City of Light (48 page)

This summer the local branch of Huyler’s was open on Sunday afternoons and early evenings, “exposition hours,” they were called, and they were a godsend. Huyler’s wasn’t too far from the exposition’s Elmwood Avenue entrance and so garnered a good deal of business; elsewhere, shops remained firmly closed on Sundays.

As I walked down Elmwood to Huyler’s, I mused upon my forthcoming purchases. I would get myself the dark chocolate bar because I loved the luscious contrast between the sweet, fresh marshmallow and the bitter chocolate. For Grace I would buy the milk chocolate marshmallow bar because, well, because she was a child and children were supposed to prefer milk chocolate.

Huyler’s was like an Oriental emporium. Molasses slip, butter crunch, almond turtles and almond bark, marzipan, fudge, mint patties, nonpareils, jellies of every size and color. All were displayed on shelves behind glass as if they were precious objects deserving the highest respect. The candy was made in the back, so the store always smelled like molten chocolate. The white-tiled floor and walls, the tin ceiling, the wooden counter, the gaslight fixtures—they looked slightly old-fashioned, reminding me of candy stores I visited in my girlhood, comforting me with the memory. But like all childhood memories, it was double-edged, and so I came to Huyler’s only when I wanted to feel like a hopeful child rather than like a chastened adult gazing back at that time of hope.

There were two women ahead of me, which gave me a welcome respite to study everything before I was called upon to make a decision. I indulged myself in all the options I might enjoy, even though I knew very well what I was going to buy in the end: I did love marzipan, provided it wasn’t too sweet, and also the crunchy squares of almonds….

The bell jangled, someone new coming in, and at first I didn’t even look up. Then gradually I realized, by the shape and aura of the body, by the smell of pipe tobacco, that the person who came to stand beside me was Frederick Krakauer. I didn’t dare step away.

“May I help you, ma’am?” asked the freckle-faced salesgirl. She spoke with a slight German inflection. She looked about twelve. Maybe she was the owner’s daughter. Or perhaps she was living on her own already. Or the sole support of her family—alternatives swept through my mind as I tried not to focus on Frederick Krakauer at my side. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, of course.” With relief I stepped forward and placed my order for the two marshmallow bars.

When I was putting my change away, Krakauer, ignoring the freckle-faced girl and moving just behind me, said quietly, “Look here—bars with almonds, bars with raisins, bars with peanuts. Bittersweet, milk.” I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. “How is a man to decide?”

I must not let him see that he frightened me. Still like a child I was, hearing my father’s voice as he taught me how to walk in the woods and the mountains:
Don’t ever turn your back and run away from a wild animal
. I must make a stand.

“I recommend the bar with raisins,” I said resolutely, turning to him and putting on my schoolmarm demeanor. “There’s something satisfying about the contrast between the hardness of the chocolate and the softness of the raisins, even though the raisins are more of a texture than a taste.”

“Is that so?” Krakauer gazed at me in surprised admiration. “How astute of you.”

So I had won whatever test he’d set for me, and my victory pleased him.

“But you bought marshmallow bars.” Without a trace of irony, he bore a pouting expression that for him seemed exceedingly odd and made me even more wary.

“Marshmallow bars also have their place.”

Abruptly he said to the salesgirl, “I’ll have four milk chocolate marshmallow bars with caramel.”

“Four?” I asked, incredulous.

“Well, I am quite a bit bigger than you,” he explained.

When we were outside, Krakauer took one of his marshmallow bars out of the bag. I had been raised never to eat while walking on the street, and I taught my girls the same. But here was a man who either showed no compunction toward proper behavior, or came from a place where improper behavior was the norm. Or else I had become a prude as I’d grown older, failing to keep step with the times. Perhaps in the twentieth century it was perfectly acceptable for proper people to eat on the street.

Holding the moist, melting bar poised in his hand, Krakauer announced, “I’ll walk with you.” Inwardly I flinched; if he wished to walk with me, then of course I must allow him to walk with me. I must force myself to appear completely content, indeed pleased, with his company, when every part of me wanted to flee.

When we reached the corner and waited for a carriage to pass, he looked at the brilliant sky and loudly sighed. “Oh yes indeed, another gorgeous evening. How lucky we are. I just hope this weather lasts through the week. Don’t want any umbrellas for President McKinley and the Mrs.”

I nodded; what could I say?

As we crossed Elmwood Avenue, he took his first bite. “Mmm.” He chewed on the caramel. The marshmallow would melt on its own—just thinking about it made my mouth water. “Nice and soft.” Once more he sighed. He held the bar upright, so the caramel wouldn’t pour out. In two more bites he’d finished. He licked the melted chocolate from his fingertips with a gurgling laugh of pleasure. He swept his tongue across his teeth, relishing the taste. Unembarrassed, he paused to wipe his mouth with his handkerchief.

“My daughters have always loved these bars with caramel and marshmallow. Now I understand why. And I thought they were for children! How wrong I was! So many years wasted.” He shook his head in mock despair.

Apparently, in his eyes, we had become friends. We engaged in a seemingly companionable game of one-upmanship, comparing memorable chocolate bars we had enjoyed over the years and discussing the multifaceted glories of ice cream.

When we reached Bidwell Parkway, taking refuge in a bantering tone I asked, “Mr. Krakauer, you don’t really believe you can walk into anyone’s house anytime you desire?”

He looked uncomfortable and straightened his jacket, pulling at the hem. “I have done,” he said apologetically. “But only when it’s absolutely necessary. I hope that doesn’t lessen your respect for me. I have enormous respect for you, I’d never like to think …” He regarded me plaintively. “And besides, Mr. Sinclair might have been in danger—hasn’t he been in danger before? Haven’t people tried things before? Of course they have! Who knows what tactics these nature lovers might use. And these unionists too. Dynamite is so easy to come by these days.”

He was sincere. Self-effacing, even. He portrayed himself as a man who performed a difficult job in the service of a greater good—as he himself defined that greater good.

We walked down Bidwell on the grassy, tree-lined center median toward school.

“This entire situation has become very frustrating for me, Miss Barrett. There’s a chance I could lose my position. And if I lose my position, what will happen to my girls? I’ve been able to accustom them to a very comfortable way of life, I don’t mind telling you. We live on Staten Island, you know. In New Brighton. A very comfortable neighborhood. I can’t let my girls’ comfort be compromised.”

Obviously upset, he stopped walking and turned to me. “Sinclair won’t listen to reason. He just goes along on his merry way without giving a thought to anyone. He’s selfish, that’s his problem. You know …” He gripped my arm but released it in an instant when he realized the inappropriateness of touching me. “I’m beginning to worry that he might feel the need to make some kind of announcement in front of the president this week. A public announcement. Putting everything out in the open so we can’t negotiate anymore. Once the public starts agreeing with him, it’s hard to negotiate. Has he said anything to you about an announcement?”

So … Krakauer
had
been too late to hear Tom’s intentions. Don’t blush, I ordered myself,
please
—don’t give anything away. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “He hasn’t said anything.” I forced myself to look bewildered. “Nothing at all.”

“Or maybe a private announcement,” Krakauer mused. “A whisper in the presidential ear about the good of the nation—although I don’t think Mr. McKinley is the type to see any good in Sinclair’s plan. But you never know if there might be some political advantage to it. That ring any bells for you?”

“No,” I assured him. He studied me carefully. I forced myself to meet his gaze.

“Oh, all right, I believe you,” he said finally. “I must say, you’ve always been generous with me, and I appreciate that in you. Not many people meet me so frankly. I always get the feeling that they think they’re talking to my employer when they’re talking to me. But you seem to be really looking at me. I like the way you tease me, like you’re part of the family. To tell you the truth, I was waiting for you. Outside your house.”

All at once I was terrified of him—watching, waiting.

“I followed you to Huyler’s, hoping for a moment when we could talk. I didn’t like to go knocking at your door, a woman in your position. A woman I have so much respect for.” His eyes narrowed. “Even though other men don’t seem to know the meaning of respect,” he said derisively. I knew he was referring to Franklin. “Well, they have their standards and I have mine.”

I said nothing, too frightened and horrified to speak.

“The problem is,” he continued, “I’m worried my interview with Sinclair yesterday morning might have made him feel like I’m forcing his hand. Maybe I’ve mistakenly pressured him into taking action—into making some kind of announcement—before he himself intended. I’m worried I’ve made a mistake. I’m so worried about this that I’ve consulted my superiors.” He took my elbow as though he needed my support, and I pulled away.

“Oh, it’s not what you think, Miss Barrett,” he said quickly and reassuringly. “I haven’t corresponded with Mr. Morgan.” He whispered the name. “I’ve been in touch with his representatives. His attorneys. His chief attorney, to be exact.”

Francis Lynde Stetson was Morgan’s chief attorney, as well as a close personal friend of former president Cleveland. I felt a pressure in my throat from the convoluted closeness of all these people to one another and to me.

“My superiors are growing impatient. With me and with Sinclair. I wish there was some way … something I could do or say, to make him realize the importance of all of this. No one wishes anything, well, unfortunate to happen to him, or to his child, or to you—especially not to him, if you’ll forgive me. Seeing as he knows so much more about the power station than anybody else. And he has that talent of his for making union men work. That’s the reason all of this has had to be so roundabout.”

“Mr. Krakauer.” Suddenly I was desperate; despite my best efforts, my voice was about to break. “Why do you make threats against my goddaughter? She’s only a child. She’s not involved with any of this. You have children yourself: How can you do this? Why can’t you keep her out of it? Please, I beg you.”

“Oh, I wish I could, Miss Barrett, I wish I could. But you see, life is so mysterious. We just never know what might happen. To any of us.” He stared down the street to Soldier’s Place. “Now, if I was a father—which I am, of course; that’s not what I mean.” He licked his lips. “What I mean is, I would never do anything to risk my daughters’ well-being. I would want them to be always—basking in marshmallow bars! With caramel on the bottom! I would want them to be licking melted chocolate off their fingertips forever!” As he said these jesting words, his tone was deadly serious. I knew then that if he chose to harm Grace, nothing could stop him. “But that isn’t always possible, is it? All too often something comes along to interfere with the way things ought to be. With the way we want them to be. Our supposed friends begin blurting out gossip to aid their own advancement. Problems begin to pressure us in ways we never could have foreseen. Things get to a point where it’s too late even to correct our mistakes—once we’ve finally realized our mistakes. The time to take action is before it’s too late, not afterward.”

“That means you’ll promise me to keep my goddaughter out of this, or you won’t promise?”

“I wish I could promise, Miss Barrett,” he said sadly, shaking his head as if to prove how much he wanted to relieve my anxiety. “For you especially. But she’s already involved, whether we like it or not. You see, I’m helpless. Please believe me. Helpless. I’m only a messenger.”

CHAPTER XXXII

I
’
m only a messenger
. I was trembling by the time I closed my door on Frederick Krakauer. What could I do to protect my daughter? What could I
do?

Grace would arrive in about a half hour. Suddenly I didn’t want her to be seen on the street, even with Mrs. Sheehan. She had to remain at home, where at least the walls of the estate might offer her some protection. I telephoned and told Mrs. Sheehan to expect me there; she mustn’t bring Grace here.

That wasn’t enough, however. I couldn’t simply walk down Lincoln Parkway with my bag of marshmallow bars and dine with Grace as though nothing were amiss—as though Krakauer’s threat were not out in the open, obvious and blunt. I telephoned Tom’s office at the power station. One of his assistants answered, and after a long wait Tom himself came to the telephone. Struggling to keep a growing hysteria out of my voice, I explained to him what Krakauer had told me.

But Tom was reassuring and calm, as he had been the previous morning. “He’s using you to get to me. He’s got no other leverage. He’s not as all-knowing and all-powerful as he’d like us to believe.”

“I think you’re wrong, Tom. I think we need to go to others for help.” My mind raced through the alternatives. “I could visit Mr. Rumsey—maybe I could convince him….” But even as I said it, I knew this was no choice; or rather, it was a choice that might forever ally me with Rumsey and cut me off from Tom. “Maybe Franklin Fiske …” I didn’t think Tom knew about my friendship with Franklin: “He’s a journalist who—”

“Louisa,” Tom interrupted, though his voice was patient still. “I wish you would let me handle this in my own way. I know more about it than—” He paused; there were voices speaking behind him. “I really must go,” he said distractedly. “Please, don’t worry; everything will be fine.” He hung up.

As I paced my study, I felt certain that everything would
not
be fine. Tom wasn’t taking me seriously, however, and clearly I could no longer appeal to him. Who could I go to for help? Who would have power over Krakauer?
I’m only a messenger
. A messenger for whom?

For Francis Lynde Stetson, chief attorney for J. Pierpont Morgan and close personal friend, as well as former law partner, of President Cleveland.

Then I realized what I must do. The decision seemed remarkably easy. Obvious, even. I telephoned Mrs. Sheehan and told her that I wouldn’t be able to have dinner with Grace after all. She should tell Grace that I was feeling a bit unwell (nothing for her to worry about), and that I loved her. I wrote a note to Mrs. Schreier, the school secretary, explaining that I’d been called out of town for a few days unexpectedly. I knew she could handle any inquires. Classes wouldn’t begin for another two weeks, and Miss Atkins could deal with any emergencies. After I packed an overnight and was prepared to leave, I gave the chocolate bars to Katarzyna for her son.

When you’re famous, people know where to find you. The newspapers report your whereabouts, hotels announce your visits, rail lines proclaim your arrivals and departures, advertising your name to enhance their profits. You may try to foil these forces and travel somewhere out of the way, vacationing in the privacy of a wilderness. But even a wilderness cannot guarantee escape from those determined to seek you out.

During the summer of 1901, former president and Mrs. Grover Cleveland and their children vacationed at Tyringham, in the Berkshires. The house they rented was close to the farm owned by their dear friends Mr. and Mrs. Richard Watson Gilder. The former president loved to fish, and there was wonderful fishing in this part of the Berkshires, particularly at the Otis Reservoir. The locals were highly protective of their esteemed visitors.

All this I’d read in the newspapers during the summer. From the descriptions, I could almost pinpoint the Clevelands’ house. I’d grown up in the Berkshires and knew the countryside near Tyringham. I’d hiked the steep laurel-and pine-covered hills, bird-watched among the dense maples and ancient orchards of the valley, even collected butterflies in the lush meadows during a brief youthful fancy.

And so that Sunday evening I began the journey to the father of my child, to ask him to use his long-standing alliance with Francis Lynde Stetson to protect her. I was confident that—should he care to—Cleveland could eliminate the threats of Frederick Krakauer with the ease of a knowing smile and a collegial pat on the back.

I caught the night train to Albany. From Albany I would travel to Pittsfield, from Pittsfield—well, I would rely on my memory to guide me to one of the many inns that catered to summer visitors. The journey would be long and complicated, but what did that matter?

The night train was crowded and hot. I lay in my berth, unable to sleep, my thoughts in a riot. I hadn’t seen Grover Cleveland in ten years, and I’d known him for only—what? Hours? Minutes? I tried to focus on the halo of Grace’s hair, on the perfect sweetness of her face. But instead my mind kept clinging to the reek of Grover Cleveland’s cigars. His satisfaction, so smug. The slime upon my legs when I eased myself away from him. I had no illusions that he would remember me. He’d probably left dozens of women like me strewn across the great nation which for eight years he had ruled.

The house was called Riverside. Or so I had read in the newspaper. At midmorning on Tuesday, I stood at the end of the pine-shadowed path, staring. I’d ordered my carriage to wait. Because I’d spent Monday night at a nearby inn, my appearance, at least, was unruffled.

Riverside. Built on a gentle hill, the large house was white clapboard, with a covered porch all around. There was a flagpole, Stars and Stripes at rest on this peaceful morning. The air smelled of pinesap and summer warmth.

The Clevelands eschewed formal protection. Or so I’d read. As I walked up the path, the single guard patrolling the property glanced my way but did not approach me. To his eyes I probably had “schoolmarm” and “old maid” stamped clearly upon me. Such was my freedom. I traveled alone, I did as I wished—as no marriageable young lady or married woman could—and those who might enforce the laws of propriety dismissed me as irrelevant.

I knocked at the door. To the shy, uniformed girl who answered I presented my engraved card, “Miss Louisa Barrett, Headmistress, The Macaulay School, Buffalo.” I asked if Mrs. Cleveland was at home. The round-faced maid, whom I pegged as the daughter of a local farmer, said she would check and invited me to wait in the hallway while she went upstairs.

Threadbare carpets; ancient umbrellas stuffed into a metal stand; watercolors of local attractions, the frames forever dusty. This was the hallway of any summer cottage, rented furnished.

I heard footsteps above me and then on the upper stairs. Suddenly Mrs. Cleveland turned on the landing, hurrying toward me, shocked to see me—her dress and hair perfect but her face in disarray. Frances Folsom Cleveland. I stared impassively at her worried expression. We’d been introduced a few times when she’d come to Buffalo to visit family and friends. Once at 184 I’d spoken to her briefly about women’s education while Miss Love’s canaries frolicked around us. She was only a year or so older than me. She was a college girl, a graduate of Wells. She’d given birth to her first child a few months before I’d given birth to mine.

She looked a bit stouter than she had been as a young woman, but even after bearing four children, she was strikingly beautiful, dressed in yellow lace, her hair heavy and dark, her round eyes framed by eyebrows thick and untouched by gray. She was the girl–First Lady still, she of the porcelain skin and the alluringly innocent tilt to her head; she who’d inspired songs, fashions, and fan clubs. In her way she was an inspiration, a stylish college graduate who’d married and raised a family in defiance of the cultural arbiters who proclaimed that education made women masculine. Despite the near-equality of our ages, I felt years older than she, like an aged crone filled with illicit knowledge—the knowledge of her husband’s body.

She took control of herself when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Gripping the newel post, she paused a moment to steady her breathing. With dignity, she greeted me and invited me into the morning room. She was renowned for her dignity. Her dignity was the first thing people had remarked upon when, at the age of twenty-two, she had married the forty-nine-year-old president.

When we were seated in hard-backed chairs around the morning room’s unlit fireplace, I offered the reassurance she needed. No disaster had befallen her family or friends in Buffalo to bring me here. She flashed a smile. She sighed in relief. She ordered refreshments. She would be too polite to ask me outright why I had come on this long journey.

After tea had been served, I began. “Fran—” I caught myself using her first name, as if she were a student. She seemed like a student to me. In private her husband called her “Frank,” or so I had read. “Mrs. Cleveland, I’m so sorry to intrude upon you in this way. I wonder if …” What did one call him? I opted for aggrandizement. “I wonder if the president might be able to receive me privately to discuss a political matter of some pressing concern.”

“The president has left all that behind him.” Her voice was strained. I sensed that she was ever-so-slightly afraid of me, which brought me some small satisfaction: Perhaps being headmistress of a school like Macaulay did elicit respect.

“But this … this is a political matter with private implications. Affecting his former friends and associates. And I would appreciate his advice and guidance. Because of his history in Buffalo. He knows the entire cast of characters. It’s quite important to me, and I—”

“He has always made clear that he no longer has any interest in Buffalo whatsoever. Perhaps you could tell me, and I’ll ask him at some quiet moment when he’s more likely to be sympathetic. I’ll write you his response.”

Did she ever wonder why “the president” no longer had an interest in Buffalo? Did she ever allow herself to believe the rumors which his enemies put out about his indiscretions? Probably she rationalized that enemies will always find some weapon, and this was the one they had found for him.

But Mrs. Halpin—she couldn’t be rationalized away. Did this beautiful girl–First Lady ever wonder about what had happened to Mrs. Halpin, she who had been forced into an asylum and then bundled into oblivion? Possibly Frances feared that her husband would do the same to her if she challenged him. During the reelection campaign of 1888, Frances had felt compelled to make a public declaration that her husband didn’t beat her. She was twenty-seven years younger than he. He had pushed her baby carriage—the carriage he himself had presented as a gift upon her birth. After her father’s death when she was still a child, Grover Cleveland had become her guardian. This incestuous tangle of personal history made me recoil, yet also made me bolder.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Cleveland. But the matter is urgent.”

She glared at me. “He’s not at home now. He’s taking his morning walk.”

In the garden, children called to one another as they played. With her hands delicately crossed on her lap, she turned her head and stared out the window as if posing for a painting. A uniformed baby nurse comforted a little boy, four-year-old Richard, the youngest. Three girls spread across the lawn, tossing a ball. They wore ribbons in their hair, shirts with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, short skirts, thick stockings, high-button boots. They looked like—Grace. They were Grace’s half-sisters. The oldest was just about her age. I hadn’t thought, I hadn’t realized, that I would see Grace’s sisters, the family she might have had, the trusted companions of girlhood.

Taking a deep breath, I made what I knew would be my final attempt. I had no courage left. Quietly I said, “Perhaps I could wait for him at a certain point and talk with him on the path, and then be on my way. I won’t trouble you for lunch.”

She seemed relieved that she need not invite me to dine with them. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, if you insist.” She shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of some unwelcome thought. “If you walk down the drive …” Without looking at me, she described a nearby place. “I often meet him there myself.”