Angel of Brooklyn

by Jenkins, Janette

  There was a gust of warm wind and the wings rippled, like water on stone, as the butterfly quivered, then flew towards the trees in lazy zigzag lines.

  Yawning, and with her head in what little shade she could find, her legs and arms covered in her flat dampish clothes, Beatrice dozed. Her broken dreams seemed long and full of detail. Tom was there. Young and freckle-faced. He was swimming away from the war, shouts in German behind him, and then cries from his angry battalion, and then his mother, slapping her hand against a rolling pin, but Lizzie was urging him on. ‘Go on,’ she screamed. ‘Go on! Go on! Or they’ll be catching up with you!’

  And then of course there was Coney, ubiquitous, shimmering, larger than life, if that were ever possible, with the man from Donegal shelling peanuts, whistling a tune that all the men were whistling that August, a watered-down tune from the Follies. And behind him, a man she’d danced with (Arnold? Archie?) holding out a picture, saying, ‘It’s the best one of the set,’ and she could see it, she was there, and Arnold/Archie was wafting the photograph gently in the air, and she was flying from the paper, her wings rustling like a breeze in the trees, her hair flying backwards, a battered stream of gold.

  She woke up panting, and for a few long seconds she was looking at another stretch of water, and the birds in the trees were twittering about Florida oranges, sticky hands, would you like to try your luck, sir?, this is the park that was burned, have you seen this place in the night-time, you really oughta, there are so many bulbs it’s like walking under sunshine. She looked at the sky. There was still nothing in it. Her clothes were dry and creaking and her skirt felt like paper.

  Brushing herself down, she rubbed all the contours of her face, feeling slightly sick. The air was fat with flies, and they settled on her arms before scattering like dust. She should go back now. Change her clothes. She’d wash her hair in cold water with the last amber squeeze of orange-oil shampoo. Then she would write a letter to Jonathan and reread the ones he’d sent to her. She shook out the blanket and rolled it. She bent to get the wilting buttercups. It was only then that she saw the small pair of boots and the stockings. Martha. She must have come back when Beatrice was sleeping. Shielding her eyes she walked to the edge of the trees calling, ‘Martha! Hello, Martha! Are you there? I’m leaving now.’ There was the rustling of the branches, the cool brown stripes, and the birds shaking themselves out, calling through the bars of shade, but not a sound or a glimpse of the girl, so she walked to the edge of the water where the shore curved, but all she could see were the bare stony banks, the pale burnt grass and the trees.

  She would not panic. Why on earth should she? Martha was probably up on the lane by now, running away from her brother. Leaving the boots and stockings, Beatrice made her way up the bank, climbing over the stile to where the lane was empty. She could hear one of the men on the farm shouting. ‘Ted, is this pig supposed to be panting like this? It sounds like an engine. Ted? Are you listening? It doesn’t seem right to me.’ She turned back. Martha wouldn’t have gone this far without her boots. The lane was full of stones.

  She called her name again, squinting through the bushes, the thin mossy shadows that were spreading out in fingers. A breeze had come from nowhere; the water was rippling, the abandoned stockings quivering like little black mice.

  ‘Martha?’ she bellowed, feeling the thumping of her heart in every part of her body. ‘Where are you?’

  She walked into the water. The breeze was whipping her hair into her eyes. ‘Martha!’

  And then she saw the flash of white. It looked like a bird. A swan. Beatrice stopped still, straining her eyes. A swan, or Martha’s white arm? It was moving with the current. Taking one last look behind her she pulled off her boots, wading out past her knees before dropping forwards, gasping with the cold, and with every icy stroke she thought Martha, whose swimming wasn’t strong, she was small, she didn’t like to feel the water on her face. The birds scattered, squawking. Treading water she tried to see where the white arm had gone to. It seemed to be floating away.

  The drowning white arm turned out to be a seagull. As soon as the bird heard the beat of her hands it flew up from the water. Beatrice was startled. She looked around but there was nothing, only the reservoir and the horizon with its thick clumps of trees and the dusty-looking shoreline. Exhausted, she turned onto her back. There were clouds in the sky now, ragged-edged, the breeze pushing them out as if they might have been sails.

  She crawled out of the water, groaning, rolling onto the stones, heavy with water and coughing with exhaustion, her clothes wrapped around her like rope. Eventually she managed to sit up. Without the sound of the water, the world felt empty. Time hadn’t moved. The boots and stockings were still side by side and her clothes were covered in mud.

  ‘Look,’ said Martha, ‘I found him for you.’

  Beatrice turned. Martha was standing behind her on the bank, grinning, her hands cupped in front of her. ‘Have you been swimming again?’ she said. ‘You look terrible.’ She crouched down on her knees. ‘I went all through the woods, but it was difficult, I didn’t have a net, but I wanted you to see it, are you ready?’

  Beatrice nodded. She was shivering. Slowly, Martha opened up her hands, and there was the butterfly, sitting still across them, the blue wings stretching, a lake between her fingers, until it gave a sudden jerk, flying towards Beatrice, landing on her breast for a couple of seconds before taking off again.

  ‘Wasn’t he beautiful?’ said Martha.

  ‘Yes,’ said Beatrice. ‘Like a torn-off piece of sky.’

  ‘You’ve ruined your skirt,’ said Martha, rolling a stocking over her hand. ‘You’re like a scarecrow. You know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I looked like you, my mam would probably kill me.’

  ILLUMINATION NIGHT

  Brooklyn, New York

  Spring, 1912

  MR JESMOND DUNCAN Cooper had been married, but his wife had recently left him for a surgeon.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘a legitimate surgeon, and a man like me can’t hope to compete with a book-reading lifesaver, and if she wants to spend her evenings washing the blood from his jacket and talking appendectomies, then that’s entirely up to her.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘As much as any man would miss the girl he’d chased and loved and married. I miss her presence. The way she quietly filled up a room. She had a lovely singing voice,’ he said. ‘And very small ears.’

  Outside the window of the Cowrie Shell Café, couples stopped to stare at the man swallowing swords, and every so often a ripple of applause would patter through the high window, and the man would take a bow, showing them where his hat was, before starting all over again.

  ‘He sure would put me off my beefsteak,’ said Mr Cooper, watching the show. ‘Luckily I know all his tricks. Those gleaming swords are fakes. Every single one of them. The blade simply rides into the handle. I know the man who makes them. He has all kinds of neat contraptions sitting in his workshop. He makes those cabinets where it looks like people have been broken into three.’

  ‘How do they do that?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘Mirrors mostly,’ he said, cutting through his steak. ‘Thing is, people want to believe, and on the whole, they don’t start looking for the answers.’

  ‘And if they do?’ said Nancy.

  ‘The mirrors are good enough to fool them; heck, people get fooled by their own damned mirrors every day.’

  ‘And what does your mirror say?’ asked Beatrice.

  Mr Cooper looked up from his plate. He rubbed his chin carefully. ‘The mirror on my wall,’ he said, ‘laughs at me from time to time, but on the whole it tells me that I could do better.’

  They finished off their supper. Mr Cooper, it seemed, was in a more than generous mood, closing the booth early, ordering a bottle of wine and paying for their meal.

  ‘I’m not good at being alone,’ he said, tapping a new cigarette on
to the back of his hand. ‘Oh, I’m all right for a little while, I’ll sit and eat, have a drink, and read the paper and so on, and then,’ he said, striking up a match, ‘I’m afraid I start to rattle.’

  Marnie appeared. She sat down next to Mr Cooper who immediately poured her a glass of wine.

  ‘I’ve just finished,’ she said.

  ‘How did we do?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes through a puff of grey smoke.

  ‘I sold over fifty. Celina’s still over there. She signed a few. They liked the old ones better.’

  ‘How many did she sign?’

  ‘Twenty?’

  ‘You didn’t leave her on her own?’

  ‘Billy was with her. She says she’ll be over in twenty minutes and can she have the chicken platter?’

  Sighing, Mr Cooper looked out of the window. The man with the swords was taking a break. He was drinking a soda and rubbing at his throat, as if those shiny false blades had made it something raw.

  ‘Fifty is not a lot of pictures,’ he chewed. ‘Last month, we sold well over two hundred, in one day.’

  ‘It’s been quiet,’ said Marnie, sipping her wine, ‘that’s all and it’s still so early in the season; it happens.’

  ‘Was it quiet yesterday?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘And the day before?’

  ‘It isn’t our fault,’ she said, pushing her glass around. ‘We do the same as always.’

  ‘I never said it was your fault, I’m not blaming you, honey, really I’m not, it’s just business, and it’s getting me into thinking that we need a different tack.’

  ‘I don’t do no moving around,’ she said, finishing off her wine in one fast gulp. ‘And neither does Celina. We both agreed. Moving isn’t right.’

  ‘I wouldn’t move for anyone,’ said Nancy. ‘Not an inch.’

  ‘I’m not talking moving, or anything else that goes down the road of the downright indecent. We’re artists. What am I always telling you? We’re not selling filth. I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Order the chicken platter and get one for yourself. We’ll have another bottle of wine, and then maybe my brain will start ticking, and I can think up a way to earn us more money.’

  ‘Didn’t the booth close at eight?’ Beatrice had been listening for the last couple of minutes, but was struggling to piece together what she’d heard.

  They looked at her. Mr Cooper shrugged, taking a long hard drag of his cigarette. ‘I have another interest,’ he said, pulling loose tobacco from his tongue. ‘The girls work for me, only business isn’t strictly booming at the moment.’

  ‘More postcards?’

  ‘Postcards and pictures,’ he said, looking at Nancy who raised her eyebrows, giving him a helpless kind of shrug. ‘Why don’t you take her on a stroll over there, if you think she’ll be all right?’

  ‘At last. Sure she’ll be all right. Beatrice Lyle might look like an angel, but she has something of a wicked streak.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Of course you do, and you know it.’

  They walked arm in arm. The fairground was quiet. The Scottish tattooist waved with his painted right arm.

  ‘I think I know what you do,’ said Beatrice, stopping suddenly. ‘I think I’ve always known.’

  ‘You have? Well, gee, Beatrice, you coulda said something. I wanted to tell you months ago, because I hate keeping secrets, and I’m sorry.’

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes. She felt slightly sick. ‘I don’t want to go there and I certainly don’t want to do it.’

  ‘Of course you don’t, but just wait and see.’ Nancy squeezed her arm. ‘Come on, we’re almost at the booth.’

  It looked like all the other postcard booths. Cooper’s Holiday Cards was tucked between a shellfish bar (closed due to illness) and a vendor selling flags.

  ‘Hey, Nancy,’ he said, ‘how are things?’

  ‘Business isn’t great,’ she told him. ‘How’s the flag game?’

  He waved one half-heartedly, a limp Stars and Stripes. ‘People like waving them,’ he said. ‘Goodness knows why, but I’m glad.’

  They went through the small tight entrance. A girl Beatrice hadn’t seen before was sitting at a counter, a stand of postcards in front of her, the same picture postcards that Beatrice had been trying to sell all day.

  ‘You just missed Billy,’ said the girl. ‘He went to meet his son. Celina’s still here. She’s getting herself fixed up, and then we’re closing.’

  ‘Sold any more?’

  ‘Five,’ she said. ‘But three were double-size.’

  Celina appeared through a drape at the back of the room. She was straightening her hair.

  ‘Oh.’ She stopped. ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘I’ve finally come to show her what it’s all about,’ said Nancy, parting the drapes behind her.

  ‘I can’t wait around, I’m starving,’ said Celina, packing up her little mirror and fishing for the earrings she’d left inside her pocket. ‘I’m going straight to the Cowrie.’

  ‘Your chicken platter’s waiting,’ said Nancy. ‘And so is Cooper, who is racking his brains trying to think up new ideas.’

  ‘New ideas?’ she yawned, pushing in her earrings. ‘Oh, I’m way too tired for that.’

  At the back of the drapes there appeared to be a small waiting room and another draped entrance. Across the wall there was a line of chairs, and a table with a jug of water and some tall glass beakers.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Nancy. ‘Go on. I won’t be a minute.’

  Beatrice felt cold. The floor was full of cigar butts. When Nancy reappeared, she was holding a black leather box.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said, taking the chair next to her. ‘You look like you’re waiting to have a tooth pulled.’ She took off the lid. ‘These are the pictures,’ she said, handing her the first one. ‘Me.’

  Beatrice looked down. It was Nancy. She was standing in the nude, her long hair loose; she was draped in a piece of white gauze. She stared. She couldn’t say anything.

  ‘You’re shocked,’ said Nancy. ‘I should have known you’d be shocked and I’m sorry.’

  ‘No,’ said Beatrice. ‘No, I’m not shocked, I like the picture, I don’t know why, but I do, you look lovely.’

  ‘Lovely? You think so? Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Sure, I’ve seen worse,’ said Nancy. ‘I’ve seen the nasty types of pictures that get handed round the park, but that’s not us at all. Mind you, we’re not exactly illustrating the New Testament.’

  ‘But I’ve seen more flesh on a painting,’ said Beatrice. ‘This looks kind of classical, and I guess someone has to pose.’

  ‘True. And I don’t look at all bad, though Marnie looks great, you should see Marnie.’

  Marnie was wearing a veil, as well as her draped piece of gauze. She was standing against an Arabian background, a pale-looking desert and a painted group of palm trees.

  ‘Inspired by the Orientalists,’ said Nancy. ‘Those fancy-looking paintings are full of girls in harems.’

  Beatrice looked up. ‘So, what’s behind the curtain?’ she asked. ‘Is that the photographer’s studio?’

  ‘Not exactly. A man called Maurice Beckmann takes the pictures. He has a set-up in the Bowery. Maurice is a real good sort, and he makes you feel at ease with his jokes and his singing. He has an old piano in the studio. It doesn’t feel seedy. He sees it as something artistic.’

  ‘So what is behind the curtain?’

  ‘It’s where we pose,’ she said. ‘Some gentlemen just buy the pictures, some get them signed, and some pay extra to see the model live. We stand on a podium,’ she said. ‘They’re not allowed to touch.’

  Beatrice took a few moments to take this in. ‘But aren’t you scared?’

  ‘I was the first few times, for sure, but Billy’s always there, in case someone’s had one too many drinks and they start misbehaving. I don’t really think about it any more,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, I’m up there i
n my little bit of gauze and I’m thinking about my shopping list, what I’m going to buy for my supper.’

  ‘Do these men ever say anything?’ she asked. ‘Make comments?’

  ‘They’re not supposed to speak, and most are good and don’t, but a few do try to make me blush, but then Billy tells them to shut right up or to leave.’

  ‘Who is this Billy?’

  ‘He used to be a boxer. He’s a grandpapa now, but still as strong as an ox. He’s very respectful; he even keeps his eyes on the ground, though he really doesn’t need to, as he’s seen it all before, at least a hundred times.’

  ‘But how do they know?’ she asked. ‘How do they know where to come?’

  ‘We have cards printed, and they’re given out across the park, mostly by the tattooists, or the barbers, or the men running the taverns. They’re very discreet. Cooper pays them a small amount. It isn’t just us,’ Nancy said, ‘they’re handing out dozens of cards all day, for all kinds of different services.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You could have told me. You’re all in on it, and now I feel such a fool.’

  Nancy shook her head and took hold of Beatrice’s hand. ‘No, you’re not a fool. We wanted to tell you, all of us, but Cooper made us promise. You must believe me, Bea, there were times when I nearly told you everything, and I don’t know why Cooper was protecting you, but all I can say is, I’m sorry. We’re still friends, right?’

  Beatrice looked up at her and smiled. ‘Of course we’re still friends. We’ll always be friends. What do you take me for?’

  The sky was fading and a ghostly moon sat like a thin piece of bone between the clouds. They sat outside Franny’s Oyster Bar, wrapped in their coats, with a bottle of cheap red wine. When the lights came on, there was a roar from the crowd and thunderous applause.

  ‘Illumination night,’ said Nancy.

  Beatrice picked at some peanuts, licking the coarse salt from her fingers; she put a pile onto the table, making the shape of a small crooked heart.