The Americans

by John Jakes

  Mrs. Grimaldi laughed. It broke the tension. People began talking softly. A few even smiled and pointed at the prisoner. Faces gradually lost their look of strain, as if there was a realization that the padrone was, perhaps, not omnipotent after all.

  Don Andreas tried to glare the onlookers to silence but it was too late. The policemen lost patience, and jabbed him with their sticks. The detective sprang forward and jerked the wagon doors open.

  When the padrone saw the bars on the doors, he began to curse loudly again. A policeman yanked his arm. He resisted. The officer pulled harder. In a moment Don Andreas was howling, and struggling so violently he had to be subdued by blows of the locust sticks.

  He was half carried, half thrown into the wagon. Finally, with the detective standing on the rear step and clinging to a handrail, the wagon rattled away.

  For a few more seconds, the prisoner’s cursing and raving could be heard in the unnatural silence. Then the wagon turned a corner and Mulberry Street grew noisy again.

  iii

  Will traveled all the way to Newport even though he wondered if Laura would refuse to see him. She didn’t. But she sent word that they would have to speak in the formal garden—out of earshot of the servants.

  She arrived twenty-five minutes after he was sent to the garden to wait. Her curly hair, so reminiscent of her brother’s, straggled over the collar of her dress and down the back. She had a haggard air, as if from sleeplessness or worry.

  Unsmiling, she remained some distance from the marble bench where Will had been sitting. Out on the Atlantic, a long white yacht steamed south under a Wedgwood blue sky crowded with small, fluffy clouds. The garden lay in sunlight one moment, shadow the next.

  “I didn’t expect you to come here again,” she said. “Marcus sent a telegraph message from the city. He said you spoke to Father, but not about us. He said you asked questions about the family business. Matters that are really none of your affair.”

  “I did see your father,” Will said, nodding. “But we didn’t talk much about real estate. He was more interested in discussing an item he paid to keep out of Town Topics.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Laura covered her mouth with both hands. She looked vulnerable all at once; Will was almost sorry for her. But sympathy vanished when he recalled how she’d tricked him.

  “This isn’t pleasant for me, Laura. But it’s necessary. I’ve tried to establish the sequence of things. I figure it must have gone like this. Some days before we—before the morning we went to the shore—someone supplying items to Colonel Mann overheard you say you feared you were carrying a child.”

  She pivoted away, a reaction he took to mean that his guess was correct.

  “On the morning I spoke of, you still thought you were pregnant. So a quick wedding—even an elopement—was an idea that had some attraction for you. And you also went out of your way to remind me that because of being— with you, I was obliged to marry you. Then, the very next day, you completely reversed everything you’d said the day before. I wondered why, and you gave me the answer— only I wasn’t bright enough to see it just then. You told me you were cross because of a—feminine complaint. In other words, sometime during the night you’d discovered you weren’t pregnant after all. You were still willing to marry me—your father explained the reason for that—but there was no longer any need for haste. No longer any need to cover a mistake—though of course, once we were married, I’d always be available to legitimize any others you might make.”

  Despite his best intentions, he was beginning to speak angrily. She heard that. Fear crept into her eyes. He took a step in her direction.

  “That’s all I was good for, wasn’t it? Legitimizing any bastards you might conceive by accident.” His hands clenched at his sides. “What a damn fool I was. I was so dazzled by you, by”—he lifted a hand toward the house— “this—”

  He couldn’t go on.

  She made a steeple of the tips of her fingers and concealed her mouth with it. From behind her hands, she murmured, “God, you sound so bitter.”

  “Do you blame me? You told me you cared for me. I believed you. I trusted you. I thought you’d never made love to anyone else—or that if you had, it hadn’t happened more than once or twice, and only then because your emotions carried you away. But that isn’t the way it was at all.”

  Again he moved toward her. She backed away, but not quickly enough. He seized her arm. “When you thought we should get married right away, who had you been with, Laura? If there’d been a baby, who would have been its real father?”

  “Damn you, let go! You have no right—”

  “After the way you gulled me, I have every right.”

  “I said let—”

  He shook her, hard. “Who, Laura?”

  She looked closely at his threatening face and said, “One—one of the shackers.”

  Even though he expected that, it shocked him. He lost color. “Which one? Muldoon?”

  His anger had been drained away by sorrow and disgust; she sensed a chance to strike back. She tore free of his hand, pushed windblown hair from her eyes and smiled sweetly.

  “I really can’t tell you, my dear. It could have been any one of six or seven.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  REUNION

  i

  SILENCE.

  From the loggia on the east side of the mansion, Will heard the rhythmic click of garden shears. He wanted to hit her but pity held him back. He groped for the straw hat he’d dropped on the bench when he arrived.

  “I guess that says it all. Goodbye, Laura.”

  Her anger faded as quickly as his. With an almost imploring note in her voice, she asked, “Where are you going? Back to Boston?”

  “Yes, then back to New York.”

  He jammed the hat on his head; the movement had a swift, threatening quality. She retreated a couple of steps. Something had changed her mood and left her uncertain, even sad.

  She clasped her hands at her waist, held them tightly together as she whispered, “What will you be doing in New York?”

  “I intend to practice there. But not in the section of town we talked about. Not on Fifth Avenue. Downtown—in an area called the Bend. It’s a slum. Full of Italians and Irish. I know you aren’t interested in the world at large, but you must be familiar with this particular section. The Pennels own a lot of property in the area. Tenements. Filthy buildings, but very productive as investments. Surely you’ve heard the Bend discussed at the dinner table. It provides some of the income that enables you to enjoy all this splendor—”

  Her response was a blank stare. He’d been wrong; she didn’t know a damn thing about the nature of the family’s real estate holdings. If she’d ever heard the Bend mentioned, she’d probably paid no attention.

  “In any case,” he went on, “as soon as I finish my studies, I’m going to practice in the Bend. You might pass this along to your brother. When I’m permanently settled, I’ll do everything in my power to help the authorities punish the people who run tenements. I don’t mean just the rental agents. I mean the owners.”

  “My, you’re getting very sanctimonious—”

  “Call it whatever you like.”

  “You’re turning into a radical, like that father of yours.”

  He looked at her for several moments before he said, “If that’s true, I’m pleased.”

  “You’re disgusting! You and that whole family of yours. You’re canaille—that’s all you are. Canaille!”

  “By your standards, and McAllister’s, I suppose we are. I don’t mind a bit.”

  He’d stayed too long. He had a bad taste in his mouth.

  He turned and started walking. He was halfway across the garden when he heard her coming, screaming at him.

  “You’re an idiot, Will Kent. You’re not going to use your training to help your own kind. You’re going to squander your life among a lot of foreigners—” She was growing hysterical; her shrill voice was cracking. “A—lot of�
�dirty foreigners. They—aren’t—even—Americans—”

  He faced her. “Yes, they are. Better ones than you.”

  He said it quietly, without rancor. She stopped three feet from him, hair blowing wildly around her head, fists balled at her sides, gray eyes filled with tears of fury.

  She stared at him, saw the determination on his face. All at once she began to weep like a girl much younger. “Oh, Will—don’t walk out on me. No one else—who’s decent— will ever marry me if—you walk out—”

  Once more he said, “Goodbye, Laura,” and quickly left the garden. Moments later he was striding down Bellevue Avenue. Free.

  ii

  It was ten minutes past midnight when Will climbed the front steps of the Kent house. The wind gusted along Beacon Street, sharp and cool out of the northwest. A light still burned behind the curtains in his father’s office. He was tired but strangely exhilarated as he rang and waited for someone to answer.

  The door opened. Instead of a servant, Eleanor stood there, clad in nightgown and robe. “Will!”

  “Hello, Eleanor.” He stepped in. “I didn’t expect you to answer the bell.”

  “I was just on my way to the kitchen. I was closest. Are you all right?”

  “Fine—just fine.”

  With a delighted smile, she hugged him. Then she began, “Everyone thought—” She stopped.

  He finished for her. “That I’d gone for good. That was my intention when I left. I made a mistake. Where are Father and Julia?”

  “Julia’s still at the Association office, working on the next issue of the newspaper. She just telephoned and asked Papa to send the carriage in half an hour. He’s in the office. Mr. Calhoun left about twenty minutes ago. He and Papa have been conferring for hours.”

  Will covered the distance quickly. Eleanor followed. He knocked, then pushed the door inward.

  A disheveled figure in shirtsleeves, Gideon looked up from his desk. A cigar jutted from his mouth. His face had a dark, mottled look, but Will was too overcome to notice.

  Gideon’s frown changed to an expression of surprise, then to delight that was quickly masked by caution. “You’re the last person I expected to see tonight.”

  “I came home to tell you I made a mistake. One that nearly became permanent. I’m finished with Laura Pennel. There’s another girl. I’ll tell you about her if you’ll forgive all the rotten things I said to you. Forgive them and let me stay a day or so—”

  Gideon, too, was overcome. He could only say, “By God!”

  He rose from the desk, flung his cigar into the fireplace, and walked toward his son. “I’m the one to apologize. I tried to say the right things but I used the wrong words.” He rubbed his good eye with the knuckles of his right hand. “We’ll have time to talk of that. Plenty of time. Oh, I’m glad you’re home again—”

  His voice broke on the final words. Father and son put their arms around each other with unashamed affection.

  iii

  “Yes, she’s awake,” Drew said. “She’s been sitting up most of the day. She began to make a noticeable improvement when we got your telegram announcing the date you’d be back.”

  He opened the door. Jo was in the midst of conversation with Mrs. Grimaldi, who was seated at the bedside. The tenement room was steaming; a late summer heat wave had set in. The bedlam of Bayard Street drifted up to the open window.

  Will found himself overwhelmed with emotion at the sight of the girl propped against pillows at the head of the cot. “This is no place for me,” Mrs. Grimaldi said. “No place for you, either, dottore.” She took hold of Drew’s arm, pulled him into the hall, and shut the door.

  Will moved to the box on which Mrs. Grimaldi had been seated, bringing it closer to the bed. Jo fussed with her hair.

  “I must look frightful.”

  He took her hand. “You look grand, Jo.”

  “How fine you make that name sound.”

  “It’s because I finally discovered what it means.” He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting the sweet warmth of her breath. “And how much it means to me.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. Bewildered, he drew back. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that—all at once I remembered who took out the bullet. I’m not exactly a prude. But I’m embarrassed by the fact that I no longer have any secrets.”

  “You’re wrong, Miss Hastings. There’s one.”

  “What?”

  “The answer to a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Before I tell you, I want you to know I’ll be coming back to the Bend next summer. I want to take Dr. Clem’s place.”

  Her eyes shone. “That’s what Drew said.”

  “Did he? Well, then, I think you know the question. Will you marry me?” Nervous all of a sudden, he didn’t give her time to answer. “If you’re wondering about the girl in Newport, that’s finished.”

  She flung her arms around his neck and hugged Kim. He slipped his arms around her waist and held her tightly. When she gasped, he knew he’d squeezed too hard. Redfaced, he muttered an apology, then said, “I hope I didn’t put too much pressure on the sutures.” He reached for the sheet covering her. “Better let me have a look.”

  She slapped his hand lightly. “Drew can take care of it. It doesn’t seem right for a girl to have her intended poking and peering at her. That should wait until after the wedding, at least,” she finished with a teasing look.

  “You mean you will marry me?”

  “Oh, Will—don’t you know the answer? I decided a long time ago that you and I would be married. It was just a matter of making it all work out. Didn’t Drew tell you?”

  “Were you always sure it would?”

  “Not always. But I am now. I’ll help you with your work, and we’ll raise fine children named Kent and have a wonderful life together.”

  They whispered and kissed and soon fell to discussing the details of a marriage. Jo’s eyes softened, focusing on some remote but pleasing vista in the future. “Where shall we go on a wedding trip?”

  The question jolted him into remembering his stepbrother. They had a lot to talk about, and some of it wouldn’t be easy. “What about San Francisco?”

  “Oh, yes! I’ve always wanted to visit the West.” But a moment later she wondered if it was a good idea; at the mention of San Francisco, Will’s face had grown troubled. She deliberately changed the subject. “Were you in Boston these past few days?”

  He nodded, his mind elsewhere.

  “And how is your family?”

  She had his attention again. “I’m worried about my father. He isn’t in good health. He refuses to admit it, though. When I was home, I tried to ask some very general questions about the way he’s been feeling. He practically bit my head off while assuring me he was feeling splendid. I don’t believe it, but I don’t know what to do. He won’t let me examine him, and my stepmother can’t get him to a doctor. I will say he’s been in somewhat better spirits since we patched up our differences. But he’s still fretting about my sister. So am I. Eleanor’s not as bitter as she was right after Johnstown, and she’s decided to go back to work, but there’s still something wrong. I know her. Even though she’s a good actress, I can recognize the signs—”

  He shook his head, and spoke his deepest concern. “I sometimes wonder if she’ll ever be happy again.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  SOMEONE WAITING

  i

  AFTER THE CURTAIN CAME down, Eleanor took off her makeup, put on her street clothes, and returned to the stage to wait another thirty minutes. Every night at the same time, a carriage called for her at the actors’ entrance on Sixth Street. The carriage returned her to the theatrical boardinghouse where she’d rented rooms for the season. She could have left with the rest of the company, of course. For the first couple of weeks, she had. But certain experiences outside the stage door had caused her to resort to this later departure, which by now had become a comfortable ritual. />
  She didn’t mind the wait. In fact she enjoyed spending a few minutes alone on the stage when it was empty and lit only by two dim incandescent work lights.

  She liked to pause and touch the stacked flats which only a little earlier had been standing behind the footlights in gaudy representation of a railroad passenger car. The play being presented from the twenty-fifth to the thirtieth of November was The Tourists in a Pullman Car. It was a bit of comédie fluff, but audiences liked it. Eleanor played a major role, but her mind was really on the play that the company would open on the second of December— Sheridan’s The Rivals. Joe Jefferson was producing as well as starring in it. The cast included bright and pretty Viola Allen, whom Eleanor had known at Daly’s, and of course the owner-impresario of Arch Street, Louisa Drew.

  Of Mrs. Drew’s many famous stage personations, Mrs. Malaprop in the Sheridan comedy was perhaps the greatest. At seventy, Louisa was as energetic and funny in the part as she’d ever been. Together, she and Jefferson had made The Rivals an institution in the American theater. Whenever the two of them revived the play, sold-out houses were a certainty. Eleanor was looking forward to playing Julia Melville in the new production.

  Pacing the stage slowly, she gazed past the footlights to the parquet, with the parquet circle above it, then the regular balcony and, highest of all, the family circle. White and gold trim throughout the theater complemented the bright red plush of its seats. A magnificent domed ceiling decorated with floral paintings arched over the whole; in the center hung a great crystal chandelier, barely visible in the darkness. The Drews had completely remodeled the playhouse in the early 1850s, and audiences liked the result. The seating was comfortable and the sight lines superb.

  Eleanor was very glad she’d chosen to make her return to work here. Almost without exception, a new show was mounted every seven days. The demanding production schedule forced her to concentrate on the external world, and helped keep her mind off the past.