This river, Gerritt thought. This damned river had stolen everything from him. Especially Emma. Oh, Emma. He had given her that doll so that she would always think of him and she’d not even brought it to the courtroom with her. And this city, his domain to rule these past twenty years, had turned on him, too. Well, he was done with the place now.
“Come with me, Mantel,” Gerritt said over his shoulder at the policeman, who was still following him. “Europe. Paris. Prague. Anywhere. By now I’ve given you enough money to pay off God for all your sins and mine, too. Because of my generosity, I might add.”
In Albany, the risks of punishment for taking bribes were few. Even the state legislature wouldn’t make a decision unless it had been greased at least twice by opposing sides. The city ran on graft. Mantel had been taking money for years—and might still, after this, no matter Hotaling’s fury.
At the base of the pediment, Gerritt clambered up the ladder. The six o’clock had begun its slow ascent up the incline. Gerritt crawled through the circular opening at the top of the ladder and lurched upright. The walkway was separated from the tracks by a railing. He looked back down through the hole. A grim Mantel was climbing up after him. The bridge was vibrating under the weight of the passing train. The cars were passing close to the walkway—a foot on the other side of the wooden railing. Gerritt left Mantel to his own devices. He edged along the walkway, on which VAN DER VEER was stamped in red on every joist and tie. He counted the ties emblazoned with his name—a dozen, two dozen, fifty, a hundred. He was over the middle of the river now. The height was dizzying, satisfying. In the twilight, the river had gone gray and the sun hovered over the city in a pinkish ball.
Mantel, who had scrambled to his feet, was shouting at him now over the rumble of the train. “All I did was ask to be kept out of it. I took your money and stopped searching for those girls when you told me to. That’s it. You’re the one who ruined them.”
Behind train windows, startled passengers were turning their heads to stare at the two arguing men on the bridge. It was rare for pedestrians to cross and chance being covered in soot and ash, to risk the noise and danger of such close proximity to the heavy cars.
“Stay then,” Gerritt shouted at Mantel, who had caught up and now stood an arm’s length away. “Tell them about me if you like. You can talk anyone into anything. You convinced the Stipps those girls were dead. Pull the same magic. Save yourself. I’ll be on a ship to Europe by tomorrow.” Gerritt threw one unsteady leg over the railing separating the narrow walkway from the tracks. He needed to watch his balance or he would fall under the train. He had only to launch himself onto the caboose’s platform and then he’d be away.
The caboose careened into view and Gerritt reached for it.
One minute he had a hold of the caboose’s platform, and the next he didn’t. The train slipped past, oblivious as Gerritt teetered on the railing. Mantel caught him by one arm and hauled him backward onto the walkway. Smoke from the locomotive lingered over the bridge, and the two faced off opposite one another, each of them heaving with exertion.
“We can get the next train, Mantel,” Gerritt said. “Go to Europe together. We could—”
Mantel’s shove might not have had the same effect on a man less intoxicated. This was what Gerritt thought as he sailed over the bridge’s outer railing and the black water of the Hudson. It took him a bleary moment to register the fact that he was falling, his limbs flailing for purchase but finding only air. He observed his hat sailing beside him, a boon companion as below the river surged, licking and hungry.
He hit the surface, fast and hard, out of control. The glacial bite of the frigid water stunned him and he sank like a stone, his limbs splayed out, bile shooting up from the pit of his stomach. For a long moment, Gerritt was too stunned by the impact to move, his thinking muddled by the alcohol still coursing through his veins. Immediately, he thought of his son, of how Jakob had ever managed to survive that night on the roof of the lumber office, soaked through, alone in the bitter cold. Had he suffered this sickening, frozen palsy? How had he managed to save himself, to move, even? Spurred by the terrifying notion that he must now take action or die, Gerritt flailed his arms, but the river dragged him under, sweeping him southward from the ungrateful city that he had ruled for decades. Though it was June, the river was still running fast and high—a consequence of the lingering snowmelt from high in the Adirondacks. How ironic, Gerritt thought. The blizzard that had given him that girl was drowning him now.
He had no sense of whether he was up or down or sideways.
Pressure was mounting inside his chest. He believed his lungs would burst, but he resisted the clawing urge to breathe.
With a deep shiver, he suffered an acute sense of loneliness, and then a final clarity as his last coherent thoughts took hold. It was Mantel who had betrayed him—more than Jakob, more than Viola, more than those Stipps, more than Emma. Mantel, whom he had kept in fine financial fettle all these years, had manhandled him over the bridge’s railing without a second thought.
He could see nothing. It was black as pitch.
Do you miss me?
Instinct gave in to need. Gerritt gulped for air, inhaled water, gagged, and frantically kicked in a final attempt to reach the surface—in whatever direction it lay. But the current kept dragging him deeper. The river began to peel away his jacket, unbutton the buttons of his shirt, strip him of his pants and underclothes. A hiss roared in his ears. The chorus swelled into shrieks and howls and then a thunderous bedlam.
But when the Hudson finally squeezed the last vestige of air out of him, the quiet was as flat and soundless as a cellar in the deep of night.
Chapter Forty-Six
That night, at eight o’clock, an exhausted Jakob came calling at the Stipps’. He brought with him an Extra, but an enterprising young newsboy had already sprinted all the way from downtown to their house with a copy, for which William paid him ten cents. The boy had danced away to spend his prize at Ebel’s Ice Cream Emporium, which sold the newly invented concoction of an ice cream soda for a nickel.
HARLEY ACQUITTED ON ALL CHARGES
YOUNG VAN DER VEER IMPLICATES LUMBER BARON FATHER
IN OUTRAGE OF O’DONNELL GIRL AND
IMPLICATES POLICE CAPTAIN MANTEL IN BRIBERY SCHEME
GERRITT VAN DER VEER AND CAPTAIN MANTEL DISAPPEAR
The article by Horace Young detailed every facet of the trial, and finished with:
This reporter concludes with an apology to the Doctors Stipp for the impact of my enthusiastic pursuit of this story on their extended family. They, and Emma and Claire O’Donnell, were highly inconvenienced by the curiosity engendered by the press in general, and more important, by my zealous reporting in particular. I was one of those who had a major hand in besmirching Dr. Mary Stipp’s heretofore fine reputation. To my chagrin, I misrepresented her character. I state now that I believe that she is and always has possessed the finest moral integrity and that the good city of Albany ought to be proud of our eminent native daughter and her accomplishments.
“It’s about damn time,” William said, after reading the apology to the group out loud. They had gathered in the parlor, all of them, except Emma and Claire, whom Vera had set to rolling out the crust of a pie on the kitchen table.
“I came to apologize, too,” Jakob said.
“For what?” William said. “Much as I loathe Harley, he is not the one who raped Emma.”
“No, but he ought to at least have been convicted on imprisonment.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” Jakob said. “They released him. I expect they will return the money we found in his house and that he’ll disappear. But that’s not the most important news.”
“What is?”
“That newspaper article is already outdated. This evening, my father jumped from the South Bridge into the Hudson
, and no one has seen him.”
“What?”
“Captain Mantel found me an hour ago. Apparently, he hadn’t meant to defy the judge and walk out on the trial, but he’d spied my father leaving the courthouse, so he followed him, intent on bringing him to justice. He found him down at the Story Brothers’ Malt House of all places. When Mantel confronted him, Gerritt made a headlong escape to the South Bridge. Mantel says he climbed over the bridge railing and jumped right before his eyes, but before he did, he confessed everything. Mantel says he’ll swear in court that Gerritt was responsible for raping Emma. And he said he didn’t know a thing about any bribes. The district attorney could look in his bank account if he wanted. He had no idea what that entry in Gerritt’s books meant. He was innocent of everything except having become the object of some nervous whores’ generosity, which in the end was less than nothing. Especially in Albany.
“And I’m afraid that’s true,” Jakob said.
“Also, it seems that Harley and Father had a plan to get Harley out. Harley said my father offered to send him to Paris. I didn’t know anything about it until afterward. Harley told me before the verdict came back. He was furious at my father for abandoning him. Can you imagine? He felt abandoned.”
“Where is your mother?”
“At the Delavan House. I’ll stay there tonight, too.”
“Does she know?”
Jakob nodded. “She is so ashamed. I don’t know what Herculean strength allowed her to testify this morning. She went straight back to the hotel. I can only apologize for both of us, but it will never be enough. I came to tell you that we—my mother and I—whatever you think of us—we are both acutely ashamed. She thinks she ought to have known. She’s sick about it. She told me”—he swallowed hard—“that when they first married, he would call her his child, his darling little one, his girl.” Jakob looked away. “How much he was able to conceal. He was deranged and yet he walked among us and lied to us and carried on as if the things he wanted and did were normal. It is unconscionable. And my mother and I are sorry. We are sorry for everything. I did as much I could, but it wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t know very many sons who would have done what you did,” Mary said.
“Well, he’s gone now. I hope. Maybe he was able to kick free. Maybe he climbed out and he’s somewhere . . .” Jakob rose to his feet. His face had aged a hundred years. He stole a tired, hopeless glance at Elizabeth. “I just wanted to say we are sorry.”
“Jakob,” Elizabeth said. She had stayed silent until now. “Do you have a moment?”
—
On the veranda, they sat side by side on the slatted swing. In the distance, through the spiked pales of the park fence, fireflies roamed like possibility, and crickets and katydids croaked a symphony. At their feet, her violin lay in its rosewood case, the strings still reverberating from the Brahms lullaby she had just finished playing for the girls. She was brushing rosin dust from her skirt when he said, “You do play beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“I am sorry,” Jakob said again. “My father—you are all being very gracious, but I can’t imagine why. And if there is anything we can ever do—but I won’t trouble your family or you anymore, I—”
“Please trouble me.” Elizabeth looked at him across the small gap between them. As confident as Jakob had appeared in the courtroom—a miracle of composure and machination—he did not look that way now. What had it taken for him to face down Gerritt, to reveal their family’s ugly secret for all of Albany to judge and despise?
“We are grateful to you.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“Do you know what you will do now?” Elizabeth said.
“Go to Boston, perhaps.”
She stirred. “Boston? Why there?”
“Mother wants to leave the city, and she is the one I’m worried about. We can’t stay here. Especially if Father survived.” He nodded in the direction of the park, toward their home on the other side. “If he didn’t, I’ll eventually sell the house, if I can, though who would buy it now? It’s an accursed place.” Jakob glanced her way and colored. “Actually I’ll sell all the houses, if I can. Unfortunately someone will buy them and carry on the sordid side of the family business—without interference from the police, no doubt. As for the lot in the district, that’s easy. No doubt one of the other lumbermen will want it, or I’ll just stop paying the rent. I’ll easily sell the rest of the lumber. Then, after that, what Mother doesn’t need to live on, I’ll donate to the House of Shelter. She says she can get by very well on less. Until then she’ll sell her doll collection, which will fetch a good enough price to allow us to live for quite a while.”
“But isn’t the lumber business yours, too? Surely that’s not—tainted.”
“I don’t want any of it. And I’d rather earn my money through law. There’s a professor of mine at Harvard I could apply to for help in finding a position. He knows a lot of people in Boston. I’m sorry. I ought not to be imposing on you, ought not to be talking about my problems to you. But I needed to tell you that I was sorry. I needed you to know.” He made to rise, but didn’t. The crickets persisted. The fireflies were blinking on and off, oblivious.
“Anyway,” he said again. “We cannot stay in Albany. They”—he waved his hand at the city, blinking out of sight beyond the houses on Willett Street—“would eviscerate us. But first, may I ask? Do you plan to return to Paris for more study?”
“I can’t go back to Paris. They defeated me there. So we are exiles, the two of us, from places we have loved. But while we were in Cape Cod, I auditioned at the Boston Conservatory and was accepted.”
“Boston?” Jakob said. “You will be in Boston?”
“Yes. I will.”
“I see,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
He said again that he had to go. He said it again in ten minutes, and then again in another ten minutes, when he finally did go, but not before he had kissed her. Twice.
—
Upstairs, in Claire and Emma’s bedroom, the strains of Brahms faded away. Amelia held Emma in her lap in the rocking chair, while Claire slept under a summer counterpane dyed blue, her choice, to match the sea at Cape Cod. Emma had wanted a corresponding golden burst of yellow, so it would always be light, she’d explained, though she’d not had to. They had told her, however, that the trial was over. Had even told her that Harley was not going to go to jail. To Emma, Harley remained the one touch of benevolence in those six weeks, and her young mind was happy for him.
“But what about the Other Man?” Emma said. “Where is he? If he comes for Claire—”
“He’s a coward, darling. He’ll never come for you. We will always protect you. You’re safe.”
“Grandmama?”
Grandmama. It was the first time Emma had called her that. Amelia smiled and stroked Emma’s hair. “Yes?”
“Why?”
So, it was beginning. The first of a thousand Whys, the impossible question without an answer. One day, Emma would be angry—beautifully, righteously angry—but for now, it was Why?
“I don’t know,” Amelia said. And she didn’t. She was sixty years old and had delivered hundreds of babies and she could no more answer that question than solve the riddle of humanity’s existence. “I don’t know, my sweet girl. I wish I did. But I’m here. I’ll always be here.” And she pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Emma and Claire O’Donnell, wearing new summer dresses of white lawn, knelt beside their parents’ graves in the Albany Rural Cemetery. The minister had just said a second funeral, and the girls were laying bouquets of blue cornflowers and white daisies, unaware that close by a statue of two cherubs had once marked their own deaths. The week before, William had hired a man to dump that statue into the Hudson, Emma and Claire’
s once purported grave. The day of this second burial—a ritual to help Emma and Claire say good-bye—was a beautiful summer day. The vivid blue sky sparkled, insects buzzed between bloom and sepulcher, and dandelion seeds drifted across the cemetery like snow. The blizzard’s mayhem had yielded a season of extraordinary fecundity. All that moisture had spawned color and blossom in abundance, and nowhere more so than the cemetery, that haven of grief and remembrance.
It would take an army to breach the protective perimeter constructed around Emma and Claire this morning. At a respectful distance a good fifty feet down Bower Hill, Viola and Jakob Van der Veer watched as Elizabeth, Mary, William, and Amelia comforted the kneeling Emma and Claire. Gerritt, whose body had washed up on Middle Ground flats next to the shards of his ice-yacht, had been buried on Jakob’s instructions in the town of Athens, opposite the flats and far enough away from Albany to hasten the erasure of his father from the collective memory. Jakob had not even set a stone. And soon, Van der Veer Lumber would be no more. There had been plenty of offers to buy their stock and take over the rent for their lot. In addition, he had hired painters to blacken out every advertisement for the company in the city, so that the Van der Veer name was obliterated.
On the top of Bower Hill, Elizabeth was waiting to play her violin, glad of this second chance to honor Bonnie and David the way she ought to have done the first time. Amelia and Mary drew Emma and Claire into their laps, securing them with arms wrapped around their waists and kisses planted atop their white straw hats adorned with sunny yellow ribbons. William stood secure and attentive guard beside Bonnie and David’s joint tombstone, placed in the weeks after their burial and that read, NEITHER SHALL THERE BE ANY MORE PAIN, FOR THE FORMER THINGS ARE PASSED AWAY.
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