City of Light (36 page)

“You can thank Mr. Albright for that. He arranged for the asphalt. You may not know that Buffalo has more paved streets than any other city in the nation.”

“Really! Good to know. A conversation opener: ‘Mr. Albright, I certainly have been enjoying the asphalt. And what was your profit in it, may I ask?’” Before I could object to his profit-motive explanation for all local endeavors, he said, “Speaking of Mr. Albright, I’ve also been taking my camera to Stony Point. The perfect time, when everyone in charge is busy with the exposition, to mosey around in pursuit of ‘artistic’ industrial photography.”

“And what have you found at Stony Point?”

“The construction of a very large steel mill. A veritable ‘city of steel.’”

“Nothing new there. You could have found that out by reading the newspapers.”

“And for once the newspapers are right! I can confirm with my own eyes that they are not exaggerating. A most unusual discovery for a newspaperman to make, believe me. A first, in my experience. I have an urge to cable Mr. Pulitzer to report ‘newspapers correct on city of steel.’”

“And did you receive a warm welcome out there?”

“Not at all,” he said happily. “I had to spend days ingratiating myself with the middle-level bureaucrats while the bigwigs were in town showing themselves off to the various dignitaries come to see the Pan-Am. Of course I planned my visits around the absence of these selfsame bigwigs. The bureaucrats became very talkative, I’m pleased to say, once they discovered my innocent, useless—dare we say unmanly—dedication to photography. They quite let themselves go. Verbally, that is, the way another class of men does with you, my dear Louisa.” He tipped his hat.

With a nod, I acknowledged the double-edged compliment. “Did they tell you anything useful?”

“No …” He dragged out the word. “Not directly useful to me. But useful for another story. My esteemed leader Mr. Pulitzer considers himself the champion of the immigrant classes, as you know, and that steel mill is a hazard to immigrants if there ever was one.”

“You mean the shantytowns?”

“Yes, partly. But you’ve got shantytowns outside every new industrial complex. The bigger problem is that the whole place is electrified and the men don’t understand one whit about electricity: They trip over wires, they step into puddles that have wires in them, they touch connections. They’re getting electrocuted like there’s no tomorrow and since most of them don’t speak English, you can’t even explain what’s happening and why. You’d need translators for fifteen languages if you even wanted to try. Your friend Albright doesn’t care, because for every man who’s down, there’s ten waiting to take his place. I’m writing it up. Hoping the boss will send someone to look into it. My esteemed employer loves a crusade, you know. Feather in my cap to give him one.” Apparently he’d exhausted the issue of the steel mill, for next he said, “Now, here’s a question I’ve often pondered: When does one say ‘macadam’ and when does one say ‘asphalt’? I must inquire of the copy editor at the paper. Where are you coming from?” he asked, the sudden shifts in the conversation startling me.

“The biennial convention of the National Association of Colored Women. At Lyric Hall.”

“Oh, yes.” He looked annoyed with himself. “I forgot about that. Well, I can’t be everywhere.”

“Frederick Krakauer once said the same thing to me.”

“Then it must be true. When were you talking to him?”

“We met—” All at once I didn’t want him to know about my visit to Albright at Stony Point. Franklin was always seeking implications and permutations, as if we were all caught in a giant web and awaiting his dissection. “We met by chance. He was rather charming, in his highly distinctive way.”

“I’m sure of it: Distinctive charm is undoubtedly part of his job description. But this convention of colored women …” Franklin mused. “It seems to me I’ve been hearing about that. There’s a woman named Mary Talbert involved, I think?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled about what he might have heard.

“And she’s been raising trouble at the exposition?”

“Has she? I saw her protesting when Roosevelt came, but I didn’t think—”

“It’s coming back to me now. None of this has been reported, of course, so in that respect her protests don’t officially exist”—he raised his eyebrows and nodded in recognition of our joint understanding of the realities of the city—“but apparently she’s been making a pest out of herself. Printing leaflets and lecturing from soapboxes—all very harmless in the scheme of things, but no doubt there’ll be more of the same during this convention. I sense that our esteemed Pan-American investors wouldn’t want to lose a single paying customer because of a bunch of colored women forgetting their place—at least that’s how our more distinguished citizenry seems to see it. Ah well, just another facet of the ever-fascinating microcosm that is your city.”

He glanced at me sidelong. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

“I’ve missed you too.” And I had: I’d missed his conversation, and even his admiration.

“In addition to everything else,” he said nonchalantly, as if it were of no importance whatsoever, “I’ve been looking into possible links between the late and lamented Karl Speyer and the youthful James Fitzhugh. Beyond the obvious link of profession, I mean.”

“And have you found any links?”

“Not yet,” he admitted cheerfully, “but I’m sure there’s something out there, just waiting to be stumbled upon. I don’t suppose you’ve discovered anything you want to tell me about?”

This question angered me, but I forced myself to sound lighthearted: “Franklin, I told you I wouldn’t betray my friends. Why are you pressing me about this again?” I demanded, my anger slipping out.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking genuinely bewildered.

I trusted him enough to answer honestly: “I feel as if you’re using me, by asking a question like that.”

“Using you? I’m sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way. I simply thought, well, I imagined we could be together on this … you know”—he glanced away for an instant—“together. I’ve always thought, theoretically, I mean, that there’d be something wonderful about being united on a crusade with someone, fighting the good fight, two together, swept up in the romance of it all….”

He looked at me for affirmation. Was I tempted? Tempted to blend politics with romance, betrayal with love, two like-minded people united to create a revolution? Theoretically, like him, I could see the appeal in such a life, but for myself … well, perhaps I’d spent too many years carefully watching the world and calibrating my every reaction to suddenly dedicate my entire being to the changing of it. He waited for some response from me. Then:
“Have
you discovered anything?”

An image came into my mind: the documents on Tom’s desk. The lines of writing; the figures, the initials, repeated over and over, amounts of money beside them. Could this be evidence of bribery, the very bribery Daniel Henry Bates had been talking about in his lecture at Lyric Hall? All at once I perceived that it might be. But did this realization mean that I should join Franklin’s crusade? Was his battle now my battle too? A sudden impulse toward confession captured me.

“Franklin.” I stopped walking and turned to him. I placed my hand over his, where he held the handlebars of his bicycle. We were at the corner of Delaware and West Ferry, near the Milburn house and the Albright estate. The wind from the lake swept around us.

“Yes?” he said urgently, placing his other hand over mine, believing this was the moment that would unite us.

“I …”

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice both reassuring and eager. “You can tell me.”

“Several weeks ago—” But I couldn’t go on. The image of Grace came before me. Grace and Tom, both. I couldn’t betray them. I wouldn’t. I exhaled in frustration at the conflicts inherent in my position. “I’m sorry….”

Our friendship would be over now, I knew. He would walk me home, of course, because he was a gentleman, but we would never speak again, beyond the demands of politeness. How deeply I regretted this—but he was the one who’d made me choose.

Then Franklin surprised me. “All right,” he said simply. His eyes reflected the color green—leaves and mown lawns. “I won’t mention it again. No hard feelings, I hope?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, caught off-guard by this turn in my expectations. “Of course not.”

“Well, that’s all right then.” He brushed a windblown lock of hair back from my face, making us friends again.

And so we continued our walk. I felt worn down by the crisscrossing subterfuges that ruled my life, and I took refuge in the beauty around us. At the circle we turned onto Chapin Parkway. Elm trees in five widely spaced rows basked in the yellow mist of late afternoon. Chapin truly was a “parkway.” With only a few houses on each side, it was like a radiant, ceremonial path into a forest. I felt (not for the first time) as if I were living within the mind of Frederick Law Olmsted; I’d become a figment of his imagination, Franklin and I stepping into his painting of the perfect city.

We entered the yellow mist. At Soldier’s Place we turned onto Bidwell Parkway: There was my house, outlined in the raking light; there was the school rising in its Gothic splendor, construction scaffolding across the back and part of the roof.

It was close to six o’clock. All was quiet. Was this early for the construction workers to have stopped for the day? I couldn’t precisely remember their hours; sometimes certain elements needed to dry before the men could move on to the next step and so the foreman let them off early; on other days, they worked straight through to sunset.

Nonetheless the sight of the deserted scaffolding broke into my reverie. Even here, at this small project, going on less than a month, there’d been labor disputes and walkouts. One morning there’d been a picket line from the carpenters union in front of the school; this left me in the uncomfortable position of being simultaneously irate at the delay and philosophically sympathetic to their cause. Last week the contractor had had to hire two nonunion bricklayers who happened to be Negro to get a certain bit of work done while the fine weather held. Francesca had warned me that this might lead to repercussions, but she and the contractor had felt the need to press ahead.

“May I invite myself in for tea?” Franklin said.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, trying to ignore my feeling of apprehension about the construction. “First I need to check at my office, in case Mrs. Schreier left any messages.” The school closed early in the summer. The front door would be locked, but I always carried a set of keys in case of an emergency.

“Let’s walk in the center median. Under the trees,” he said.

He didn’t walk beside me, but instead strolled about ten feet in front. I felt as if we shared a private bower. My heels sank into the moist grass.

We saw it together, Franklin and I. We both stopped suddenly, as if our minds couldn’t comprehend what it was exactly that we were seeing. A splash of red—that’s all it seemed at first. And then we were both running, Franklin struggling not to trip on his bike as he pushed it along. The splash of red turned into a pattern of red. The pattern turned into letters. When we were just opposite the door, still sheltered by the trees, we slowed. We stood side by side, staring.

“You should telephone the police.” Franklin was absolutely calm. “There’s a telephone in the school office, isn’t there? I’ll do it, if you prefer.”

I was trembling. “I don’t want to telephone the police.”

“There’s a threat implied here. You must.”

“The police have never been called to the Macaulay School.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“My job is to protect the school.”

“At least notify someone on the board, let him decide. Telephone Rumsey This is serious. It was probably done by someone on your own construction crew.”

“You don’t know that. It could have been anyone.”

“Not anyone. Only someone with knowledge—someone who knows what’s going on here. First this, then they’ll burn the building down.”

“No. Then they’d be out of jobs.”

“They’d have more jobs rebuilding it.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“For such an intelligent woman, sometimes your naiveté astounds me.”

I said nothing. Two words (what a sacrilege it was, to call them words) were painted in red across the broad wooden door. Forming a crudity for a Negro man brought in to replace union workers.

Yes, I knew these words were a threat. But I wasn’t quite as naive as Franklin thought. I also knew that if I telephoned the police, the incident would be reported in the newspapers. It would be blown out of proportion. Because of the NACW convention, some people might make a link. Much would be made of the fact that Millicent Talbert attended the school—not as a charity student, but as an equal. The wisdom of that would be called into question. I needed to protect Millicent, the school—and myself.

So we found Mr. Houlihan, the maintenance man, who lived in the basement apartment that opened onto the back courtyard. He was a longtime widower, getting on in years, and he had trouble with his hearing. His loyalty to the school—and to me—was absolute. He was terribly upset when he saw the painted letters. No, he hadn’t heard anything amiss. He too urged me to telephone the police. But I cut him off. This was my decision; I had made it.

He and Franklin went off together to get a bucket, turpentine, rags, and a ladder. Together they washed the paint away. The job was easier than I expected: Although thick, the paint was still wet. The door had a heavy coat of varnish; except for a few spots, the red didn’t stain; Mr. Houlihan said he would scrape those spots away and revarnish the door in the morning. While they worked, I thought about the dismal passions which had led to this incident. I felt thankful that this had happened during the summer, when Millicent wasn’t here to see it.

CHAPTER XXII

I
couldn’t get the incident of the painted letters out of my mind, as each weekday morning I rose to the sounds of construction, hammering, sawing, and shouted orders cutting the birdsong. Whenever I left school or home and saw the workmen, I wondered … was
this
the man who’d painted the words: thin and bearded, lounging on the curb eating his lunch? Or was it this man, heftier and red-faced from labor, leaning against the school to rest? Or was it none of them: Was someone sent directly from the union, his sole duty to take care of such jobs; someone who could disappear in an instant, leaving the regular workers totally innocent if ever they were questioned? Meanwhile the two Negro bricklayers were no longer with us; their bit of work was complete.

The following Sunday, my presence was required at the Bastille Day costume ball given by the Milburns in honor of the French ambassador. I felt too vexed to look forward to it, but then again, I’ve always hated costume balls. Especially those for which I’m supposed to feel abjectly grateful for the privilege of being invited. Naturally the chandeliers twinkled. The banks of roses made newcomers gasp. The orchestra played waltzes with verve. The ladies shimmered with jewels even as their skin glowed in the July heat. Their elaborate gowns, ordered from New York, cost more than a laborer’s yearly wage.

What more can I say? Only that by happy coincidence the Astors were visiting the Pan-Am that same weekend, so they too were in attendance. Judging from the deference offered them, they were more truly guests of honor than the ambassador himself.

The Milburn house looked very fine. In preparation for the exposition’s stream of dignitaries, John Milburn had ordered a remodeling, converting terraces and verandas into receiving rooms and suites fit even for the president of the United States. On the exterior, the additions were already laden with ivy, the type which takes years to grow, and the whisper was that the ivy had been stolen from other houses in the dead of night and pasted on. There were other whispers too: that Milburn was having difficulties organizing the timely payment of the Pan-Am’s debts. Nothing but cash flow problems, he’d explained to more than one impatient contractor and supplier, but there was a fluttering of nervousness in the air as the investors pondered their own hopes of repayment.

At any rate, we had a tradition of costume balls in Buffalo; masquerades relating to the novels of Sir Walter Scott were special favorites, because of the extravagant medieval and Tudor costumes required. For the Milburn ball, French history was the theme. Research had gone on for months. As I arrived at the Delaware Avenue mansion stylishly late at eleven-fifteen P.M. (the ball began at ten), I wondered if Miss Love would attempt the challenging role of Marie Antoinette without her head; probably it was too much to hope for.

Nonetheless, when I came upon her in the oak-carved entry gallery, she surprised me. Her wrinkled bosom was pushed up and out by what must have been an exceedingly tight corset. Complicated panels of white silk fell from her shoulders, draping her ever so much like—well, window drapery. Although her feet were hidden, she must have been wearing very high heels, for she seemed even taller than usual. Adding to the sense of height was her gray hair, piled high atop her head, one thick lock twisting down to her waist.

“Miss Love, how … magnificent you look. I can’t quite place—”

“The Spirit of France, my dear, the Spirit of France.” She was tremendously pleased. “Mrs. Astor herself complimented me. She said I looked quite realistic!”

“How wonderful!” I said—and I complimented myself for the sincerity of my tone.

At the top of the grand, curving stairway, the French ambassador appeared to be relishing every moment of his receiving-line glory. He claimed to be Voltaire, and remarkably there was some resemblance—most notably in the self-satisfied smirk I recalled from busts of the great philosopher. Patty Milburn, the former schoolteacher, received her guests attired as the Empress Josephine, and somehow she managed to look demure despite a dress more revealing than a summer nightgown. Her husband, however, did not play the part of Napoleon. “I’m glad to say, I’m too tall to be believable as Napoleon!” he assured me. Instead he was the Sun King, in pointed shoes, silk stockings, brocades, and an exotic feathered hat. Recently Milburn had developed a swollen heaviness beneath his eyes, and his skin was pasty. He looked haggard. Judging from his appearance, the financial pressure of the exposition was taking a toll on him.

Despite a bit of velvet at my neckline (which was cut low enough to show off my mother’s pearls), I was costumed as myself. Of course I spent my life in costume. Standing straighter, squaring my shoulders, I buttressed myself against Patty Milburn’s condescension with the sharp certainty that she knew nothing about me whatsoever.

Nor did anyone else here tonight. I knew I wouldn’t see Tom: He and Margaret never went to costume balls. With his absence, I could still be ever so much myself—a confirmed spinster, alone at the ball. The debutantes greeted me warmly, welcoming me like a prize their graduation had earned them. Behind their painted fans, they confided to me the identities of the young men with whom they hoped to dance. The newly married women claimed me to ask what books they should include on the autumn reading lists of their literary clubs. The matrons (those whose children were nearly grown) drew me into a discussion about proposed speakers for the Twentieth Century Club’s fall and winter lecture series. There was also the pressing issue of whether to introduce fencing at the club; the older women were opposed to this innovation, while the younger women championed it. As the debate between youth and age grew more spirited, I drifted on.

I tried to avoid the clergy, the group with whom I was most often linked during the dinner segment of such gatherings. The clergy and the school principals—birds of a feather, hostesses generally assumed. In honor of the French ambassador, the Roman Catholic bishop was here, attired in the full regalia of his office and obviously enjoying himself. By contrast, the Protestant clergymen wore their usual black and glared with disapproval at the women’s low-cut gowns even as they stared fixedly at them.

Suddenly Mr. Albright was next to me; not
with
me, but purely next to me, as if we’d been walking separately down the street and he had overtaken me.

“Have you passed on the Cloudless Sulphur to your student as you thought you would?” Instead of a costume, he wore elegant evening clothes.

“You mean Abigail Rushman?”

“Whomever,” he said indifferently. “Did you tell me her name? I don’t recall. Well?”

“Not yet. Miss Rushman received an art fellowship, as you may have heard. She’s spending the summer with the Roycrofters. She left directly after graduation.”

He mulled this over, never looking at me. “No, I never heard of such a thing—the Roycrofters giving fellowships? Well, I suppose they must, if you tell me this girl received one. Oh well, time enough to pass on the gift when she’s in a position to appreciate it. You might mention that I mounted it—although she certainly wouldn’t think you had mounted it!” He chuckled, looking at me at last. “More important, I don’t suppose you ever gave my message to Sinclair.”

“Yes, in fact, I did.”

“Really? He never mentioned it,” Albright said suspiciously, as if doubting me. “What was his reaction?”

“He laughed.”

“Oh,” Albright said in disappointment.

“Mr. Albright, exactly what—”

“Well, well, such is life.” He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Do please excuse me.” He moved toward the ministers who hovered at the drinks table with suitable expressions of censure even as they perused the selections.

Sighing in exasperation, I continued my walk around the room. There was Franklin, without costume and looking all the better for it as he stood in the middle of a crowd of my young ladies. As Susan Rumsey’s cousin, of course he would be considered a catch, but I sensed that young society ladies would hold little appeal for him, despite their Macaulay educations. I felt profoundly grateful for his help at school the week before, even more so because as far as I could tell, he’d said nothing to anyone about it; he had respected my decision to pretend publicly that it had never happened. Onward I went: There were the Rushmans, speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Astor. Near the windows, Miss Love appeared to have cornered Frederick Krakauer, who was attired in the garb of an early medieval monarch—Charlemagne, perhaps. His eyes were level with her artificially swelled bosom. Eventually I came upon Mr. Dexter Rumsey, dressed in a plain suit that made him look exactly like himself.

“Where are you going, Louisa? I’ve been trying to say hello to you for ten minutes, but I’ve had to follow you round and round the room.”

“I’ve been trying to escape the clergymen.” Because Mr. Rumsey reminded me of my father, I could let my guard down a bit to joke with him. “I wanted to avoid the confidential lectures on how they really don’t approve of costume balls but suppose they must graciously accept them because the French ambassador is here and Buffalo has become the capital of the world.”

He laughed warmly, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Very wise of you, Louisa. My wife is off somewhere displaying her Empress Eugénie outfit—come, let us dance.”

Thus he placed his blessing upon me. Desiring always to avoid attention, Mr. Rumsey seldom danced, and then only with family members. People noticed that we danced. Doubly noticed, when he asked me to dance again. He was showing them all that I was under his protection. Warning them. As I gazed at him anew—the close-cropped gray beard, the veiled astuteness—I wondered what he thought he needed to protect me from.

As we circled the ballroom, observing our friends and neighbors in their disguises, Mr. Rumsey sighed. “I can admit to you, Louisa, that these past months have been a burden to me. All this hoopla about the exposition, the vice president coming to town, royalty from every rightfully obscure nation of the world. I much preferred our city when it was staid and boring and we could focus on really important things, like business! And then on top of everything the deaths of Speyer and Fitzhugh to deal with.”

“To ‘deal’ with?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

He shrugged. “Anything dramatic comes under my purview, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you believe both deaths were accidental?” I asked impulsively.

Startled, he paused for an instant in the dance, then abruptly resumed on the beat as if nothing had disturbed him. He glanced around. “Oh, how wonderful,” he whispered with relish, changing the subject, “our friend Urban does look absurd.” And so he did: Macaulay board member, flour king and cultivator of green roses, pudgy George Urban, Jr., was attired as feline-lover Cardinal Richelieu (who was thin and elegant in life), holding a none-too-pleased tabby cat on a red leather leash.

I too pretended to be at ease. “And what is your costume, Mr. Rumsey?”

Jauntily he said, “I’m a Huguenot. Willing to die for my cause. And I would guess that you are either a Protestant missionary—which seems unlikely from what I know of you—or yourself.”

“Definitely the latter.” I made myself laugh even as my forever-attuned vigilance pondered his words. What did he know, or think he knew?

I was still considering this when, on our next pass near the door, we observed the entry of Francesca Coatsworth. She was dressed in tie and tails like a man. Beside her, also in tie and tails, Susannah Riley Their hair was swept up under top hats. They looked very handsome, especially Susannah, whose entire demeanor displayed a worldliness and confidence I wouldn’t have credited to her. Inwardly I flinched, as much from the spectacle as from the fact that few would believe my putative liaison with Francesca now. Mr. Rumsey studied them probingly and then gracefully danced me into the crowd.

“You know, Louisa, when I was a young man, right here in Buffalo, women who dressed up as men were arrested! Of course they were a different kind of woman. Ladies of the night—they were the ones who dressed up as men. Odd, isn’t it? Though I suppose some men find such things alluring.” He flushed. “Forgive me, my dear, for mentioning such a topic. I lost track of myself.”

“Not at all, Mr. Rumsey. I believe I am mature enough to hear even a reference to ladies of the night.”

“Sometimes I forget your maturity when I see your beautiful face.” He chucked me under the chin, and now I flushed.

And so the ball continued. At about one A.M., I found myself with a group that included Mr. Rumsey, his daughter Mrs. Wilcox, and several recent Macaulay graduates. The ladies had just induced me to admit that I was in favor of introducing fencing at the club, when the Milburn butler materialized at Mr. Rumsey’s side and whispered in his ear. Mr. Rumsey paled, but quickly recovered.

“Excuse me,” he said. At a measured pace he walked toward the staircase, the butler following, while the rest of us watched and wondered.

After a few moments, however, the butler returned to whisper in my ear: Mr. Rumsey requested my presence downstairs in the entry gallery. The butler searched out another guest while I made my way to the staircase, feeling the eyes of the others on my back. This was so irregular, this summoning of guests from a ball. Something had happened. Fear catapulted through me. My foot slid on the thick stair carpet; I gripped the railing as I walked down.