“Some spring,” I muttered. Though the sun was out, the wind on the bridge hit so fierce I thought it might blow the car right over.
“Spring isn’t marked by fair weather. It’s the turn. When the day and the night are the exact same length, and the day starts winning.”
But Ma didn’t know that the darkest night had already begun to take over Rose’s mind. And whatever spring showers or May flowers awaited us would make no difference to Rose—or to me, I thought with dread—in a jail cell.
What shook me out of these frightening thoughts was Ma’s hand, her warm, but toughened hand, which I found laid over mine.
“Just remember this,” she said quietly. “Christ told us that the world may change in an instant. ‘Keep watch,’ He said. ‘For of that day or hour, know not even the angels in heaven.’”
And as a shrieking wind rattled the train on its tracks, Ma took up her paper again and began to study the business section.
But not in the Daily Standard, I noted. Another paper called the Wall Street Journal.
—
Of course, today everyone knows what happened on March 25, 1929.
At least, they think they do.
Afterward, when the events of that night came to light, I was a minor celebrity in the neighborhood. Kids, even adults, stopped me on the street, knowing I’d worked in that house in the previous months.
“What did you see?” they’d ask. “Did you have any inkling?”
I always told the truth—that I had no idea.
Sure, maybe the scale of the destruction wasn’t entirely surprising. Like a steam pipe building pressure, at some point it had to blow.
Who could have predicted the death of one of the most important newspaper men of the century, cut down in his prime?
Who could have guessed that this godlike man would let a serpent into his garden? That his killer was under his own roof?
And no one could have dared foreseen the wholesale annihilation of one of the world’s greatest art collections.
The whole thing was impossible to understand. “Unbelievable,” folks muttered, shaking their heads over the words, as they followed the grim story over the following weeks.
But, of course, they all did believe it. It was in the papers.
—
When I arrived that morning, I flew past Ma and abandoned my apron.
“Where are you going?” she shouted after me as I flew up the servant stairs, and then up the front stairs to the family floor, straight to Mr. Sewell’s closed bedroom door.
I held my breath. Pressed my ear to the door.
Nothing.
Dragging my courage up from the pit of my stomach, I knocked lightly. Then harder.
Nothing.
The crystal doorknob was surprisingly cold against my palm, but, with my eyes squeezed shut, I turned until I heard it click, then pushed.
Behind my eyelids, my mind conjured the most horrifying scenes I could expect. Mr. Sewell’s lifeless, bloody trunk, his head rolled away into the corner? Or—worse?—the master of the house, unclothed and irate?
I opened one eye, then the other. But nothing awaited me over the threshold but a disheveled bed, its covers carelessly tossed aside for a maid to reassemble.
My feet carried me all the way up to the top floor, where Mr. McCagg snoozed fully dressed, his cot pulled across Rose’s door. From behind the door, I heard the now-familiar sound of dragging and bumping; Rose was safely inside, sorting through her collection again.
I released a deep breath and headed back down the stairs. It was just another day in the Sewell house.
But as I passed that painting of Judith and her maid and their shared mayhem, still abandoned in the hallway, I knew that behind Rose’s closed door, some dark scheme was still in the works.
“And what was that all about?” Ma greeted me in the front parlor with the brass polish and a feather duster.
“I was just checking—Mr. Sewell’s not here, right?” I asked with a final glance toward his office. “I mean, he’s all right and everything?”
“And what kind of question is that? He’s at work, of course, left early as usual.” Before I could respond, Ma snapped on the radio in the front parlor. “Now, let’s get to business on these front rooms. We have a lot of work to do.”
—
It was somewhere between finishing the piano in the conservatory and starting on the woodwork that I noticed the music had stopped.
So had Housekeeper’s Chat with Aunt Sammy, and Ruth Turner’s Washing Talks.
It was just one newscaster after another, no matter the station, following me from room to room, with the same story.
“Nervous investors are dumping stocks by the truckload. . . .”
“A weeklong drop in stock prices has led to a panic down on Wall Street. . . .”
“Stock prices plunge as interest rates skyrocket. . . .”
And I noticed, too, Ma’s footsteps quickening throughout the house, up and down the stairs, back and forth across the floors, bringing her finally to my door.
“Quick,” she breathed heavily, her face flushed, “run down to the newspaper office and tell Mr. Sewell to get here as fast as he can.”
“But can’t you—”
“The phone lines are overloaded; I can’t get a call through. Quick, Martha! Tell him it’s Rose! It’s a matter of life and death!”
—
I couldn’t get a cab—it seemed all of the Upper East Side had commandeered them in a caravan to Wall Street—and was afraid the 6 train would be too slow. So I ran all the way down to East Fifty-Third Street.
I worried that I wouldn’t be allowed in the Daily Standard’s imposing, marble-halled building. But on this day, it seemed even a sweaty, huffing girl in a maid’s uniform could go unnoticed. I pushed past reporters who streamed in and out of the bullpen, shouting down phones and clacking on typewriters, until I found Mr. Sewell’s office at the very back.
With a tap, I pushed the office door open, and a dozen men—most down to shirtsleeves and coffee stains—stopped dead in their dealings and looked back at me.
Mr. Sewell stood out in the crowd, the only one still with his jacket and tie on, as if taking a stand for decency in the face of Armageddon.
“WHAT,” he blasted as soon as he saw me, “could be so infernally important that you’d interrupt—”
And then he saw, and I saw that his face moved quickly from fury to fear. Fear not for his wife’s well-being, but that his well-laid plans were going down at the speed of the market.
—
Ten minutes later, I sat clammy in the front passenger seat of Mr. Sewell’s car, sticking to the fine leather upholstery, as his driver expertly threaded the car around the traffic that clogged Park Avenue. Any fun I might have found in riding in a luxury automobile was dashed with every curse that Mr. Sewell launched from the backseat. And every fleeting observation I made—the car had its own radio right inside!—was tamped back down by a new disturbing image: Rose sick, Rose hurt . . . or worse.
Mr. Sewell flung his door open the moment the Rolls found the curb, and I scrambled out behind him, racing to follow his long stride all the way up to Rose’s rooms, where the truth awaited.
But we didn’t make it past that newly dusted and gleaming front parlor, where it was hard to say who was more surprised—Mr. Sewell or me—to find a group waiting for us: Ma, Mr. McCagg, Alphonse . . . and Rose.
Chapter
27
Mr. Sewell sputtered his way out of his shock.
“McCagg! This is outrageous! Why is Mrs. Sewell out of her room? For heaven’s sakes, man, get her—”
“Uh, sorry, sir.” McCagg stared at his feet—coward, I thought—and put his hands protectively on his new employer’s chair back. “The missus says I’m not on your p
ayroll anymore.”
I couldn’t understand what was happening. Why Ma and Rose were sitting calmly on a silk-and-gilded sofa—Rose with her hands folded genteelly on her lap, pale, drawn, but no longer rashy. And why Alphonse and McCagg were standing at attention behind them.
It looked like a bizarre family photo. But it was actually the very picture of four people in complete control.
And the look of utter panic on Mr. Sewell’s face showed that he saw it, too.
“Not on my payr—” He decided to try his luck with Ma. “Mrs. O’Doyle, frankly I’m shocked. What doomed scheme has this riffraff sweet-talked you into.” His voice turned from scolding to wheedling. “You know you’ve always been my best and most trusted teammate. An angel, really, sent from heaven. For Rose and,” he ducked his head in imitation of a bashful schoolboy, “and for me.”
Ma’s composure was steel and stone, as if it were the twins before her swearing no knowledge of the candy wrappers in their schoolbags.
“Come, Martha.” Ma ignored Mr. Sewell’s little speech and patted a spot on the sofa. “You belong over here.”
I willed my feet to take me to the winning team, like a very tense game of Red Rover.
When I sat down, Ma put her hand—that warm, toughened hand—on mine.
Mr. Sewell turned to Alphonse next. I thought it was telling that, while a man his size could easily have commandeered Rose and dragged her back to her rooms, he was powerless without the servants to do his dirty work. I wondered next who would make his bed and rub the black spots out of the floor.
“I suppose this is all your scheme, then. I figured you out, you know—before Mrs. O’Doyle could send you away. You’re an Italian, correct?” Mr. Sewell spat the words out, as if being born in that country was its own character flaw. “And I’m right that you’re related to that Vanzetti somehow, aren’t I? Well, out with it. Name your ransom then, and let’s get this over with.”
Alphonse just gave a little smile, quiet as usual, and turned the stage over to the real star of the show.
Rose.
She cleared her throat, and though her voice was scratchy to start, weak from years of isolation, she was determined to be heard.
“As of this afternoon,” she said, her voice thin but growing in strength, “you have nothing with which to threaten McCagg, or me, or any of us. Because with the collapse of the market this morning, I’m guessing your money is gone. And your newspaper is next to go.”
Panic crossed Mr. Sewell’s eyes although he forced a laugh. “My dear, you really are not well. I’ve been telling you . . .” And then more seriously: “What would you possibly know about it?”
Rose opened up the scrapbook that I noticed had been sitting on her lap, much like the one I’d found ages ago in the front parlor. But instead of regaling us with tales of her debutante days, she began reading what sounded like excerpts from the Daily Standard business section:
“‘FED RUMORED TO APPROVE GULF-NORTHERN DEAL’”
She looked up, searching Mr. Sewell’s face for a glimmer of recognition. Finding it, she returned to the scrapbook.
“‘A SMOKELESS CIGARETTE? SIR WALTER TOBACCO SAYS YES.’”
“‘UNITEDCO MANUFACTURING EXPECTED TO ANNOUNCE TECHNOLOGY BREAKTHROUGH’”
“These are just from the last month, although I’m sure there have been hundreds more over the years. The stories are quite the headline grabbers, wouldn’t you say?” The small crowd around her all nodded in agreement. “One might even say . . . incredible.”
Mr. Sewell looked sick.
“And look here,” she flipped to the back of her scrapbook, where (I peeked over Ma’s shoulder) another section held clippings from the stock report. “Each of these companies have jumped—indeed, danced to your tune—in the days following your reports. And yet no other newspaper has carried any report of such earth-shattering discoveries. Is the Daily Standard really such a beacon of investigative reporting? How did you manage all these—‘scoops,’ I believe they’re called?”
I thought of Mr. Sewell’s dinners by the cloak of night and those mystery guests: tipsters, shysters, and collaborators.
And Yodel reporters being fed incriminating stories about Rose.
“My guess is that you’ve made money on every front. Payments from the swindlers who got you to plant their questionable ‘breakthroughs’ on the front page. And, of course, money on the back end, when the stock you’d bought ahead of time suddenly skyrocketed.”
As I watched this extraordinary performance, I realized I was finally seeing the real Rose—not the sedated Rose, or the panicked Rose, or the rashy, imprisoned Rose. The Rose who had kept her father guessing with her schemes and intrigues and keen business sense. But in the end was only entrusted with fancy paintings, while a nephew got the company and drove it into the ground.
“Well,” Rose closed the scrapbook now, “all good things come to an end. But surely you’ve seen it coming. The signs have been everywhere—the Federal Reserve’s warning last week, the Dow-Jones falling steadily. . . . A wise investor like yourself would have moved most of his funds out of the stock market.” She smiled at Mr. Sewell’s panicked expression. “No? Well then, your portfolio will have been wiped out by,” she looked to the grandfather clock in the corner, its hands reaching four o’clock, “right about now.”
Mr. Sewell had been stunned into silence all through Rose’s speech, but now tried weakly to protest. Rose stopped him with her hand.
“And if not by the end of the day, they will be by the end of the year, when the readers and investors you’ve duped realize your treachery. By which point you’ve lost not only your money, but your newspaper’s credibility. With one word to the authorities, you’ll be out of circulation by Monday. You’ll have nothing: not the money your father left you, not the money you conjured in the market, not the machine by which you made it.”
Rose let the grim scenario settle over her husband while she folded her hands primly again.
“Unless.”
Many years later, a guy at the flea market told me the secret to negotiating. “Whoever speaks first,” he claimed, “loses.” I thought of Rose and Mr. Sewell immediately, facing off, with that word—“Unless”—dangling between them.
Mr. Sewell finally cleared his throat, although he tried to disguise it as a guffaw. “Unless what?”
“Unless you accept our generous offer.”
“Generous?” he said. “Is that what you call blackmail? My God, I’ve always known you were—”
“I’d call it generous, seeing as how we’ve arranged a lovely vacation for you.” All the adults nodded together, murmuring at their largesse. “Unless you’d prefer a life of poverty and prison?”
“A vacation?” Mr. Sewell sputtered, looking from face to face around the room, searching for someone who shared his disbelief “That’s really—a vacation?”
“Of sorts. There’s just one clause in this contract. You have to leave right away.” Rose glanced at the clock again. “Right now, in fact.”
The absurdity of the situation finally hit Mr. Sewell with full force, and he began to pace and rant around the room, hoping that the full force of his words could push through a loophole.
While the master raged, Ma tut-tutted. “I was at a performance once,” she turned to Rose, “where they gave away a trip to Niagara Falls, so long as you left straightaway from the theater. I must say, the winners were quite delighted with their good fortune, and they weren’t even outrunning a national scandal.”
Rose shrugged. “Well, you can lead a horse to water . . .”
“Fine. Fine.” Mr. Sewell finally paced his way back to the group. “Let’s say I go along with this. I’m leaving now, eh? I’ll just grab a few things.” He turned toward his office.
But Alphonse came around the back of the sofa with a small suitcase.
/> “We’ve taken the liberty,” Rose interrupted, “of packing a few necessities for you, including some traveling funds. You can buy whatever else you need at your destination.” Alphonse handed the case to Mr. Sewell, who looked confused; he’d never carried his own bags before. Alphonse placed the handle in Mr. Sewell’s hand and wrapped his master’s fingers around it. In Mr. Sewell’s other hand, he placed a ticket.
“My destination?” Mr. Sewell looked down at the suitcase in his hand, as if confused by how it got there. “Wait, where am I—”
Rose ignored this as Alphonse left to fetch coats and hats. “Oh, and just one other thing. You’ll need to go by the name Alfonso Vanzetti.”
“What, on the ship?” His attention shifted to the ticket, and he inspected it, as if it laid out Rose’s secret plan.
“Yes. And, well, forever. As of this evening, J. Archer Sewell is no more.”
“Now, wait just a—”
“Yes, yes,” Rose dismissed his questions with an imperial wave of her hand, “It’s all very confusing, I understand. Alphonse will explain it on the way to the docks. And Alphonse, dear,”—he was back, a hand under his master’s elbow steering him to the door—“teach Mr. Sewell a few words of Italian, won’t you? To help him muddle through the third-class queues?”
And that was the last anyone saw of J. Archer Sewell. By the end of the evening, he was safely installed on the S.S. Garibaldi, in a lower-deck cabin shared with five other travelers in bunk beds. In a couple of weeks, he’d be disembarking in Naples, Italy.
Out at sea, he would learn too late that the market’s tumble was slowed by some of his wealthy cronies, who propped up the drooping market with vast infusions of cash. But it was a futile effort, and by October twenty-ninth of the same year—Black Tuesday—it was all over. A man like Mr. Sewell, with his net worth strewn all over the market like a roulette wheel, would be wiped out.
But he could begin again, if he liked, in a sleepy Italian seaside village, under the name Alfonso Vanzetti.
The Gallery Page 18
