Death of a New American--A Novel Page 4

  Toward the house.

  * * *

  Louise was quiet that night when she came to bed. When I asked how dinner had gone, she said, “Awful.”

  “Mr. Tyler talked a lot about crime and he was very funny. But Alva Tyler asked him to stop. She was a bit sharp with him, I guess she didn’t think it suitable. Only, she didn’t have much to say and neither did the rest of us. Then Mother started talking about the fund for the Titanic memorial and I could see William’s mother didn’t like it. So I started babbling about orange blossom and then Alva Tyler said her head hurt…”

  Oh, dear, I thought. Between Mrs. Benchley’s fund and Louise’s talk of orange blossom, Alva Tyler’s head must have ached.

  “Then William’s mother said she was planning to go to Paris and Mrs. Tyler said she must see the Gardner-Smiths. Then they all talked about places I haven’t been and things I haven’t done and people I can barely remember.”

  She fell into a chair and turned unhappy eyes on me. “Jane, I’m worried. I just don’t see how I can ever be … Mrs. William Tyler.”

  I understood her fear. As Mrs. William Tyler, Louise would be expected to take her place in society, joining charity boards, entertaining the right people in the right way, serving as a sterling example of the moral rectitude of her class. Louise was fine on moral rectitude. It was the rest of the job that posed a problem. Anyone who knew Louise liked her. But when she became Mrs. William Tyler, people would not so much get to know her as get to know of her, and she had yet to develop the qualities of a successful public wife.

  But they would come with time and effort, and so I said, “You will be an excellent Mrs. William Tyler, because William Tyler loves you and you love him. The rest is not important. Go to sleep. You have mothers and wedding plans to battle in the morning.”

  That got a small smile and I felt reassured. Then the smile faded and she said, “William told me that he has to go back to the city at the weekend, the same weekend his sisters are coming to visit.”

  “We’d better start reading Plato, then. Emily’s studying philosophy at Vassar.”

  Louise groaned and fell back on the pillow.

  Mrs. Briggs had warned me I might get lost, and sure enough, I turned the wrong way as I left Louise’s room and found myself at the end of the hall near the master bedroom. I recognized my mistake when I heard raised voices. A more civilized person would not have stopped at the sound of tears. But my step slowed when I heard a tear-choked voice say, “Don’t treat me like a child, Charles…”

  Then Mr. Tyler’s voice, placating, “I’m only suggesting that you might have misunderstood…”

  “I have not misunderstood. I understand perfectly well. We cannot trust her—”

  “Please lower your voice.”

  “She is a liar and … a thief … and all you can offer me is ‘lower your voice.’” She strangled on this last word and for a few moments, she seemed overcome. Then she managed, “You never believe me…”

  “Dearest, I do…”

  The situation had become too painful for me to listen to with any pretense to decency, and I walked quickly and quietly up the stairs.

  But it was hard to forget what I had heard. The ugly words kept sounding in my head like a fragment of song. The accusation of theft was common. Neglected wives used it as a way to engage their husband’s attention, extravagant wives who pawned jewelry to pay bills they’d rather not show their spouses, or angry women looking for scapegoats. I had known too many girls fired unfairly to put faith in Alva Tyler’s claim. But I was very sorry to hear her make it. Clearly, she and the nanny did not get along, but to accuse the poor girl of theft was unworthy of the brave, laughing woman I remembered. Did marriage make all women so small and suspicious? No wonder Louise was anxious about married life.

  Falling asleep in a strange bed is part of the job as a ladies’ maid; you go where your mistress does. I hadn’t slept in a bed that didn’t feel borrowed since I was thirteen. I had tricks to take my mind off strangeness. Usually they involved planning outfits or sewing, but I had no sewing tonight and I had planned Louise’s ensembles when packing. Kneeling down, I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and rummaged in an inside pocket. When I found what I was looking for, I sat on the bed, legs tucked up, and looked at the small package on my lap.

  I hadn’t meant to bring them; while packing, I repeatedly dismissed the impulse to throw them in the suitcase. But I also knew that it was a pastime among hired girls to search the rooms of absent staff. I could remember with shame being fourteen and shrieking with laughter over a photograph of an ugly farm boy another maid kept hidden in a Bible at Mrs. Armslow’s. And I didn’t want Elsie or Bernadette laughing over these.

  They were in a small bundle tied with a ribbon I’d carefully chosen to be plain and serviceable. There was nothing to indicate that these letters were in any way special—except that they were the only letters I’d ever received. And they were all from one person.

  The first letter arrived a few months after I had last seen Michael Behan. I remember the childish excitement of seeing my name—Miss Jane Prescott—written on the front of the envelope, which I opened very carefully. Inside was a folded newspaper clipping; I saw the headline as it fluttered open: MAN FOUND IN BARREL WITHOUT HEAD.

  And there was a letter.

  My dear Miss Prescott,

  I seem to remember making a promise to write you. Also to keep you apprised of my literary efforts, of which I think the enclosed is a fine example. As your employers are no longer in the newspapers—or presumably killing people—I worry that you might not be up to date with the city’s latest doings. This particular incident involves a recent attempt by our Italian American brethren to thin the economic competition by slitting its throat and placing the head in a nearby sewer (although the head’s discovery is not official, and you should not mention it to the Benchley ladies or other polite company). As you can see, I am no longer chasing down badly behaved debutantes, but on to the real squalids and grotesques.

  Should you wish to give your opinion of my humble endeavors, you can write me at The New York Herald, at the address below.

  Yours,

  Michael Behan

  I had had to search out a piece of paper and pen, finally borrowing them from a new maid who wrote regularly to her family in Manchester. Sitting down before I had time to think too much, I wrote,

  Dear Mr. Behan,

  How do you know the head in the sewer belonged to the body in the barrel? It could have been someone else’s head. This is just the kind of sloppy, inaccurate reporting that distresses the conscientious reader and has no doubt led to a decline in subscribers.

  Yours,

  Conscientious Reader

  A week later, I received a second letter.

  Dear Conscientious Reader,

  I’ve always said you can’t beat a girl educated by Presbyterians for lurid imaginings. Something about that stripped-down, joyless faith spurs the brain to conjure visions beyond the reach of saner minds. Still, you raise a good point. No doubt there are many in this city wandering around without heads.

  Enclosed, please find my latest scribble.

  Yours,

  MB

  And it went from there. Every week or two, there was another letter. Dear Conscientious Reader became Dear Conscientious or Dear Lacking in Taste or Dear Can You Not Read? But I stayed with Mr. Behan.

  Dear Mr. Behan,

  Regarding your last article on the so-called Murder Stables of Harlem, I think you do Miss Lenere a grave injustice. If she insists that Frank “Chick” Monaco met with an accident in her apartment, why shouldn’t we believe her? Can a man not be stabbed twenty-five times by accident? Perhaps Miss Lenere is very clumsy. Perhaps she tripped. So her clothes were clean when she arrived at the police station, too clean for someone involved in such a dreadful “accident.” This does not mean she is shielding the actual guilty party. I think you place too much faith in the word of Z
opo the Gimp. Someone named Zopo can hardly be accounted a credible witness.

  Then one day, his letter read,

  Dear Will-Not-Be-Pleased,

  Since you’ve nothing good to say about my efforts, you might as well insult me to my face. In this free and just land of ours, all men have a right to face their detractors and demand satisfaction when they have been maligned—as I have been. Please write back and tell me when and where I can expect redress.

  Yours,

  MB

  I did not write back. I meant to. In my head, I wrote many times.

  Dear Mr. Behan,

  As enticing as the chance to insult you to your face is, I must decline …

  Dear Mr. Behan,

  I think it is better if we restrict our encounters to the purely epistolary …

  Dear Mr. Behan,

  When would you like to meet? My days off are as follows …

  You can consider your words too carefully. In this case, I chewed on mine until they had the consistency and character of mush. A few times, I managed to set the truth straight in my head—Dear Mr. Behan, I want to see you, but I have no compelling reason to see you beyond the desire to do so. That desire, if you did not have a wife, would be in no way controversial. But you do have a wife.

  Even so, please do not stop writing to me—

  I didn’t even have to put these words on paper to know they were impossible.

  I did not want to say yes. I did not want to say no. I ended up not saying anything. I never wrote back.

  And neither did he.

  Extinguishing the light, I lay down on the bed. It was a warm night and the room was low ceilinged and close. The stale air weighed on me, making me uncomfortably aware of my own skin. I felt damp under my arms, at the crevices of my knees. My nightgown clung to my belly, to my back when I rolled over.

  From outside, I heard the wind blow through the leaves of the trees. Mrs. Briggs had said all windows were to be closed, but would it truly make a difference if I cracked the small window in my room just a little? Even an inch or two would let the fresh air in. In the dark, you wouldn’t be able to see that the window wasn’t firmly shut. Anyway, this room looked out onto the back lawn of the house, a dark, deserted place at nighttime, ringed with tall trees.

  I got up and raised it a thumb’s height. A welcome gust of air blew in. I sat down on the edge of the bed, putting myself right in the wind’s path. I put my elbows on the sill and let the breeze air out the thin cotton of my nightgown. I breathed deep, nudged the window farther open still.

  At first I thought it was a leaf, blowing through the night sky. Then I registered a young tree waving in the wind. But no, the form was moving rather than swaying, making slow, careful progress across the lawn. Once it stopped, seemed to turn. And that’s when I realized I was looking at a person.

  More than that was impossible to see in the darkness. The distance made it hard to judge height. Still I leaned out, forgetting the need to be invisible. As I did, the figure seemed suddenly aware it was being watched and hurried out of sight. One of the guards, I told myself. But … far too skittish for a professional watchdog. Nor was I sure that the shape had moved like a man. And Mrs. Briggs had said doors were locked at ten.

  I brought the window to its lowest point and lay back down. The room was fresher now, but my mind was wide-awake. I heard the faint chime of a clock from a distant floor. I counted twelve bells.

  The chimes at midnight.

  4

  The following day was given over to the pressing and complex issue of Louise’s grand entrance. The ceremony was to take place in the garden, which was accessible from the house through two wide French doors. Louise and her father would proceed through them, down the aisle, and to William’s side under a beautiful oak tree.

  It seemed simple. Should have been simple. But then Mrs. Benchley noticed the staircase.

  The staircase wound down from the upper floors to a large entry foyer, which was full of light. Wouldn’t it be lovely, argued Mrs. Benchley, if Louise, her father, and the bridesmaids could come down the stairs, and then come out to the garden?

  “But the guests will be seated outside,” said William’s mother, who had devised the original plan. “No one will see them, no matter how lovely they are.”

  “Well, perhaps we could move the wedding inside,” said Mrs. Benchley.

  There was a long and ominous pause. During which Mrs. Benchley encouraged Louise to walk down the stairs, so everyone could “see the possibilities.” Louise had just made her first tentative step when Mrs. Tyler unclenched her jaw long enough to say, “We are not moving inside.”

  “Louise, keep moving.” Louise took another step. “Now, Florence, just watch…”

  But William’s mother called, “Louise, stop.” Louise stopped. “Caroline, there isn’t enough room.”

  “Oh, but there is. Keep going, darling.”

  Louise took a step down, then, sensing what was coming, stepped back up again.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “we could ask the opinion of the lady of the house.”

  That lady had chosen wisely to remain in her room through the discussion. There was a suspension of hostilities as the mothers sought out Alva Tyler’s views. While they were gone, I said, “What do you want, Miss Louise?” She shrugged in despair.

  Alva Tyler decided the issue in favor of outside, awarding Mrs. Benchley the consolation prize of having the photographer take pictures of Louise and the bridesmaids on the stairs afterward. The discussion moved on to the question of whether Roquefort should be included in the cheese course, given its effects on the breath. Roquefort was struck from the offerings. Then Mrs. Benchley expressed concern over the string quartet—was it sufficient for the occasion? Should it not be a quintet or sextet? William’s mother wondered aloud if Mrs. Benchley would like a full orchestra? Well, bridled Mrs. Benchley, perhaps she would. Then again, said Florence Tyler, given the Benchleys’ Scarsdale origins, the bridal march could also be played on the kazoo with paper-and-comb accompaniment.

  This flippancy escalated the argument to a dangerous level. Spotting William and his uncle on the lawn with the chauffeur, I decided it was best Louise step outside; no one cared what she wanted and if blood were shed, she could truthfully claim to have seen nothing. We left by way of the gallery, which boasted a vivid if unorthodox collection of fine paintings and animal heads. Alva Tyler was gazing at one of the portraits. It was not, I saw as we approached, Sargent’s painting of her, but a lovely vision of a woman sewing while a child leaned on her lap.

  Seeing us, she said, “We brought it back from Paris. It’s painted by a woman. Critics complain that she shows women separate from men, but I think it’s marvelous.” She smiled at Louise. “Lovely to think, isn’t it? This might be you in a few years.”

  Louise went pale; clearly the prospect of a tranquil domestic life seemed remote at the moment. Then as we made our way onto the rolling front lawn, she gave a short shriek.

  Mr. Tyler was holding a large gun. Next to him stood William and Mr. Grimaldi.

  “Not yet on the market,” he announced. “It’s the new Winchester. Internal hammer. Pump action. Holds up to three or four shells at a time and fires as fast as you pump, which can be pretty fast, believe me.”

  I wasn’t sure William understood a word of what his uncle was saying, but he nodded nonetheless. The moment he saw Louise, he stepped away and took her by the hand. She smiled, but tears threatened.

  “An argument about the entrance,” I explained.

  “Mamas battling it out over their chicks,” said Mr. Tyler. “Not to worry. You two go off and let them settle it. Alva and I left it all to her mother and showed up an hour beforehand. Aldo, bring round one of the cars, let these two take a drive.”

  Aldo started off to the garage. As he did, the nanny approached with the baby carriage, Mabel skipping along behind. At the sight of Sofia, Aldo slowed his step. She ignored him—pointedly, I thought—but brigh
tened when William called out, “Hello!”

  At the sight of Mr. Tyler’s gun, she hesitated. “I don’t know if I should bring the children near that.”

  Mr. Tyler laughed. “Quite right. Aldo! Take this back and lock it up, will you?” Then to Louise, he said, “I assure you, Miss Benchley, all my guns are kept under lock and key—except for the one I sleep with under my pillow at night.” He grinned, and I could not tell if he was joking or not.

  William reached into the carriage and lifted what he called the “third in line” up in the air. Roused, the baby began to fuss.

  “Ah,” said William to the nanny. “He only wants you.”

  He handed the baby back to Sofia with a smile that was perhaps too warm for Louise’s agitated spirits, and when the car came, I pointedly noted its arrival. As Louise got in, she called out, “Jane, would you like to come?”

  Surprised, I groped for excuses. “I think I will stay here, thank you, Miss Louise.”

  “They’ll be all right,” said Mr. Tyler approvingly as they drove off. “Yes, they’ll be just fine.”

  Having dispatched the couple out of harm’s way, Mr. Tyler retired to his study, leaving Mabel to formally introduce me to the nanny as “Sofia who takes care of us and sings,” and “Jane who looks after Miss Benchley and I don’t know what else she does.”

  Then she reached for her brother. “This is Freddy. He’s enormous.”

  Sofia swung him gently out of her reach. “Your brother is very handsome, Miss Mabel.” Her English was good, but she had a strong accent. “Brother” was “brudder” and the h sound eluded her entirely. But there was something charming about the way she strung the words together, making “very” and “handsome” into a single superlative veryandsome.

  Then our eyes met over the baby’s head. Sofia said, “Mabel, Mrs. Sherwood will be here soon for your music lesson. Why don’t you go wait for her?”

  Mabel twisted resentfully. “Can’t I stay out here till Mother calls?”