The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER SEVEN

New York City, 1913

I said give the bag here!”

Laura stepped back, deeper into the tenement apartment, even though every instinct told her to make a run for the door, get away from the menacing creature standing before her.

But doing so meant going past him, and he’d easily block her way with his bulk.

“Look, I’m a student reporter from Columbia, just visiting, really. Your son”—she looked over at the boy—“asked me to come up. There must’ve been some kind of mistake?” She hated the way her voice rose at the end of the sentence.

The mother of the family cowered while her husband roared at Laura. “What? You’re a reporter? What kind of reporting do you think you’re doing? Going to write up a sob story about our sad little family, hungry and cold?” He leered at his wife. “I say we toss this one out the window.”

“No one will be tossing anyone.”

The statement came from somewhere near the front door, behind the man, whose head swiveled like an owl’s at the sound.

“Mr. Marino, stand down. Now.”

A woman, tall and commanding, pushed past him, giving him a good shove as she did so. Her shoulders were wide, her brown hair parted in the middle and pulled back in a bun so tight Laura wondered if she didn’t get headaches. A necktie was secured around her neck by a stiff collar, and she wore round spectacles that lent her an owlish air. Something about her seemed familiar, but in Laura’s relief at the rescue, she was unable to figure out what.

“Everyone leave except me, the mother, and the babe.”

The boy handed over the baby to the newcomer, and the gang of children skipped out, delighted at the reprieve from work. The larger ones jostled the younger ones, who barely stayed on their feet as they all funneled through the doorframe. The father, grudgingly, disappeared into the back room off the kitchen after looking Laura up and down like she was a side of beef swinging on a butcher’s hook.

Once he was gone, the woman surveyed the space, nodding. “You’ve kept the window open, well done, Mrs. Marino.”

“I’m sorry, I should go,” said Laura. The other students would be heading back to Columbia now, armed with quotes and stories, while she’d almost gotten killed.

“You say you’re a reporter?”

“Well, a student reporter. From Columbia.”

“Then you stay, take notes. Write the story. No one else is interested.”

Laura didn’t dare say no. She’d never seen a woman take charge like this, with no hesitation, ordering everyone about as if she were the captain of a sea liner.

“Sit there.”

Laura dutifully took a seat at the head of the table.

“The baby isn’t eating much,” offered Mrs. Marino, who slumped in the chair opposite Laura. Now that her family was gone, she seemed smaller, sadder. Lost.

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday.”

The woman placed the baby in Mrs. Marino’s arms. “Talk to her.”

Mrs. Marino guffawed. “Why? She can’t talk back.”

“Go ahead, say something. Anything.”

Mrs. Marino looked out into space, like she was trying to come up with a phrase. She shrugged and then finally obeyed. “Are you sleepy?”

In response, the child smiled.

The mother looked up, pleased.

“Well done, Mrs. Marino.”

“I’m sorry, may I ask your name?” Laura said, pulling her notebook out of the satchel.

“Dr. Potter. I work for the city.” Dr. Potter took the baby from Mrs. Marino and placed her carefully on the tabletop. With a practiced efficiency, she undid the child’s swaddling and performed a physical examination. “We’re executing a new program, where newborns are visited within a day of delivery, with regular follow-ups.” The baby let out a giggle and Dr. Potter giggled back. “Mrs. Marino, can you let this reporter know what I’ve been yammering on about these past few months?”

The woman leaned forward, suddenly eager to win the doctor’s approval. Dr. Potter had that effect. She took up space without apologizing for it, like a huge pine among saplings.

Mrs. Marino counted on her fingers. “Let fresh air into the rooms. Bathe her every few days. Don’t give the baby beer. And I told the others to stop playing in the gutter, like you said.”

“Well done. You’re my star pupil today, I have to say.”

The mother beamed.

“Do you pick her up when she cries?” asked Dr. Potter.

The mother threw the child a guilty glance. “I never did with the others. My own mother said you have to ignore them, or they’ll grow up to be weak.”

“Human contact is essential for a child’s development.” Dr. Potter’s answer was swift and emphatic, as if she’d said it a hundred times before. “Comforting your baby is perfectly fine.” She finished up and handed the baby back to her mother. “Try nursing her now.”

“What is this new program all about?” asked Laura.

“We’re trying to reduce child mortality. Starting in this district. I’m a medical inspector.”

“Never seen an inspector before you lot showed up,” offered Mrs. Marino.

Dr. Potter didn’t seem surprised. “The ones I’ve met—all men, by the way—had a habit of faking records of their home visits. Never mind that last summer, fifteen hundred babies died, either from tainted milk or overswaddling. The basics of childcare can save thousands of lives. I lead a group of inspectors who have been doing home visits, actual home visits.”

“Have you seen an improvement?” Laura asked.

“This past summer the number of infant deaths dropped to three hundred.”

“Down from fifteen hundred?” Laura sat back, stunned. “How?”

“What you see me doing here. Talking sense to women who understand logic. Like you, Mrs. Marino.”

By now the baby was in her mother’s lap, sucking at one breast, gazing up in that love-drunk way that Laura had observed with both of her children.

She’d read nothing about this remarkable program in the newspapers. Not a word. She said as much as they walked back out into the street.

“Maternal health, the health of the babies of poor immigrant women, is not a priority in this city at this time,” said Dr. Potter. She pulled a pocket watch out from her shirtwaist. “I must move on.”

She held out a hand to shake Laura’s, and in that gesture Laura realized how she knew her. From Vassar. Amelia Potter had been a student at the college a few years ahead of Laura. At the time, she’d looked quite different, with a softer hairstyle and no spectacles.

“I know you, from college,” Laura said. As she spoke, the image of Amelia sitting in the grass, surrounded by other girls, came to mind. Laura had joined, sitting slightly apart, nervous about her young age compared to the rest. Amelia sat not in the proper way, with her legs folded neatly under her to one side, but like a man might, her legs cross-legged underneath her, not caring that one knee was exposed. She was reading aloud from a book that was all the rage, The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. Home from break, Laura had mentioned it at the dinner table, but her father had cut her off, saying that it was about a woman who puts her own needs ahead of those of her children and husband, ultimately meeting a tragic end. “An abomination,” her father called it. She’d wondered when he’d read it but knew better than to ask.

Amelia, on that sunny fall day, had read loudly, proudly, from the text, while the girls around her tittered and shared knowing glances. At the time, Laura couldn’t help but stare at Amelia, whose confidence was so much greater than her own. One day, I’ll be like that, she’d vowed.

Well, she wasn’t quite that confident, as her interaction with the Marinos had demonstrated. But with each test she would become a little braver, she was certain. That was why she’d enrolled in the journalism school in the first place, to be challenged.

Dr. Potter regarded Laura. “I don’t remember you. When were you there?”

“Nineteen hundred. I was younger than the rest, and finished earlier. To get married. I’m Laura Lyons now.”

By now, they’d reached the el train. “Well, Laura Lyons, I wish you luck in your current studies.”

“Thank you. And you with your program.”

Laura turned to climb the stairs.

“I say, Mrs. Lyons, you might be interested in coming to the Heterodoxy Club next week, if you’re free.”

“The what?” Laura had never heard the term before, and wasn’t sure what it even meant.

“It’s a luncheon club held in Greenwich Village every other Saturday, for women who aren’t afraid to speak their minds. You might enjoy it.” She pulled out a card from her satchel and scribbled an address, date, and time on the back. “Do come.”

Laura began writing her article on the train back to Columbia, so that once she reached the city room all she had to do was type it up, her fingers flying, making small fixes as she went. After everyone’s copy was handed in, Professor Wakeman read through them out loud, offering suggestions as he spoke, placing ones he felt worthy of being on the front page in a separate pile. Finally, he got to Laura’s piece. He stopped after the first paragraph and looked over at her.

“You met this Dr. Potter in person?”

“Yes, I happened to be there during a home visit.”

He carried on reading, making no corrections or suggestions. “Did you make this up?”

Laura stiffened. “Of course not. It’s all true. They’ve saved hundreds of babies’ lives in a year.”

“Then why haven’t I read about this elsewhere?”

Dr. Potter’s words came back to Laura. “Because no one cares about immigrants’ babies.”

He regarded Laura. “This is front page, no doubt.”

She grinned as her story was placed on the top of the pile. Even if it wouldn’t be read by anyone other than her professor and the other students for now, once she’d graduated she’d make this her first pitch to her editor, and get the word out about the remarkable efforts of Dr. Amelia Potter.

She couldn’t wait.

After his initial disapproval, Professor Wakeman had warmed up to Laura, and allowed her to dig into the “women’s assignments” from whatever quirky angle she came up with. When they were assigned to cover a suffragist parade in Brooklyn, she hung back at the end of the march with the anti-suffragists, dressed in red and black, who grabbed banners and tore them in half. Some of her articles for the student newspaper fell flat, but she continued to find a way to make each one her own. With each passing week, her writing improved, and she ended up on the front page more often than not.

“You’re thinking of your next article, aren’t you?” said Jack with a sly smile as they walked up Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve. The children skipped ahead, eager to arrive at their grandparents’ house and open their gifts right off.

“We’re on break. Until next month, there’s nothing to think on.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Well, all right, yes. How could you tell?”

“I recognize it in myself. When I’m lost in thought, I’m sure I get the same look in my eyes. Far away.”

He’d been staying up later and later working on his manuscript. The dark circles under his eyes worried her, but he seemed happier than ever. Giddy, some evenings, when he crawled next to her in bed, reaching for her under her nightgown and pressing close. That giddiness had made him the center of attention back when they first met, when he was a young, soon-to-be-famous author who liked nothing better than to exchange quips in a room full of other soon-to-be-famous types. Before the hard work of writing a book had chipped away at his confidence.

“I know you’ve enjoyed school immensely so far.” Jack turned serious, looking down at her with pity. The scholarship that Dr. Anderson had arranged wouldn’t cover next term, and she’d approached the provost of the school, hoping for some financial assistance, but apparently, there were no more funds available. Her story ideas meant nothing if she couldn’t attend classes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will all work out,” she said.

“I’m sure it will. But if it doesn’t, can you defer a year?”

“No. That’s not the way it works.” She offered up what she hoped was a brave smile. “Our only chance lies in this evening’s festivities. Don’t let my father get to you. Not tonight.”

“Best behavior, I promise.”

Harry glanced back at his parents. “You already told us that. I said I would behave.”

“Not you, my love. Your father.”

Relief flooded Harry’s face before he broke into a grin. “Father’s in trouble?”

“He will be, if he doesn’t say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ at the table and be careful not to make a spill.”

“I never spill.” Jack waved his arms about like a windmill, making Harry double over with glee. Pearl, meanwhile, carried on, refusing to acknowledge the ridiculous antics of the male members of her family.

They had so much to be grateful for this holiday season. Harry had started making friends, finally, even if he didn’t get the same glowing reports from his teachers that his sister did. Jack was happy at work, and Laura adored graduate school. Now if she could only stay on.

The Christmas tree in the parlor dripped with garlands and ornaments, a contrast to the empty bookshelves where valuable vases had once been displayed and the bare spot where the grand piano had stood. The glass bulbs on the tree couldn’t be sold off, or at least weren’t worth the effort, but the lavish decorations only made the gloomy room—electric lights dimmed to save a few extra cents—feel off-balance.

Laura hated to bring up the subject of money with her mother and father. At the same time, they were her last hope. Her mother hugged the children in turn while her father greeted them stiffly, glaring at the unseemly show of emotion. His eyebrows rose up into black arches when he was disappointed or dismayed, and became an angry slash when crossed. A man pickled in misery.

The maid brought out sherry for the grown-ups and chocolate for the children, who took one sip before racing to the tree and plucking out the gifts with their names. Laura sat on the settee with Jack and exclaimed politely as the presents were opened, although their contents barely registered in her mind.

“How is your journalism course, my dear?” her mother asked as the maid cleared away the wrapping paper and ribbons.

She’d hoped to put off the conversation until later, at least during dinner. But Jack gave her a quick nod that she knew meant it was better to address the situation right off. He was right. Doing so gave them time to warm up to the idea.

“It’s brilliant. Everything I expected. By May, I’ll be able to find a well-paying job with the connections I’m making.”

“Women ought not to be working.” Her father gestured to where Pearl and Harry were engrossed in a game of jacks on the floor. “Your children need you.”

So many rebuttals came to Laura’s mind. That if her mother had found a job so that the sole burden didn’t fall upon her husband, the tension and blame in the household might have been lessened considerably. That if her mother had followed her heart—

Her mother sat, smiling, perched on the end of her chair. She’d been a handsome young woman once, before the lines crinkled her white skin and her hair turned gray. Now she was brittle, though she still retained some of the bubbliness of her youth. When Laura was a little girl, she would often sneak into her mother’s dressing chamber and sit at the vanity, where the jewelry box was kept. She’d load up her arms with thick bracelets and place diamond-encrusted pins in her hair, like an empress. One day she’d reached for a brooch and discovered the box had a false bottom. Underneath lay a locket containing a lock of strawberry-blond hair.

“He was my first beau,” her mother had said when Laura had softly inquired that evening at bedtime. “I loved him more than anything, but we weren’t deemed a good match.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t have the resources to take care of me.” She’d leaned in close. “I promise you I won’t let you make the same mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“I want you to marry whomever you love.”

She’d stayed true to her word, forcing the issue with her husband when Jack had asked for Laura’s hand in marriage. The impending baby, of course, had a great deal of influence in that matter. But where her father had sulked through the wedding, Laura’s mother had beamed with happiness. Laura wore a locket with Jack’s hair around her neck now. It wouldn’t be hidden away, ever.

“Are you listening to me? I said your children need you.” Laura’s father, his cheeks red, gestured like a conductor from where he sat in a leather wingback chair.

“They’re both fine, I assure you. Mother has been helping out when I’m at class.” Laura took a sip of sherry and placed it on the side table. “There is one problem, however.”

“Is there?” The eyebrows lifted.

“I received a scholarship for the first term, but I’m afraid I’m slightly short on the coming one.”

She sensed her mother stiffen.

“How much?” asked her father.

“A hundred dollars. But I’ll repay you as soon as I start working.”

Jack leaned forward. “With luck, my book will sell next year, in which case we could repay you sooner.”

Laura had told him to keep quiet, and now he’d gone and said something sure to make her father turn against the request. The eyebrows turned into two nasty arrows, practically touching in the middle of her father’s forehead. “Another novelist, just what the city needs.” He turned to Laura. “And yet another journalist, raking the muck.”

“The things I’m learning at journalism school are important, and will make a difference in the world. For example, I’ve done a story on a doctor, a woman doctor, who’s saved the lives of thousands of babies in the slums. The professor said the story was worthy of being in a real paper, like the New York Times.”

“A woman doctor?” Her mother nodded encouragingly, her eyes darting to her husband and back to Laura. “That’s lovely.”

“Her name is Dr. Potter. I went to school with her at Vassar,” added Laura.

Her father scowled, unimpressed. He addressed his wife as if they were the only people in the room. “Exactly. Laura’s already been to Vassar. Not sure why she needs more schooling.”

“Darling, I remember you saying that she’d meet the best of the best at university.”

“I did?”

“You certainly did. And you were right about that.”

His eyebrows settled into a neutral line. Progress.

“I’ve come this far. It’s only for another five months. Please.” She thought of her father turning up day after day to an office where his was the only desk, all the clerks having been let go years before. Having lunch exactly at noon, going over the figures again and again. Watching the balance decline. “You always said one shouldn’t quit.”

Laura caught a quick glance between her parents, full of worry and fear, and her guilt at having placed them in this position increased. If there was any other way to procure the funds, she would have taken it instead of adding to their woes. But they were her last hope. Her father’s pride meant that he wouldn’t dare admit how much a loan would cost him. Her mother’s love, neither.

“No, Laura,” said her father. “We simply cannot help you.”

Her mother turned to the children. “I have some sweets for you, if you like.”

The children cheered and followed her into the living room. The conversation was over.

An hour later, as they gathered their coats and made to leave, Laura’s mother pulled her aside and pressed something hard into Laura’s palm.

“Take this. Sell it. Don’t tell your father. I’ll say that I lost it.” She pushed Laura out the door, waving a manic goodbye.

Laura opened her hand when they were a block away, although she already knew what lay there: her mother’s engagement ring, a deep-navy sapphire surrounded by a halo of diamonds. As they neared the library, she whispered to Jack what had happened. “I didn’t have a chance to give it back, to say anything, Father was right there.”

“Why would you give it back?” Jack held the door open for her as they entered the library. “Looks like you might have another term of school after all. Brilliant, my love.”

She didn’t feel brilliant.

Dr. Anderson stood in the center of the library foyer, speaking to a gaunt man with small black eyes. It was Christmas Eve, when the employees should have been home with their families. Something was amiss. Laura sent the children upstairs.

Dr. Anderson greeted Laura and Jack and introduced the man as the library detective, Mr. Gaillard. “I’m afraid we’ve had more trouble.”

They drew close.

“There’s been another theft of a rare book. Tamerlane.”

Laura couldn’t help but gasp. She’d seen the book before, soon after the library had opened and a few of the highlights of the collection had been put on display: the Gutenberg Bible, the Shakespeare First Folio, and Tamerlane. She’d peered in through the glass of the vitrine and wished desperately she could touch the small, thin volume with an olive cover, written by Edgar Allan Poe, one of her favorites. One of only a few left in the world, stated the card beside it. And now it was missing.

Laura and Jack discussed the theft in hushed tones as they climbed the stairs to the apartment. In the parlor, Harry and Pearl were bickering over how best to hang their stockings on the fireplace but stopped mid-argument, studying their parents’ faces.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pearl. “Are we in trouble?”

“Not at all, my love,” said Jack. “It’s my work. A very important book called Tamerlane has gone missing.”

Laura refused to allow Jack’s work to cast a damper on their holiday festivities. “Luckily, they have smart men looking for it, so I have no doubt it’ll turn up by New Year’s. Now let’s get a hammer and a couple of nails and get your stockings ready for Santa’s visit.”

As the children’s cheers and excitement filled the air, Laura’s unease at the news was quickly erased, lost in the pandemonium of the holiday season.

The day after Christmas, Laura had hoped she might be able to go up to Columbia University’s library to check out the books mentioned in next semester’s syllabus, but Pearl and Harry were fighting over their Christmas presents, and Jack, who’d earlier that morning promised to stay with them, had disappeared with Mr. Gaillard right after breakfast.

Finally, around two o’clock, he returned, his face weary.

“Any luck with the missing books?” Laura asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Why don’t I fix you something to eat?” Once he was settled, she could grab her satchel and head uptown, fit in a couple of hours at least.

But Jack shook off the offer. “I’m worried about all this, how this reflects on me as superintendent.”

“You don’t think they suspect you, do you?”

“Not exactly, but I know this place so well, better than anyone. You would think I’d be able to determine how the thief is getting in and out, but I don’t have a clue. How about you come down to the stacks with me? Without Gaillard breathing down my neck, I’ll be able to see it more clearly.”

Laura suppressed a sigh. “Of course, my love.”

She tucked away her satchel.

Deep in the basement, Laura breathed in the acrid odor from the bindery, where the library’s books were repaired. They went down a long hall into the shipping room, where Jack unlocked a door that led right into the stacks.

“We can’t figure out how the thief got inside the cages.”

“What cages?” Laura had had a quick tour of the stacks—seven stories of shelving located directly below the Main Reading Room—when they’d first arrived. “I don’t remember seeing cages.”

“I’ll show you.”

Natural light for the stacks spilled in through a series of long, narrow windows that ran down the length of the building. From Bryant Park, the effect was striking and modern. Inside, the design provided airiness to what was basically a book repository. The cast-iron shelves were painted white, with each row assigned a number. Metal stairways offered access between each section.

They passed by brass pneumatic tubes that glistened like snakes. “This is where the call slips from the Catalog Room and the Main Reading Room end up, and are handed to whatever page is assigned to that section,” said Jack.

She imagined the stacks during library hours, with pages traversing back and forth, piling up books in the dumbwaiters for quick retrieval. “How do you know that it isn’t a librarian or a page, since they’re the ones with the most access?”

“The keys to the cages are limited to the head librarians and me.”

She studied the space. “Do the windows open?”

“No.”

“Where are these cages?”

“Follow me.”

As they walked, she couldn’t help herself. “How’s the manuscript coming along?”

“I find I’m slowing down as I reach the end, like I do when I’m reading a book that I love.”

Slowing down? She knew she should stay quiet, but she couldn’t help herself. “Boy, I wish we had that luxury in class. With a deadline, it’s amazing how fast you get things done. Journalists don’t get paid if they don’t write, so it becomes less precious.”

Her enthusiastic delivery did nothing to hide the snippiness of her words. Part of her didn’t care, though. Just get on with it already.

“You’re a student journalist, not a journalist. Yet.”

She wouldn’t back down. “Maybe if you gave yourself a deadline, you’d reach the end faster. Easter, or something like that.”

“Fiction is a creative process, you can’t compare the two. It can’t be rushed.”

One section of the stacks, in the northeast corner, was set off from the rest by a wire cage that encircled two bookcases, around twenty feet in length. As Jack fiddled with the lock, Laura clutched the wire with her fingers and gave it a shake. “Seems pretty solid.”

“You’d need wire cutters to get through these.”

She peered inside. “It’s like a rare book zoo. Do you remember when we took the children to the Bronx Zoo? How Pearl growled back at the tiger?”

“Fearless, our Pearl.” The lock finally clicked, and he held open the wire door for her to step inside. “Harry could use some of her gumption.”

He pointed to the shelf that held the oversized books, some of which were in labeled gray boxes. “This is the Gutenberg Bible, one of forty-eight copies that survive from the mid-1400s. And over here is one of Shakespeare’s First Folios.”

These books had suffered through hundreds of years of handling without falling apart, without being lost or damaged. They were each a piece of history. Invaluable and precious. She stepped back, glancing along the shelves. “So this is the section where the Leaves of Grass and Tamerlane were kept?”

“Yes.”

“Were they checked out by anyone? Did you figure out who last asked to see them?”

He sighed. Of course they had. But she was just trying to be helpful.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve been over this a million times with Mr. Gaillard.”

“Not quite a million, but close.”

He locked the cage door carefully, checking it twice to make sure the lock was secure. His hands, so large around the key, reminded her just how strong he was, how faithfully he’d taken care of their family and provided them with everything they needed. She remembered how much she’d enjoyed watching him up at the estate, taking his place alongside the other men to help mend a stone wall, heaving rocks into place as if they were made of air. She shouldn’t have made him feel bad about his book earlier. He was doing the best he could.

She wrapped her hands around his waist and reached up to kiss the back of his neck.

“Careful. We’ve added another night watchman, we don’t want to cause trouble.” He smiled. “Well, not here, anyway.”

Laura followed him along the row to the staircase. “What else is kept in the cage?”

“Manuscripts, letters, maps.”

“Maybe one day your book will be in there. Imagine that. In a hundred years, when you’re a famous author, they’ll have all your first drafts lined up on the shelf next to Shakespeare.”

He nodded gamely, and she immediately regretted saying anything, as it only added to his pressure.

But it was probably just temporary, a part of a creative writer’s natural cadence. She shouldn’t blame herself for that.

It wasn’t her fault.