Paul’s benefactor had brought bottles of champagne, and we toasted one another as the first of the contests was announced. The crowd cheered and whistled while parades of men and women in all sorts of costumes (geishas, Turks, Amazons) cakewalked across the stage. Some seemed not to be costumed at all until you realized that demure lady was really a boy, or that uniformed officer a woman. Some seemed to have stepped out of the pages of an illustrated history text in their royal robes, while others transcended humanity altogether to become spectacular birds or mythical creatures. When Jack appeared I almost didn’t recognize him, so complete was his transformation. He didn’t win a prize (there was a surfeit of Marie Antoinettes that year), but he was so well known and loved that the applause as he traversed the stage was deafening. Even Felix clapped wildly, caught up in the euphoria of the night.
“Who’s that across the way, darling, can you see?” Paul asked.
His benefactor raised a pair of opera glasses and trained them at the gallery opposite our own. “That’s Vince Astor. I’m surprised to see him here. Everyone knows he can’t stand pansies.” He passed the opera glasses to Paul. “The woman is Astor’s wife. It must have been her idea to come tonight. Rumor has it she’s a lesbian. I don’t know the short man with the big head.”
“Oh my.” Paul lowered the opera glasses. “Isn’t that your boss, Albert?”
I followed the direction of Paul’s pointed finger. My heart dropped inside my rib cage like an elevator with a cut cable as I recognized the Colonel. Before I could make sense of what I was seeing, Felix hissed in my ear. “Is that Colonel Ruppert with Vincent Astor?”
“Yes it is.” I turned to Felix. “Don’t worry, though. If he sees us, we’ll say we’re spectators, like he is.”
“Why do you think he’s just a spectator?” Paul draped his arm across my shoulders and handed me the opera glasses. “I mean, look at him.”
Framed in the circle of the convex lenses, the Colonel’s grinning face leaped across the distance between the galleries. Seeing him in this setting made me reassess his eccentricities. Not many men that rich managed to remain bachelors their whole lives, not with eligible socialites scheming after their bank accounts. I hardly ever saw him lately without his Boston terrier bitch on his lap, his voice rising to a girlish pitch as he spoke to the dog. His clothes were entirely masculine (his tailor still tapered his trousers despite the new fashion), yet he often lamented that only women were expected to dress well. I thought of my neighbor, the aging actor who our landlady referred to as a confirmed bachelor. It wasn’t unusual for men not to marry—bachelors filled the city’s boardinghouses and lunch counters, plenty of pansies camouflaged among their ranks—but it made me wonder what kind of bachelor the Colonel was.
And then there was his bow tie. It wasn’t black, I could see that much, but I couldn’t tell if it was red. I turned to hand Felix the opera glasses so he could take a look, but he was stumbling out of the box, his foul mood wafting off him like a scent. I asked Paul what happened. He shrugged and said he had no idea. I glanced along the gallery to see Felix disappearing down the stairs. “I’d better go.”
“But you have to wait for Jack to join us,” Paul protested.
“I can’t. Give Jacqueline my love, tell her she was spectacular.”
For a few panicked minutes I lost track of Felix as I shoved my way through the crowd. I caught up with him out on the sidewalk. Panting, I grabbed his elbow and spun him around. “What’s the matter?”
He raised his arm for a taxi. “You saw them, Albert. Ruppert and Astor. Don’t you know what that means?”
The meaning of it was exactly what I wanted to talk about. I was about to ask Felix if he’d noticed the color of the Colonel’s bow tie when a cab pulled up and Felix shoved me in. “Go over to Amsterdam,” he told the driver, who protested about the traffic we’d run into. “Just do it, then head downtown.”
“I don’t think the Colonel saw you, Felix, if that’s what you’re upset about.”
“I don’t care about him seeing me. It’s who I saw him with. You never told me Ruppert and Astor were friends.”
“They’re all friends—the Rupperts, the Astors, the Vanderbilts. Well, the men are, at least. They’re all in the same yacht club. I don’t know about the women. But what’s any of that got to do with you?”
He didn’t answer. We stewed in silence until Felix called out, “Pull over here, driver, and wait for us.” We were in front of the Orphaned Hebrews Home. It was a hulking thing in the middle of the night. As Felix paced in front of the locked gate, I imagined the somnolent exhalations of those hundreds of children in their prison of a castle. He stopped suddenly and smacked his hand, hard, against his forehead. “I’ve been so stupid!”
I pinned his arm at his side. “What’s the matter?”
Felix yanked his arm back, waving it at the dark building. “Don’t you understand? Vincent Astor inherited everything after his father went down on Titanic. I’m sure he has a parcel of land somewhere in this city big enough for a stadium. Ruppert’s been playing me for a fool, as if there weren’t a thousand little lives at stake.”
The conclusion Felix jumped to seemed outrageous to me. “Those two socialize all the time, it doesn’t mean a thing.”
My words had no effect on him. He grabbed my lapels, the streetlamp casting his face in sinister shadow. “You keep telling me to be patient, but you know what I think? I think Ruppert’s been stringing me along all this time. Maybe you have, too.”
I put my hand on his cheek. “Look at me, Felix. You know that isn’t true.”
He covered my hand with his, shaking his head as tears distorted his eyes. “You don’t know what it does to me, Albert. Every Shabbat I spend with my family, my mother weeps because I haven’t married yet, and my father says it’s my obligation to have Jewish children.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t do it, Albert, you know I can’t. My work for the orphanage, all the promises I’ve made—it’s all I have to make up for being what I am.” He began to beat his closed fist against his breastbone. “Ruppert’s got to build his stadium here. He’s got to.”
I managed to get him back into the taxi and bring him home. I assured him, as we argued through the night, there was no impending deal with Astor, that as far as I knew the orphanage property was still the only viable location for a new stadium. I reminded him of the substantial investment the Colonel had recently made in having Osborn Engineering come out from Ohio to complete a comprehensive plan for the site. It was just the way he did business, I said. There’d be nothing in writing until the entire deal had been negotiated. For now, the Colonel was too distracted by his mother’s death, the sale of the mansion, Babe Ruth’s salary demands, the upcoming dog show—I reeled off all the reasons why he hadn’t made his interest in the orphanage official. “Once the dust settles,” I told him, “the Colonel will be in a better position to make a deal.”
Felix, however, wasn’t convinced. “I’ll bring him to the table, even if it means forcing his hand!” Those were the last words he uttered before storming through our secret door and slamming it shut behind him.
I was too exhausted to go after him. When he got himself into one of his moods, sometimes the best thing was to let him cool off on his own. Still, our argument cycled through my brain for another hour, slowly winding down as the streetcars started up outside. I took the telephone off its hook before crawling into bed where, in the thin light of the winter dawn, oblivion finally overtook me.
Chapter 25
I pressed Albert’s bell for two full seconds, but still the door catch didn’t click. I was so eager to tell him about my new career as a producer that I’d called last night, despite it being Saturday, but of course he was out. Then this morning when he didn’t answer, I thought he might have gone for breakfast or a walk. But now it was noon and I was getting worried. Every week there was a story in the paper about some poor drunk found frozen in a dark corner of the city. A s
ick feeling soured my stomach as I imagined Albert cold and alone in an alleyway. Just as I wondered whether I should start calling the hospitals, I heard his voice from above my head.
“For God’s sake, who is it?”
Relieved, I stepped back off the stoop and looked up. Albert was leaning out his open window, hair tangled from sleep and dressing gown open at the neck.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Albert. I called first, but there was no answer.”
“I had the telephone off the hook.” He disappeared for a moment, then leaned out again. “Here. Don’t try to catch them, you’ll hurt your hand.”
He tossed a set of keys out the window. They landed on the sidewalk at my feet, brass clattering on the concrete. Inside the brownstone, the notes of a softly played piano followed me up the stairs, my steps muffled by the plush runner. It made me jealous of the men who got to live here. So many landlords refused to rent to single women that most Bachelor Girls were forced to huddle together in cheap boardinghouses. Oh, if a woman was rich enough she could have whatever she wanted, but a working girl’s only other choices were tiny single rooms or pricey apartments swarming with roommates. I still planned to move out on my own eventually, but an elegant house like this, with private bathrooms and kitchenettes for every tenant, was a luxury I could only dream of.
Upstairs, I let myself into Albert’s apartment, pocketing the keys while I unbuttoned my coat. I called out his name, but there was no answer. Where had he disappeared to? I turned around from hanging my coat on the rack and there he was, as if by magic. He’d gone to check on his neighbor, he said, though how he’d managed to sneak past me from the hallway I couldn’t imagine. “Is Mr. Stern ill?”
“No, we just had a late night. But anyway, Felix wasn’t there. He must be at the orphanage already. The trustees have their meeting on Sundays.”
“I know they do, that’s why we went on a Saturday.”
“Oh, that’s right, we did go there together. My brain’s not awake yet. Let me make us some breakfast.”
I kept Albert company in the kitchenette while he ground coffee beans and plugged in the percolator. He put a pan on the gas ring and melted butter in it, then poured in eggs scrambled with milk and onions. I sliced some bread and toasted it while he slid the eggs onto plates and poured the coffee. We sat at the little table by his front window, watching the comings and goings of the street. I supposed if I’d ever spent the whole night with Harrison, we might have sat like this the morning after, though I’m sure he’d have expected me to cook the eggs. As we ate, I told Albert about my meeting with Jake and his offer to make me a theatrical producer.
“I didn’t know women did that sort of thing.”
I kicked him under the table. “How can you say that when Mary Pickford produces all her own movies? Anyway, why shouldn’t I try my hand at producing? Even Harrison says I have good instincts for the theater. I guess you’ll still be my liaison, Albert.” I got up to refill our coffees. “Jake said he’d have you set up the production company.”
Jake’s ears must have been burning because at just that moment the telephone rang. Albert answered it, the conversation apparent from his replies. “Yes, sir. Yes, she was just telling me about it. She’s here now, sir. Can we come to the mansion this afternoon?” Albert looked at me, his eyebrows raised. I nodded. “Certainly, we’ll be there. Within the hour, sir.” He hung up the receiver. “Are you up for another audience with the Colonel, Helen?”
“I am, yes. Are you?”
Albert glanced down at himself, still in his robe and pajamas. “I better go take a shower.” The sound of splashing from the bathroom put thoughts in my head of Albert’s body, slender and pale beneath the steaming water. To distract myself, I went into the kitchenette to wash up the breakfast dishes and rinse out the percolator. “Don’t look,” Albert called, though I did catch a glimpse of him wrapped in a towel before he could shut his bedroom door.
I settled myself on the couch, the winter sun washing the living room in light. Picking up an issue of The Crisis, I fanned through the pages, stopping at the story of a lynching. It was the most terrible thing I’d ever read, the poor man tortured with iron rods heated in a fire before being burned alive. I tossed the magazine back onto the table, then scanned the contents of several other issues. Every month, it seemed, they published an article like this, which meant every month there was a scene like this to report. And all this in the country Clarence had fought to defend.
“Ready?” Albert stood before me, smartly dressed with his hair combed back and his necktie knotted. When we went downstairs, he introduced me to the composer, who was at the piano in the parlor. A very young man leaned over his shoulder, turning the pages while he played. They must have assumed I’d spent the night with Albert because they stared at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that made me blush.
Though it was cold out, the day was bright and I suggested we walk across Central Park. Arm in arm, we looped around the reservoir, emerging onto Fifth Avenue through Woodman’s Gate. Jake himself opened the door to the Ruppert mansion when we rang, though no one would ever mistake him for a butler in his tailored gabardine suit. Grumbling that Sunday was Mr. Nakamura’s day off, he ushered us in but didn’t offer to take our coats, which Albert and I ended up tossing over the newel post. Princess, whining, circled my ankles. I bent down to pet the dog, who was happier to see me than she had been her own pup.
“Come into the parlor, I have a fire going.”
Princess followed as we picked our way past packing crates and rolled-up carpets. In the parlor, the satyrs were propped up against the wall now, wrapped in blankets like overgrown babies in papooses. “Where are they going?”
Jake handed us little glasses of schnapps. “They’re being sent up to Eagle’s Rest. I had the architect incorporate them into the design. His firm just delivered the plans, let me show you.” Jake brushed aside stray pieces of straw and twine from a tabletop and rolled out the architectural drawings. “I wanted the zoo completed first so I could stock the animals. See, here is the duck pond, and the dog kennel, and the chicken house. The peacocks can wander the grounds, but the monkeys and the parrots will need to be caged.”
“Monkeys and parrots?”
“Kramer told you I’m sponsoring an expedition to South America, didn’t he? They’ve promised to send me some specimens. So,” he said, pulling aside that drawing to expose the next, “with the zoo finished, come spring we begin work on the house.” The ramshackle Victorian with its widow’s walk had been demolished to make way for an entirely new structure. The illustration showed a stately Tudor faced in limestone, with pitched roofs and mullioned windows but lacking the pretension of half-timbers or carved corbels.
“It’s very restrained,” Albert said.
“If I wanted to show off, I would have stayed up near Hyde Park. What I want at Eagle’s Rest is a place where I can relax with my friends.” Jake handed Albert a cigarette. “You don’t mind if we smoke, do you, Helen?”
I said no, of course not, noticing that it never occurred to him to offer me one. “You’ll be able to have as many friends as you like, Jake, with fifteen bedrooms.”
“Naturally, I’ll have to host some parties and receptions. Anyway, half of the rooms are for my staff. The caretaker and the zookeeper are married men, so they’ll have their own cottages, and Schultz has rooms over the garage, but see here.” The third-floor plans outlined a series of bedrooms placed under the pitches of the roof, with shared bathrooms off the hallway and a back staircase that could take someone from the attic to the basement without ever being seen by the guests. “There are rooms for my cook and my laundress and my housekeeper. This one is for Osamu.” Jake then pointed to a rectangle that offered no view of the river. “I was thinking of this one for you, Kramer, so you can always see who’s coming up the drive. I’ll have a telephone installed, and a desk where you can work.”
I saw, across the hall from Albert, a comparable
room with a window facing the Hudson. I pictured waking up to sunlight glinting off the water, imagined how the river breezes would flush out the heat sure to build up under the eaves. I hoped that room would be mine, when Jake invited me to stay.
“That looks perfect, sir,” Albert said. “What about yours?”
He revealed the next page of plans. A wide staircase led up to a generous second-floor hallway, off of which were several guest rooms, each with its own bathroom. At the end of the hall was Jake’s suite. The bedroom featured a wide bay window overlooking the lawn, while windows on the adjacent wall opened onto the river. A dressing room bigger than my mother’s kitchen led to a private bath.
“I’m having an electric bell installed that will ring in Osamu’s room upstairs, and one that rings for the cook. I’ll have one put in your room, too, Kramer, in case I need you.” He made a note on the drawing. He then indicated the guest room adjacent to his suite, a space larger than many Manhattan apartments. “I was thinking of this for you, Helen.”
“For me?” I wasn’t sure why I merited a better room than Albert did.
“I hate to eat breakfast on my own,” Jake said, as if that explained anything. He looked up at me, his eyes shining. “I used to share breakfast with my mother every morning before I went to the office.”
I couldn’t imagine living with my mother into my fifties—it was irritating enough to still be at home in my twenties. But Jake and his mother had been the only family members left in the mansion after his father died and his siblings established homes of their own. I supposed no matter how mature he seemed to me, with his mother Jake had been able to remember himself as a boy.
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