City of Light (21 page)

I have often wondered: If I’d had other passions, would you have discovered them just as quickly and used them against me? If I’d been a woman of society, would you have professed a passion for fox hunting? Had I been an artist, would an analysis of the latest Saint-Gaudens monument been your means of seduction? If Francesca had been your quarry, would you have shared your excitement for the Home Insurance Building in Chicago, or the new Wainwright Building in St. Louis? Was every step that you took with me a false one? Or can I cling to the idea that you admired me just a bit? That in some way I was special?

At that moment I certainly felt special. More special than I had ever felt in my life. You thought that I could help you. Around us, everyone glanced your way, as if you were the sun.

What is the measure of a woman?

I was in my midtwenties then, without family, without private means, dependent on my own work for my support; college educated, which in itself pegged me as unmarriageable (despite the fact that your beautiful Frances Folsom had been a college girl). Already I was called a bluestocking.

And I was an innocent. As a girl I’d always been told that men would attempt to take advantage of me—but you had been the
president
, you were married, you were much older than I; I trusted you as if you were my father. I didn’t hear the code words you used, I heard only that you wanted to fulfill the promise of your own best instincts. You wanted to do good for the country—and I would help you. Even Patty Milburn, she of the fine clothes and warm hospitality, even
she
you did not ask for help.

You glanced around the room with a touch of suspicion. “Don’t tell anyone,” you said lightly. “I don’t want any jealousies. Or anyone trying to tag along.”

This last was said jokingly, but I knew what you meant: You still harbored bitterness over the press of office seekers among your Buffalo acquaintances; of people thinking only of themselves and of the spoils you could dispense.

“I should be allowed
some
privacy.” Warmly, you laughed.

Of course you should be allowed privacy; how else could you formulate new policy?

“Don’t worry, I’ll manage this.” How pleasant you were. “Go off now and talk to your friends. I’ll send someone for you later.”

You spoke as if I were a child.

The former president traveled in the company of his close friend Richard Watson Gilder, the editor of the
Century
magazine. Gilder was a far different type from Cleveland: slight, cultivated, effete. In addition to his editorial skills, Gilder was the prolific author of endlessly praised, pretentious poetry. He nurtured a concern for the body politic. He and Cleveland had crusaded together for civil service reform. Gilder hungered after Cleveland’s every word.

Toward the end of the reception, just after the president had said his farewells (of course no one would leave until he left), Mr. Gilder came to me. With a slight bow and a gaze that went over my left shoulder, he told me that he would be delighted to escort me to my next appointment. He would meet me outside. His carriage driver wore a white carnation—I should look for that.

I had no trouble finding the proper carriage. We took a roundabout route to the Iroquois, I assumed to give the president time to return to the hotel. During the drive, I attempted to converse with Gilder. Enthusiastically I said, “Mr. Cleveland is concerned about tenement house reform.”

“Oh, I dare say,” Gilder replied indifferently. With deep absorption he stared out the carriage window, discouraging further conversation. Part of me realized even then that his indifference was toward me, not toward the issue that he himself vehemently endorsed in his writings. I understood even then that he would extend himself only to someone who mattered. But I easily dismissed Richard Watson Gilder; after all, he was not the one invited to consult privately with the president. Most likely he feigned indifference to conceal his jealousy.

At a certain moment best comprehended by himself, Gilder gave a signal to the driver. Several minutes later the carriage pulled up to the back entrance of the Iroquois Hotel, far from the Beaux-Arts flourishes and lurking journalists at the front.

“If I were you, I’d place your shawl over your head,” he said before getting out of the carriage. And that was the last he said. I assumed he had an overdeveloped sense of propriety. Nonetheless I draped the shawl stylishly around my head and shoulders as if I were protecting myself from a rainstorm. I followed Gilder into the hotel and along a circuitous route that took us past ironing rooms and pantries. We walked three flights up the back stairs and entered a long hall punctuated by imposing doorways. Gilder hurried along the hall, checking the numbers. Finally he knocked at a certain door, opened it without waiting for a response, and motioned me inside. Quietly he shut the door behind him.

I was in an unlit entryway.

“Come along then,” I heard the president say from a room at the end of the entry gallery, and I walked toward his voice.

The suite’s opulent sitting room was decorated with heavy curtains and hand-painted wallpaper, feathery forest scenes in the style of Fragonard. The former president looked up from a newspaper. He had changed, taking off his shoes and his jacket and tie. He wore a silk paisley dressing gown over his trousers and open shirt. This surprised me. But then I realized he would want to relax after his day’s full schedule. There was a glass of brandy on the well-polished table beside him. He smoked a cigar. The night was warm and humid. The air in the room was oppressive. I felt pressure in my chest from breathing the cigar smoke. Not knowing else what to do, I stayed near the door.

“Well,” he said, looking me up and down, evaluating me. From the look that came into his face, he seemed to relish what he saw. “Good evening.” He stretched out the words meaningfully—although for what meaning I had no idea. Stubbing out the cigar in the crystal ashtray, he got up, lumbering, and padded toward me across the thick carpet, the silk of his dressing gown rustling.

I stepped back, to the wall beside the door.

“You’re certainly a beauty,” he said.

“Oh. Thank you.” I flushed in embarrassment. I felt pleased by the compliment but startled that he would notice my appearance. I still didn’t understand. My bewilderment seemed to please him.

“First-timer, are we?” he asked, smiling. I didn’t know what he meant. I was unprepared when he took my shoulders and pulled me close and kissed me, filling my mouth with the acrid taste of cigars. There was a line of perspiration along the top of his mustache, and it dampened my cheeks.

I tried to push him away. “What are you doing?” I choked.

But my pushing only made him tighten his grip on my shoulders. “Playful, are we?” he asked, not displeased.

“I’d better go,” I blurted. “This isn’t—I didn’t—I’d better go.” He pressed me hard against the wall. He was big, so big—Big Steve, his friends had called him when he was young—and I struggled but couldn’t escape. His body surrounded me like a supple barrier, present wherever I turned.

“What lovely eyes you have.” Holding my chin, he moved my head slightly back and forth. “Dark blue, eh?”

I couldn’t respond.

He gazed at me indulgently. “Now, now, my dear. Don’t be like that.” He touched his forehead against mine, rubbing for a moment. “And besides, wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like? What the poets sing about?” He nuzzled my neck, whispering in limpid tones. “Haven’t you ever wondered?” He kissed along the line where my cheek met my hair. “Any girl as pretty as you deserves to know everything life can offer, eh?”

“Please. Let me go,” I begged.

He patted my hair. “Go where?” His touch was gentle. “Mmmm? Where exactly is it that you want to go?” His voice was tender. “Do you want to go running down the hall and into the lobby where everyone will see you? It’s very late, for a young lady like yourself to be out alone. And in a hotel, of all places.” He rubbed his private self against my leg. “What would the reporters think? And I’m sure the reporters are still there—they always keep a close eye on me when I travel. The local reporters, I mean. The ones who’d have no trouble determining your identity.” I felt myself about to cry. Tears caught in my throat. “And even if you escape the lobby unscathed, how will you get home?” He rubbed his private self harder, adjusting his body so that his bulky middle didn’t interfere. “How would you find a hansom driver who wouldn’t talk? Or will you walk home, do you think, miles and miles through the streets?” Again I struggled against him, and he grabbed my wrists, hard. “No, no. You stay now, and I’ll make sure you get home safely. And secretly.” Letting go of my wrists, he put his arms around me and pulled me tighter against him. His breath was warm upon my ear. “And really, my dear”—now his forearms pressed against my back to hold me while his fingers pulled down my hair—“I think it’ll do you good. No one will ever know. I promise you. You’ll never be put to shame. It’s too late to change your mind, anyway.” He rubbed harder, his legs entrapping me. “Too late.”

And he was right. How could I get home without his help? Without his help, I would be compromised beyond repair. I would lose my job and I would never find another—not teaching, that is. Any dream I’d ever had would be over. I hated myself for my ignorance. All of this was my fault: I hadn’t known the code, I hadn’t understood the subtext of his words. It was too late now, to go back. His promise of secrecy was all I could rely on to protect me.

I stopped fighting him. I became impassive, like a small, trapped animal.

“So.” In his pleasure he lengthened the word. He kissed away a tear upon my eyelid. “Good girl.” Nonetheless, when he pressed his lips to mine, pushing his tongue against my teeth, instinctively I turned away, his saliva leaving a band across my cheek. Laughing he caught my face in the palm of his hand. “Still shy?” He tapped my nose with one tender fingertip. “No need to be shy with me.”

He guided me to the bedroom. When my footsteps became reluctant, he gripped my wrist and twisted my arm behind me—laughing still, as if it were a game, my resistance a show that pleased him more and more. The bedside lamp was lit. The bed had a brocaded canopy.

It wasn’t necessary for me to undress completely, that would take too much time, he said. With hurried fingers, he fumbled with the buttons of my dress, letting the silk fall to the floor as he pulled at my underclothes. The petticoats and the corset stayed on. He took off his trousers and undergarments, taking the time to fold them over a chair. He left on his shirt and dressing gown. Then he folded down the bedspread, keeping it even and neat. He lay upon his back and smiled at me encouragingly. But when I didn’t join him, he sat up suddenly and grabbed me. “None of that now,” he said, his smile gone—but gone only for an instant. In a tone that could only be described as loving, he added, “It’s natural to feel nervous the first time. But it won’t be so bad.”

He moved me into position atop his legs. He put my hands around his private self, his hands over mine. He made my hands rub him, up and down.

“There you go, there you go,” he said, his voice gentle, his grip crippling. Up and down, up and down, his hands over mine. Abruptly he placed his hands behind my head and pushed my head down—I didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t even know what he was thinking. In confusion I glanced at his half-closed eyes. He grunted in response. He shifted, pulling my body into position over him and pressing me down upon him. There was resistance, beyond my control, my body not opening to him. I had no notion what to do. He was displeased. His smile turned to a grimace. He used his spit to ease his way, gripping my hips and moving me to his exact pleasure.

I wondered then, as he pressed inside me, more than hurting me,
this
is the great and hidden knowledge of life?
This?
This is what men and women have whispered about and created elaborate rituals to sanctify? Is this how it is with your wife, Frances, she who came to you as innocent as I, she who claims publicly to adore you? Is this what she adores? Your stomach like a rubbery cushion, propping her up? Or are you different with her? Is it possible to be different?

I stared at the brocaded canopy. I didn’t know how long it would take. But suddenly he gave a self-satisfied sigh, and it was over. He rested, smirking. Sweat glistened on his forehead. I didn’t move.

After a few minutes, the president instructed me to leave. He was finished. Besides, he didn’t want to keep his assistant secretary, who would take me home, up late when they had another busy day tomorrow. “And we can’t rely on poor Gilder to get you home,” he added. “He’s undoubtedly off somewhere resting his nerves.” The president chuckled as if this were a very good joke.

Delicately, he pushed me off him. When I stood, the offal of his body flowed down my thighs. I dared not make a show of wiping it away. The smell of it made me gag. I pressed the back of my hand against my face to block the smell. I dressed as quickly as I could, my fingers shaking. This time he didn’t help me.

An overly thin young man with ruddy cheeks and glasses waited outside the suite. The assistant secretary. Without looking at me, he led me to a carriage that had pulled in close to the hotel’s back door. For the sake of anonymity, the carriage dropped me at the deserted park, leaving me not far from the lake where one day Karl Speyer would drown. From there I walked home through deserted streets, trying to steel myself against tears. Tears would do me no good now. Besides, I had saved myself: I should be proud, I told myself over and over, defending myself against despair, fighting off self-pity. I had saved myself. I gripped my shawl across my chest as if it could protect me.

In those days, I lived on the top floor of a house on the far side of Elmwood Avenue. My landlady was an elderly woman of genteel poverty; my rent allowed her to maintain her home. Her hearing was such that she never noticed my late-night footsteps.

After that evening in 1891, I never tried to write to the president. He must have understood me well. Too well.