City of Light

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City of Light Page 46

by Lauren Belfer


  Franklin interrupted my thoughts. “Anything you’d like to add or comment on?”

  “No,” I said. Too quickly.

  For a moment Franklin regarded me with probing skepticism. Then, as if changing the subject: “I must say my colleagues have come to feel obscurely set up in this business of the power station bombing. The whole thing seems overly orchestrated. But they can’t pinpoint anything, so they’re left reporting whatever sensational possibilities they can dream up. But I’ll confide in you, at least, that if Sinclair even begins to do what he apparently intends to do, I don’t think he’ll live out the year.”

  “Why don’t you help him, then?” I demanded.

  “First of all, I wouldn’t say—professionally speaking—that it’s precisely my job to help him. And let’s not forget that no matter what he intends to do with the electricity, he’s going to need to take all the water from Niagara to do it. I must say I rather like the mighty cataract. I enjoyed our day there. Didn’t you?”

  I remembered my feelings that day: the comfortableness of him, the easy camaraderie. “I did enjoy it,” I said sadly. Most likely our closeness wasn’t appropriate now, as I contemplated the possibility of life with Tom and Grace, certain choices inevitably eliminating others.

  “Thank you for saying that, at least.” He gazed at me, and I looked away. “I don’t suppose you’d consider marrying me?” he asked. Caught off-guard, I glanced sharply at him.

  And I realized that I did like him. Very much. I was attracted to him … most likely I could even give myself permission to feel passion for him. Certainly a life with him would be constantly interesting and enjoyable. And yet … I couldn’t even entertain his question. For me there was only one path, the path leading toward Grace.

  His eyes were cheerless; he had sensed my answer.

  “I’m sorry, Franklin.”

  “I didn’t think so. But why don’t you at least consider it. I wouldn’t make any demands on you—apart from the usual ones entailed by matrimony,” he said bleakly, unable to summon up the licentious irony that he might otherwise have given this reference. “I mean, I would never ask you to give up the school. And of course I do love you,” he added, looking away. This was the first time a man had ever told me that he loved me. How odd. When I was younger, I had often imagined this happening to me, but now I felt too exhausted to appreciate it. “Well, think it over,” he repeated, meeting my gaze once more. “We’ll call it an open invitation.” He managed to make his voice sound almost normal.

  I wanted to reassure him of my feelings for him, but I didn’t know how. Nor could I confess the reason that prevented me from accepting his proposal. I could only take refuge in politeness. What was it that ladies were supposed to say in such situations? “Franklin, I’m so very flattered—”

  “Oh, don’t mention it.” Rising, he waved the conversation away. “Well, I’m off, then. Thank you for tea.”

  “Franklin—”

  Hurriedly he saw himself out, leaving me to stare after him.

  • • •

  Returning to my desk at home, Franklin’s words in my mind, I felt utterly drained. As I tried to work, the walls of my study seemed to imprison me. I couldn’t escape the lingering sense of regret brought by Franklin’s question. It would be lovely to marry him; what a wonderful companion he would be. But I couldn’t desert my daughter or turn away from my commitment to Tom, tenuous as it was.

  And I couldn’t focus on my work now either; too much had happened in the past few days, bringing on more emotions than I could process. I needed to be outside, walking, running. Impulsively I got my bag and hurried out.

  What to do? Where to go? The beauty of late afternoon contrasted with the anguish inside me. I walked into the sunlight, toward Elmwood Avenue and its charming stores. Unexpectedly I felt a desire to visit the confectioner’s. Momentarily all thoughts of Franklin, Tom, and even Krakauer were banished from my mind. I knew exactly what I wanted: a bittersweet-chocolate-covered marshmallow bar.

  This summer the local branch of Huyler’s was open on Sunday afternoons and early evenings, “exposition hours,” they were called, and they were a godsend. Huyler’s wasn’t too far from the exposition’s Elmwood Avenue entrance and so garnered a good deal of business; elsewhere, shops remained firmly closed on Sundays.

  As I walked down Elmwood to Huyler’s, I mused upon my forthcoming purchases. I would get myself the dark chocolate bar because I loved the luscious contrast between the sweet, fresh marshmallow and the bitter chocolate. For Grace I would buy the milk chocolate marshmallow bar because, well, because she was a child and children were supposed to prefer milk chocolate.

  Huyler’s was like an Oriental emporium. Molasses slip, butter crunch, almond turtles and almond bark, marzipan, fudge, mint patties, nonpareils, jellies of every size and color. All were displayed on shelves behind glass as if they were precious objects deserving the highest respect. The candy was made in the back, so the store always smelled like molten chocolate. The white-tiled floor and walls, the tin ceiling, the wooden counter, the gaslight fixtures—they looked slightly old-fashioned, reminding me of candy stores I visited in my girlhood, comforting me with the memory. But like all childhood memories, it was double-edged, and so I came to Huyler’s only when I wanted to feel like a hopeful child rather than like a chastened adult gazing back at that time of hope.

  There were two women ahead of me, which gave me a welcome respite to study everything before I was called upon to make a decision. I indulged myself in all the options I might enjoy, even though I knew very well what I was going to buy in the end: I did love marzipan, provided it wasn’t too sweet, and also the crunchy squares of almonds….

  The bell jangled, someone new coming in, and at first I didn’t even look up. Then gradually I realized, by the shape and aura of the body, by the smell of pipe tobacco, that the person who came to stand beside me was Frederick Krakauer. I didn’t dare step away.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” asked the freckle-faced salesgirl. She spoke with a slight German inflection. She looked about twelve. Maybe she was the owner’s daughter. Or perhaps she was living on her own already. Or the sole support of her family—alternatives swept through my mind as I tried not to focus on Frederick Krakauer at my side. “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, of course.” With relief I stepped forward and placed my order for the two marshmallow bars.

  When I was putting my change away, Krakauer, ignoring the freckle-faced girl and moving just behind me, said quietly, “Look here—bars with almonds, bars with raisins, bars with peanuts. Bittersweet, milk.” I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. “How is a man to decide?”

  I must not let him see that he frightened me. Still like a child I was, hearing my father’s voice as he taught me how to walk in the woods and the mountains: Don’t ever turn your back and run away from a wild animal. I must make a stand.

  “I recommend the bar with raisins,” I said resolutely, turning to him and putting on my schoolmarm demeanor. “There’s something satisfying about the contrast between the hardness of the chocolate and the softness of the raisins, even though the raisins are more of a texture than a taste.”

  “Is that so?” Krakauer gazed at me in surprised admiration. “How astute of you.”

  So I had won whatever test he’d set for me, and my victory pleased him.

  “But you bought marshmallow bars.” Without a trace of irony, he bore a pouting expression that for him seemed exceedingly odd and made me even more wary.

  “Marshmallow bars also have their place.”

  Abruptly he said to the salesgirl, “I’ll have four milk chocolate marshmallow bars with caramel.”

  “Four?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Well, I am quite a bit bigger than you,” he explained.

  When we were outside, Krakauer took one of his marshmallow bars out of the bag. I had been raised never to eat while walking on the street, and I taught my girls the same. But here was a man
who either showed no compunction toward proper behavior, or came from a place where improper behavior was the norm. Or else I had become a prude as I’d grown older, failing to keep step with the times. Perhaps in the twentieth century it was perfectly acceptable for proper people to eat on the street.

  Holding the moist, melting bar poised in his hand, Krakauer announced, “I’ll walk with you.” Inwardly I flinched; if he wished to walk with me, then of course I must allow him to walk with me. I must force myself to appear completely content, indeed pleased, with his company, when every part of me wanted to flee.

  When we reached the corner and waited for a carriage to pass, he looked at the brilliant sky and loudly sighed. “Oh yes indeed, another gorgeous evening. How lucky we are. I just hope this weather lasts through the week. Don’t want any umbrellas for President McKinley and the Mrs.”

  I nodded; what could I say?

  As we crossed Elmwood Avenue, he took his first bite. “Mmm.” He chewed on the caramel. The marshmallow would melt on its own—just thinking about it made my mouth water. “Nice and soft.” Once more he sighed. He held the bar upright, so the caramel wouldn’t pour out. In two more bites he’d finished. He licked the melted chocolate from his fingertips with a gurgling laugh of pleasure. He swept his tongue across his teeth, relishing the taste. Unembarrassed, he paused to wipe his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “My daughters have always loved these bars with caramel and marshmallow. Now I understand why. And I thought they were for children! How wrong I was! So many years wasted.” He shook his head in mock despair.

  Apparently, in his eyes, we had become friends. We engaged in a seemingly companionable game of one-upmanship, comparing memorable chocolate bars we had enjoyed over the years and discussing the multifaceted glories of ice cream.

  When we reached Bidwell Parkway, taking refuge in a bantering tone I asked, “Mr. Krakauer, you don’t really believe you can walk into anyone’s house anytime you desire?”

  He looked uncomfortable and straightened his jacket, pulling at the hem. “I have done,” he said apologetically. “But only when it’s absolutely necessary. I hope that doesn’t lessen your respect for me. I have enormous respect for you, I’d never like to think …” He regarded me plaintively. “And besides, Mr. Sinclair might have been in danger—hasn’t he been in danger before? Haven’t people tried things before? Of course they have! Who knows what tactics these nature lovers might use. And these unionists too. Dynamite is so easy to come by these days.”

  He was sincere. Self-effacing, even. He portrayed himself as a man who performed a difficult job in the service of a greater good—as he himself defined that greater good.

  We walked down Bidwell on the grassy, tree-lined center median toward school.

  “This entire situation has become very frustrating for me, Miss Barrett. There’s a chance I could lose my position. And if I lose my position, what will happen to my girls? I’ve been able to accustom them to a very comfortable way of life, I don’t mind telling you. We live on Staten Island, you know. In New Brighton. A very comfortable neighborhood. I can’t let my girls’ comfort be compromised.”

  Obviously upset, he stopped walking and turned to me. “Sinclair won’t listen to reason. He just goes along on his merry way without giving a thought to anyone. He’s selfish, that’s his problem. You know …” He gripped my arm but released it in an instant when he realized the inappropriateness of touching me. “I’m beginning to worry that he might feel the need to make some kind of announcement in front of the president this week. A public announcement. Putting everything out in the open so we can’t negotiate anymore. Once the public starts agreeing with him, it’s hard to negotiate. Has he said anything to you about an announcement?”

  So … Krakauer had been too late to hear Tom’s intentions. Don’t blush, I ordered myself, please—don’t give anything away. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “He hasn’t said anything.” I forced myself to look bewildered. “Nothing at all.”

  “Or maybe a private announcement,” Krakauer mused. “A whisper in the presidential ear about the good of the nation—although I don’t think Mr. McKinley is the type to see any good in Sinclair’s plan. But you never know if there might be some political advantage to it. That ring any bells for you?”

  “No,” I assured him. He studied me carefully. I forced myself to meet his gaze.

  “Oh, all right, I believe you,” he said finally. “I must say, you’ve always been generous with me, and I appreciate that in you. Not many people meet me so frankly. I always get the feeling that they think they’re talking to my employer when they’re talking to me. But you seem to be really looking at me. I like the way you tease me, like you’re part of the family. To tell you the truth, I was waiting for you. Outside your house.”

  All at once I was terrified of him—watching, waiting.

  “I followed you to Huyler’s, hoping for a moment when we could talk. I didn’t like to go knocking at your door, a woman in your position. A woman I have so much respect for.” His eyes narrowed. “Even though other men don’t seem to know the meaning of respect,” he said derisively. I knew he was referring to Franklin. “Well, they have their standards and I have mine.”

  I said nothing, too frightened and horrified to speak.

  “The problem is,” he continued, “I’m worried my interview with Sinclair yesterday morning might have made him feel like I’m forcing his hand. Maybe I’ve mistakenly pressured him into taking action—into making some kind of announcement—before he himself intended. I’m worried I’ve made a mistake. I’m so worried about this that I’ve consulted my superiors.” He took my elbow as though he needed my support, and I pulled away.

  “Oh, it’s not what you think, Miss Barrett,” he said quickly and reassuringly. “I haven’t corresponded with Mr. Morgan.” He whispered the name. “I’ve been in touch with his representatives. His attorneys. His chief attorney, to be exact.”

  Francis Lynde Stetson was Morgan’s chief attorney, as well as a close personal friend of former president Cleveland. I felt a pressure in my throat from the convoluted closeness of all these people to one another and to me.

  “My superiors are growing impatient. With me and with Sinclair. I wish there was some way … something I could do or say, to make him realize the importance of all of this. No one wishes anything, well, unfortunate to happen to him, or to his child, or to you—especially not to him, if you’ll forgive me. Seeing as he knows so much more about the power station than anybody else. And he has that talent of his for making union men work. That’s the reason all of this has had to be so roundabout.”

  “Mr. Krakauer.” Suddenly I was desperate; despite my best efforts, my voice was about to break. “Why do you make threats against my goddaughter? She’s only a child. She’s not involved with any of this. You have children yourself: How can you do this? Why can’t you keep her out of it? Please, I beg you.”

  “Oh, I wish I could, Miss Barrett, I wish I could. But you see, life is so mysterious. We just never know what might happen. To any of us.” He stared down the street to Soldier’s Place. “Now, if I was a father—which I am, of course; that’s not what I mean.” He licked his lips. “What I mean is, I would never do anything to risk my daughters’ well-being. I would want them to be always—basking in marshmallow bars! With caramel on the bottom! I would want them to be licking melted chocolate off their fingertips forever!” As he said these jesting words, his tone was deadly serious. I knew then that if he chose to harm Grace, nothing could stop him. “But that isn’t always possible, is it? All too often something comes along to interfere with the way things ought to be. With the way we want them to be. Our supposed friends begin blurting out gossip to aid their own advancement. Problems begin to pressure us in ways we never could have foreseen. Things get to a point where it’s too late even to correct our mistakes—once we’ve finally realized our mistakes. The time to take action is before it’s too late, not afterward.”r />
  “That means you’ll promise me to keep my goddaughter out of this, or you won’t promise?”

  “I wish I could promise, Miss Barrett,” he said sadly, shaking his head as if to prove how much he wanted to relieve my anxiety. “For you especially. But she’s already involved, whether we like it or not. You see, I’m helpless. Please believe me. Helpless. I’m only a messenger.”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  I’m only a messenger. I was trembling by the time I closed my door on Frederick Krakauer. What could I do to protect my daughter? What could I do?

  Grace would arrive in about a half hour. Suddenly I didn’t want her to be seen on the street, even with Mrs. Sheehan. She had to remain at home, where at least the walls of the estate might offer her some protection. I telephoned and told Mrs. Sheehan to expect me there; she mustn’t bring Grace here.

  That wasn’t enough, however. I couldn’t simply walk down Lincoln Parkway with my bag of marshmallow bars and dine with Grace as though nothing were amiss—as though Krakauer’s threat were not out in the open, obvious and blunt. I telephoned Tom’s office at the power station. One of his assistants answered, and after a long wait Tom himself came to the telephone. Struggling to keep a growing hysteria out of my voice, I explained to him what Krakauer had told me.

 

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