The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (30 page)

“Get out. Get out and never come back.” The sound of my mother's voice was gritty, like nails sliding down a sheet of iron. Franklin blinked dazedly at her and nodded. “You're a disgrace, a disgrace to our name and I never want to see you again.”

“Mother, no!” It came out of my mouth before I realized I'd said it and she spun on me.

“You'll mind your place,” she said, lips pinched in anger. Franklin began to cross the room. Everyone stood silently, watching him go. I couldn't stand their passivity; my mother had disowned her son.

“Tell him. Tell him you don't mean it.” I shouted at her. She glared at me as the sound of Franklin's footsteps disappeared into the hall. I turned and ran after him. I caught his sleeve and he stopped to face me.

“I won't blame you if you hate me for keeping this from you, Gin,” he whispered. “I didn't mean to say it but . . . I can't help it. I don't want to love him.” His eyes searched mine and his hand squeezed my fingers. I couldn't fully wrap my mind around it. Just last month he'd been in love with Lydia . . . or so I'd thought. I stared at him, unable to form words. “I need you to know that I've never said anything to John. He doesn't know and he's not like me. He wouldn't feel the same. Wherever he is, he loves you.” My heart lifted with the thought that John loved me, but deadened with the loneliness of Frank's words—and the fact that despite loving me, John wasn't the man I'd known.

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. Nothing seemed adequate as I tried to make sense of what I was hearing.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” He smiled at me,
though his eyes held misery. “I wanted him to love you and you to love him. You have no idea how badly I wanted the two people I love the most to marry each other. I thought you were perfect together, that you would be happy, and I would be forced to get over my feelings.” Anger began to burn in my stomach. Frank had pushed me toward John for his own happiness, not for mine.

“I didn't want him, I didn't want any man after . . . after Charlie, but you kept on. I fell in love with him and now he's gone.” I said it bluntly but softly, and Frank's eyes filled.

“I know. I'll never forgive myself as long as I live for what I've done to you. When I saw you in the cemetery that night, when I saw the way you loved him . . . I thought that everything with Lydia would be sorted by now. I thought he'd come back and the two of you would marry and it would be all right, but it's not . . . Ginny, please.” He stared at me, begging for my forgiveness. I knew he was in earnest. I knew he hadn't done it to hurt me. “I prayed every day that I would wake up and stop loving him, but I didn't. I wish I were dead.” His words knocked any arguments from my lungs. He turned to walk away, but I caught him, hugging him so hard he coughed.

“I love John, but you're my brother. I love you more.” He sniffed and looked down at me. “Surely there will be someone else, someone who will love you back. You'll not lose the next one,” I said, echoing the words he'd once said to me. “I can't bear the thought of you lonely.”

“You're rare, Virginia,” he whispered, and then his eyes drifted to the banister, toward his old room and around the foyer to the drawing room. “If I never see you again,” he started and I shook my head.

“No. You can't go.”

“If I never see you again,” he repeated. He threaded his arm across my shoulders, drew me close and reached for my hand.
“Know wherever I am, I'll always love you.” He started to step away.

“No,” I protested. I clutched the edge of his jacket, but he turned, kissed the top of my head, and gently pulled the fabric from my fingers.

“Remember,” he said softly and opened the door, disappearing into the white Christmas night.

S
ince Christmas, since Frank's appearance, time had seemed to stop, each day a depressing replica of the one before it. Weeks later, no one dared discuss what had occurred that night. I needed to talk about what Franklin said and how I'd find him this time, but I had no one to talk to. My mother and sisters were distressed and angry. Their fury blocked out everything else. They'd barely acknowledged the relief that came in the form of a loan from the bank. It hadn't been a large amount, but enough to make up our monthly expenses. I'd rejoiced when the letter came, but everyone had simply stared at the paper with a resolute, withered look on their faces. Since then, I hadn't bothered to initiate conversation with anyone, especially about Franklin. Mae, the only person I would think to confide in, was away in the country—a holiday Henry insisted she needed after her students' parents caught wind of her relation to the Blaine scandal.

I rubbed my eyes, exhausted by all of the unanswered questions. I'd woken up on Christmas morning truly thinking I'd
dreamed the night before—until I spotted the post from my dresser lying unattached on my bedside table. Even now, I marveled at my behavior that night, at the way I'd instantly understood Franklin and jumped to defend him, though his confession had shocked me. I'd read articles on homosexuals before, on the treatments offered to cure them. Physicians said that it was a mental illness, but Franklin hadn't spoken as though it was something to be cured, only something to attempt to ignore. I thought back, trying to see his adoration for John, but the only thing I could remember were Frank's random glances across the drawing room during meetings. He'd said that John didn't know and I knew he was telling the truth. To everyone but Franklin, they'd simply been close friends.

Sitting at Frank's desk, I closed the novel I'd checked out from the library,
Born in Exile
by George Gissing, and plucked the first of eight travel brochures off the desktop in front of me, wondering if he'd planned to leave anyway, even before Lydia's death.

I opened the first brochure. “
New York to Paris
.
The finest staterooms in the world for the lowest fares.”
Photographs lined the pages, featuring rooms with canopy beds draped in white linens and balconies stretching over the river. I set the brochure back on the desk, unable to look anymore. He'd never make it there. He couldn't do anything but run at this point. Father's watch, his last ticket out, was still here. I leaned against the wooden chair to stare at the sky through the window. I kept telling myself that Mother hadn't meant it, that she'd write to Franklin and set things straight, but no one knew where he was and her silence indicated that she wouldn't change her mind or discuss it again. He was no longer a part of this family.

I crossed to his armoire, and opened it. His fancy tailored suits still hung there, flanked by black bowler hats. I was supposed
to be going through them, sorting what we could sell. I ran my hand down the wool coat hanging on the door and lifted the sleeve to look at the filigree cuff link. His clothes already seemed like mementos of another life. I felt hollow with sorrow. I glanced at Frank's tarnished pocket watch on top of his dresser. The chain was tangled, as if in a few hours he'd come home and shove into his pocket. The memory of John and Franklin, Lydia and Tom all laughing in the drawing room materialized in my mind. I could smell the thick smoke, feel the itch of it in my eyes, and see the vibrant jewel tones of the ladies' dresses through the haze. I felt the anticipation that came with knowing that in the course of a night, a conversation or introduction could forever change my writing. I would never go to the Society again. I sank to the floor and started to sob, but no sound came out, only quiet gasps. John and Franklin had left us all in shambles. Out of nowhere, I felt the solid grip of John's hand on my arm, but it was gone just as quickly and I cried harder, wondering if I'd ever stop grieving.

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
The Washington Irving quote surfaced in my head in Charlie's deep whisper. Hours after my father's funeral, I'd been crying in my room and had apologized to Charlie for it. I could still remember the way he looked at me as he shook his head at my apology and whispered the quote in my ear. I'd agreed with Irving back then—back when I cried five, maybe six times per year—but now I wondered, if one cried daily, if the tears were still sacred. Surely, Irving would tell me that I'd exceeded my holy allotment by now.

Sniffling, I picked myself up off the floor and shuffled back to my room to dress. I glanced at the stack of paper on my bed
side table. I had no idea how it had happened really, but through my pain I'd managed to finish revisions on
The Web
, typing it to perfection on the typewriter in the early mornings when my brain wouldn't shut off to sleep. I had to mail the manuscript to Frederick Harvey today. It was high time I escaped this house anyway.

I
was halfway out the door when Mother stopped me. Thick bags lay at the base of her eyes and her black-silver hair hung limply against her pale skin. She looked like she'd aged ten years in a matter of a few weeks. Though it was cruel and wrong to think, I was glad for it. I wanted her to worry, to torture herself for what she'd done.

“Where are you going?” Her voice was breathy, but her blue eyes were sharp, eyeing me as though I were about to go rob the corner bank. I considered ignoring her, glancing over her shoulder at Bess making a hat for Caroline Astor despite our scandal, because Mrs. Astor found her new milliner unsatisfactory. I could feel Mother's eyes on my face. I didn't know what she was after and didn't feel like trying to figure it out.

“Post office.” I lifted the bulky manuscript in front of my face. “I need to mail this to Mr. Harvey.” I turned to go, but Mother grabbed my arm.

“You listen to me. You'll go to the post office and come right back. I'll not have you raking the city for . . . for him again.”

I laughed, a short, huffing sound in the back of my throat.

“Him? Who's him, Mother?” I'd never seen this side of my mother. It was as if another soul had taken over her body. She stared at me silently, daring me to say another word, but I did anyway. “Franklin? Is that his name? The son you named yourself?”

“I don't know who that is,” she said mechanically.

“You of all people,” I whispered, unable to lift my voice higher. “You're supposed to love us no matter what. I've always wondered where Bess got her ability to be so cruel. Now I know.” I stepped outside into the frigid winter wind, letting the screen door slam behind me.

“Love and acceptance are two different things!” she yelled. Her words shocked me, crawling along my brain like stinging ants, but I ignored her and started toward town, determined to forget them.

It was only ten in the morning by the time I arrived at the post office. Mr. Markos, the old Italian postman who'd been working there as long as I could remember, was alone at the counter. He smiled as I walked in and I winced in return, my mind still reeling from my conversation with Mother.

“How do you do, Miss Loftin?” His eyes crinkled as he said it, surveying my face. My nose was running from the cold and I sniffed.

“Fine, Mr. Markos. I hope you're the same.”

“I've been on this earth for seventy-one years. You're not fooling me, dear.” His dark eyes softened as he leaned across the counter. I rubbed my puffy lids and looked at him, unsure of what else to say. “It's everything going on with your brother, isn't it?” I opened my mouth to answer, but decided I couldn't speak without crying. “It'll be all right. I've seen Mr. Loftin walkin' 'round this town for years now. He didn't murder that girl. Young men are dimwitted. He's just gone off because he doesn't know what else to do. He'll be back, young lady. He'll be back.” He patted my hand gripped to the width of my manuscript. If only that were the case, I thought. “I'm guessing you'd like to mail that,” he said, and whirled around to find something large enough to fit it before I could answer.

“Thank you.” I grinned as he forced the manuscript into the envelope, tugging at the rigid casing. He set the sealed package in front of me and handed me a pen.

“When will it be published?”

“There's no telling.” I scribbled Harvey's name and address on the front. “It all depends on if my editor likes it.”

“He'll love it,” Mr. Markos said without hesitation. “It's a rule. Good news has to follow bad.”

“Let's hope,” I said on my way out the door, thinking that so far, bad had followed bad all year.

I
trudged back toward Mott Haven, burying my neck and face in the collar of my grandmother's mink. Cold still seeped through, permeating my ruched gray organza bodice. I didn't want to go home. It had become as eerie as a funeral parlor and I got the feeling that it would remain like that for some time—cold and silent, my family too paralyzed to remember it hadn't always been that way. Just months ago, our home had radiated with happiness and warmth, with the sprightly arpeggios of Alevia playing the piano and Bessie's laughter.

Back then, it had seemed we were all on the cusp of something. Franklin had received a promotion at J. L. Mott and was in love, or so we'd thought; Mae had just been married and employed as a teacher; Bessie was finally going to marry the prominent man of her dreams; Alevia had been accepted into the Symphony, and I was on my way to publishing my book and a potential marriage myself. Now, all that remained was the possibility that
The Web
would be published. Everyone's lives and aspirations had been stalled with Lydia's last breath. Until the article, I knew that underneath their anger, Bess and Alevia had held a
small flicker of hope that their dreams would all come back as swiftly as they'd gone.

My mother, however, was a different story. I wasn't certain what had caused her fierce anger at Frank. I didn't dare ask, though I figured it was a combination of seeing the treachery on Alevia and Bessie's faces as they sobbed on Christmas Eve and Frank's confession that he loved a man. I'd wondered at first if they'd even caught that part. For a moment, I'd thought that there was a chance that they'd missed it, that maybe they'd thought he'd meant that he simply loved him like a brother, but I'd known immediately in the wide-eyed panic on his face and figured everyone else knew it as well. My mother's words this morning were confirmation.

“How do you do, Virginia?” Absorbed in my thoughts, I jumped at the sound of my name. Cherie's mother waved at me from her front porch and started down the steps. I sighed and waved back. I knew why she wanted to talk, why everyone wanted to talk. It was the same reason
The Atlantic Monthly
had decided to print photographs of the dead during the Civil War. People were attracted to tragedy.

“I've been meaning to pay your dear mother a visit.” Cherie's mother was a short, overweight woman with a beautiful cherubim-like face. She smiled up at me, small cap shading her eyes from the sun.

“I'm sure she'd like that,” I said, waiting for her first mention of Franklin. My instinct over the past few weeks had been to preempt any conversation with, “Thank you for your concern. We're fine, and no I haven't heard from my brother.” Even though my family currently hated Frank, they hadn't mentioned his random appearance to anyone. I assumed they didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves.

“I've been so sad for all of you,” she cooed. She quickly pulled me into a hug and I found myself standing awkwardly with my arms at my sides as she squeezed me.

“It's been hard, but we're coping with it.” She clucked her tongue and pulled away.

“I'm sure you know, darling, but we've had a time with Cherie recently as well. I knew that she wasn't happy, but early this year William wrote to say that he feared she was going insane. The baby was only weeks old, but she didn't want anything to do with him.” She shook her head. “I can't understand it. I went up to see her the moment I received the letter and she seemed completely fine, very happy in fact, but then I went up to visit at Christmastime and she was awful. She cried all day, would barely come out of her room, and kept saying she needed to see Franklin, and why hadn't he come.” I heard the sharp intake of my breath as her words sank in. He'd been selling to Cherie and her mother knew it. Her eyes met mine and she gripped my hand tight. “It's all right. She is okay, Virginia,” she whispered. I was amazed at her demeanor. She wasn't the least bit angry; in fact, she was wholly sympathetic. “At first, I thought she wanted to see Franklin because she'd loved him all along and couldn't stand being married to William. We all knew almost immediately after the wedding that theirs was a bad match.” She rolled her eyes. “But when I saw the article about Franklin in the
Times,
it all made sense. She'd been on the formula, too.” I blinked at her, speechless.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “He loves Cherie. I know he'd never hurt her on purpose. I'm sure he thought he was—”

“You don't have to explain it to me, dear,” she said softly, squeezing my hand again. “I've known your brother since before he could put two words together. He wouldn't knowingly do anything to hurt her, and if she was taking it when I went to see her
in the fall, then it really was a miracle drug . . . with awful side effects.”

“I'm glad she's all right,” I said, horrified by the knowledge that Cherie could've been one of the casualties. “I don't know for sure, but I think Lydia and the others . . . I think they took too much.”