City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

  Then came a litany of riding and Rowan, swimming and tennis, Ruth Rumsey did this and Winifred Coatsworth did that, and though these activities were trivial I savored every nuance. All at once my fears for Grace seemed exaggerated. What could happen to her in this protected haven? No wonder Tom didn’t take Krakauer’s threats seriously. How could he, coming out in the morning to have his coffee, surrounded by cut flowers, Grace bounding down from the third floor when she woke? Here on the estate all was well. Gratitude swept through me; despite the pain I’d endured from the decrepit old man in Tyringham, I was grateful that Grace had been born and that I was her mother. Parenthood transforms one’s view of life, I thought, rearranging priorities and enforcing a vested interest in the future.

  Mrs. Sheehan arrived with the pot of coffee, interrupting Grace’s chatter. After I’d poured a cup, Grace asked, “What have you been doing, Aunt Louisa?”

  I inhaled deeply. “Well, Grace, I have some rather unsettling news. Something rather … unfortunate has happened.”

  “To you?” she asked, startled.

  “No, my darling,” I reassured her. “To Miss Riley.”

  Grace looked confused. “Miss Riley? How could anything happen to Miss Riley?”

  “Did your father tell you about the incident last week at the power station?” I didn’t know how much Tom had shared with her, so I chose my words carefully.

  She nodded. “He said some people tried to break one of the generators, but everything was okay and no one got hurt.”

  “That’s right. Last evening those people, the ones who tried to break the generator, they were arrested. Miss Riley was among them.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Miss Riley,” she said, perplexed.

  “No, it doesn’t. But apparently—”

  “Where is Miss Riley now?” she interrupted, her voice rising.

  “Well, my dear, the men in charge of these things didn’t want to keep her at the jail downtown, because conditions there are so … unpleasant. So they’ve given her a set of rooms at the state hospital.”

  Grace studied me, trying to figure this out. “If she’s in the hospital instead of the jail, then I guess she didn’t really do anything wrong?” Grace asked hopefully.

  “Well …” I began, trying to formulate a response she could understand, one which would reveal some of the truth but not too much.

  “How long will she have to stay there?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But she’s supposed to give me a drawing lesson this afternoon. Will she be here in time for my lesson? I did all the assignments—how is she going to see them?” Petulance filled her voice, and I sighed at her childishness—before realizing how important her childishness was. Indeed it was vital. She reacted as a child would react, with selfishness and self-involvement, seeing only her own side of the situation. Perhaps Susannah hadn’t affected her as deeply as I’d feared.

  “Don’t worry, Grace, everything will work out. One of my best friends is taking special care of Miss Riley, so I know she’ll be fine. Then we’ll see what happens about your lessons.”

  Grace was still young enough to have a limited sense of time, and I hoped she could be put off by this idea of wait-and-see. Susannah couldn’t hurt her now, so why give her more details than she could handle? Wait, I always advised parents and teachers, until the child herself has thought to ask a question about sensitive issues, and then answer only that specific question. Don’t feel called upon to explain the meaning of the universe. Grace was worried about her lessons. She was missing her tutor. I was thankful that these were the only concerns I would have to deal with on this clear, sharp morning, because frankly I didn’t have the strength to deal with anything more.

  Unexpectedly Grace brightened. “While she’s in the hospital, I can keep practicing. She wants me to work on drawings of people doing things. You could pose for me, Aunt Louisa. Pretending to play the piano. Let’s do it now!”

  So after I finished breakfast, we went downstairs to the music room. I was willing actually to play the piano, but Grace said no, the movement of my hands would muddle her. I must simply rest my fingers upon the keys as if I were playing and let her create the image. In this way we passed a peaceful half hour, the only sound the scratchy noise of Grace’s pencil on the drawing paper. When Grace was ready to fill in the background, she gave me permission to rise from the piano bench. She herself sat on a low stool in front of the credenza; behind her, on top of the credenza, I noticed a bag from Huyler’s.

  “Did you and Mrs. Sheehan go to the chocolate store?” I asked, suddenly desiring the marshmallow bar I never did get to eat. “I was there the other day.”

  “No, we didn’t go,” Grace said, preoccupied with erasing an unwanted smudge. “Yesterday afternoon a man came to visit, and he brought the chocolates. He walked into the garden when I was reading a book.”

  Krakauer.

  “He said he was a friend of Papa’s,” she continued. “But Papa wasn’t home. The man just walked into the garden instead of knocking on the front door. At first I didn’t know what to do.” She looked up from her work, and I sensed the matter had been troubling her. “I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but I’m not supposed to be rude, either. So I was just polite. I said, “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?” ‘She imitated herself with a tad of pride for thinking of this grown-up greeting. “Anyway, I could hear Mr. Duffy’s shears on the roses, so I knew I wasn’t alone outside.” Mr. Duffy was the assistant gardener. “Then I remembered seeing this man at a party at Ruth Rumsey’s cousin’s house, so even though we hadn’t really met, that made talking to him all right. He said I could call him Uncle Frederick.”

  “What happened then?” I forced myself to sound calm.

  “He wondered what I was reading; it was just my McGuffey, but I showed him and he said his daughters had the same one. Then he gave me the bag from Huyler’s. It had three caramel-marshmallow bars—I love those! He said his daughters love them too, which was why he thought of bringing them to me.”

  That odious man. He’d purchased four when I was with him and eaten one in my presence. Had he planned even then to bring the others to Grace? He was only a messenger, he’d said, and this was his message: He could reach Grace at any time, even within the confines of her house and garden, even in the middle of the day, the staff working all around her. He was the messenger, and his message was that no one was safe.

  “Then Mr. Sheehan came out and told him to go, because Papa wasn’t home, and so he went.”

  “Does your father know he came to visit?” I heard the tension slipping into my voice.

  “I don’t know. Papa came home after I went to bed last night and left before I got up this morning. I don’t know if Mr. Sheehan told him. I have to let Papa know, though, because the man wanted me to tell him something.”

  “What was that?” I dreaded her response.

  “He said to give Papa his very best regards. He was particular about it. He said, ‘Give your father my very best regards.’” I could almost hear Krakauer’s unctuous condescension, almost see his ruthless smirk.

  “You must never speak to him again.”

  “He seemed nice,” Grace insisted.

  “Believe me, Grace, he’s not nice at all.”

  While she ran off to the kitchen for a postbreakfast snack, I went to the parlor to try to telephone Tom at the power station. The assistant who answered said Tom was inspecting the new tailrace and was unreachable until early evening, so I left my name and hung up. I would have to decide what to do on my own. Debating with myself and finding no solution, I glanced around. Margaret had designed the parlor as Tom’s room, for business meetings and telephoning; it had leather chairs, an unadorned fireplace, prints of various castles in Ireland, a lingering scent of cigarettes despite the open windows. I sat at the telephone table, an intricate piece of furniture with cubbyholes and shelves for pencils, pens, and ink, notepaper as well as en
graved stationery for home and office. Into this room Tom had brought poor Karl Speyer several months ago to fight over water. Into this room Tom had also brought Peter Fronczyk, only several days ago although it seemed like months, and given him the funds to begin a new life, to buy himself safety.

  Safety. Grace. I rose, set on doing what little I could to protect her. I found Mrs. Sheehan in the kitchen discussing the day’s menu with the cook while Grace ate oatmeal cookies. I gave instructions that Grace must stay on the estate and the staff must guard against trespassers. If Grace went into the garden, someone must be with her at all times. Particularly she must not be permitted to speak to Mr. Krakauer, should he turn up again. Mrs. Sheehan nodded in agreement, perhaps not understanding my concern but too well-trained to challenge it. In addition, Mrs. Sheehan must tell Mr. Sinclair about Krakauer’s visit as soon as he returned home tonight or if by chance he telephoned.

  Grace was upset. My edict prevented her from going to the country club for her usual Wednesday riding lesson. I found myself impatient with her, an unfamiliar emotion between us. I instructed her to practice the piano for a full hour this morning, and then she could have a marshmallow bar. She nodded her head in compliance.

  And that’s how I left her at midmorning, practicing the piano, the sound of Czerny Études reaching me as I hurried down the drive. Of course the most reliable protection would have been for me to stay with her all day; no one else would have my vigilance. But I’d been away from school for several days, and I needed to check in with Miss Atkins and Mrs. Schreier. In addition, the formal welcoming reception for the McKinleys was scheduled for late this afternoon at Rumsey Park. I would have to attend; not attending would be a public admission that something was terribly wrong. Besides, I had invited Mary Talbert as my guest and she would be calling for me in her carriage at four o’clock. If I wasn’t so beset by worry for Grace, I would have been looking forward to seeing her.

  The reception at Rumsey Park spilled out across the manicured lawns, all of us floating in the afternoon radiance. Liveried footmen served champagne in fluted glasses; white roses were thick upon the trellises. The house was a Beaux-Arts palace, the long French windows reflecting the city around it. My board of trustees was present, of course, along with Miss Love and what seemed like the entire memberships of the Twentieth Century Club and the Buffalo Club (most of them married to one another). But this reception was unusual because there was also a cross section of the city in attendance: the operatives of the major political parties and ethnic groups, including the Irish, Italian, and Polish; our figurehead mayor, Conrad Diehl, scion of the German community, and his cronies; churchmen of virtually every faith in full regalia, including even the rabbi of Temple Beth Zion.

  Although Tom himself had sent regrets to the Rumseys, the air was filled with talk of the miracle he was performing at Niagara. Word was out that on Friday the president would be able to put Powerhouse 3 on-line as originally planned, despite the bombing. Tom was hailed as a hero. Almost as if he were one of them, my board members were forced to acknowledge this admiration from the widely drawn crowd (not to acknowledge it would have been blatantly rude), and then they deflected it. According to them we were all heroes. Nothing could stop us. We were triumphant. As a city, as a nation.

  One group notably lacking official representation at this reception was the Negro community. I had hoped that here, at least, they would have been included. Mary Talbert stood out, the only member of her race in attendance. Nonetheless we took our place on the receiving line, and for a few moments I was able to put aside my anxieties about Grace and appreciate the scene. From a thronelike velvet chair beside her husband, who stood, Mrs. McKinley greeted her visitors. Her face was tightly wrinkled and immobile. Most likely she was in her fifties (her husband was fifty-eight), but she could easily have been mistaken for eighty. Independently wealthy, she was stiffly shrouded in jewels like the Empress Theodora in a Byzantine mosaic. After the deaths of her two daughters from childhood illnesses, Mrs. McKinley had become an epileptic (or so it was said); she was subject to seizures and debilitating headaches. Nevertheless the president adored her and solicitously devoted himself to her comfort and happiness. He would place a handkerchief over her face if she suffered a seizure at a public event. She spent her time crocheting bedroom slippers by the thousands, distributing them to family and friends. Some friends boasted over a dozen pairs.

  Mrs. McKinley could not bear to shake hands at receptions, so she held a bouquet of pansies on her lap to remind everyone not to reach for her hand. When I was introduced, she nodded without seeming to see me—or anyone, not even the exquisitely dressed but inescapably dark-skinned Mary Talbert who was next in line.

  The president was his wife’s opposite. Jovial, expansive, gracious, tolerant. A Civil War hero, at ease with himself and others, he caught every name, questioned every visitor, relished every tiny coincidence. How lovable he was, his large midsection girdled by a vest, his suit jacket carefully buttoned, his expression unfailingly kind and welcoming. He was everyone’s favorite uncle. He swelled with the joy of shaking hands, but his handshake was sweaty. I wiped his sweat onto my skirt when he was safely occupied in a brief but pointed discussion with Mrs. Talbert on the merits of Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee Institute.

  “Needless to say,” Mrs. Talbert confided after we escaped to the terrace, “I pretended to full approval of Tuskegee.” We strolled down the terrace steps. “That’s all these white men want to hear: Tuskegee, Tuskegee, training excellent cooks and shoemakers by the hundred.” We crossed the lawn and made our way to the formal garden. “Well, the day will come when more is required from these white men than the vocational training at Tuskegee.”

  “I trust when that time comes, you’ll make yourself available to explain exactly what is required?” I teased.

  Her smile was slow but generous when it came. She took my arm. “I hope so.”

  Huge stone pots overflowed with flowers—red, blue, purple, bold and full-blooming. The laburnum walk turned luminous in the mist of afternoon. Sculptured nudes gleamed on their pedestals. Suddenly I spotted Frederick Krakauer beside a statue of Diana the Huntress. He was exchanging what appeared to be pleasantries with John Milburn. What sort of pleasantries would those two have to share? Undoubtedly something to do with the persistent rumors that McKinley would soon nominate Milburn to be Attorney General. At least then he’d be far away from us. The McKinleys were staying with the Milburns during their visit, and Milburn appeared more smug than ever. I was relieved to see Krakauer, however: If he was here, he wasn’t attempting to reach Grace—although of course he could easily hire someone to do such work, as Milburn himself had once done. I resolved to keep Krakauer in my sight line as Mrs. Talbert and I wandered through the crowd.

  I saw Franklin Fiske on the far side of the lawn, exchanging jokes with a group that included the mayor. Seeing him, knowing his regard for me, made me wish I could confide my fears about Grace to him. But I felt helpless. He was not disinterested enough to respond objectively. The only one who might be was the woman at my side. I studied her honey-toned face. Her expression was complacent; she’d noticed nothing amiss in my mood. Yet even now something held me back from unbridled confidences.

  Around us the fountains flashed, throwing water into the air to sparkle like fireworks. Franklin had once described Rumsey Park as a Versailles, and he was right, although it was an incongruous Versailles—for when I turned to look behind me, skyscrapers loomed above the trees. They were only a few blocks away and creeping closer. This estate was one of the last enclaves of the old city. The business district was fast expanding, and I expected the Rumseys, ever practical, would soon subdivide this land to immense profit.

  In the center of the formal garden was a wide, round fountain that had in fact come from a French château. Its tiers gleamed, its waters fell in transparent sheets. Mary Talbert and I paused to admire it.

  “I wouldn’t object to a fountain like
this in my garden,” Mrs. Talbert observed.

  “It would certainly cool the surrounding area when the wind blew across it,” I said.

  “Indeed. From that point of view, a fountain like this can be considered a practical necessity.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I agreed.

  We watched two blue jays frolicking in the upper tier, flicking droplets from their wings. I always felt surprised when I saw blue jays, never quite believing how truly blue they really were.

  And then, through the sheets of falling water, Mrs. Talbert and I saw that a conference was taking place in the distance among three men and a woman. The leaders of the exposition and of the city. John Scatcherd, John Milburn, Miss Maria Love, Ansley Wilcox. Where was Krakauer? I glanced around and found him beside Mayor Diehl. More confident knowing where he was, I looked again at the impromptu conference. There were disapproving glances in our direction, nods of acquiescence, a plan being laid out and approved. Milburn appeared flushed with upset.

  “Do you think they find my presence disturbing?” Mrs. Talbert asked matter-of-factly.

  “I hope not,” I said. “I would be appalled if—” But even as I spoke, Miss Love turned from the group and began to walk purposefully in our direction.

  “I believe I’d best be going,” Mrs. Talbert said lightly.

  Suddenly I felt both offended and frightened. What had they planned, what was Miss Love going to do or threaten? “You mustn’t go!” I said angrily—my anger directed at the group in the distance. “We can face down Miss Love. I won’t allow them to force you to leave. We’ll fight them together.”

  “Not today.”

  “You’ve always gloried in a fight.”

  “But my dear Miss Barrett, there won’t be a fight. What will happen is that Miss Love will ask to walk with us, and we will not be able to refuse her. She will guide us—because we are too polite to resist, and because she cannot walk in the sun, or so she will claim—she will guide us to the shelter of some concealed bower where she will stay with us, because we are too polite to resist, until the party is over. Exactly as she would stay with a drunken relative who must be kept firmly out of the way. No thank you. I’d much rather leave at a moment of my own choosing. Which is now.”