Twain stayed there. And Lillian Gish. Beautiful homes around there. Here. I’ll put it on my map.” He leaned over again, making new marks. “Just walk up Eighth Avenue if you want to see it.” When he slid the napkin to her, he seemed worried. “Hey, I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with the docks, with the people around there. I didn’t mean that. Just a lot of foreigners, hungry kids. But it’s not bad.”
“Thank you.” She opened her purse again and took out three dimes, payment with a generous tip. Yesterday, he’d told Louise the hard truth about her accent. Now he’d done Cora a favor, preparing her with a hard truth as well.
“Hey, hey,” he said, stepping away. “It was on me, remember? You were going to put in a good word for me?” He gestured at her, and then at himself. “I thought we were in cahoots.”
She had to laugh. Floyd Smithers. He was a nice boy. He made her think of her own Howard, four minutes older than his brother, and from then on, it seemed, so fearless, so eager to go out and bargain with the world. She missed them both. And she worried. She would write to them tonight, and remind them to be careful. So many ways to get hurt on a farm.
“Thank you for the directions.” She pulled on her gloves and picked up the napkin map. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with my young friend. She is young, by the way. Fifteen. She’s here to study dance. And I’ve come along to keep her safe.”
“But I just want to—”
Cora held up her palm. “You should direct your hopes elsewhere.”
He looked at her as if she should feel guilty, as if she were in the wrong, as if she’d stolen something from him. Still, she felt no remorse as she walked away. He was a good boy, with a fine future. She’d done him a favor, too.
The subway was indeed stifling. She had hoped it would be cooler, down out of the sun, but there were so many people, and the air in the car felt stale and humid, smelling of urine and unwashed bodies. Still, she could tell the train was moving fast, and that was exciting, racing underground, unimpeded. The seats were all taken, so she stood and held a strap, listening to two old men having what sounded like an argument in French and someone repeatedly coughing. She tried not to look at anyone in particular. When a streetcar back home was this crowded, she always stared out the windows, not so much for the scenery as for the wish to be polite. People did that here, too, though there was nothing outside but the tunnel wall.
The stops were short and frequent. She moved aside to let people pass, tilting her head to protect the brim of her hat, aware that each brief stop brought her closer to her own. Despite the fetid air, she wished the ride could continue indefinitely, until she was ready to actually be where she was headed. She still had trouble conceiving of the New York Home for Friendless Girls as an actual physical location, a brown-brick building that existed on a street, and not just a haunting in her mind. What would it do to her to actually see it? To touch the same bricks with her hands?
When she did climb the stairs from the subway back into the bright sunlight, she moved aside to let people pass and took a moment to study the map. She was close. According to Floyd Smithers’s map, the address was right around the corner. She dabbed at sweat on her forehead, dampening the tips of her gloves. Soon, too soon, she would be standing outside the orphanage’s door. She put the map away. The streets and avenues were numbered logically. If she went for a walk to calm her nerves, there was little chance of getting lost. She opened her parasol, and, with her free hand, held her purse close to her chest.
Floyd Smithers had been right about the neighborhood—the Irish, or at least their names—were everywhere. McCormick’s Shoe Repair. Kelly’s Auto and Tire. Paddy’s was just Paddy’s; the word “Saloon” had been painted over thinly. She passed a Catholic church. Many of the people around her looked and sounded native born, though an old woman did lean out a high window to yell, “Daniel Mulligan O’Brien! You get your arse back up here now!” (No one but Cora—apparently not even the boy being summoned—turned to look.) She heard other languages here and there. Spanish. French. Along a side street thick with rumbling cars and trucks, a group of girls in braids bounced a rubber ball off a front stoop, calling to one another in a language Cora didn’t recognize. Over their heads, stretched across the street from window to window, were dozens of long clotheslines, from which hung undergarments and clothes, mostly sized for children—little vests and little shirts, short pants with patched seats and little dresses with ragged hemlines.
The more she walked, the more children she saw. And then they were everywhere. On one street, each stoop sported at least five or six throwing balls against the steps or balancing on the railings. Some children walked with their mothers, or with men in stevedore caps. More moved down the sidewalk in packs, all girls or all boys. Many looked as if they’d just been swimming in their clothes, their hair still slicked back and dripping, though none looked particularly clean. They gave one another light pushes and laughed, the barefoot ones hopping fast on the hot sidewalk. Cora saw a blond-haired girl of about eight reach into a garbage can, pull out a half-eaten apple, and take a delighted bite. When her friends gathered round, she handed over the apple, and they each took a bite as well.
She passed a pregnant woman with a bruised cheek and a rumpled hat, a child on her hip and another trailing behind her. When she noticed Cora staring, she glared.
And babies. So many babies. They cried from open windows and in the arms of other children. They rolled by in wobbling carriages and slept in slings tied around their mothers’ necks. A woman in a long black dress nursed an infant on a bench in front of a pool hall, her swollen breast bared for all the world to see. When she noticed Cora’s shocked stare, she misunderstood, smiled, and said something cheerfu
l in Italian.
Cora felt dizzy. It was the heat, or perhaps the smells, which varied widely from storefront to storefront. Fresh baked bread. Cat urine. Melting cheese. Laundry soap. Roasting meat. She started to walk into a café, only to realize, too late, that all the patrons were male. As she hurried out, they called to her in another language, saying things she guessed to be, at best, disrespectful.
She got out the map again. She still didn’t feel ready, not in the least. But she was hot, and tired.
Three shrieking girls in dingy dresses rushed past her from behind. The smallest knocked her bony shoulder against Cora’s skirt. The girl kept running, her dark braid swinging behind her, but she called out, “Sorry, ma’am,” and briefly turned back, flashing a radiant, chipped-tooth smile.
She almost walked past the building. She wouldn’t have known it if not for the address—she’d remembered it as larger than it was. It was just four stories, each floor five windows across, with the windowless wall on top. An adjacent lot, which she didn’t recall, had been paved and fenced, with a wide gate closed to the street and a two-story wooden outbuilding. But the brown brick of the main building was just as she remembered, and there was the little gold plaque by the door, engraved with a cross and black letters: The New York Home for Friendless Girls. Cora stared at it grimly. After all these years, really. They could have found a better name.
The air on the street smelled sweet and buttery, like cookies right out of the oven. If she had smelled such treats as a hungry child, she certainly would have remembered. Did they give orphan girls cookies now? Or did the girls bake them for sale? Other changes were clear. Inside the fence, there was a rudimentary swing set, the seats made out of the lids of packing crates. There was a climbing rope, too, knotted at the bottom. But some things were the same. Just next to the swing set, a pile of stuffed canvas bags waited by the door. Incoming laundry. Cora gazed up at the roof.
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