The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER FOUR

New York City, 1913

There’s been a theft.”

Laura looked up from her mending at her husband. One of Pearl’s pinafores had lost a button, and Laura’s eyes, already tired from reading textbooks, were strained even further by her trying to sew by lamplight. In the week since journalism school had begun, Laura had made an effort to keep up with the housework, although she could tell already it was a losing battle. Dust had settled lightly on the fireplace mantel, and Harry had ripped a pair of trousers this week that she still needed to get around to fixing. Unfortunately, the thrill of attending school only served to make the housework feel more of a bother, requiring precious time that could be spent elsewhere.

“What kind of theft?”

“Leaves of Grass. A first edition.”

Laura inhaled. She knew that a missing book might be considered by some as fairly inconsequential. After all, there were thousands upon thousands of copies of the poetry collection available in bookstores around the world. But a first edition of one that had gone on to become an American classic meant more than that: It was a piece of history, the closest example of the author’s intent. And quite valuable, in the case of Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. “Where from?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. It looks like it was last requested in the Stuart Room a week or so ago, but I’m afraid we can’t be sure exactly when it went missing.”

Unlike a lending library, the Fifth Avenue branch did not allow books to be checked out. It was a research library, where tomes and volumes remained on-site at all times, under the watchful eye of the librarians. The purpose was to keep the items safe from loss or damage, yet still allow the public access.

“The library has been overflowing with crowds,” Jack explained. “A good thing, certainly, but it means we’re not running as tight a ship as we should be. The librarians have assured me and Dr. Anderson they will be stricter with their oversight, and that two will be on shift at all times, so that when one has to retrieve a book, there’s another always there to keep watch. It’s a terrible, terrible loss.”

“What does it look like?” she asked.

“It’s got a gilt-decorated green cloth cover, and is quite fragile.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, love. They’ve brought in the library’s detective to assist in our search, a man named Edwin Gaillard. We don’t want this to become a habit, losing books, so it’s all hands on deck. I’m going to take a look around the Stuart Room.”

“This late?”

“It’s easier when everyone is gone. I don’t have to worry about upsetting the patrons or the staff.”

She offered to join him in the search.

Jack unlocked the door to the Stuart Room with the heavy set of keys he carried around with him at all times. When they first moved into the library, Harry had liked to shake them and burst into “Jingle Bells.”

The Stuart Room wasn’t nearly as large as the Main Reading Room, but it had generous dimensions all the same, filled with two rows of polished oak tables and brass lamps, a rectangle of skylight above. This was where scholars could study the more valuable objects in the library’s archives, including a Gutenberg Bible from the 1450s and Thomas Jefferson’s own copy of the Declaration of Independence. Not to mention a Shakespeare First Folio.

Together, they searched as best they could, the only sound the soft scuffing of books against each other, or the opening of a desk drawer.

As Jack went through the librarian’s desk for the second time, Laura looked over his shoulder and gave him a nudge. “You know the librarians were probably up in arms when it was discovered missing. I’m sure they’ve checked their drawers.”

He stood unexpectedly, pulling her close. The lamps had been lowered, but his eyes still picked up the reflection, shining brightly at her. “Cheeky girl. I’d like to check your drawers.”

She burst out laughing. “You have got to be kidding. Do you really think a line like that would work on a girl like me?”

“I see, now that you’re in graduate school, my lowly sense of humor no longer thrills?”

“To be honest, it works like a charm.”

They kissed like they used to, before the kids were born, before they’d wed, when kisses were pleasures to be stolen. This was one aspect of their relationship that hadn’t faded with time. He could still touch her in a way that left her gasping out loud, praying that her cries wouldn’t wake the children, just as he had when they were first intimate.

If only her family saw in him what she did. That he was a good, solid man. Maybe not a wealthy financier, but a good man nonetheless. Money wasn’t everything, although her father would certainly disagree.

She had finally gotten up the courage to introduce him to her parents at a Sunday luncheon, with a full warning to Jack that her father might be difficult. From an early age, he’d pointed out the travails of marrying a poor man, usually in front of her mother, who’d purse her lips and turn away. After the panic of 1896, his admonishments increased. While they’d suffered losses, they certainly weren’t poor in the true sense of the word. After all, Laura always had food to eat and a roof over her head, even if that roof was in dire need of fixing. Yet Laura knew better than to point out the water stains creeping along her bedroom ceiling.

After the crisis, Laura’s mother had been put on a strict allowance by her father, one that they squabbled over every Sunday evening. He expected a full accounting of how she’d spent the money, and Laura again knew better than to mention the hatboxes and other deliveries that came during the day while her father was at work and were quickly shepherded up to her mother’s suite.

The afternoon that Jack met the family, over a meal of fish soup and mutton, Laura was bursting with the happiness of having him by her side, of formalizing their situation. But her father had cut right to the quick.

“What field are you in, Mr. Lyons?” he’d asked without looking up from his soup.

“I plan to be a writer,” Jack replied.

“A writer of what?” He put down his spoon and motioned for the maid to collect the first course, even though the rest of them hadn’t finished.

“Literature.” Jack launched into the idea for his story, and Laura cringed inwardly. When he’d recounted it to her, over a picnic in the park, it had seemed brilliant, inspired. But now she saw it through the lens of her father’s judgment, and Jack’s fervor came across as boyish exuberance. Her mother, though, stepped in and began asking questions. The two laughed over writers they both disliked and purred over others they adored. Her mother, once again, saved the day.

That evening, they’d first made love, at his apartment in Morningside Heights. She’d been waiting for the moment for what seemed like ages, and now that her parents—or at least one of them—were on board, there was no need to wait any longer. He’d been careful and kind, and even though it hurt like the dickens, before long her body had craved him constantly, each moment they were apart only feeding her appetite more.

Up in the Stuart Room, Jack pulled her into another kiss, lifting her up onto the table and raising her skirts.

“What if someone sees?” Her head dropped back as he ran his hands along the insides of her thighs. Even through her stockings, her skin tingled at his touch.

“The night watchman doesn’t come up here until eleven.”

“And that means?”

“That means I get to have you right here, right now.”

“We ought not to, not when things have gone missing. What if someone comes up and finds us?”

“You worry too much.”

Maybe he was right. He breathed gently into her ear before following the line of her neck with a trail of kisses, and eventually the excitement of doing something where they shouldn’t overrode her worry. Knowing what they each liked, they came together within minutes. Laura stifled her cries, making the wave of pleasure even greater, and Jack’s look of utter happiness after made it all worthwhile.

As long as she didn’t get with child again. If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to continue with her courses, and she’d be right back where she started. Dependent, caught up in the relentlessness of rearing an infant. Utterly unfulfilled.

Jack noticed her stiffen and pulled her close.

“What is it, my love?”

How could she explain? There was no use. No use at all.

Laura smiled at her husband. “I think we should get back to the children, enough of this silliness.”

He took her hand and led her out of the Stuart Room. “How’s school going?”

“I wish I were reporting on more interesting subjects. They seem to think the women are incapable of writing about anything other than tea parties and dress-shop openings.”

“What did you expect?”

“I know it’s what I’m supposed to be interested in. But I’m just not.” Not that she didn’t enjoy her classes, where they learned how to conduct interviews and scribble down the salient points fast, and where the professors filled them in on the inner workings of the city government, along with rousing, real-life stories about gaining the trust of sources and exposing injustice and greed. She’d also learned how to write headlines—this wasn’t her strong suit—and edit copy, which she enjoyed and was good at. “Over the semester, we’ll learn about different types of journalism, including editorials, book and play reviews, and will have to go to plays and write what we think. The Elements of Law class is probably the most boring, but I know the subjects of slander and libel are vitally important once a reporter gets out in the field, which I hope to be. One day. When I get to write stories that actually interest me.”

“Why do you have to limit yourself to what they expect you to do?”

She looked at him like he was mad. “What, do a story on my own? I don’t think they’d like that.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get more freedom to choose as the weeks go on. If so, you have to jump at the chance.” He snapped his fingers, and the sound echoed off the marble, sharp and quick. “Don’t be cowed. You’re a good, solid writer. Your columns showed that.”

“And what about you, how’s the book coming along?” She tried not to ask him about it too much, not wanting to pressure him, but she liked the idea that they were both working in the same medium, and hoped she wasn’t being presumptuous.

She needn’t have worried.

“I’ve had a burst of inspiration recently.” He gestured for her to go ahead of him, up the stairs to their apartment. “I swear it’s this building, feeding my brain at every turn.”

“You’re not too tired at the end of the day?”

“Not a whit.” He gave a tug at her skirt. “As I think I’ve proved by our earlier assignation.”

“Oh, you seem just fine to me.” Laura batted him away, laughing. “Just fine.”

“Today, your assignment is to report and write a piece for our simulated newspaper, the Blot.”

Professor Wakeman tugged at his mustache and glared around the room at the bleary-eyed students, who’d come in at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. Laura, who’d been up since five finishing an essay for the law class and then getting the children ready for school, hoped her schedule would work in her favor today, that her alertness would lend her an edge. Just the other day, they’d learned the shocking news that only a third of the original class of students had graduated the prior year, and the idea that all this could be for naught terrified her. It didn’t help that the workload had increased every day, much more than any of them had expected. “Don’t get complacent,” Professor Wakeman had warned. “Last year, I failed the best writer in the class because he misspelled a word—a lesson he’ll never forget.”

A couple of the professors were wary of the women students in particular, commenting on their attire if their skirts were deemed too short, one even sneaking about the building in the hopes of catching them committing immoral acts with male students. The ridiculousness only served to pull the women in the class closer together. Gretchen had reduced them to tears of laughter the other day by writing an anonymous, perfumed love letter to the most egregious professor and placing it in his mail cubby on the second floor. “That’ll give him something to think about,” she’d said with a look of glee.

Professor Wakeman carried on. “Your copy is due at two this afternoon, and by four, our dummy edition will be finalized. Only the best reported and written stories will make the cut, and I will decide which ones land on the front page and which deserve the bin. This will be a good test of the culmination of your skills so far. Good luck.”

The men, of course, headed downtown to the criminal courts to cover the latest sensational murder trial (“It would be far too disturbing for you ladies,” Professor Wakeman had said), or to the waterfront to investigate a possible strike. The women, meanwhile, had been told to visit the Charity Organization Society and dig around for stories that would tug at the readers’ heartstrings. “Crying children with grubby faces, you know what I’m talking about,” he’d said. “That’s what you must master in order to succeed as women reporters.”

Laura lingered outside the organization’s headquarters on the Lower East Side, taking notes on the surroundings. Harsh smells assaulted her senses: a rancid mixture of human waste, greasy smoke, and decaying vegetables. She’d read in the newspapers that conditions had improved since the turn of the century, but if so, it couldn’t have been by much.

“You. Come. Mother’s waiting.”

A boy a few years younger than Harry—or maybe he was the same age; it was hard to tell if his thin frame came from malnourishment or youth—tugged at her hand.

She knelt down so she was at the same level as he was. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

A tear rolled down his face, carving a white line down his dirty cheek. Professor Wakeman would approve of this tyke, she thought with chagrin.

“Mother said to find you and bring you to her. The baby’s not eating.”

He yanked hard, pulling her over to a tenement across the street. Laura followed, trying to ask questions but to no avail. She looked back at the building where her fellow classmates had disappeared. Perhaps this would make a better story, and she could be of assistance in some way at the same time. The boy’s blue eyes reminded her so much of Harry’s.

Inside, when he pointed out a dead rat at the bottom of the narrow stairs so that Laura could avoid stepping on it, she shuddered. He looked at her, curious, and continued up the stairs to the third floor. The light grew dimmer as they climbed.

He opened a door and she stepped inside. She’d seen photos of tenement life in the newspapers, of children huddled on mattresses on the floor, coal ovens and cruddy sinks. This apartment wasn’t so terrible: the curtains seemed clean, and the dishes and pots had been stacked with care on the open shelves.

A group of children ranging from what seemed to be four to fourteen looked up from their work at a large table in the front room, piled high with black strips that Laura recognized as garters. The mother didn’t stand as Laura entered, just wiped her forehead and pointed to one corner, where a baby lay swaddled on a blanket on the floor.

“I put the baby there so she doesn’t get stepped on,” said the mother.

“I—I’m sorry?”

“She didn’t eat last night or this morning. Don’t know what’s wrong.” The woman went back to sewing, and barely raised an elbow toward the child. Her son, the boy who’d fetched Laura, seemed more concerned than his mother, gently lifting the child from the floor and carrying her over. As he did, the baby let out a soft bleat.

“Keep her quiet,” ordered the mother. “If my husband wakes up, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Too late for that,” a man’s voice boomed from the kitchen. The husband, a barrel-chested man with thinning hair that stuck straight out from the top of his head, appeared soon after. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Should she say she was a student reporter? No, probably not. She needed to get out of there. The baby in the corner looked up at the ceiling, mute and expressionless. She didn’t seem to be in pain, but at the same time, the baby lacked vitality, as if she had never been held a moment in her life.

“I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. I’ll go.”

“No. You disturb my sleep when I just got done with the night shift, I think you owe me something.”

“Money?”

“That’ll do.”

With shaking hands, she opened her satchel.

“In fact, give me that bag. That’ll do even better.”

The one with her finished essay for the law class, all of her notes, all of her money. “No, I can’t.”

He stepped toward her with a growl, reaching for the satchel with a hand the size of a baseball mitt, the nails rimmed in black.

She’d made a terrible error. What a stupid idea to come up here alone.