City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

“What did you say, Miss Love?” asked Miss Remington pointedly, and not because she was hard of hearing. She leaned across me, and because of her bulk, I had to press myself against the back of my chair.

  “An inspiration.”

  She caught Miss Remington’s astounded expression.

  “To reform, of course!” Miss Love snapped. “An inspiration to commitment!”

  I sighed. It would be a long day, sandwiched between these two. Programs were dispensed. Over the three-day convention there would be lectures and discussions on such topics as the convict lease system and nurse training for colored women. Several presentations would be devoted to the ever-increasing prevalence of lynching. The women would discuss whether federal legislation could be formulated to help curb lynching. Indeed every lecture would end with a call to action—with practical steps women could take to confront the challenge.

  Mrs. Booker T. Washington gave the keynote speech. She spoke about the achievements of the Tuskegee Institute, where Negroes received high-level vocational training as a path toward economic prosperity and equality. Applause was tinged with an undercurrent of critical comment. Even I knew about the debate between Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois. Washington focused his work on economic advancement for Negroes, and he had made concessions on the issue of enforced segregation in return for racial harmony and for support from the likes of Andrew Carnegie. Du Bois, on the other hand, rejected segregation and believed that political action was the only route to equality for Negroes.

  After the keynote speech, a thin, earnest woman from Chicago gave the first lecture, on the subject of the establishment of free kindergartens for Negro children in the Midwest. With discussion time, this lasted about an hour. The next topic was a consideration of the state of Negro teacher training, an issue of much concern and debate. As the time passed, the hall grew stuffy. Negro and Caucasian alike, we fanned ourselves with our programs.

  Finally, at three P.M., Mrs. Talbert took the lectern to give the day’s concluding remarks. She stood silently for several moments, garnering the room’s attention. After thanking the lecturers, she said, “Now we will disperse for the day, and many of us, I know, are eager to tour the Pan-American Exposition, for both pleasure and education—for pleasurable education!” There was a smattering of laughter. “Before you go, I must confess to you my great disappointment that despite my best efforts, the exposition pays no formal recognition to our achievements as a race. Accept my apologies, for having failed you.” For a moment she bowed her head in humility. “And yet … I cannot accept that all is lost. No, I will never accept defeat. I believe we can still make a difference.” Several women cheered. “Therefore I am calling today for a leaflet campaign. If each one of you takes only five leaflets each day to distribute among the visitors to the Pan-Am, our request will turn into a groundswell of support, and I pray—I know—that the public will rise up with us to demand our rightful place at this, the greatest exposition in the history of our nation!”

  “Amen!” the women called. There was conversation all around and questions were called out as the women pondered more action than simply a leaflet campaign. As righteous passion surged around me in the stifling heat, I felt a need to escape. Immediately. Their cause was hopeless. Bidding good-bye to a surprised Miss Love, forcing my way around Mary Remington’s wide legs, I left. I didn’t have the strength to be part of hopeless causes.

  Wanting a bit of a walk, I took the streetcar only partway home, listening to the other passengers chat in German, Italian, and Polish. I disembarked at the corner of Main and Allen streets, the atmosphere around me raucous and commercial. From there I strolled across Allen to Delaware Avenue—several short blocks, bringing me to peace and tranquility All at once I was in a different city altogether. On Delaware, the elm trees along the sidewalks met overhead in a green arch, while across the wide lawns sprinklers swirled in a flash of diamonds. Lawn mowers whirred, and the breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass.

  At this hour of the afternoon, in the warm, quiet shade, there were few people around and fewer vehicles, just the ice wagons, making their slow journey from house to house, the horses’ hooves muffled by the heat-softened asphalt. Regardless of its architectural style, each house had French doors and ivy vestments; tall upper windows filled with gauze curtains that swept in and out upon every breeze; and stone flowerpots brimming with blue and orange blossoms. My girls, when they were Grace’s age, viewed the entire avenue as their private domain. On summer days, when the mood struck them, they would go from house to house on their horses and beg treats from the cooks at each kitchen door.

  At the corner of North and Delaware, at the top of the hill, I turned and looked back over the city. Beyond the skyscrapers, church steeples, and grain elevators, Lake Erie shimmered in the distance. High clouds drifted across the sky. The air was so clear I could see even the smokestacks at Stony Point. Along the lakeshore, freighters, steamships, and commercial schooners glinted in the sunlight, while beyond them sailboats caught the wind for pleasure, colorful spinnakers unfurled. To the west were the beckoning green hills of Canada. Less than fifty years ago, escaped slaves had made the journey across the Niagara River at night to freedom. Buffalo, the final stop on the Underground Railroad: We had so much to be proud of.

  I continued walking up Delaware, past two mansions designed by Stanford White in the style of Renaissance palaces. Then I passed Westminster Church, with its soaring Gothic spire.

  “Miss Barrett?”

  I turned to find Franklin Fiske wheeling toward me on his bicycle. Hailing me on the street, he’d used my family name, and once again I appreciated his discretion. He came to a stop at the curb and dismounted. Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

  “Where have you been, Franklin?” I asked as he brought his bike onto the sidewalk beside me.

  “In and out of town,” he explained. “Serving time in the state capital, basking in the summer beauties of Albany while interviewing state water inspectors.”

  “Was that interesting?” I asked, skeptical.

  “Oh, being a water inspector is a most unusual job,” he assured me. “You go to a power station, let’s say right here at Niagara for the purposes of argument. Pad and pencil in hand, you stare at the water flowing into the powerhouse sluices for a good long time. You stand alone and uninterrupted. Then you pronounce the amount of water being taken as absolutely within legal limits. Thank you for noticing my absence,” he added abruptly. Looking around at the deserted street, he asked, “Might I walk beside you? If it wouldn’t scandalize the town, that is. And if your errand isn’t secret.”

  “I’m walking home. And yes, you may walk beside me.”

  While he pushed his bicycle by the handlebars, I felt the sense of his body there beside me: tall and slender, the dark hair, the smell of him—a touch of sweat on this hot day mixed with his citrusy shaving lotion, the lemony scent cutting through the heat.

  “This is a nice sidewalk,” he observed.

  I laughed at his excuse for conversation. “Yes, it is very nice. Red medina sandstone. One of the prides of the city. Brought here by barge on the Erie Canal.”

  “You’re certainly a font of knowledge.”

  “Part of my job description: experienced schoolmarm, font of knowledge.”

  “You shortchange yourself.”

  “That, I assure you, I would never do. You’re very fashionable these days, wheeling around town.”

  “Yes, it’s true: I am fashionable.”

  “I’ve never been on a bicycle.”

  “Try mine,” he offered.

  “No, thank you,” I said firmly. “A woman in my position must be properly attired for wheeling.” The Buffalo Women’s Wheel and Athletic Club recommended sturdy knee-length bloomers and thick stockings.

  “Quite right,” he agreed with mock-seriousness. “A woman in your position must always be properly attired. Whatever she’s doing,” he added in a voice that h
inted at unseemly implications. When he saw that I ignored them he continued. “This is a wonderful city for wheeling.”

  “You can thank Mr. Albright for that. He arranged for the asphalt. You may not know that Buffalo has more paved streets than any other city in the nation.”

  “Really! Good to know. A conversation opener: ‘Mr. Albright, I certainly have been enjoying the asphalt. And what was your profit in it, may I ask?’” Before I could object to his profit-motive explanation for all local endeavors, he said, “Speaking of Mr. Albright, I’ve also been taking my camera to Stony Point. The perfect time, when everyone in charge is busy with the exposition, to mosey around in pursuit of ‘artistic’ industrial photography.”

  “And what have you found at Stony Point?”

  “The construction of a very large steel mill. A veritable ‘city of steel.’”

  “Nothing new there. You could have found that out by reading the newspapers.”

  “And for once the newspapers are right! I can confirm with my own eyes that they are not exaggerating. A most unusual discovery for a newspaperman to make, believe me. A first, in my experience. I have an urge to cable Mr. Pulitzer to report ‘newspapers correct on city of steel.’”

  “And did you receive a warm welcome out there?”

  “Not at all,” he said happily. “I had to spend days ingratiating myself with the middle-level bureaucrats while the bigwigs were in town showing themselves off to the various dignitaries come to see the Pan-Am. Of course I planned my visits around the absence of these selfsame bigwigs. The bureaucrats became very talkative, I’m pleased to say, once they discovered my innocent, useless—dare we say unmanly—dedication to photography. They quite let themselves go. Verbally, that is, the way another class of men does with you, my dear Louisa.” He tipped his hat.

  With a nod, I acknowledged the double-edged compliment. “Did they tell you anything useful?”

  “No …” He dragged out the word. “Not directly useful to me. But useful for another story. My esteemed leader Mr. Pulitzer considers himself the champion of the immigrant classes, as you know, and that steel mill is a hazard to immigrants if there ever was one.”

  “You mean the shantytowns?”

  “Yes, partly. But you’ve got shantytowns outside every new industrial complex. The bigger problem is that the whole place is electrified and the men don’t understand one whit about electricity: They trip over wires, they step into puddles that have wires in them, they touch connections. They’re getting electrocuted like there’s no tomorrow and since most of them don’t speak English, you can’t even explain what’s happening and why. You’d need translators for fifteen languages if you even wanted to try. Your friend Albright doesn’t care, because for every man who’s down, there’s ten waiting to take his place. I’m writing it up. Hoping the boss will send someone to look into it. My esteemed employer loves a crusade, you know. Feather in my cap to give him one.” Apparently he’d exhausted the issue of the steel mill, for next he said, “Now, here’s a question I’ve often pondered: When does one say ‘macadam’ and when does one say ‘asphalt’? I must inquire of the copy editor at the paper. Where are you coming from?” he asked, the sudden shifts in the conversation startling me.

  “The biennial convention of the National Association of Colored Women. At Lyric Hall.”

  “Oh, yes.” He looked annoyed with himself. “I forgot about that. Well, I can’t be everywhere.”

  “Frederick Krakauer once said the same thing to me.”

  “Then it must be true. When were you talking to him?”

  “We met—” All at once I didn’t want him to know about my visit to Albright at Stony Point. Franklin was always seeking implications and permutations, as if we were all caught in a giant web and awaiting his dissection. “We met by chance. He was rather charming, in his highly distinctive way.”

  “I’m sure of it: Distinctive charm is undoubtedly part of his job description. But this convention of colored women …” Franklin mused. “It seems to me I’ve been hearing about that. There’s a woman named Mary Talbert involved, I think?”

  “Yes,” I said, puzzled about what he might have heard.

  “And she’s been raising trouble at the exposition?”

  “Has she? I saw her protesting when Roosevelt came, but I didn’t think—”

  “It’s coming back to me now. None of this has been reported, of course, so in that respect her protests don’t officially exist”—he raised his eyebrows and nodded in recognition of our joint understanding of the realities of the city—“but apparently she’s been making a pest out of herself. Printing leaflets and lecturing from soapboxes—all very harmless in the scheme of things, but no doubt there’ll be more of the same during this convention. I sense that our esteemed Pan-American investors wouldn’t want to lose a single paying customer because of a bunch of colored women forgetting their place—at least that’s how our more distinguished citizenry seems to see it. Ah well, just another facet of the ever-fascinating microcosm that is your city.”

  He glanced at me sidelong. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve missed you too.” And I had: I’d missed his conversation, and even his admiration.

  “In addition to everything else,” he said nonchalantly, as if it were of no importance whatsoever, “I’ve been looking into possible links between the late and lamented Karl Speyer and the youthful James Fitzhugh. Beyond the obvious link of profession, I mean.”

  “And have you found any links?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted cheerfully, “but I’m sure there’s something out there, just waiting to be stumbled upon. I don’t suppose you’ve discovered anything you want to tell me about?”

  This question angered me, but I forced myself to sound lighthearted: “Franklin, I told you I wouldn’t betray my friends. Why are you pressing me about this again?” I demanded, my anger slipping out.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, looking genuinely bewildered.

  I trusted him enough to answer honestly: “I feel as if you’re using me, by asking a question like that.”

  “Using you? I’m sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way. I simply thought, well, I imagined we could be together on this … you know”—he glanced away for an instant—“together. I’ve always thought, theoretically, I mean, that there’d be something wonderful about being united on a crusade with someone, fighting the good fight, two together, swept up in the romance of it all….”

  He looked at me for affirmation. Was I tempted? Tempted to blend politics with romance, betrayal with love, two like-minded people united to create a revolution? Theoretically, like him, I could see the appeal in such a life, but for myself … well, perhaps I’d spent too many years carefully watching the world and calibrating my every reaction to suddenly dedicate my entire being to the changing of it. He waited for some response from me. Then: “Have you discovered anything?”

  An image came into my mind: the documents on Tom’s desk. The lines of writing; the figures, the initials, repeated over and over, amounts of money beside them. Could this be evidence of bribery, the very bribery Daniel Henry Bates had been talking about in his lecture at Lyric Hall? All at once I perceived that it might be. But did this realization mean that I should join Franklin’s crusade? Was his battle now my battle too? A sudden impulse toward confession captured me.

  “Franklin.” I stopped walking and turned to him. I placed my hand over his, where he held the handlebars of his bicycle. We were at the corner of Delaware and West Ferry, near the Milburn house and the Albright estate. The wind from the lake swept around us.

  “Yes?” he said urgently, placing his other hand over mine, believing this was the moment that would unite us.

  “I …”

  “It’s all right,” he said, his voice both reassuring and eager. “You can tell me.”

  “Several weeks ago—” But I couldn’t go on. The image of Grace came before me. Grace and Tom, both.
I couldn’t betray them. I wouldn’t. I exhaled in frustration at the conflicts inherent in my position. “I’m sorry….”

  Our friendship would be over now, I knew. He would walk me home, of course, because he was a gentleman, but we would never speak again, beyond the demands of politeness. How deeply I regretted this—but he was the one who’d made me choose.

  Then Franklin surprised me. “All right,” he said simply. His eyes reflected the color green—leaves and mown lawns. “I won’t mention it again. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “No, I suppose not,” I said, caught off-guard by this turn in my expectations. “Of course not.”

  “Well, that’s all right then.” He brushed a windblown lock of hair back from my face, making us friends again.

  And so we continued our walk. I felt worn down by the crisscrossing subterfuges that ruled my life, and I took refuge in the beauty around us. At the circle we turned onto Chapin Parkway. Elm trees in five widely spaced rows basked in the yellow mist of late afternoon. Chapin truly was a “parkway.” With only a few houses on each side, it was like a radiant, ceremonial path into a forest. I felt (not for the first time) as if I were living within the mind of Frederick Law Olmsted; I’d become a figment of his imagination, Franklin and I stepping into his painting of the perfect city.

  We entered the yellow mist. At Soldier’s Place we turned onto Bidwell Parkway: There was my house, outlined in the raking light; there was the school rising in its Gothic splendor, construction scaffolding across the back and part of the roof.

  It was close to six o’clock. All was quiet. Was this early for the construction workers to have stopped for the day? I couldn’t precisely remember their hours; sometimes certain elements needed to dry before the men could move on to the next step and so the foreman let them off early; on other days, they worked straight through to sunset.

  Nonetheless the sight of the deserted scaffolding broke into my reverie. Even here, at this small project, going on less than a month, there’d been labor disputes and walkouts. One morning there’d been a picket line from the carpenters union in front of the school; this left me in the uncomfortable position of being simultaneously irate at the delay and philosophically sympathetic to their cause. Last week the contractor had had to hire two nonunion bricklayers who happened to be Negro to get a certain bit of work done while the fine weather held. Francesca had warned me that this might lead to repercussions, but she and the contractor had felt the need to press ahead.