Time and Again (39 page)

Often we walked along, or crossed, silent residential streets precisely like those still existing in great areas of twentieth-century San Francisco. In San Francisco not just isolated relics but entire whole blocks of nineteenth-century houses stand untouched, looking in every way, except for parked cars, like still-existing old photographs of themselves. And now, here in lower Manhattan of the nineteenth century — we often think of it wrongly as having been nothing but block after block of brownstones — were whole blocks and streets of tall, wooden, wonderfully ornate houses exactly like their counterpart streets in modern San Francisco. Occasionally there was a light far back in a house behind a curtained window; someone sick, we supposed. And once in a while, far ahead or down a side street, we saw a moving figure. Occasionally, no wagon tracks visible, there were stretches of knee-deep drifts, and taking her hand, I helped Julia through them; until presently, after one such stretch, we didn't let go. Holding each other's hand, we walked through that silent bright night, and, as I'm certain Julia did, too, I could feel the horror of the fire begin to recede into the past and let go of us. At a long, shiny stretch of hard-packed snow surface, icy at this time of night, we ran on impulse, still hand in hand, then slid along that stretch, balancing in a way I'd done last in grade school. It was late and we didn't laugh or call out, but we grinned. And once or twice we scooped up snow, packed it, and arched it high into the air for the fun of it. It was fine, that walk, and at one point we heard — from a stable somewhere back of a house, I suppose — the sudden high whinny of a horse and I was suddenly aware of the enormous
mystery
of being here, walking the streets of New York City on a winter night of 1882.

We reached Fourteenth Street and turned east to walk a short block to the foot of Irving Place, which led, then as now, straight up to Gramercy Park. Just ahead, the building on the southeast corner of Fourteenth and Irving Place was brilliantly lighted, and we heard music: a waltz. "The Academy of Music," Julia said, and when we reached it the side entrances were open, and we stopped at one of them to look inside.

What we saw was stunning, dazzling. At least a third of the main floor, the seats removed, was covered by a slightly raised dancing platform, waxed and shining, filled by whirling, dipping, waltzing couples. In the gallery a great orchestra played, violin bows in slanted motion, and every box — level after level of boxes curving in a great horseshoe from one side of the stage clear around to the other — was filled with chatting laughing people overlooking the dancers. Still more spectators filled the stage and the entire rest of the main floor. Great urns of flowers stood along the edge of the dancing platform, and high above the stage hung huge letters and numerals made of gas pipe. They were lighted, and the yellow-white letters of flame spelled CHARITY — 1882.

The ball was an island of light, music, and excitement in a white and silent winter night; it seemed magical to have come onto it like this. Every man there wore white tie and tails, yet the variety of hair length and style and the even greater variety in beard, mustache, and sideburns kept them individuals, recognizable and interesting to the eye. And the
women
in their long but off-shoulder and often surprisingly low-cut gowns — well, if the daytime dress of the eighties tended to be drab, these women made up for it tonight. I don't know the terminology of women's clothes or the materials they're made of; I'll quote again directly from next morning's account of the ball in the
Times:

Mrs. Grace wore cream colored brocaded satin with pearl front. Mrs. R.H.L. Townsend wore blue satin brocaded with leaves and flowers of gold; Mrs. Lloyd S. Bryce wore white brocaded satin flounced with lace; Mrs. Stephen H. Olin wore white watered silk, with pearl and diamond ornaments. Mrs. Woolsey wore black tulle with black satin waist and diamond ornaments. Mrs. C.G. Francklyn wore white silk and diamonds. Mrs. Commodore Vanderbilt wore white silk and diamonds. Mrs. Crawford wore blue silk. Mrs. J.C. Barron wore white satin and lace with diamonds.

My reason for quoting this is that these women, a hall filled with them, absolutely
glittered.

Standing a few feet from us, a man in white tie and tails but with the look of a cop had been watching us; tolerantly enough, the time for ticket collecting long past. I looked over at him now, and he sauntered over. "I know someone here," I said to him. "Is there any way to locate her?" I narrowed my eyes and pantomimed looking out over the hall; for some reason we treat cops as though they were all dumb. He turned to a little gilt chair, picked up a handwritten list of several pages, and handed it to me. "Proscenium Boxes," it was headed, and under this it listed boxes and then-occupants by letters beginning with
D,
and I looked quickly down a long column of names. "Artist Boxes," said the next column, and these boxes were listed by composers' names, beginning with Mozart, Meyerbeer, Bellini, Donizetti. I looked through the names under these, all beautifully written in a woman's hand; I looked under Verdi, Gounod, Weber, Wagner, Beethoven, Auber, Halévy, Grisi, and then, under Piccolomini, I found the names of four women and their husbands, and one of the four was the name I was looking for.

The guard, or cop, pointed out the Piccolomini box, and it was nearly full; four women and three men sat watching the dancers below. The guard walked off, and I murmured to Julia, "There they are: four women. One of them almost certainly knows that today her husband killed half a dozen people. And nearly burned to death himself. So tell me: Which of those four women is she?"

"There is no question of that, is there?" Julia said. "The woman in the yellow gown.''

I nodded; there was no question at all. There she sat, her spine straight, her back not touching the little gilt chair, a strikingly handsome woman in her mid-thirties; and her face was absolutely composed. She'd have been good-looking, very nearly beautiful, except that looking at her face you hardly thought of that; I've seldom seen a face, and never before or since a woman's, of such utter composure, extreme capability, and absolute determination. "Do you see what she's looking at?" Julia said, and I realized that the woman in yellow wasn't watching the dancers.

In the very front of her box, one of the largest and most prominent in the hall, Mrs. Andrew W. Carmody was staring ahead at the great flaming gas letters — CHARITY — 1882 — that said this was the greatest social event of the year. And I understood why Andrew Carmody had acted, had
had
to act, as he did. "What are you thinking?" Julia said; I couldn't take my eyes off that fiercely beautiful face.

"She scares me. I feel chilled, looking at her. But I'm fascinated, too — sort of illicitly thrilled."

"Oh? And why?"

"Because the time will come when that kind of face and person and the kind of high drama she's involved in won't exist anymore; they'll be out of style. Evildoers will be tawdry, committing crimes of violence or bookkeeping in which any sense of drama will be nonexistent. And of the two kinds of people and evil, I'll take those with a sense of style."

Julia was looking at me, her brows raised quizzically. I took a last look at Mrs. Carmody and that wonderful ball; then we turned and walked away, moving past a long line of carriages waiting at the curb, their sidelights flickering, their horses motionless under blankets, the liveried men waiting, and then up the silent street to home, the sound of the waltz dying behind us.

20

I slept very late next day. When I finally came downstairs it was well past noon but I had breakfast anyway, reading the
Times
account of the fire, which covered the entire front page and part of the second. Every other boarder had long since gone, so I sat alone; Julia served me. Looking very pale, violet smudging under her eyes, she brought in coffee when I sat down, and we said good-morning, nothing more.

I had pancakes, Aunt Ada cooking them; I could hear the rhythm of her spoon against the crockery bowl stirring up the batter as Julia stood pouring my coffee. When Julia brought in my first stack, she stood beside the table as I buttered them, I looked up at her, and she said, "He didn't lose a happy life, did he, Si?"

I shook my head. "He was obsessed. Half insane with cravings he would never have satisfied. Nothing would ever have been enough for him, Julia. Once in a while there really is a man better off dead, and he's one."

But Julia rejected that, shaking her head even before I'd finished. "These aren't matters for us to decide. If we'd stayed, if only we'd
stayed —
"

I said, "Listen," and picked up my paper, which was opened to the second page. " 'Assistant Foreman James Heaney, of Hook and Ladder Company No. 1,' " I read aloud, " 'said that his truck reached Nassau-street about two minutes after the breaking out of the fire, and that he was never more astonished in his life. A powder magazine, he thought, could not have flashed up more quickly.' " I looked up at Julia, then back at my paper. " 'Captain Tynan said tonight that in all his experience on the Police force he never saw a fire burn with greater fierceness and intensity.'»

I turned to the first page, ran my finger down a column, and read, " 'The following statement regarding the origin of the fire is made by Mr. E.O. Ball: "I was passing down the rear or Nassau-street stairs… and when near the foot of the stairs flames burst up through the new elevator shaft from the basement. Nothing had occurred indicating an explosion up to that moment. The flames rushed up the shaft like a flash of lightning, and almost as quickly up the stairways in terrible torrents of fire, with dense black smoke, which almost instantly cut off all possibility of egress…." '»

She had a hand pressed to her chest. "It really says that? I haven't looked at the paper; I couldn't bear it."

"Those are actual quotations, word for word, from
The New York Times,
February 1, 1882, anyone free to read it and checkup. The paper's full of them, Julia. 'Edward S. Moore of the
Scottish American,'
" I read, " 'says that… in less than one minute after the alarm of fire was given all means of escape by the Park-row side of the building was cut off.' And there's more of the same from 'John D. Cheever, of the New-York Belting and Packing Company'… 'Alfred E. Beach of the
Scientific-American'…
and a guy named James Munson who looked out his office window in the Tribune Building, saw the World Building just as usual, then looked out again only five minutes later and saw the entire building aflame. Julia, let yourself alone. You didn't cause the fire, couldn't have stopped it, and couldn't possibly have helped Jake." I tossed the paper to the table, then pointed to a paragraph. "Don't miss this, by the way: It's a full account of Dr. Prime's escape along the
Observer
sign into Thompson's office in the Times Building. The man with him was named Stoddard."

I'd helped Julia; I could see I had. What I'd read was true, and I saw the conviction and sad knowledge come into her eyes, finally, that nothing could have been changed. When I'd finished my pancakes, Julia brought in a second stack, and I read her a couple more items I'd found in the paper. Guiteau's relatives, a brief story said, were planning to refrigerate his body after the execution, and exhibit it, charging admission; I smiled but she didn't. A second item said the Harvard class of 1876 had collected money and had sent one of its members to help a classmate in Denver accused of murder, and Julia did smile a little.

Sometime around midafternoon I was looking through a
Harper's Weekly
by a parlor window, when I saw a cop walk past in his tall felt helmet and long blue coat; there were sergeant's stripes on his sleeve. He turned in, rang our doorbell, and Aunt Ada answered it; Julia was upstairs somewhere. I heard the cop at the door, badly mispronouncing and slow with the syllables as though he were reading the name, say, "Miss Charbonneau? She live here?" Aunt Ada said yes, and called up the stairs to Julia. The cop said, "Morley, Simon Morley. He live here, too?" I was up by then, walking into the hall, paper in hand, before Aunt Ada could answer; the cop stood on the stoop, a small square of paper in his hand.

"I'm Simon Morley."

He nodded. "Come along, then." Julia was coming down the stairs, and he nodded toward her. "The both of you. Get your coats."

Aunt Ada and I both said, "Why?" simultaneously.

"You'll be told, all in good time." Something about the way he'd said
all,
and
you'll,
and
along,
told me he was Irish.

I said, "Well, I'd like to know now. Are we under arrest?"

"You damn soon will be if you don't do what you're told!" His eyes were suddenly furious and vindictive, the way cops so often are if you question anything they do. Julia was patting her aunt's arm and murmuring something soothingly. I knew we weren't exactly in the heyday of civil rights, and for Julia's sake, not to say my own, I shut up.

I got my coat and fur cap from the big mirrored stand in the hall, and Julia got her coat and bonnet from the closet under the stairs, assuring her aunt that we'd undoubtedly be home before long and that there was nothing to worry about.

The carriage waiting at the curb was for us. I'd assumed we'd be walking, but the cop stepped past us, opened the carriage door, and gestured us in. Watching us, a man sat on a little folding jump scat facing the rear. I helped Julia into the wide scat opposite him. Then, stooping, I stepped in between her and the man in the jump seat, feeling the little jounce and sag of the carriage body under my weight. The cop on the walk slammed the carriage door as I sat down beside Julia, and as I looked out at him his arm flew up in salute to the man sitting opposite us; not very smartly but with plenty of respect. The reins snapped, the carriage started up, and the man nodded to the sergeant in calm response to the salute. Then he turned to look us over, and as I saw that formidable chilling face full on I suddenly knew who he was. I'd never set eyes on him before, but I
knew,
and suddenly I was badly scared.

He was big, with heavy square shoulders: This is a picture I found of him, and it's a good likeness, though it doesn't show the bald spot at the crown or the look of those eyes in actuality; it's the eyes that were frightening. They were big, and gray, close together as you see, but alive with his own secret interest in us, moving over our faces and clothes, absolutely without interest in us as human beings. We were something to him, something important, but not as people.

He had the largest mustache I've ever seen, completely covering his mouth. And if that enormous walrus mustache, lying there on his face as heavy and thick as though it were carved out of wood, either looks funny or sounds funny, believe me it was not. I stared back, fascinated, wondering if the mouth behind that mustache was so cruel it had to be hidden.

He wore a black overcoat, unbuttoned now; a black braided suit with cloth-covered buttons; a single-breasted black vest with a heavy gold watch chain passed through a buttonhole; black shoes.

He wore a stiff wing collar and a big genuine-looking pearl stickpin — the one in the picture, I think. But it was the face that held me; it moved slightly as those strange gray eyes searched us, frisked us, examined our skins for scars, I could almost believe. I had to drop my eyes to get away from his, faking an interest in my own shoes, and the action made my face flush and made me feel guilty.

This was Inspector of Police Thomas Byrnes of the New York Police Department, its most famous or notorious member by far; and if he had personally come to take us away, then this was no ordinary arrest and I felt a steady thrill of sharp fright. Trying, I suppose, to fight it off, to stand up to this man, I asked a question I meant to sound hard and assured. But it didn't come out that way; it sounded half humorous in intent as though I were ready to claim I was only kidding. I said, "Well? Aren't you going to warn us of our Constitutional rights?"

Nothing changed in his face, but the gray eyes moved rapidly over mine, extracting whatever meaning there might be in this boldness. He saw there was none, and without expression he answered in a ludicrous mixture of half-illiterate speech and a strange broad «a» of what I suppose he took to be upper-class talk. "I'll warn you; keep your half-witted [only he pronounced it "hoff-witted"] remarks to yourself, or I'll show yiz the fat end of a sap." Strange talk from Inspector Byrnes but I didn't laugh, even inwardly.

And then we rode in silence for a dozen blocks, down Third Avenue under the El, rattling and swaying over the cobbles, occasionally lurching or sluing a little sideways through patches of snow. Julia stared out the little round window beside her, angry, refusing to look at Byrnes. I sat, occasionally looking up at him but mostly at the floor or out at the street. The day was overcast and the stores we passed were lighted only feebly, the lights generally far back in the store, yellow and steady if the gas flame was mantled, reddish and flickering if not. A good many stores had permanent wooden awnings built out to posts at the edge of the walks, and once again as I had before, I tried to interest myself in the knowledge that because of this and the frequent hitching posts, Third Avenue in 1882 looked very like a set for a Western movie. But I wasn't interested at all.

We passed Cooper Institute, looking just as I'd seen it last, as far as I could tell, then curved left where Third and Fourth merge into the Bowery. We jounced along a few blocks farther under the El; a train darkened the day even more as it clattered over us, and a little shower of sparks and red embers dropped from the engine, one of them striking the horse's rump and lodging there for a moment, turning gray, but the horse gave no sign of feeling it. "Anything to tell me?" Byrnes said suddenly and I nearly jumped, then shook my head, and so did Julia. A typical Byrnes trick, I thought — the long long silence, then the sudden question that would startle us into talking, if we'd known what he wanted us to talk about. But I was wrong; he was way ahead of me. He had a reason I don't think I could ever have anticipated.

A couple more blocks, then we swung right, onto Bleecker. Three short blocks down Bleecker, then left onto — I saw the painted glass sign around the panes of the streetlamp — Mulberry Street. Halfway down the block we stopped on the left, and I saw two great square lamps flanking the steps leading up into a four-story stone building; the panes of the lamps were green, and I knew this was a police building. The driver was on the walk opening the carriage door, Byrnes gestured, and Julia stepped out. The driver — in derby and tan overcoat, but a cop — was waiting, and as her foot touched the walk he took her arm, firmly. Byrnes motioned me out, and was right behind me, a hand tight around my wrist. Quickly up the steps, and as the plainclothes cop with Julia opened one of the big double doors, I read the gilt letters, heavily shaded in black, on the large plain fanlight over the doors: NEW-YORK POLICE HEADQUARTERS.

Inside, walking very fast, down a wooden-floored hall past a uniformed very stout cop at a desk, I saw worn floors, stained and chipped porcelain cuspidors, dirty dark-green plaster walls, and I smelled the smell, whatever it's made up of, of this kind of much-used building. Moving just short of a run — why,
why
do cops habitually and meaninglessly act nastily, as though it were a kind of instinct? — we were hustled down a flight of stairs, and then into a dingy, low-ceilinged, brick-walled basement room. In it stood a small table; an ordinary wooden kitchen chair; a perforated gas pipe backed by a reflector and mounted on a stand, and connected to a gas outlet by a flexible tube snaking across the wood floor; and, on a wooden tripod, an enormous camera of reddish polished wood, brass, and black leather.

Three plainclothes cops in shirt-sleeves followed us right in; one was bald, the other two wore their hair parted on the left like the inspector's, and two of them wore walrus mustaches, though smaller than his. At a gesture from Byrnes, Julia and I took off our coats and hats, and piled them on the table by the door. One of the men had walked immediately to the camera and begun fiddling with it. The other two stood waiting at the chair before the camera — to hold me down in it, I realized, if need be.

I had no chance of resisting successfully and I knew it, and yet it was the same Constitution now as in my time, and I had to say something. I said, "I want to know why I'm here. I want to know what I'm charged with. I want to consult an attorney. And I refuse to be photographed before I do."