The wonderful thing was, I believed him. How lucky I was, I thought as the tears finally escaped from my eyes: lucky to be back in my own home, safe and sound; lucky to have Simon to love me, no matter what. I searched for his hand, clinging to it as my body gradually unwound. The whiskey and fatigue had caught up with me and were tugging on my eyelids. I caught myself drifting off and started fighting back to wakefulness, sensing dark shapes lurking just beneath my consciousness.
“It’s all right,” Simon murmured, pressing his lips to the top of my head. Only then did I let myself succumb, knowing it was safe to let go.
• • •
When I woke several hours later, I was wrapped snugly in a quilt and bright light was streaming in around the window shades. A note lay in the space where Simon had been, telling me he’d gone to see Detective Cassidi but would be back soon.
I rolled off the chaise and climbed upstairs to take a bath. As the tub was filling, I assessed myself in the mirror. My ribs and larynx still hurt, but the swelling had gone down in my jaw, leaving only a bruise behind. Although I suspected it would be some time before I could walk down the street without looking over my shoulder, I was beginning to feel human again.
My own good fortune in escaping intact, however, only made me feel worse about Teresa. If I had been shaken to the roots by my experience, how must she be feeling? I’d been a captive for less than ten hours, while she’d been terrorized for thirteen days, subjected to rape and psychological torture. I had Simon’s love to see me through—but Teresa? Would Antonio be with her, to help her recover from her ordeal?
The newspaper was waiting for me on the dining room table when I went downstairs. Katie bustled in from the pantry the moment she heard me, carrying a tray bearing tea, toast, and a boiled egg. She seemed to have decided that carrying on as normal was the best strategy, making no mention of the previous day’s events as she poured my tea and cut the top of my egg with the egg scissors. I did my best to act normal as well, even managing a second piece of toast—not only to reassure Katie, but because I desperately wanted to feel normal, like someone who was in control of herself and the world around her, rather than the nervous creature who seemed to have taken up residence inside me.
As soon as I’d finished breakfast, I went up to my father’s office and pulled the Trow’s business directory from its shelf. There was no Steemitz listed in its pages. There was, however, a listing for “Stimitz, Morris, photographer” at 438 East 102nd Street. I sank onto my father’s reading chair, staring down at the listing. I now had a name and an address. I also had a plan of sorts. But did I have the courage to carry it out? Doubts suddenly assailed me. What if the photographer saw through my ruse? What if I somehow ended up back in Velloca’s hands?
Whatever composure I’d regained in the last few hours deserted me at the thought. What on earth had made me think I could do this? My heart was pounding in my chest again, and my throat was stopped up with dread. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put myself back in harm’s way. I started to stand, but immediately sank down again, dropping my head into my hands.
I didn’t want fear to take over my life. And I sensed that it would take over, if I let it, coloring my every decision, changing the way I moved in the world. I forced myself to wait for the panic to pass, for my body to grow quiet again. In the silence that followed, I heard the voice of the person I used to be, before life took such an unexpected turn. You can do this, it urged. You have to do this, for yourself as much as for Teresa.
I looked at the bottle of whiskey on the table beside Father’s chair, remembering the relief it had brought me the previous evening. I uncorked the bottle and took a swig. The liquid burned down my throat, making me gasp. I took another, larger swallow for good measure, coughing as it went down.
A few minutes later, I was in my bedroom, putting together my costume. I started with the blouse Aunt Margaret had bought me, cutting out the lace inset so that nothing would be left to the imagination and then pairing it with a slim-fitting, dark-red skirt. I retrieved a fringed table runner from the linen pantry, wrapping it around my shoulders like a shawl, and an abandoned hat from the wardrobe in the maid’s room—a gaudy, overblown affair sporting a waterfall of arching feathers. A thin red ribbon around my neck completed the ensemble.
Proceeding to my mother’s boudoir, I covered the bruise on my jaw with several layers of powder and stained my lips and cheeks with rouge from the pot in the dressing table drawer. It was the same pot Mama had brought home with her from France fifteen-odd years ago, used so sparingly that I found it still three-quarters full. By the time I was done, only half remained.
I leaned back and stared at my reflection in the mirror, repulsed and weirdly fascinated by the painted woman I saw there. The woman I could have become. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, I thought, breaking into a sweat beneath the powder. But I could think of no other way to get my hands on the pictures.
As soon as Katie had left to do her morning shopping, I draped a gauzy veil over my hat and face, wrapped the “shawl” around my bare shoulders and décolleté and—after looking through the front window to be sure no neighbors were about—let myself out of the house.
I turned off the stoop and plunged down the street, scurrying past the officer on watch with my face lowered, praying I wouldn’t pass anyone I knew. I was nearly to the intersection when I heard someone call my name.
I cringed. Looking up, I saw Simon coming toward me up the avenue.
“Genna?” he called again as he drew closer. “Is that you?”
“Shh,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder.
He came to a stop in front of me and peered through my veil. “What’s that on your face?”
“Rouge,” I said, stepping around him and starting across the intersection.
He grabbed my arm. “Hold on.”
“We can’t stop here,” I said, dragging him with me across the street.
He fell into step beside me, his jaw muscles jumping. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on before I do something I regret?”
Reluctantly, my face hot inside the veil, I told him about the photographs and my promise to Teresa to try to retrieve them. “The only way I can think of to do it is to pretend that Velloca sent me to pick them up,” I finished. “And the only way someone is going to believe he sent me is if I look like this.”
He groaned. “Sweet suffering Jesus, haven’t you had enough excitement? Why would you want to put yourself in more danger?”
I stopped and swiveled toward him. “I don’t want to,” I practically shouted at him as my eyes swarmed again with tears. “I have to.”
“All right,” he said, putting up his hands. “All right.” He studied me for several long moments. “I think I understand.”
I blinked the tears away, embarrassed by my new inability to control my emotions. My doctor’s brain understood that this was to be expected after what I’d been through, but I was going to have to get a grip on myself if I was to be of any use to Teresa.
He handed me a handkerchief. “So let me help you.”
I nodded at him, blowing my nose, and we started together toward East Harlem.
• • •
I stood on the corner of 102nd Street, eyeing the dreary shop a dozen yards down the block. “Stimitz Photography,” read the chipped and fading gold letters on the window front. The glass was grimy, and the door hadn’t been painted in some time. I straightened my shoulders, working up my courage.
“Having second thoughts?” Simon asked me.
“No. Well, yes, but…no. I can do this.”
“Just remember, you can turn around and walk out anytime. I’m going to be standing two feet outside that door, and if I hear so much as a peep from you, Mr. Stimitz is going to wish he’d never been born.”
I blew out my breath. “All right, here goes.” I peeled off
my veil, handing it to Simon, and dropped the shawl to my elbows, revealing my low décolleté.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered.
For once, I didn’t care that I was blushing, for I was wearing so much rouge I knew he wouldn’t be able to tell.
We crossed to the opposite side of the street, Simon a few paces behind me, and continued down the sidewalk toward the studio. Simon stopped in front of the adjacent harness shop, pretending to peruse the inventory, while I pulled open the studio door and went inside.
There was no one at the counter. I paused inside the door, breathing in the scent of chemicals and something faintly putrid, like days-old food. The shelves along the walls were littered with empty plate crates and stacks of dusty magazines, and the floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in some time. I approached the bell on the counter, which was wedged between a glass funnel and a broken bulb-and-tube assembly, and gave it a tap. A moment later I heard answering footsteps in the back room.
A scrawny, middle-aged man with slumping shoulders, a long neck, and a prominent Adam’s apple walked through the door behind the counter. “May I help you?”
I relaxed slightly at the sight of his unimposing physique. This was not someone who could easily subdue me. I tipped my head and looked him slowly up and down. “Buongiorno,” I said in a sultry drawl, doing my best imitation of the keeper at the stable. “Claudia sent me to see if the pictures for your customer at 116th Street are ready.” Since I didn’t know what name Velloca had used when he hired the photographer, I had decided this would be the best approach. I held my breath, wondering if he would take exception.
His gaze swept over my scanty costume, pupils dilating in response. “I haven’t seen you before.”
I leaned over the counter, propping my chin on my hand and placing my cleavage directly under his nose. “Well, you’re seeing me now.”
He swallowed, making the Adam’s apple bob in his scrawny neck as his eyes darted between my face and my breasts. “I told him I’d have them by tonight. I haven’t mounted them yet, and I’ve got other orders ahead of him.”
“But he wants them now.”
“Eager, ain’t he?” He snickered. “Not that I can blame him.”
I felt a flash of anger at the thought of this miserable excuse for a man taking vicarious pleasure from Teresa’s suffering. But I needed to manipulate him, not rebuke him—so I reined my anger in, channeling it into an acting performance I hoped even Maude Adams would be proud of. “He says he will pay you more if you can give them to me now,” I said, infusing the words with a seductive lilt.
“How much more?”
“Double,” I answered promptly. And then, just to make sure there would be no further haggling, I added, “Plus an hour with one of the girls.”
He licked his lips, his gaze returning to my cleavage. “How about an hour with you?”
I repressed a shiver of revulsion. “I’m sure that could be arranged.”
He nodded. “Give me twenty minutes.”
As soon as he’d disappeared into the back room, I ran to the door and stuck out my head. Simon swiveled toward me, his eyes questioning. “Everything’s fine,” I whispered. “He’s finishing the photographs now.” I went back inside to wait.
When Stimitz returned, he had a large manila envelope in his hand. He also had a new swagger in his step and a decidedly nasty gleam in his eye—whether incited by thoughts of me, or the images he’d just been handling, I didn’t want to know.
“Here they are,” he said. He laid the envelope on the counter. It was thick with photographs and smelled of mounting paste.
“He wants the plates too.”
“What does he want those for?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “This girl, he doesn’t like to share.”
Grumbling, he went into the back again and returned with a stack of glass plate negatives, housed in thin yellow envelopes and tied together with a piece of string. He dropped his hand over the stack when I reached for it. “How about a little kiss, as prepayment?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“How about you give me my change first?” I countered, sliding a five-dollar bill on the counter to be sure I was covering the agreed-upon price.
He quickly made the change and handed it over.
“These are all of the negatives?” I asked.
“That’s all of ’em.” He leered at me. “You want a box to carry them in, it’s going to cost you extra.”
I smiled thinly. “I don’t need a box.” Taking the stack in both hands, I turned away from the counter, lifted the plates to my chin, and dropped them onto the floor. The thin glass sheets made a satisfying crunch on impact. I stomped on the top of the stack with my heel, then flipped it over and stomped some more, until the envelopes’ contents felt like gravel under my shoe.
I turned back to the gaping Stimitz with a shrug. “Like I said, the customer doesn’t like to share.” I scooped up the envelope of photographs and started for the door.
“Hey, what about my kiss?” he called after me.
“I’d rather kiss a donkey’s turd,” I replied over my shoulder in Italian, and hurried out of the store.
Chapter Twenty-One
Though it hadn’t been easy facing Stimitz, I felt stronger for having done so. Now I just needed to convince Teresa that without the pictures, she and Antonio stood a chance of putting the past behind them. I let Simon walk me home, but declined his offer to accompany me back up to Harlem, knowing that he had work to tend to and that I would need to speak with Teresa alone. Instead, I promised to have Maurice drive me up and wait for me.
As I’d hoped, Katie was down in the kitchen when I entered the foyer, eliminating the need for sartorial explanations. She’d left a message for me on the console table, telling me that Detective Cassidi had paid a call while I was out. The detective had requested that I come to his office between the hours of two and four so that he could take my deposition. I glanced at the hallway clock on my way upstairs; it was just after noon now. I had plenty of time to return the pictures to Teresa first.
Half an hour later, after I’d scrubbed my face, changed my clothes, and eaten a light lunch of toast and sardines, I set out in the motorcar with Maurice. Before Father purchased our motorcar, Maurice had served as our groom and coachman. He was a competent whip and skilled rider, and had a marvelous rapport with the horses. He’d been getting on in years, however, and my parents were concerned that the physical requirements of the job were becoming too much for him. They’d “promoted” him to the position of chauffeur to solve the problem with the least possible injury to his dignity.
Unfortunately, Maurice had never achieved the same affinity for the mechanical conveyance as he had for its flesh-and-blood counterparts. The drive up to 109th Street was no exception. He always drove well under the eight-mile-an-hour speed limit, but traversing the streets of Italian Harlem took even longer than usual because he kept slowing to a crawl to stare and mutter at the unfamiliar sights. Although born in England, he’d lived in New York for over fifty years and was as suspicious as any Knickerbocker blueblood when it came to our more recent immigrants.
“Do you want me to go up with you, Miss Genna?” he asked when we finally pulled up in front of the Fabronis’ building, frowning up at the windows as if he suspected armed hoodlums were waiting on every landing. I deduced that Katie had thoroughly briefed him on my recent trials.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Maurice, but thank you.”
Carrying the borrowed skirt and shirtwaist that Katie had cleaned for me, I proceeded directly to the rear apartment, where Felisa once again opened the door. She was holding a threaded needle between her lips and a bunch of ostrich feathers in her hand. “Come in,” she mumbled around the needle, leading me into the front room.
All the girls from the stable except Tere
sa were seated at the large table, each working a needle clumsily through a stack of feathers. Pieces of snipped quill lay scattered around their feet and feather particles floated around their bent heads. They appeared to be tying the stalks of the feathers together to create single, fatter plumes, of the type seen on fashionable ladies’ hats.
Returning to her seat at the table, Felisa plucked the needle from her mouth to explain, “I’m teaching them to willow feathers for the hat manufacturers. If they learn well, they can earn fifteen cents for every knotted inch.”
I watched Francesca struggle to tie a knot around two stems. “Are they all going to stay, then?”
“What else can they do?” Felisa asked, putting her needle down to help Francesca. “If they go back to their families the shame will always hang over them. Better to make a life for themselves here, among strangers.” She nodded toward the clothing in my arms. “You can put that anywhere.”
I glanced around the room. Every horizontal surface was covered in feathers or feather fragments. I brushed off a stool near the window and set the clothes on top. “Thank you for the loan. Is Teresa here?”
“She’s in the back, ironing laundry.”
Nodding to Felisa and the girls, I proceeded through the kitchen into the hall that led to the bedrooms. “Teresa?” I called.
The door to the rear room opened and Teresa stepped out, holding an iron. Her face was flushed and beaded with perspiration. I saw her gaze flick to my empty hands. She frowned, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?” I asked.
She bobbed her head and disappeared into the room, reappearing a moment later without the iron and leading me into the kitchen. A loaf of bread and a half-eaten chunk of cheese lay on the middle of the table, along with some empty cups. She pushed these aside and sat down, gesturing to me to sit across from her.
I searched her face. She looked even more drawn than she had the previous evening. “How are you?”
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