Bright Young Things (26 page)

27

THE NEWS BEING SHOUTED BY THE NEWSSTAND BARKERS at Pennsylvania Station was all Darius Grey, but after spending the night wandering the streets, Letty was feeling so entirely delirious that the meaning that name might once have held floated over her head and away.

Since she‧d seen Grady on the street, she had walked up and down Manhattan, and had arrived here at dawn, as though it were a sign. She was no longer able to think clearly, and though she knew she ought to save what money she had until she had a few things figured out, all she wanted was to sit in a well-lighted place and eat something. Glancing behind her, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored column. The old black sweater she used to wear on winter mornings in Union made her appear even smaller than she was, and the skirt of her old dress peeping out from under it gave her a schoolgirlish aura, albeit one with a puffed and purple eye and a frightened little circle for a mouth.

The cup of English Breakfast she‧d ordered was cold now, and there were already innumerable reasons for her to feel sorry for herself without adding the taste of cold tea. Good Egg was demoralized, too. Even her tail was still as she sat under the table, her head on Letty‧s lap.

“Last call for Montreal!” said the announcer over the loudspeaker, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps that might be a nice place for them to go.

Men and women rushed by, on their way home to the suburbs maybe, or returning from holidays to glamorous locales. Their feet beat out proud
rat-tat-tats
as they passed, and for all Letty could tell, every one of them had someplace very important to be. After a while it made her too sad to look at those people, so she put her head down on the table. The air in the station was hot and stifling, but the marble tabletop was cool against her cheek.

“Train to Chicago arriving at platform seven!” said the voice on the loudspeaker. Letty‧s eyes had drifted closed. “Stopping at points west: Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois …”

Ohio.
She wondered if her siblings missed her, and if she was a good enough actress to make her time in New York sound like a brilliant adventure when she saw them next.

“Now boarding on track seven, all passengers for Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois …”

The man at the table next to her stood up, rattling his table against the stone floor before hurrying out of the café. For a few moments, she let her head rest like that, with a sheet of dark hair falling across her face onto the table, and smiled. It wasn‧t so bad, after all. She
had
had an adventure. However tired and worn down she was at that particular moment, no one could ever tell her she hadn‧t seen the city.

Outside the café, a sharply dressed blonde in a new black hat swished by, her eyes searching the departure board for the words
WHITE COVE
. When she saw the track number tick into place, she hurried to board.

“I heard it was a tale of love gone wrong,” Astrid heard a middle-aged woman say as she took her seat. The commuter train rumbled alive and headed east out of the city.

“No!” the woman‧s friend replied. “Really? He
did
have that one special lady friend—that what‧s-her-name? That—ooo—oooo—”

“Oh, that chorus girl Mona Alexander?” replied the first. “No, no, no—this story goes way back, this story has to do with—”

“That‧s absurd,” interjected the man on the other side of their seats, facing the opposite direction. He was young and wore a dove gray fedora and no wedding ring. “It was business, pure and simple. Duluth Hale arranged it—believe me. Men like Darius Grey don‧t care enough about love to die for it; that‧s just some sentimental wash you ladies pick up in your magazines.”

“Heavens, what manners!” the first lady said, and then went on noisily expanding on her personal theory of Darius Grey‧s demise.

“This business about Grey‧s daughter showing up, not even two weeks before his assassination—well, it doesn‧t seem coincidental to me,” the man grumbled to no one in particular.

Astrid smiled faintly. She could remember the early days when there were agents of the Bureau of Prohibition whose theatrical techniques and bravery made them heroes of the public. But by now, most hearts belonged to their richer and better-dressed antagonists. Average citizens, she supposed, knew a great deal about the various loyalties and grudges of their local gangsters; they followed their alliances and power grabs and killings the way some followed the stars of vaudeville or baseball. All over the city there was talk of what had felled the infamous Grey—who was to blame, who would rise to take his place, whether his gang and various political contacts and purveyors of booze would remain in the hands of his people or be dispersed among rivals. And those gossips probably knew more about it than Astrid, even though she had spent so much time at Dogwood. But none of them knew Cordelia the way she did.

Astrid had never ridden on a commuter train before. It was shabby, she had to admit, but she rather liked being surrounded by people and hearing all their voices blur acrimoniously together. She liked the names of the places they were passing, too, and she rested her cheek against the window, listening as the conductors informed them that they were in places called Hunters Point, Woodside, Corona … At Flushing, the woman who insisted it was all about love got out, and her friend exited at the stop after that. When the conductor made the announcement for White Cove, Astrid was almost surprised; even once she‧d stepped out on the platform, it didn‧t look remotely like the White Cove she knew.

She pressed the wide-brimmed black hat to her head and bent backward to see that the seams of her stockings were straight. Before she could really worry that she might have to walk to her destination, a cab pulled up.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asked, as she climbed into the backseat.

“To Dogwood, please,” she said, looking down at her black wrist-length gloves to avoid the stare she knew this would invite. After a minute, he started the engine, and they rolled on through the leafy suburban roads.

As they approached the Greys’ place, she saw great, black silk bows dotting the high iron fence. Danny was at the guardhouse, and his face was puffy, and she knew that he‧d been up all night drinking and was now in the worst way. A machine gun was slung over his arm, and he did not smile when he saw her approaching.

“No cars allowed,” he said to the driver, so Astrid paid the man, thanked him, and got out.

“You missed the service,” Danny said coldly once the car had backed up and gone away down the road in the direction from which they‧d come.

“Oh, dear.” Astrid bit her lip. She had known she was going to be late; one might almost say she had planned to be, because she‧d gone on putting herself together even when she knew it would mean missing the 11:31 train from Penn Station. She hadn‧t really wanted to get there in time to be at Charlie‧s side. She had, however, hoped to creep up and take Cordelia‧s hand, just before they lowered her father into the ground. “Where was it?”

“In the ballroom. There‧ll be a reception after the burial—they made a plot over by the orchard.” He paused and pointed. “You got me in a world of trouble, miss,” he added, his voice cracking. As he said it, he kept his face directed up the hill and his eyes away from her.

“I‧m sorry, Danny,” she said softly. “I‧ll make it up to you later.”

She smoothed her skirt and walked up the hill. She cut across the lawn, and when she came over the rise just to the south side of the house, she saw the procession coming down the steps. Charlie was among the pallbearers in black suits who ferried the white coffin. Just behind them Cordelia walked alone, followed by Elias Jones and a herd of people clad in black, some of whom were customers and some of whom were colleagues. Astrid caught up with them right before they entered the allée of elm trees. Cordelia kept her chin up and her gaze steady on the back of her father‧s coffin, but without saying anything, she reached for her friend. Any outside observer would have said she looked preternaturally calm, but as the girls came side by side, Cordelia put her weight on the latecomer, and Astrid suddenly felt how unsteady she in fact was.

They didn‧t speak until after the ceremony. Astrid watched in silence as Cordelia and Charlie shoveled dirt over their father‧s grave. The sunshine was bright—each day was warmer than the one that preceded it now—and the pallbearers’ shirts had become soaked with sweat under the armpits. Charlie tried to catch Astrid‧s eye a few times, but she kept her gaze resolutely on the coffin, and then when the group of mourners turned back toward the house, she put her arm around Cordelia‧s waist.

“I am so sorry,” Astrid said, brushing a few strands of Cordelia‧s hair behind her ear once they were back in the ballroom, where refreshments were being served and people had begun to talk again. Towering floral arrangements lined the room, many of them from the city‧s finest hotels and oldest families. The largest had been sent by Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Marsh II.

Cordelia glanced at her. She had those washed-out eyes that are the product of many tears, and her chapped lips twitched at the corners, as though she were trying to smile but couldn‧t. “Oh, Astrid, you have no idea how awful …”

“I know, baby.” Astrid sighed and puffed out her pink lips. “I know, I know.”

The French doors of the ballroom were thrown open so that the mourners could gaze out on Dogwood‧s gorgeous vistas, those vast, exquisite grounds that Grey‧s illegal dealings had reaped. Women in slim black dresses glanced about, seeing who else was there, and men talked with one another quietly but still with more verve than was really appropriate for a funeral. Some of them did not seem particularly bereaved, Astrid realized; they had come because it was a curiosity and a local event of much interest, and she couldn‧t help but feel a little bad for Charlie, who was accepting condolences on the other side of the room. Meanwhile, she huddled with Cordelia by the grand piano, and whenever anyone glided too close to the girls, Astrid shot an uninviting look their way.

“I think I need to lie down,” Cordelia said after a while. “Could you walk me up to my room?”

“Yes,” Astrid said immediately.

As they crossed the waxed floor of the ballroom through the mingling guests, she let her gaze rise from her shoes and dart backward, to the place where Charlie stood surrounded by men in dark suits. His eyes were sad and tired, and they followed her as she passed through the double doors, his brows drawing tenderly together and his lips parting as though he wanted to call out to her. But she looked away quickly and let Cordelia lean on her as they went up the stairs.

“Can I get you anything?” Astrid asked once they stood on the threshold of Cordelia‧s room.

“No, nothing. I‧m just so very, very tired.” Cordelia walked slowly to the bed, unpinning her hair and sinking down into the pillows. “Go take care of Charlie,” she said after a moment, without opening her eyes.

Backing out of the room, Astrid nodded, as though this was exactly what she had planned to do, when in fact she was already considering various routes out of the house that might save her from coming face-to-face with Cordelia‧s brother. Quietly, she pulled the door into its frame, and then with a sigh, turned around. There, down the hall near the stairwell, stood Charlie, his legs wide apart and his back slightly hunched, waiting for her. Neither said anything for a moment, and she lifted her chin and walked straight for the stairs, as though she didn‧t see him at all.

Just as she was about to pass, he reached for her arm, and while she did make an effort to brush off his grip, she didn‧t struggle. “Astrid …,” he said in a low, broken voice.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” she replied with prim formality, holding her head so that her profile was to him. “But I cannot feel pity for you just now, so I think it‧s better not to speak at all.”

“Astrid, don‧t give me any trouble,” he pleaded, sinking onto his knees and wrapping his arms around her legs and laying his face against her stomach. “Not now.”

From above, she contemplated his head of polished hair, rested like a naughty child‧s against her middle section and probably ruining her brand-new dress. He was so helpless and harmless like that, and no matter how she tried, she could not maintain the disgust she‧d felt for him a few seconds before. Already, it was slipping.

“Oh, Charlie,” she said in a weary, hopeless way, thinking of the tragedy that had befallen him, and the betrayal he had committed against her, and the sad story of the girl in the room at the end of the hall. “Come on,” she urged, and helped pull him back up to his feet.

Silently they walked together to his room. For a moment she did feel sick again, the way she had the last time she‧d stood on that spot, but there was something purifying about seeing his brass bed neatly made and empty of any strange girls, almost as though there had never been one there. She walked over to it and lay down on her back. He wavered in the doorway a minute, his big body framed by the afternoon light falling from the high windows of the front facade. Then, with a few long strides, he crossed the room, fell down beside her, and began to weep. He buried his head against her breast and wrapped his arm tight around her waist, so that she felt his shaking as he soaked her dress with tears.

“Don‧t ever leave again,” he said, when he was done crying. “Promise me you won‧t ever leave again.”

“Charlie!” she exclaimed. “The last time I saw you—”

“I didn‧t mean it. That was nothing. That was a real moron thing to do, and I‧ll never do anything like that again,” he replied in a quick burst. “I‧m sorry—can‧t you see I‧m sorry?” he went on, almost shouting. “Don‧t you believe me?”

Astrid rolled her big eyes toward the windows, which framed a green-and-blue slice of the landscape. She didn‧t know if she believed him or not—it did not suddenly seem like a very interesting question—and her thoughts returned to the night before, and how she and her mother had danced with two sailors on the St. Regis rooftop and afterward gone down in the elevator, shrieking, to hail them a cab. Whose idea that was or how long it had taken, she couldn‧t remember, although she had a distinct memory of standing on a pier somewhat later, in a shell pink evening gown, and waving up toward someone on the deck of a very high ship.