“You followed me?” shouted Gene.
“Keep your voice down,” said Tom.
“What gives you the right to follow me?” said Gene.
“Protecting Magda gives me the right,” said Tom angrily.
“So now I’m dangerous? You violate my privacy, you betray our friendship, and I’m the one who’s dangerous?”
Tom felt a sweat breaking out on his face. He had somehow taken what was supposed to have been a civilized conversation between friends and turned it into accusations and argument. He had thought only of saving Magda’s feelings when he had followed Gene to confirm his suspicions, but Gene was right, it had been a betrayal of his trust. “I’m not saying you’re dangerous,” said Tom calmly. “I’m just saying you need to tell Magda before you hurt her any worse.”
“How many times?”
“Just once, for God’s sake. You only need to tell her once.”
“No,” said Gene, stepping uncomfortably close to Tom and staring him in the eyes. “How many times did you follow me? You said you saw me with men; not a man, but men. And I don’t invite men up to my room that often, so how many times did you follow me?”
“A few,” said Tom, meeting Gene’s steely stare.
“How many?” said Gene.
“Eight times,” said Tom, turning to look out across the crowd. People streamed by them as if nothing dramatic was happening at all, as if they had no idea that a friendship was disintegrating in the middle of Dreamland. “I followed you eight times and twice I saw you with men. I wanted to make sure the first time wasn’t just an experiment.”
“Keep away from me,” said Gene, turning his back on Tom and striding across the courtyard.
“Gene, wait,” said Tom, rushing after him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Gene stopped and spun around.
“Don’t you touch me,” he said, fighting back tears. “Don’t you dare touch me, and don’t you come near me. I trusted you. I opened myself up to you, and this is how you repay me?”
“You lied to me,” said Tom. “But worse, you lied to her.”
“I never lied to anybody.”
“You let her think you could love her.”
“I do love her,” said Gene.
“Not like I do,” said Tom. “Never like I do.”
“That’s true,” said Gene. “Because I would never stoop to deceiving a friend just to be sure her heart gets broken. So I guess you win, Tom. Congratulations.”
“You could never love her back . . . not the way she loves you.”
“Probably not,” said Gene. “But that was my decision to make, not yours. Goodbye, Tom. Tell Magda I’m sorry I had to leave.”
“But aren’t you going to tell her about . . .”
“You tell her,” spat Gene. “Tell her everything you know. Print it in the newspaper for all I care. I’m done with you.” He turned and strode off, disappearing in the crowd.
Tom couldn’t breathe for a moment. He tried to understand where the conversation had gone wrong, what he could have done to keep his friend. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Gene. He only wanted him to be honest with Magda so that Magda could answer Tom’s proposal without any misconceptions about Gene. Tom thought by telling Gene what he knew that he’d be unburdening him of his darkest secret. But he had let his emotions take over and had handled the situation with an utter lack of grace. Now he stood, alone in the crowd, crushed by the sense that he had lost his best friend. Darkness deepened beyond the borders of Dreamland and the revelers seemed to be raising their voices and their level of excitement, but all Tom could hear, echoing in his ears, was Gene’s voice, full of hurt and anger, saying goodbye. And Gene had loved him; Tom knew that. As painful as this moment was for Tom, it must have been heartbreaking for Gene.
“It took forever to get to the front of the line,” said Magda. “Where’s Gene?”
“He had to go,” said Tom.
“What do you mean?” said Magda. “Isn’t he going to come to the top of the tower with us?”
“He didn’t feel well,” said Tom. “He decided to go . . . to go back.”
It didn’t take Gene long, wandering on the Bowery of Coney Island, to find what he was looking for—a dive with a tinny piano playing in the background, cheap liquor flowing from the bar, and a clientele as far removed from the happy revelers at Dreamland—who thought holding hands or grabbing a girl round the waist was the greatest of illicit thrills—as he was removed from Tom. Tom who could never be his; Tom who, even now, was probably celebrating his engagement to sweet Magda. The provocatively dressed women who gyrated on a makeshift stage near the back held no interest for Gene, but he knew that racy burlesque shows were not the only things that had been chased off Manhattan and taken up residence on Coney Island. Even without the tools of his former trade, his effeminate clothes and makeup, Gene knew how to signal, to anyone interested, by his stance and demeanor, just what he had to offer. He bought a glass of caustic gin at the bar, downed it in a single gulp, and lurked in a dark corner, far from the stage. Within a few minutes a burly Italian approached him. Gene and his fellow fairies called men like this trade—men who might even be married and who certainly did not identify themselves as fairies, but who, under the right circumstances, enjoyed the occasional encounter with another man. Twenty minutes later, Gene and the nameless Italian were naked on a hard bed of the cheapest hotel room in Coney Island. There were rules when trade took a fairy to a hotel room—trade were men, masculine men, and they took the man’s role in bed. But Gene didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the first time or the second time or the third time. As he lay there, submitting to the sweaty, panting, pounding of a man he would never see again, he wept—not from pain or shame, but for the loss of Tom. He had never truly loved a man before and he feared he would never love a man again—that the rest of his life would be meaningless encounters in cheap hotel rooms with men who wanted to use him like an object and then creep away, pretending nothing had ever happened, leaving him with a tear-stained pillow and a hollow heart.
Magda had only ever ridden in the elevators in the Flatiron Building—slow, bouncy, hydraulic-powered chambers. As the electric elevator of Beacon Tower made its smooth, rapid way to the top, she felt as if her stomach had been left behind. When the doors opened onto the observation platform, it took a moment for her legs to feel steady again. Then, she walked to the railing and looked out.
Below her the lights of Coney Island glittered in the clear night air, a million bulbs lining the buildings of Dreamland that cast a light more bright and magical than any imagined fairyland. In the distance Magda could see the dim glow of Manhattan, and on the water a ferryboat full of revelers had just pulled away from the pier. The city looked perfect from here—there were no orphans or thugs, no hunger or hatred, no disease or fire or tragedy. And even though she knew all those things still existed down there, Magda loved New York at that moment in a way that filled her with joy. She loved this dazzling, fairy-tale city. Anything could happen here. And, while anything included a thousand people killed in a burning steamer or a man murdered in a rooftop theater, it also meant a girl from Germany could be independent, American, and free—even write a book.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said softly.
“It is,” said Tom. They turned to look out of the west side of the viewing area, across Long Island, perhaps toward where Gene and Nikola Tesla had hoped their future lay, at Wardenclyffe. Tom slipped his hand into the small of her back, and Magda leaned back slightly to press against him.
Tom took a deep breath. He had botched his conversation with Gene; he didn’t want to do the same with Magda. He needed to handle the situation carefully, but he wanted to tell her how he felt, and he couldn’t imagine a more perfect spot, a more perfect moment.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“That’s sweet,” said Magda. “Fri
ends should love one another.”
“Not as a friend,” said Tom. “I mean I love you, really love you.”
“What are you saying?” said Magda, sounding genuinely puzzled. “We’re friends, Tom, good friends.” She took a deep breath and readied her confession. If Tom truly cared for her, he would know what she should do. “And as your friend, I have something I want to tell you. I’m in love with Gene.”
“But Gene can never love you,” said Tom. “Not the way you want him to.”
“Gene does love me,” said Magda, feeling a chill in the air. The hand in her back suddenly felt not comforting but menacing. Why had Gene really left? She knew him well enough to know he hadn’t been feeling ill.
“As a friend, yes,” said Tom. “But Gene can never love you the way I do.”
“What do you mean?” said Magda, pulling away from Tom and wrapping her arms around herself.
“Let’s just say that Gene is never going to be a family man.”
“No,” said Magda, “let’s not just say that. Say what you mean.”
“Gene doesn’t like . . . well, he doesn’t like girls in . . . in that way.”
“What way, Tom? If you have something you think you need to tell me, then do it. Or you could always just mind your own business.”
“It is my business,” said Tom, laying a hand on her arm. “Because I love you.”
Until a few moments ago, no man had ever said those words to Magda, but they seemed cold and empty to her at this moment. She didn’t want to hear them from Tom but from Gene. “What does that have to do with Gene?” she said.
“You love him. He can never love you. I thought maybe you would consider me as a substitute.”
“He can love me,” said Magda, pulling away from Tom and turning to look again at the view over Dreamland. “He does love me,” she added in a whisper.
“Magda,” said Tom, stepping to the railing next to her. “Have you ever heard of fairies?”
“Little creatures who live in the garden?” said Magda. “What in the world . . .”
“Not those fairies,” said Tom. “Men who dress as women and who . . . who love other men. Physically.”
“Why would . . . I don’t understand.”
“Gene isn’t attracted to women. He doesn’t want to . . . to go to bed with women. He goes to bed with men.”
“But that doesn’t make any . . .”
“Why do you think he dressed you as a man the one time he took you out?”
“That was for business,” said Magda, feeling more confused by the moment.
“God, Magda, please understand. Gene is not the right man for you. Gene likes men. He’s attracted to men, not women.”
“Why are you being like this?” said Magda, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. “Why would you tell horrible lies about Gene?”
“They’re not lies,” said Tom calmly.
“They are,” said Magda, raising her voice. “They are lies and I wish you would just stop.”
“You have to trust me about this, Magda. I know.”
“You don’t know anything,” said Magda, turning away from him. “And you certainly don’t know Gene.”
“I know, Magda,” said Tom, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her back toward him. “I know!”
“How, Tom? How could you even pretend to know a thing like that?”
“I know because I followed him,” said Tom, dropping her arm.
Magda stood speechless for a moment, almost unable to breathe. “You did what?” she said at last.
“I followed him and I saw him kissing a man and taking a man up to his room—a stranger.”
“You followed him?”
“I’m a reporter, Magda, it’s what I do.”
“What you do is betray the trust and privacy of your best friends?”
“Listen, Magda,” said Tom more calmly, “we’re getting off the subject here. Forget about Gene. I love you, and I brought you up here to this beautiful place to ask you if you’ll marry me.”
“Marry you?” said Magda in shock, taking a step away from Tom. “How could you possibly think I would marry you? I can hardly stand to look at you right now.” She felt that the beautiful sparkling world that lay below them had been pulled out from beneath her feet and that she was falling through the vortex of Hell Gate—not the ride with its manufactured terror, but the real swirling waters that had consumed her mother. She couldn’t believe what Tom said about Gene, and yet she had seen the way Gene fawned on Tom while ignoring her. The only time he had ever treated her like an object of affection was when she had been dressed as a man. Still, how could Tom act like this? How could he turn on Gene and spy on him? How could he use Gene’s secrets against him, against her?
“Where is Gene, really?” said Magda.
“He left,” said Tom softly. “I told him that I followed him and we got into a fight and he left.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Magda. “I think it’s time for me to leave, too.” She turned and walked through the shadows toward the elevator doors, hoping that Tom would stay away from her, stay at the railing and look out over the shattered dream of Dreamland, thinking hard about how he had thrown away two wonderful friendships. But she heard his footsteps behind her and felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Magda, please. Can’t we talk?”
“We have talked,” said Magda, whirling around. Now she felt flint-hard anger exploding inside of her. This day had been perfect, this summer had been perfect, and now Tom had ruined it all. Everything was tainted with his betrayal. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I don’t want to see you anymore.” She felt hot tears in her eyes as she turned and violently pressed the button that would summon the elevator operator.
“At least let me take you home,” said Tom. “You can’t go by yourself.”
“You have no idea what I can do by myself,” said Magda, not turning to look at him. “You have no idea what I’ve done by myself. I don’t need any man and I certainly don’t need you.”
At that moment, the elevator arrived and the door opened to reveal the smiling man who had brought them to the top of the tower a few minutes earlier. A pair of giggling couples tumbled out onto the viewing platform, loudly marveling at the lights below. Magda let them pass and then stepped into the cubicle.
“He’ll take the next one,” said Magda to the operator, nodding toward Tom.
As the doors began to close, Tom tried to catch Magda’s eye, but she would not look up at him. He had never felt more broken and empty. She was right; in his high-handed pursuit of the woman he loved, he had ruined everything, and lost her in the bargain. As she disappeared behind the elevator doors, he muttered softly through his tears, “Goodbye, Magda.”
XXV
New York City, Upper West Side, 2010
By the time Robert returned to the Upper West Side, the New-York Historical Society was closed for the day. He stood in front of the Beaux Arts building on Central Park West gazing up at the familiar facade. Rush-hour pedestrians streamed past him as he stood rooted to the sidewalk, remembering an exhibition he and Rebecca had seen there a couple of years ago.
The Late Gilded Age in New York had told the story of daily life in the city between 1900 and World War I, a time when Thomas De Peyster had been writing children’s books and working for William Randolph Hearst. While Rebecca pored over pictures of interior décor in Fifth Avenue mansions, Robert preferred the relics of life away from the millionaires. He read a menu from Delmonico’s restaurant, trying to decide what he would have ordered. He studied the map of the elevated train system, imagining what Sixth and Ninth Avenues must have looked like with the sun blocked out by train tracks. He read framed front pages of newspapers recording the great events of the day—from the 1900 election of Teddy Roosevelt to the Chicago Cubs’ 1908 World Series Champions
hip.
Robert had become so lost in the exhibit that he didn’t notice Rebecca had left the gallery. He found her waiting patiently on a bench near the coat check. He could still see her there, sitting quietly, not a hint of perturbation or impatience on her face as she smiled when he came into view.
“Sorry,” Robert said, “I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay,” said Rebecca, bouncing up and taking his hand. “I don’t mind waiting for you.”
Now Robert understood that she had always been waiting for him. Not just because he plodded his way through museum exhibits and took forever to find his keys, but because she had moved into adulthood, into a world where marriage and children were reasonable next steps in life, while he had remained tethered to his past, unable to move forward and unwilling to look back. He did not blame her in the slightest for deciding she didn’t want to wait any longer.
A gust of wind reminded him that evening had arrived, and he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, put his head down, and began the walk home. Waiting at the light at Seventy-Fourth and Columbus, he took out his phone and tried to decide whether to call Rebecca. He knew she wouldn’t answer, but maybe she had left another message. He waited until he was inside the warmth of the apartment, then made the call.
“Hi, this is Rebecca, leave a message.” Nothing else. She didn’t need to say anything else. Robert knew that tone of voice and understood the message as well as if she had spoken for an hour. I’m really angry with you, Robert. I might love you and care for you, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I can live with you, build a life with you. And this whole idea of a deadline is ridiculous. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m going to show up on Saturday or not. Maybe Bradley and Elaine are right. Maybe I’ve already waited long enough. Maybe I should just move on.
The voice scared Robert. He could hear in it the real possibility that he would never see her again. Or if he did, it would be years from now at some cocktail party when he was the rumpled, eccentric, bachelor has-been writer and she was the elegant mother of three with her work featured in the Style section of the Times. This time he left a message. “It’s me. I just wanted to say I still love you. I’m doing story time at the library again on Saturday, but I’ll leave at eleven and be waiting for you just like we agreed. And maybe we can take a walk in the park, because I have a story to tell you.” It was the first time he had verbalized his need to tell Rebecca his buried secrets.
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