City Of Promise Part 12

Until when?

Until they forgot. New Yorkers inevitably forgot. They moved on to the next exciting thing.

But Ganz had been so positive. So sure. And, as he pointed out, it was in his best interest now. As well as hers.

Perhaps Teddy Paisley was to be implicated not in a scandal but a crime. Sol Ganz was a member of a profession that had close ties to the underworld, to the worst gangsters and thieves. He might not be a fence, but he doubtless knew plenty of them.

A crime could send Teddy to jail. Perhaps for years. Maybe for life. That had been a fantasy of Eileen's back when he first announced her background to the city and nearly brought her down. Certainly she'd thought of it again when he sent her to the Tombs on a trumped-up pickpocket charge. She'd had no idea how to arrange that then and she didn't know now. Possibly Sol Ganz did.

Eileen took the paper in hand and unfolded it. She was in her sitting room, beside a lively fire, listening to a cold rain beat against her windows. She lay the paper on her lap and scanned the first page. Shipping news mostly. A story about a diplomatic mission to Spain. And inside, on the next page, a discussion of the proposed Amnesty Act, restoring the civil rights of rebellious Southerners now that the war had been over for nearly six years.

The Gray Lady everyone called The Times. It was a name the paper was said to regard with pride. They did not announce shocking or scandalous stories with the black headlines of the tabloids, much less the hawking cries of newsboys. In the pages of the Gray Lady such news was to be found inside, quietly designated by a small and frequently understated headline. Eileen found what she was looking for at the bottom of page four: BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD.

Mr. Theodore Paisley, a naturalized American citizen immigrated from Ireland many years ago, was found dead in his home late yesterday afternoon. His housekeeper discovered him slumped at his desk and a gla.s.s of whiskey half drunk beside him. The police are testing the drink for poison. Foul play is suspected, but there are as yet no suspects nor any obvious motive.

Dear G.o.d in heaven. She had conspired in murder.

. . . give that child suck or I'll tell everyone in the city you tried and failed and your day is past. Not a drop left and here's the starving babe to prove it . . .

She'd have done anything to protect Mollie. Then as now. No difference.

Eileen stood up and tossed the paper on the fire and watched it burn.

Josh was getting a late start that morning. d.a.m.ned rain always made his leg ache. It had been harder than usual to drag himself out of his warm bed. He'd turned to his wife instead. Now Mollie was sitting across from him at breakfast looking flushed and happy, meeting his gaze occasionally with a small smile in response to his huge and, he imagined, lascivious grin. He'd wanted her to be exactly that sort of woman. One who wasn't afraid to acknowledge her own physical side or his.

"More coffee, Josh?"

"Thank you, yes." He pa.s.sed his cup over, and when she reached for it took the opportunity to raise her hand to his lips, smiling at her once more in that way that said more than words, and chuckling when she colored a deeper pink. After which he told himself it was time to stop flirting. Eat his breakfast and read his paper and get a move on. He'd visit the foundry first today, then he'd go and-Jesus G.o.d Almighty. Mr. Theodore Paisley, a naturalized American citizen immigrated from Ireland many years ago, was found dead . . .

Eileen popped into his head immediately. Along with her sudden, unexplained rush to put in writing what had previously been acceptable as a verbal agreement taken on trust. Josh pondered for a moment. There was no connection he could see, but that did not mean one might not exist.

Let it lie. He felt the conviction start in his gut and rise to his brain and knew instantly it was settled. For him at any rate. He had not told Mollie about the visit to Eileen's attorney or the doc.u.ment he'd signed. Perhaps Eileen had. Perhaps Mollie would make some sort of connection. "Take a look at this," he said, pa.s.sing her the paper. "Bottom of page four. Isn't Paisley the man you and your aunt blamed for sending her to the Tombs?"

"So he is," she said, reading the paper at the same time. She looked up a moment later. "Good riddance," she said. "I know it's not nice to feel so, but I do, Josh. He was incredibly mean to Auntie Eileen and I'm not sorry he's dead."

He read no guile in her open and frank gaze, had no sense of her knowing more than she admitted about his affairs or, for that matter, Eileen's. "Fair enough," he said, getting up and dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Paisley's gone. No need for you or your aunt to trouble yourselves about him ever again."

Not him either. Josh was convinced of that. Teddy Paisley's death could not in any way be connected to him or his affairs.

9.

ALL PRAYERS ARE answered. Sometimes, however, the answer is no.

Mollie had read that in a magazine some years past. In this case the answer was yes, though she had to wait for it a bit longer than expected.

That Christmas of 1871, the first after their marriage, Josh and Mollie celebrated at Sunshine Hill so Carolina could partic.i.p.ate. The occasion was made more festive because the Turners invited Auntie Eileen to join them, and Zac was back from England. Best of all for Mollie, it was a special holiday because she believed she was at last pregnant.

This was a secret she yet hugged to herself. She wanted to be absolutely sure for one thing. For another Josh seemed to have more on his mind than usual. He'd decided to keep the foundry working, and while the six additional lots he'd bought after they p.a.w.ned Eileen's jewels were a justification, making more steel than he could immediately use meant tying up still more of his limited capital. "If I have to I can sell a couple of lots. They should triple in value once the railroad people get their shovels in the ground. But that's not going to happen until the cold breaks."

Josh didn't say that to Mollie. She heard him make the comment to Zac soon after the new year, when the brothers were discussing business in the Grand Street drawing room that had become an office. She'd not been invited to their meeting, but she'd gone in to bring them hot cider laced with rum and to borrow the copy of the Christian Union sitting on Josh's desk. It wasn't a weekly Josh usually read, but he'd placed the notice of flats to let on Sixty-Third Street in the Union as well as half a dozen other journals and newspapers. "May I, Josh? Only until I've read Mrs. Beecher's column."

"Yes, of course. And thanks for this," gripping the pewter tankard. "Very welcome."

"It is indeed," Zac agreed. "This has to be the bitterest January ever."

"And the driest," Mollie agreed. "I don't remember another winter without a single snowflake so late in the season."

Both men agreed. Then, only to keep the conversation going, Mollie was sure, Zac asked her about Mrs. Beecher's column. Advice to housewives, she explained, and he listened politely, though she was sure he'd not a penny's worth of interest. After that there was no more small talk and it was clear her husband and her brother-in-law were waiting for her to go so they could resume their discussion. Mollie took the paper and left.

She settled herself at the dining room table and read the popular column.

These days, when there is so much work to be done in a properly furnished home, and when so many can have but one servant to do it, efficiency is the housewife's primary skill. She must learn to manage her household like a business and prepare herself for it as a man prepares for his life's work. It is imperative to keep careful records of everything to be done each week: which silvers or bra.s.ses require to be polished, which carpets to be beaten, the proper arrangement and spotless cleanliness of the antimaca.s.sars and doilies and table coverings, etcetera. Further, you must be certain the domestic you employ understands the order in which these tasks are to be accomplished.

Mollie sighed. She did not find household ch.o.r.es quite so diverse or demanding. She had Mrs. Hannity all the time-the cook slept in a room in the attic-as well as Jane who came on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. So perhaps Mrs. Beecher wasn't speaking to her.

She put down the paper. Half a minute later she picked it up again and thumbed through the pages until she found Joshua's advertis.e.m.e.nt. "French Flats to be let on Sixty-Third Street at the tasteful St. Nicholas," it read. "Ready for occupancy in three to four months." It was Carolina, eyes twinkling, who had suggested the building's name, since, as she pointed out, Nick's foresightful purchase had provided the land. "Favorable rates for those signing a lease in advance of completion," Mollie read. And that interested parties were to inquire either at the property or at the Grand Street house.

The same notice had been running every day for two weeks. In at least half a dozen papers and periodicals. All had produced absolutely no result. Not a single person had come to Grand Street to ask about the flats, nor arrived at the building site to see the progress being made.

Mollie read the text a second time. Perhaps if Josh used slightly different wording . . . Her glance went to the announcements above and below. They spoke of ship arrivals. And postal rates. And various dockings and departures of a.s.sorted means of haulage. In the column on the left hand side of the page there was a long article about the reliability of paper money.

It could not be more clear. Mollie jumped to her feet.

Since Josh and Zac were discussing men's affairs, she would normally have knocked to signal her arrival. In this instance, in the grip of her flash of understanding, Mollie simply pushed open one half of the connecting doors. "Josh, I've figured it out! I know why no one has come to ask about the flats or gone uptown to see them." Then, to her brother-in-law, "Please excuse me, Zac. I apologize for interrupting. But I know Josh has been worried. And I know what's wrong."

"And what is that, Mollie?" Josh didn't sound angry. In fact he'd not raised his voice to her once in the nearly six months they'd been married. But he'd never sounded quite so distant either.

"It's the position of the notice, Josh. Look, in the Union it's here on the page with the shipping news and a discussion of whether silver currency should be eliminated. It's the same with the other papers as well. I know it is."

Josh continued to look at her, but he didn't say anything. Zac seemed entirely occupied with some papers on the desk. He was, Mollie realized, embarra.s.sed for his brother. She should have waited until she and Josh were alone. But it was such an obvious truth, Josh had to see it as well. "You're speaking to the wrong people, Josh. Only men read these pages. You need to have the notice inserted on the pages that women read. Next to Mrs. Beecher's column in the Christian Union, for example. Advice to housewives."

"Mollie," still that same quiet and distant voice, "the lease of a flat of this sort, indeed the choice of where to house his family, is a man's affair. It is not the responsibility of a housewife."

"But if she wants the flat, Josh, and if she has reason to believe they can afford it, she'll encourage her husband to at least inquire about . . ." Both Josh and Zac were looking at her now. Rather, she thought, as if she were a small child who had presumed to comment on things far beyond her understanding. Mollie stopped speaking.

"Thank you, Mollie. Now, if you don't mind, Zac and I are busy."

Her husband had dismissed her as effectively as if he'd waved her out of the room as he would a servant.

Mollie waited a few minutes. When he did not come out to apologize she went upstairs.

It occurred to her that he might spend the night in one of the other bedrooms, but after an hour of tossing and turning she heard the door open.

Neither of them said anything and Josh undressed without putting on a light. She wasn't sure if he thought she was asleep, but when he got into bed beside her he said, "Don't ever do that again."

"I didn't mean-"

"I'm sure you didn't. But if you believe me to be inadequate and my business decisions questionable, I would thank you to wait until we're alone to say so."

"How can you say that, Josh? Of course I don't believe you're inadequate. It was simply that I got this idea and-"

"I don't wish to discuss it further, Mollie."

She thought he would turn away but he turned to her instead. Mollie welcomed him, feeling a little surge of triumph because his need of her and the pleasure he obviously took in their coupling reminded her of her aunt's advice.

Except that Auntie Eileen was wrong. You could not fix everything in the bedroom. Her husband seemed to enjoy her as much as ever, but when he was finished he turned over and went to sleep. He did not even murmur good night.

Least said, soonest mended. Nothing would get Josh back to being his customary kind and loving self more quickly than being relieved of the worry that no one would lease his flats. Mollie was, however, quite convinced no one would, if he continued to market them with advertis.e.m.e.nts only men would see. Very well, she would do what needed doing. When her scheme worked she'd have proved her point, and Josh would be too pleased to be angry with her.

Thursday, Mollie decided, was the best choice. Jane didn't come on Thursdays, and it was Mrs. Hannity's afternoon off.

"I shan't need dinner today, Mrs. Hannity. And the leftover ham pie will do for tonight's supper. You may leave now, if you wish."

The cook went to visit her sister in Harlem Village on Thursdays. In the normal way of things Mrs. Hannity was out the door by one-thirty. It was barely eleven now. So even though Agnes Hannity had been recommended by Auntie Eileen's Hatty Ellis, and Mollie expected the pair of them spent time discussing what went on in Mollie's newly established household, on this occasion Mrs. Hannity was unlikely to ask too many questions, much less refuse an extra two and a half hours of freedom.

"Well, if you're sure, missus."

"Very sure, Mrs. Hannity. Go on. Off with you. It's a long journey to Harlem, I know.

"It is that, missus. The horsecar and then the train, and then another horsecar to Bessie's, 'cause her little cottage is right the way over on 125th Street and First Avenue. I keep saying she should move closer to town, but Bessie loves her garden. And of course you can't grow cabbages in New York City. Still, like I always tell her, it's a wonder she gets anything to grow with them winds blowing off the river and making-"

Moments later Mollie had closed the door behind Mrs. Hannity and climbed the stairs to her room. She chose a traveling suit made of dark red wool, with a snugly fitted jacket trimmed in black silk braid. Never mind that she had to hold her breath to b.u.t.ton it over her thickening waist. And even though there wasn't a speck of snow on the ground, she took care to bustle the skirt tightly so no fabric would trail behind her. That, after all, was the point of a fashion meant for going out on the streets, and the reason the jacket flared from the waist and had a fan of deep pleats in the back that expanded sufficiently to cover a substantial bustle. And, since it was so cold, she added a long black coat b.u.t.toned from neck to hem and trimmed with black beaver fur.

As a last touch, a gray felt bonnet with a shallow brim edged in black velvet and simply trimmed with black velvet ribbon and a few feathers, pinned in place with two pearl-tipped pins. Then she selected a small black beaver m.u.f.f, and tucked some money and a comb and handkerchief into the m.u.f.f's inside pocket and left the house. Forty-five minutes later she was knocking on the door of Joshua's double-fronted house on Bowling Green.

"So you see," Mollie said, "the flats at the St. Nicholas are really entirely different from any rooming house. And they are not restricted to people who can afford grand Fifth Avenue mansions. They are meant for respectable 'white collar' families exactly like yours. The backbone of our city," she added, in a tone of voice meant to convey the pride she took in the accomplishments of her listeners. This despite the fact that there were only women and children seated at the dining room table.

Mollie had quite deliberately timed her arrival to coincide with the midday meal. It was when the people she wished to see would be gathered together, a captive audience, as it were. According to Josh, at rooming houses catering to families the men seldom came home for lunch. Board was nonetheless part of the weekly rent and the men's wives and offspring were fed at a preset time. By long-standing custom they dined together at a common table, and certainly no menu was presented as had become usual in the a la carte restaurants lately grown so popular in New York. The ladies and their children were expected to eat what was set in front of them, though judging from what had been left on a number of the plates, not everyone had found today's offering to their liking. Mutton stew, Mollie thought, sniffing the air. And boiled cabbage.

"On Sixty-Third Street," she said, "each flat has its own kitchen. You can feed your little ones when and what you judge best."

One small girl was nodding off over her half-eaten meal, threatening to land her face in the cold and greasy remains. Her mother, who'd been introduced as Mrs. Jackson, pulled the child into her lap. "All on one floor you said. No upstairs and no down?"

Having decided on her plan, Mollie had spent a considerable amount of time in Josh's office, telling herself she was snooping in an excellent cause. His records were carefully kept, and made her think his idea was in some measure the same as hers. The most likely renters of his flats were families who boarded in so-called family residences; a term preferred to rooming houses, though there was really little difference.

Josh's house on Bowling Green was a family residence, and he maintained a separate ledger dedicated to its occupants, and reserved a half page to each family. The husband's name came first-he was the legal tenant and the one responsible for the debt-and beside it the man's occupation. In some instances Josh had underlined that information in pencil, though the rest of the entries were in ink. Mollie believed the pencil marks indicated someone Josh thought able to afford to rent a flat. Her guess was he'd probably already broached the subject. A quiet word between gentlemen. Bit of a tip really, considering the building wasn't yet finished. Spoken in his most earnest manner. Genuinely so, since Josh believed his flats to be a truly wonderful innovation.

Fortunately, whatever he thought about a woman's right to be heard in the matter, he had nonetheless recorded beside each man's name that of his wife, and the numbers of their children-divided, she had noted, by gender. (Causing her to spare a thought for whether when she told Josh she was expecting-she'd missed her monthlies in January and in February and planned to break her news as soon as the first flat was rented-he would express a preference for a girl or a boy.) The wives were critical. That's what she'd tried to tell him the other evening. It was her justification for disobeying him and poking her nose where he clearly did not want it. And just now, sitting in the dining room of her husband's Bowling Green family residence, it seemed worth the gamble. The women were paying rapt attention.

The one who'd asked about the single-floor arrangement of the flats was Margaret Jackson. She was married to Elva Jackson and they had two girls and a boy. If the records were in her keeping, Mollie thought, she would have noted as well the ages of the children. Josh hadn't done so, but his books did say that Mr. Jackson was the senior accounting clerk at a clothing manufactory; and his name was underlined, so Josh must think him a prospect. There could be no doubt of the value of getting Margaret Jackson's a.s.sistance in the matter of her husband moving his family to Josh's new building. She could push, so to speak, while Josh pulled. "That's correct, Mrs. Jackson," Mollie said. "Each flat in the St. Nicholas is conveniently located on one level."

"Och, that means you're away to your bed with all the cooking smells trailing after you." Margaret Jackson's words betrayed a Scots burr, and her voice seemed to rise and fall with the rhythm of her swaying body as she cradled her child's dark head close to her bosom, and rocked back and forth to keep the little girl asleep.

How fiercely would such a woman argue for the opportunity to put her children to bed in a home of her own? Like a tigress protecting her cubs, Mollie decided. "Not a bit of it," she said. "Tasteful and practical, remember. There are windows providing cross ventilation in every flat. You can air the rooms quite thoroughly after meals. And," she added, "there's s.p.a.ce for a rocking chair in any one of them."

"But there's something I don't understand . . ." Ethyl Potter this time. Josh's books said her husband was a newly minted attorney. "Since you're under the same roof with a great many others, how is it a private residence?"

"French flats, that's what they're called, aren't they, Mrs. Turner?" The speaker was Mrs. Francie Wildwood, the resident landlady. Josh paid her to run the house, collect the rents, and do the cooking. Auntie Eileen would describe her as une femme d'un certain age, but she still boasted a voluptuous figure, and golden hair Mollie immediately recognized as being helped with a touch of peroxide. Auntie Eileen would never allow such vulgar artifice in her house. A lady is always a perfect match. As above, so below. Just now Mollie cared little whether or not Mrs. Wildwood was a lady. She had let Mollie in and shown her into the dining room with something approaching enthusiasm. Now she was being helpful in the matter of the questions. Mollie was prepared to take her allies where she found them.

"Yes, Mrs. Wildwood, thank you. You're correct. French flats. And each is entirely separate from the other. One has total independence in such a home." Mollie let that sink in while her gaze swept the table. "You will have a key to your own front door." It was well known that having to be let in by the landlady after any sort of outing was among the most loathed feature of family residences. "And when you close that door it is locked from the inside. The only rules are those your husband makes for you."

Another blonde, this one natural as well as very young-no more than sixteen Mollie guessed-and obviously enceinte, sighed loudly. "The angel of the hearth," she said. Then, seeing the other women turn to look at her, "That's what a wife and mother's supposed to be. The angel of the hearth."

Amanda Jones, Mollie decided. Married to DuVal Jones. There had been a question mark beside his name in the column that listed the tenants' occupations. And nothing in the one indicating children. So Mrs. Jones must be expecting her first. Mollie glanced at the other woman's swollen belly and felt a great urge to pat her own. Barely three months was too soon for quickening, but she had been communing with the infant inside her since those first few weeks in December when her flow did not begin and she became more and more certain she was carrying. She wanted to hug Amanda Jones. Me too, she wanted to say. Me too.

"The angel of the hearth," the young woman repeated in a soft but insistent voice, with her eyes rolling upward like a stage heroine in a matinee performance.

Well, maybe not hug her.

"There are no hearths, I warrant. Not in French flats." Mrs. Buchwald was a no-nonsense sort with graying hair pulled into a strict bun. She had already dismissed her four children, sending them up to the single room which Josh's records indicated was let to the family of Frank Buchwald, post office clerk. "Steam heating, isn't it?"

"Yes," Mollie said. "A furnace in the cellar and radiators in every room. So there's no mess from any sort of fireplace."

"You're sure they're not tenements?" Margaret Jackson again.

"Absolutely not. The plumbing is the most modern available, and there's a bath and a water closet in each flat." Tenements were notorious for providing no bathtubs, and one hall toilet to serve a floor that might house thirty or forty people, all of them crammed in like rats in a nest. "And,"-Mollie was convinced she had saved the best argument for last-"there is an elevator."

Mrs. Jackson shook her head. "Och, I don't trust elevators. Don't see how you can be sure they won't fall."

"My husband has explained it to me," Mollie said. Actually, she'd seen a demonstration three years before arranged for the workers at Macy's. "The cables are protected by a series of knots. If one should break-an almost unheard of occasion, mind-the knots lock everything into place and the cab cannot fall. That's why it's called the safety elevator."

"Almost unheard of," Margaret Jackson said, "is not the same as never."

There was nothing to be gained by this discussion Mollie realized. "As I was saying, the upper floors are as desirable as those below. Nonetheless, they are the most economical." Josh was unwilling to go counter to the convention which priced the ground floor highest.

Mrs. Buchwald had produced a pencil and a slip of paper. "Number forty-two East Sixty-Third Street, is it?" And when Mollie nodded, "Are you going to tell us the price of one of these flats?"

The hard part. She had prepared herself for this, mentally rehearsing her speech about finances all during the long streetcar ride from Grand Street to Bowling Green. "Compared to what even the cheapest brownstone would cost," she said firmly and with a bright smile, "a great bargain. Just imagine, ladies, you get six hundred and fifty square feet divided into two bedrooms and a parlor c.u.m dining room. As well as a kitchen already fitted with a stove and an icebox. And of course the bath and water closet, as I said."

"How much?" Mrs. Buchwald asked again.

"The rent depends on which floor, of course, but it can be as little as two hundred and twenty-five dollars a quarter."

Mrs. Buchwald did not write down the sum. "That's nine hundred dollars a year. It's a great deal of money, Mrs. Turner. And I take it you have to promise to stay the entire year."

Mollie swallowed hard and put a bright smile on her face. "In fact, Mr. Turner is committing himself to maintain that affordable rent for five years."

Mrs. Buchwald put down her pencil. "You're saying it's necessary to sign a five-year lease?"

"That's correct. But only the first quarter need be paid in advance."