The Gallery

by Laura Marx Fitzgerald

  Ma turned on her heel and left me in that dust-settled room, where I saw the drape had slipped off the painted Proserpina again. I walked over to rehang it, stopping to look at the pomegranate that started it all. The goddess’s hand settled into her chest, that fruit of knowledge both shown off and held back. For the first time, I looked up, looked deep into the goddess’s pool blue eyes, which seemed to say, “I told you. I told you you didn’t want to know.”

  Chapter

  13

  Now when Ma walked, I could no longer hear her neatly clicking footsteps, only the jingling of keys. My eyes glued to the pavement, I followed that sound from the subway to the house the next morning, looking up only when a six-piece marching band—the now weary oompahs of “The Sidewalks of New York”—drowned her out. “Vote for Al Smith!” said one side of the big bass drum, and when they turned the corner, I saw the other read “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Beer!”

  I’d almost forgotten. It was Election Day.

  The servants had gathered just outside the Sewells’ front door to see the small parade, but when they saw Ma, they quickly scattered, not wanting to be caught loafing. Only Alphonse stayed, munching on an egg sandwich.

  “Here’s Hoover promising a chicken in every pot, and still, some men only want beer,” Ma tsked.

  “Perhaps they want both, ma’am,” offered Alphonse.

  Ma gave him her sternest look. “Mr. Dupont, what does Mr. Sewell say about eating on the job?”

  Alphonse wrapped up the scraps in his handkerchief and shoved it in his pocket. “That it has no place in this house, ma’am.”

  “So then I shouldn’t have to remind you,” and she strode off to the back entrance, as if to note that, even four feet away from the front door, she still knew her place and the correct entrance to use.

  “Now, I wasn’t in the house,” Alphonse muttered, pulling the parcel back out of his pocket. He stuffed the last bite in his mouth and turned to go back inside.

  “Wait!” I blurted, and Alphonse slowly turned back to look at me. “The paintings.”

  I paused, hoping he’d jump in to fill the silence left in the wake of the oompah band. He didn’t.

  “I’ve been thinking . . . the paintings. The myth—Proserpina.” He nodded encouragingly. “I mean . . . it’s her, right? Mrs. Sewell?”

  He smiled and made a flourish with his hand as if to say “That’s it.”

  “But does that mean . . .” I shook off the question and began again. “That means she’s being held . . . well, not captive. But yes, captive! Is that what the paintings are there for? To tell us?”

  He nodded as he looked up and down the street. No more pomp or parades; just the usual New Yorkers with their own places to go now. “And who is holding her captive?” he finally said, looking at me meaningfully.

  I didn’t want to say it. But it had to be said out loud. Still, I couldn’t meet his eye.

  “Ma. But—”

  He finished the thought for me. “But, in the story, was it not Pluto who stole Proserpina?”

  “Well, yes, Pluto, I guess. Her husband.”

  “Her husband, yes,” he said.

  I looked over my shoulder. “Mr. Sewell,” I whispered.

  But this time he shrugged.

  I grabbed his arm. “So who do we tell? The police? Or no, we’ll go to the newspaper! But not the Daily Standard, obviously, but the Yodel! Or—”

  He took my hand calmly, firmly, and released its grip on his arm. “No, not we. Not me. There is nothing to do.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Now you know. And it changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything! It changes nothing only if you do nothing!”

  “No. It changes nothing because the facts have not changed. The lady is mad. She stays in her room. Her husband wants her there. Trust me. Calling an alarm will not change a thing in the house, except perhaps your place in it.”

  “But,” I sputtered, “but—but she isn’t mad!” And yet as I said it, I realized, I didn’t know. “At least, she wasn’t! I mean, maybe she wasn’t mad before! Or maybe she was,” I mumbled, “but maybe she wasn’t but she was driven mad by being locked away?”

  “But don’t you see? It is all the same. Mr. Sewell is a powerful man. He makes the story. And if he says his wife is mad, that is the end of it. She is.” He brushed his hands together.

  “Fine, if you won’t help me, I’ll tell—”

  “Who? McCagg, her”—he laughed, not kindly— “‘nurse’? He is the very man placed to keep her from escaping.” And now his broad shoulders, his hamhock arms, his sleeping spot outside her room made sense. He wasn’t there to step in when help was needed, but to keep help at bay.

  “Chef? Magdalena?” Alphonse continued. “None of the staff will lift a finger if they think they might lose their jobs. Bridie? Well, yes,” he chuckled, “perhaps Bridie truly does not know. I think she still believes in fairies also. Your mother—”

  He thought for a while, looking down the street and fiddling with the baby mustache that was sprouting on his lip.

  “Somehow,” he said as he turned finally to go back inside, “Mr. Sewell has convinced your mother that this bizarre scene is in service to her mistress. So let us just say, the lady of the house is not the only one that Mr. Sewell has imprisoned.”

  Chapter

  14

  The next day the bands and buttons and stumpers had disappeared, replaced by tired, deflated people pulling their coat lapels together as they trudged to work or to their local speak. Hoover had won. Their mayor had failed; America was still the heartland, and New York was still an island.

  And Mr. Sewell was right: His story counted more than any other.

  Especially in this house.

  So according to him, Rose was mad. Mad enough to lock herself away. But that I knew wasn’t true, whatever he claimed. He was locking her away. But was he hiding away Rose because of her madness? Or was he driving her mad by hiding her away?

  It was a chicken-egg scenario which made a crazy omelette, however you scrambled it.

  A few days later I was dusting in one of the front parlors where, judging from the number of cigarette lighters and an untouched bar cart, the Pritchards had once entertained afternoon callers. On one of the bookshelves flanking the fireplace, I came across a row of scrapbooks. Mrs. Sewell must have kept them back when she was Miss Rose and enamored of her press coverage. I pulled one off the shelf; it was stuffed with clippings from every newspaper in the city and not a few abroad.

  NEW TO THE SOCIETY SET:

  —

  Introducing Miss Rose Pritchard of Charleston, West Virginia

  BY INVITATION ONLY:

  —

  Extraordinary Art Collection Hosted Today by Miss Rose Pritchard

  DEBUT WITHOUT A DEBUTANTE:

  —

  Miss Pritchard Trades Own Party for Cabaret Spotlight

  PRAY FOR A BREEZE, BOYS! . . .

  —

  Another Hemline Gasper from Rose Pritchard!

  MONEY CAN’T BUY CLASS:

  —

  Another Shameful Display by Miss Rose Pritchard

  PRICELESS “PICASSO” SOLD AT AUCTION REVEALED TO BE PRODUCT OF ROSE PRITCHARD’S FEET!

  OUR HERO!: MISS ROSE PRITCHARD

  —

  “Luxe Lemonade Stand” Said to Have Raised “Thousands” for War Effort

  RAILROAD HEIRESS JOINS UNION PICKET LINES AGAINST OWN FATHER’S FACTORY

  OUR ROSE TRADES NEWPORT SEASON FOR TOUR BY CARGO SHIP

  —

  Packing List: “Rouge and a Rucksack”

  —

  Sightings Rumored in Marrakech, Bombay, Shanghai

  “WILD ROSE”—OR ROTTEN ONE?

  —

  Why To
day’s Generation Is Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know

  MISS PRITCHARD ENGAGED AT LAST!

  —

  Wedding of the Year Predicted

  —

  Newspaper Scion Announced to Be Heiress’s Choice (Good Luck, Archie!)

  That’s where the clippings ended.

  And they did nothing to clear up any questions. In fact, Rose was like one of those headshrinker tests—the kind where what you saw said more about you than her.

  Depending on the paper or the writer or even the day, Rose could be called wild, wise, bold, spoiled, modern, brazen, thrilling, or treacherous. And she didn’t seem to care what you called her. From what she’d pasted in that scrapbook, she relished condemnation and celebration equally.

  To this day, Mr. Sewell said she was ill, unmanageable, possibly dangerous.

  Ma said whatever Mr. Sewell said.

  The doctor said she was hysterical, unfeminine, just needed rest.

  And Alphonse said as little as possible.

  There was only one way to figure her out. I had to see the Wild Rose for myself.

  A squeaking escaped from the butler’s pantry down the hall: the sound of Mrs. Sewell’s breakfast tray being sent down to the kitchen via the dumbwaiter to be cleared and traded for lunch. Another door to the dumbwaiter lay hidden here on the first floor, in this small room where a butler and team of footman once removed some other chef’s platters and trays and delivered them across the hall, still steaming hot, to a dining room full of socialites and dignitaries.

  No visitors were expected today—at least, not until Mr. Sewell’s latest late-night fire drill. In fact, it was almost time for the servants to head down to the basement dining hall for their own midday meal. For the next hour, everyone would be at lunch.

  Well, almost everyone. McCagg was never invited to this luncheon. He remained at his hall post, with a lunch tray Ma brought up ahead of time.

  I tiptoed over to the small room. Opened the door to the dumbwaiter. Peeked down the shaft, where Mrs. Sewell’s breakfast plates rattled as they made their rough landing. Another small door downstairs clicked open, Bridie’s capable hands clearing the leftovers out, preparing to load the next cargo in.

  I had an idea.

  —

  “Bridie, my girl,” I said a little too brightly, “what’s that delicious smell?”

  “Well, hello, Martha!” Her face was open and guileless, illuminated by the one ray of sunshine that struggled in through the street-level window. “How do you like this lunch tray, I wonder?”

  Where I had usually smushed some butter on scraped-off toast, Bridie had arranged golden triangles of buttery goodness on a pretty Wedgwood plate.

  “There’s three different kinds of preserves—the gooseberry is my own Gran’s recipe!—and I thought, with doctor’s permission, she might like a soft-cooked egg.”

  Chef nodded approvingly at Bridie and then pointedly at me. I scowled back. No one ever solved a mystery with soft-cooked eggs.

  “Well, Mrs. Sewell is lucky to get it,” I said, backing away to the door as Bridie lifted the tray into the dumbwaiter.

  I heard the click of the dumbwaiter door as I sprinted up the back stairs to the ground floor, rounding the corner to the butler’s pantry. With a last look over my shoulder, I opened the square-shaped door, just in time to see Bridie’s lunch tray rise into view. As soon as the rising box lined up with the door frame, I pushed hard down on the box, causing it to stop momentarily, and climbed in, pulling the door just to—but not closed—behind me.

  I heard Bridie’s voice through the shaft below. “It’s stuck. Chef, the dumbwaiter’s stuck!” Then the box jerked upward, Chef’s brawny, Cordon Bleu–trained arms surely giving the pulley rope a strong tug.

  I rose and rose, held tight in that moving coffin, until I came to a jerky stop. A small bell rang with my stop to alert the mistress of her delivery.

  Curled up, my knees to my nose, I waited.

  I felt my bum sink into the gooseberry jam. I waited some more.

  Just as I began to wonder how much oxygen you got in a standard dumbwaiter, I heard heavy breathing on the other side of the door.

  Finally, with a click, it opened.

  —

  I had thought she might scream and was ready to jump out and put my hand over her mouth if necessary. But Mrs. Sewell only looked at me hazily, unsteady on her feet, her long loose hair and blotchy face mussed with too much sleep.

  After a minute of staring, she licked her dry lips and said thickly: “The pomegranate.”

  “Yes. That was me.” By instinct, I spoke slowly. Made no sudden movements. “A pomegranate for . . . Proserpina?”

  She nodded to herself and staggered to a nearby chair, settling herself with a thud.

  Despite her fancy, lacy nightgown, and despite being only in her thirties by my calculations, she looked like the old rag woman who sometimes drank rum and fell asleep on our stoop. She was thin, drawn, with gray skin, a stark contrast to the paintings that hung from every corner of the room, with their fat goddesses and radiant pink-cheeked cupids.

  I immediately felt terrible about sitting on her lunch. “Here, Mrs. Sewell,” I jumped out and peeled the slices of toast off my skirts, “eat. You look peaked.”

  “It’s Rose,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “Not Mrs. Sewell. Never Mrs. Sewell. Never Mrs. Sewell.” At the sight of the squashed toast, she closed her eyes and groaned slightly, then peered at me through squinty lids. “Is there tea?”

  I went back to the dumbwaiter and found the teapot, luckily still upright, and poured her out a cup with milk. She took it, sighing to embrace the warmth in her hands, and took a sip.

  “Salty,” she sighed.

  I’d seen Bridie add the sugar myself.

  I wasn’t quite sure where to begin. Are you all right? Are you being mistreated? Do you want to escape?

  And how do you ask: Are you crazy?

  But, looking at the staggering, muttering heap in the armchair, I wasn’t sure I needed to anymore.

  “Look, Mrs. Sewell, I mean Rose—” As I moved swiftly to crouch at her feet, I triggered a bundle of paintings leaning against the wall. The whole lot tipped over like dominoes, a half-dozen frames clattering to the floor.

  “Mizzus Sewell?” came a gravelly voice just outside the door.

  McCagg.

  “Mizzus, what you up to in there?” The squeak of a chair pushed back by a large man’s backside rang out. A ring of keys jangled.

  For the first time, I saw alarm—no, fear—in Rose’s dead eyes. “Go!” she hissed, pushing me toward the dumbwaiter with what little strength her bony arms had.

  I ran to the square door, stuffing myself inside and closing myself in, as I heard McCagg open up the room.

  “What’s the fuss this time? Toast not the right shade of brown?” I heard him grumble.

  But that was all I heard, because the opening and closing of the dumbwaiter door had set off a bell in the kitchen, and Bridie, assuming her mistress had loaded her dirty dishes, began to work at the pulley again, and I descended.

  —

  When I emerged from the butler’s pantry, it wasn’t long before I found Ma hunting for me, annoyed by my abandoned carpet sweeper in the parlor. I dutifully returned to working the Bissell over the carpet by longitude and latitude.

  There was no one to rescue, I stewed with disappointment, no adventure to be had. There was just a loony woman in the attic, an embarrassment to her big-shot husband, who could lock her up and garner no more than a shrug from the servants just grateful to have a job. And just one day after another, polishing a lifeless tomb.

  But later that afternoon, I saw Ma gesture to Alphonse, and after conferring for a few moments, Ma flung open the gallery doors for him.

  “Miss Rose h
as started up again,” Ma said with a sigh as Alphonse carried the four paintings, one by one, up the stairs and back to Rose’s room. And brought one back down, wrapped again in a sheet.

  Once he was done hanging it, he left, refusing to meet my eye. Ma closed the doors behind him.

  Proserpina was just the beginning of the story, I thought. And now she’s sent down the next chapter.

  Chapter

  15

  I had the doors open before Ma’s feet hit the last step on the servants’ stairs.

  And I heard Alphonse’s footsteps behind me before I could set a foot in.

  He helped me pull back the sheet, and he whistled to see it again.

  “A Rembrandt, this one,” he said, stepping back for a better view. “It is outside belief the collection she has up there. Like locking the Louvre in an attic.”

  Eh, I thought. I didn’t like this one so much.

  A rich lady with flushed cheeks and a double chin leaned with one hand braced against a table. Her other hand lay at the bottom of her rib cage in what I guessed was a graceful gesture but looked more like a heartburn attack. Her stance seemed heavy, but her face was serene, and given the posh velvets and pearls that surrounded her, I wasn’t surprised. Like the still lifes she’d replaced, she summoned you to peep at her wealth: shiny paisley silks, furs around her shoulders. A young girl, a maid, I supposed, brought her a drink in a bejeweled seashell.

  Sophonisba, the plaque on the frame read. “Who the—?” I asked aloud.

  “Sophonisba, a queen of Carthage. She lived during the Second Punic War—”

  “Are you a teacher or something?” I couldn’t help but break in. “How do you know all this anyway?”

  Alphonse looked taken aback. I was beginning to see that while he’d gladly natter about art, books, mythology, even his employers, his own story was one to be approached delicately. He walked away from the painting, pacing a bit in the echoing gallery, considering something. Finally he responded, “Yes, I was a teacher, in my old country,” as if he were confiding something of great importance and discretion, and I burst out laughing at his somber expression.