Dwindling Luna Park crowds also meant Henry Erlanger no longer needed a solo songstress. Esmerelda was fortunate to remain in Benjamin Hupp’s employ. So she told herself it was good news when he decided to experiment with the shift in patronage that came with cooler weather. Benjamin added a pricey luncheon menu to the supper club, envisioning businessmen and Upper East Side ladies’ groups taking advantage. Esmerelda provided background music—a softer version of her evening fare. Not long into the new schedule, the idea seemed to be taking hold.
It left Esmerelda exhausted, performing from noon until three, then again in the evenings. But the change she found most disturbing was the amount of time she spent inside the hotel. She looked up at the crack of sky and then across the alleyway.
The Hupps had opened their fancier hotel next door. Benjamin had prattled on about the finished project, also boasting to Esmerelda that he’d taken up residence there—a suite, located directly across from her room. This was during a hotel tour he’d insisted on, showing off the lobby floor, where a sweetshop, haberdashery, and photography studio had rented space. Gazing in the window of the photo studio, she’d smiled at Benjamin, thinking how much she’d like to tell Phin about it.
This morning, Licorice sat on the windowsill. She scratched his head and he jumped down, darting under the bed—his favorite spot. Despite the fanfare of a new hotel, the alley had become dull, dominant scenery. She yawned. Usually, Esmerelda didn’t get to bed until after one in the morning, making it difficult to rise and shine, to do something other than sit and wait for the next performance. Almost always, Benjamin was a front-row patron, smiling and applauding.
Today, however, offered a respite from the monotony. A new stove was being installed in the hotel kitchen. Hupp’s restaurant would be closed and, in turn, entertainment unnecessary. Circumstance provided a full day and a half of freedom. Turning away from the window, Esmerelda scooped Marigold up from her rocking-chair perch, straightening the doll’s bowed bonnet. “I suppose it’s too much to imagine Phin turning up in the alley.” She hugged the doll. “If he did, the scenery would change considerably.” Esmerelda returned to the window. She smiled at Marigold as if she might agree. “Maybe he’s not well enough yet. Maybe I should never mind what he last said and go see him.”
It’d been an equal amount of time since Phin’s near-miraculous recovery from influenza and her busier schedule. Esmerelda wasn’t foolish enough to go to Hell’s Kitchen without Hassan. As Phin improved, he’d insisted she not come at all, even with Hassan as a chaperone. “Thieving won’t get you more than a fistful of lint down here,” he’d said, propped on a pillow she’d smuggled from the hotel. Phin coughed and he drew air into his still-weak lungs before finishing his opinion. “Raping. That’s easier to come by. Some men won’t think twice about it.”
She offered no outward reaction to the observation, refilling his mug of weak tea.
Phin had gone on, chiding Hassan. “You’re not to bring her again. Your kind might swing tomahawks, but you’re no fighter, Hassan. It’s not what the army wants from you.” Hassan had said something in his native Choctaw, a word which by then she knew was agreement. Instead, Phin had made Esmerelda a promise: the moment he was well enough, he would come to her. He’d squeezed her hand before she left, and Esmerelda took it as a blood-sworn oath. She’d returned to the hotel, having to answer to Oscar for her absence. In the meantime, he’d been quick enough to lie to Benjamin—insisting that Esmerelda had been battling a fever of her own.
Since leaving Phin’s side, Esmerelda had seen Hassan twice at her Luna Park show. She imagined the braided-haired Indian felt comfortable in a park filled with human acts that would draw glances on ordinary streets. “Might as well get paid for life’s little curse,” Diego would say, laughing. He was a Negro midget from the French Quarter who amazed audiences by adding any set of numbers in his head. The first time Esmerelda saw Hassan, he assured her that Phin was gaining strength. The second time, he told her Phin had returned to work.
Hassan also confided, in broken English, a story that had Esmerelda spellbound: At the age of six, Phin was left at New York’s Children’s Aid Society. At nine he ran away from the home. This came after a group of older boys stole Phin from his straw mattress and locked him in an outhouse, but not before dumping in a sack of rats. Since then, he’d lived off the streets, determined to overcome abandonment and a rat-infested past.
This told Esmerelda a great deal about Phin’s pride. The reason working delivery for the Tribune would never satisfy him. In her mind, it also separated Phin from any man she’d known—he viewed the value of money and emotion as two different things: the necessity for one and the aesthetic worth of the other. Hassan had broken a confidence by telling Esmerelda about Phin’s past, but his intentions were honest. He wanted to give Esmerelda cause to be patient.
Sitting at the hotel window, she sighed at the circumstances surrounding her. What did any of it matter, and why did she keep dwelling on it? What would any man want with her? Technically—since the night of the pie—she was as used as the girls who worked at the Elephant Hotel. Her face warmed; she was lucky to have a life as good as she did.
A knock at the door disrupted further brooding. She didn’t respond at first, not terribly anxious to see Benjamin, who was surely on the other side. Cora had gone to run an errand for Oscar, who planned to meet her at the trolley stop near Luna Park. It was one of a few times Esmerelda was alone, and she wondered if Benjamin knew as much.
To her surprise, her employer and admirer hadn’t grown exasperated with Esmerelda’s polite but never inviting behavior, even after Oscar’s warning. She’d even grown brave enough to ask Benjamin about Ingrid, the German immigrant girl he’d favored and Oscar had mentioned. Benjamin was quick to disclose to Esmerelda that he’d been smitten. “Of course, I realized we were to be no more than friends, especially after learning Ingrid steadily corresponded with a soldier from Cologne.” He admitted a slight heartbreak over the girl, but was moved by her story. Enough to see to it that Ingrid returned home to her beau.
Esmerelda had smiled at Benjamin’s generosity, though she remained hesitant about accepting his Palace proposal, which he offered just as Oscar said he would. So far Esmerelda hadn’t said yes or no, only that she was flattered. If she accepted the job, she’d be out of Benjamin’s employ, yet still indebted. It seemed a quandary either way.
As for today’s free time, she guessed Benjamin had an idea or two about how she might spend it. She paced slowly to the door, arranging excuses. “Thank you, Benjamin, I’d love to join you for a picnic in the park, but Oscar needs me to attend rehearsal—a winter act we’re preparing . . .” “Oh, Benjamin, you’re forever thoughtful . . . the flowers . . . champagne, roof over my head . . . but you see . . .” And that’s where Esmerelda got stuck. She suspected words about her affection for Phin would not be well received.
The knocking persisted, and she moved across the room. Esmerelda smoothed her skirt. She swung the door wide and began with a lie. “How lovely to see you this time of day . . .” Her words fell away, landing softly in the truth. She smiled. “You’re back on your feet.”
“I’d have come sooner, but I wanted to make certain I had the strength to carry this thing across the city.”
Phin stood before her, thinner, cheekbones jutting in a way that made him look both hungry and elegant. Someone had cut his wavy, dark hair. In his arms was a burlap-covered object, though she guessed what it was. While propriety dominated Benjamin’s visits, she clasped Phin’s arm, quickly guiding him past proper decorum and into the room. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch him in the hall.
She leaned against the closed door, her heart moving as if she’d been the one to rush up three flights of stairs, a bulky sack in hand. “I saw Hassan. He said you were better. He said you went back to work.”
“I was lucky to get my spot back. They’re hiring ten- and twelve-year-olds at half the pay. Likely the only thing that
saved me is knowing how to drive their trucks.” His forehead scrunched. “Maybe the fact that I can reach the pedals.”
“Or you’re such a good photographer the Tribune wanted to keep you in their employ. I want to tell you about—”
“Don’t boast, Esme. Or make me out to be something I’m not. Mostly I work distribution. It’d take a lot for Tribune brass to make riffraff like me a real photographer.” He took a slow turn around the room. “I imagined it’d be a nice place.” He stopped moving and his gaze landed on her. “Nice as you should have.”
His reaction wasn’t without reason, and Esmerelda defaulted to caution. The home she’d left wasn’t rich, but they had nice things, like the glass globe lamp her father gave her mother one Christmas—a time before he drank so much and her mother wasn’t dead. Before the pie and the night her sister had gone to stay with a sick friend. There were dyed rugs, store-bought linens, and china dishes. Her life with Oscar had exposed Esmerelda to the gap, the seediness of city streets, an underbelly that many, including Phin, called shelter. She lied. “I was surprised as you first time I saw the room.”
“Were you?” Phin leaned and pointed. “A water closet and all—just for yourself?”
“Cora too.” But it wasn’t what he meant. Esmerelda grasped the bedpost as if she and it might hide the fat feather mattress. “None of it’s mine. The hotel room is part of my agreement with . . .”
He shimmied the burlap-covered object from one arm to the other.
“It’s Oscar’s agreement with Hupp.”
He stared at her and, subsequently, the bed. “But it’s not Oscar who sleeps here every night.”
“No. I suppose it isn’t. But Cora’s here every night.” She dove at a change of subject. “What did you bring?”
“Seems silly now, here with all this.” He looked to the fireplace. Over it hung a painting of English lords in top hats, dogs at their feet, one little fox trying to make its escape.
She gestured to the window. “This place isn’t so grand, Phin.” Benjamin had said exactly this, referring to more luxurious rooms across the alleyway. “Hotels are Hupp’s business. I can’t help that.”
“I’m not sure objecting to any of it is my business. Better still, why a palooka like me would deny you all . . . this. Why I’d rather see you camped on the Flats with Oscar.” Phin perused the room, but again and again, his gaze returned to Esmerelda, posed by the bed.
She was an idiot. Why hadn’t she sat in the chair, stood near the window? Anywhere but near the bed. She rushed toward him. “Are you going to show me what you’ve brought?”
Begrudgingly Phin handed over his gift. Esmerelda let the rough sack drop, revealing the sparkling mermaid painting.
“It’s even more beautiful than it was on the beach.”
“It wasn’t finished on the beach.”
“Thank you.” She placed Phin’s painting atop the mantel, occluding the hunting scene. Esmerelda stepped back and admired his work. No, of course, a mermaid didn’t belong in a hotel room. It should be free, like the carousel horse. Esmerelda turned to tell him as much, or at least how much she loved the painting.
When she did, words melded into a kiss. The unexpected moment dominated everything, including societal propriety or what Phin thought Esmerelda should have. She’d never kissed a boy of her own choosing, and Esmerelda thought it more luxurious than the hotel room. Inviting in a different way. The closeness spun the ground on which she stood. It was only a single kiss, though Esmerelda saw it as the most heavenly moment of her life. She wanted the kiss to go on or repeat, the sensations as mesmerizing as a dream. Phin didn’t kiss her again but lingered, his forehead pressed to hers. Then he looked past Esmerelda, blinking hard at the bed, quickly—though stumbling over his words—insisting they should be on their way. “We . . . we’d best go before I forget the little I know about being a proper gentleman.” She followed, nearly floating, the breadth of the kiss surpassing the few amazing things she knew of: paintings and Paris, France, Coney Island, and the rest of the World.
Phin suggested a walk through Manhattan. After several blocks, in the open air and crowded streets, the feeling attached to the kiss began to ebb. Sadly, she supposed it had to—it was that or be trampled. Avenues were thick with an eclectic mix of pedestrians: ladies dressed in their finest, arms looped through their husbands’, and then a girl who sang for her supper, side by side with a boy who scavenged for survival. She and Phin walked until they reached the far side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Conversation picked up as they made their way across metal that bound the two boroughs. Modes of transportation competed tightly here: foot, horse, motorcar, trolley. While there was new familiarity between Phin and Esmerelda, talk remained generic: the weather and the Brooklyn Robins, then Phin saying how the army had come through Hell’s Kitchen recruiting soldiers. For the promise of a meal, many went.
The trolley clanged as Esmerelda explained how she and Cora would often take the streetcar to meet up with Oscar, the boys, and the wagon on Brooklyn’s Stillwell Avenue. She said something about the fall weather coming and that soon Coney Island beaches would be uninviting. Phin insisted the day’s bright weather and their mutual free time was an invitation to the shore. Maybe they could even rent bathing costumes. Moments later, the two were aboard the trolley, moving toward its Coney Island stop.
When Phin and Esmerelda exited from the front of the car in Brooklyn, Cora came clamoring off the rear. They hadn’t spotted each other aboard the crowded trolley. Oscar was waiting with the horses and wagon. “Lordy,” Cora said, catching up to the group. “I had to run six blocks from Oscar’s errand to make the trolley!” She pushed in between Phin and Esmerelda, huffing for air.
In the meantime, Oscar had narrowed his eyes at Esmerelda and her companion, the look shifting onto Cora. “Did you get what I sent you for?”
She nodded, holding a yellow envelope up to Oscar.
“Good girl. I’d almost let you skip your job this evening.”
“Would you?” she asked as if Oscar was the least bit serious. “Because if you don’t—”
“And what would you show me for earnings, Cora? It’s why we work, girl.” But his look did soften as she handed over the envelope. “The fall circuit will pick up soon. We’ll find you something more . . . suited to your talents.”
Bill and Jimmie poked their heads through the wagon cover, saying hello to Esmerelda. She missed them, being so bound to Hupp’s hotel. Esmerelda pointed to the envelope. “What’s that?”
Oscar tore at the flap. “It’s the future.”
She cocked her head at the paper he withdrew, imagining it foretold such a thing.
“Is it something for a new act?” Bill asked, peering over Oscar’s shoulder.
“Cohans added a bit that cuts a lady right in two,” Jimmie said. “I seen it. Does that paper tell you how to go about doing such a thing?”
Barney’s head popped through the canvas hole, completing the curious sets of eyes, all of them peering over Oscar’s wide shoulders. “And what kind of date are you?” Barney asked. “You talk like we’d really be cuttin’ Esmerelda or Cora in two!” He knocked his elbow into Jimmie and ducked back into the wagon. Between Barney and Bill, he was the crankier of the two.
“You’re all a bunch of blockheads,” Oscar groused. “Like a single act would help us out. But this will. It’s the ownership papers to a truck.” Hums radiated like the warm-up for a three-part harmony as Barney’s head popped back through the canvas hood.
“A motor truck?” he asked.
“Now who’s dull in the mind?” Jimmie elbowed him back.
“If you’ll all quit your blathering . . .”
On Stillwell Avenue, with his troupe surrounding him, Oscar went into great detail about his new truck—how he’d scrimped and saved and struck a deal, trading Go and Fish as the final payment. Esmerelda patted Fish’s nose, sorry to hear that the future meant saying goodbye to the beloved team. Osca
r captivated the group with his long-kept secret—a near-new Ford double TT truck—then he arrived at his one problem. “I don’t know how to drive.”
“What?” Esmerelda said. “You bought a truck with your last dime, traded the team, and don’t know how to operate what you’ve bought! Oscar—”
“I don’t need backtalk from you, Esmerelda. Seems I’m not the only one choosin’ things that I’ve not thought through.” He cocked his chin at Phin. “I figured somehow I’d learn between wanting a truck and owning one. But the fact of it is Go and Fish need to be to the Queens line by two.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“And then we make the trade. The papers are from a solicitor who handled the owner’s estate. The fellow that owned the truck was killed aboard one of America’s new warships. His wife sold it to me.” Oscar glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you boys, Barney and Bill, have any more useful secrets?”
Esmerelda cleared her throat and glanced away from Phin.
“None of you knows how to drive, do you?”
It was strange to hear Oscar ask for help. It was stranger still when Phin spoke up. “I know how to drive.” Stares shifted from the paper Oscar held to Phin. “I was telling Esme earlier. The Tribune will employ boys to do the newspaper selling. But they need a man to drive their delivery trucks.”
“I’ll be damned.” It was Oscar’s initial response, before saying he had no intention of allowing Phin to retrieve his new purchase. But after some back-and-forth (Esmerelda agreeing to accompany Phin), and the clock ticking on Luna Park showtimes, Oscar had little choice. As Esmerelda climbed into the buckboard, she squeezed Cora’s hand. “See. It’s all getting better. You won’t be scrubbing floors forever.”
“For me, it’s going to get better today. I’ve seen to it.”
“What are you talking about?” Cora left to her own devices, Esmerelda didn’t like the sound of that.
“Compared to what I’ve been doin’ . . . I’ve found different work, if it must be at Coney Island.”
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