Hope's Daughter

by Joani Ascher

She finished touching up her red lipstick and, snapping her compact shut, smiled. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she said. “It is so cold outside. When will spring ever come?”

  A short discussion of the weather followed, amid speculation about when the golf course would open at the club to which the Canfields, and now Mr. Weaver, belonged. When Mr. Weaver returned, Jane left to go get the tea. After she delivered the hot beverage to Mrs. Canfield, she was alone with the ticker tape machine.

  They were closeted for almost an hour, and it was after noon when they re-emerged. “I am concerned about the news from Europe,” said Mr. Canfield as he readied himself to leave. “I know Roosevelt says we’re neutral, but can we count on that?”

  Mr. Weaver frowned. “I think we’re going to have to get involved. Look at Canada. They’ve been in this war since ’39, and here we sit, twiddling our principles.”

  “You’d make a profit if we went to war,” Mrs. Canfield said to her husband, with some scorn. Turning back to Mr. Weaver, she said, “Have you considered the people involved?”

  Mr. Weaver looked serious, and for once his youthful face did not undermine him. “If this country goes to war,” he told Mrs. Canfield, “we will have to fight to win. Whatever it takes.”

  Mrs. Canfield arched her painted-on eyebrows. “And would you join the effort?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Mr. Weaver left no opening for further discussion.

  Mr. Canfield nodded at Mr. Weaver. “That’s why you’re taking those courses, isn’t it? Yet it may not come to that.”

  Jane did not know what Mr. Canfield meant. Mr. Weaver had never said anything to her about any courses. She knew there were some being offered to prepare for possible military duty, but she would not have thought they were for her employer.

  “If you’d only get married, Prescott,” Mr. Canfield continued, as if Mr. Weaver’s feelings were trivial, “you’d get over this silly idea of wanting to fight in the war. You should find yourself a nice girl, like Regina, Lee Marsh’s daughter. Then you could start a family, and forget about going overseas.”

  The ticker tape machine clattered in the uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Canfield, who had been checking the seams of her stockings, straightened up and frowned. She pulled on her gloves, while keeping her eyes on Mr. Weaver.

  Mr. Canfield seemed not to have noticed his wife’s discomfort at his tone. “We won’t enter the war,” he predicted confidently. “There are too many people in this country opposed to our involvement.”

  “I hope we don’t go to war,” said Mrs. Canfield, looking at Mr. Weaver. Turning to her husband, specifically, she said, “Prescott is capable of deciding for himself whom to marry, darling.” Then she reached for his arm and propelled him out of the office.

  Left alone, Jane thought about the difference between herself and Mrs. Canfield, the kind of person who went to society balls and decorated her husband’s arm at the theater. It made her feel even taller and less attractive than usual.

  Chapter Two

  It was well past dark when Jane stepped out of the office building at 55 Wall Street, but little light could have penetrated to the ground where she stood even if it had been high noon. The buildings were too tall and close together, looming like giants over the narrow pavement below. When she turned into the wind, grit and soot stung her eyes, making them tear. She blinked and pulled her veil farther down to help protect her face.

  Jane did not look forward to the subway ride to the President Street station in Brooklyn, after which she still had to board a crowded trolley car and ride it to her Rogers Avenue neighborhood. The subway cars always rocked and stopped short, constantly throwing her against her fellow passengers, while she hung onto the leather straps for dear life. She had to straighten her hat several times each trip, pushing her hatpin farther in to keep her hat from going askew. When she reached her stop, she then had to push her way onto the trolley, hoping to find a place to put her feet without stepping on someone else’s.

  She was in no particular rush tonight, though, once she got onto Broad Street and out of the wind, since no one was waiting. In a way, she supposed, it was a portent of her future.

  In the past, Olivia was always home before her, but this evening, as with so many evenings recently, she would be out with one of her friends. Tonight it was Horace, Olivia’s favorite, the one who used to come to dinner at their apartment four nights a week until he finally learned to cook for himself. Now that they were in college, they spent most evenings at the library, studying for their bright futures.

  In a few years, Jane knew, Olivia would marry and start a family of her own. But Jane’s intention to become a well-respected leader in her field someday was all the future she expected or wanted. A career was something that her mother, Hope, had dreamed of for Jane, who was born the same year as women got the right to vote.

  Toward that end, Jane planned to learn whatever she could from Mr. Weaver. But while she still had the responsibility for taking care of her sister, which she had done singlehandedly for several years, she would not take any risks.

  When Jane emerged from the subway station in Brooklyn, a crowd standing outside a meeting hall drew her attention. Someone handed her a leaflet with the heading “America First Committee.” It said, “If we permit our country to become involved in the war now raging in Europe, Asia, and Africa, we face disastrous sacrifices—human, social, and material. We risk the liberties of the United States in a conflict from which no nation can emerge truly victorious. Let us spare America from such an act of national folly.”

  Reading it, Jane found her interest piqued, if only because she disagreed. She pushed her way inside, wondering how anyone could feel that way. What she found was even more puzzling to her.

  From the time she entered the crowded room, Jane was unable to tear her eyes away from the speaker. He stood on the podium, above the noisy crowd, imploring them to be quiet. Lloyd Hammer, the man pictured on the flyer, held up his hands and waited for silence.

  “It is vital to our country,” he shouted, “that we insist there be no involvement of either our men or our resources in this trouble in Europe.” His accent, with absent Rs, sounded strange to Jane’s New York ears, but she had no time to think about it as a roar of protest rose from the crowd.

  “I have family there,” shouted one man. “We can’t ignore them.” Several people echoed his protest.

  Lloyd Hammer held up his hands. “We must,” he said, as the assembled people quieted. “We have just struggled through an era of terrible poverty. We cannot and we must not risk losing what we have worked so hard to rebuild.”

  Jane watched people turn to each other, questioning what they heard. She questioned it herself. The thought of ignoring the dreadful trouble in Europe went against her principles and her upbringing. Her father, while too old to have fought in the Great War, had several younger cousins who had, of whom he was exceptionally proud. It was at the wedding of one of them that he had met Hope, a woman who, even though much younger than he, shared his concern for the downtrodden of the world. From everything her father had told her, Jane could not imagine either of her parents agreeing with the man on the stage.

  Yet he held her riveted, as he did so many others standing beside her.

  “Let them fight their own battles,” he continued. “We must not go up against the German power again. We must gird our shores against the threat…” He spoke for several more minutes, invoking the words of America First’s leader, Charles A. Lindbergh, and one of its financial sponsors, Henry Ford. At the conclusion, he handed out more leaflets, inviting everyone present to the rally that was to be held on May 29th in Madison Square Garden.

  As the crowd dispersed, Jane turned to go. It was getting quite late, and by now Olivia would be home and waiting. She would worry if Jane did not get home soon.

  Olivia worried so much, about so many things. She worried about the people in Europe, and she worried about going to college. Jane swore she would see Olivia make
it through without having to drop out and work full time. Olivia depended on her, but Jane felt she must learn to support herself, at least until she was married.

  Yet Jane would not push her. Olivia was very sensitive, and she had been through too much already. Jane kept from her the details of her struggle to pay the rent and allowed her to keep half of what she made babysitting for the neighbors, where she was very much in demand. She was wonderful with children. Jane thought she would make a good teacher, and certainly would be a good mother. For herself, she would be content to be Aunt Jane someday.

  She waited while several people passed and then made her way to the lobby of the hall. At the other end, she saw Mr. Hammer standing near the door, greeting people who seemed to want to talk to him, some to argue, some to agree.

  Even through billows of cigarette smoke, she could tell he had the darkest eyes she had ever seen, and his hair was blue-black. He wore a suit, with a starched white shirt, and his tie, even though the room had become warm, was tight to his neck.

  Jane searched for a path through the throng so she could leave. She edged toward the double doors, excusing herself as she pushed past a group of men whose hand-rolled cigarettes dropped ash on the floor. They did not move aside, as she had expected. One raised his eyebrows and leered at her.

  Unaccustomed as she was to that kind of attention, Jane felt her face burn and renewed her attempts to find an exit.

  She looked at her watch as she finally got near the door and tried to figure out how soon the next trolley would come. But once there, she was unable to leave, and barely able to move. It was as if she was rooted to the spot, and she could not take her eyes off the charismatic man in the doorway.

  At that moment Lloyd Hammer turned his gaze toward her. She was startled by his intensity, and felt herself drawn to him. Only the interruption of another well-wisher broke the connection. She rushed outside.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked down the street outside the meeting hall to the corner. She pulled her coat closer around her, and hurried through a light rain toward the streetcar stop.

  Someone touched her shoulder. Turning, she gasped. The hand belonged to Lloyd Hammer.

  “Please wait,” he implored. “I, uh, wondered if I could talk to you.”

  Unable to speak, Jane stood her ground. She watched as the streetcar pulled in, discharged a few passengers, and loaded up with more, then pulled away. There would not be another for a while.

  “Thanks,” said Lloyd. “I was afraid you would get on that streetcar and I’d never see you again.” He looked around, and pulled his own overcoat closer. “It’s gotten colder. Do you want to go for a cup of coffee?”

  Jane shivered, even though she was standing close enough to feel his warmth. She did not know how to respond, since this was the first cup of coffee anyone had ever invited her to have. But it was so late, and Olivia would worry. “My sister is waiting,” Jane said.

  “Surely she can wait for just a little while,” he said, his husky voice resonating. “The streetcar is gone. We won’t take long, and you can catch the next one.” He smiled, waiting for her reply.

  She was dazzled by his bright, white, even teeth and by the way his eyes, on a level with her own, crinkled at the edges. When she nodded, he took her gently by the arm and led her down the block to a coffee shop.

  It was warm inside, and crowded. The odor of wet wool and cigarettes surrounded her as Lloyd led her to a table near the window. He helped her take off her coat and slung it and his own over the back of an empty chair. She was captivated, seeing her coat touching his, with his hat resting on top.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he said. “But I just had to meet you.”

  “It’s Jane Baldwin.”

  “I’m Lloyd Hammer.”

  “I know.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Have we met before? I’m sure I would have remembered someone so beautiful.”

  Jane felt herself blushing. “No. I was at the rally tonight.” She looked him directly in the eyes, searching for a sign that he had seen her there. Why else would he have stopped her on the street?

  “So it was you. I saw you, you know, and I wanted to meet you, but when I turned you were gone. I’m so glad I found you.”

  Jane suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Why would he say such a thing? She was no one whom men wanted to meet. It did not make sense. But since she had his attention, she decided to speak her mind.

  “I can’t say I agree with the isolationists and with what you said,” she told him. “I don’t think we should gird our shores against the threat of pillaging by the unfortunates abroad, as you put it. How can we turn our backs when we are needed? What would have happened if we had not fought in the Great War?”

  “You didn’t fight in the Great War, and you didn’t have to risk dying. You didn’t have to give up your goals or dreams because of it.”

  Jane noticed Lloyd’s left hand was balled into a fist. “Did you?” she asked. “You’re a bit too young.”

  “I am not that young,” he said, angrily. “I’m thirty.”

  “So in 1917 you were six,” she replied, bristling. “What regiment were you with?”

  His angry expression vanished into a smile. “You’re right. Sometimes I think I take myself too seriously. Of course I wasn’t in the war.”

  Jane’s breath was taken away when he smiled. He had the most wonderful grin, totally charming and warm. Her own anger dispersed like a puff of smoke. She sipped the coffee the waitress had put in front of her, wondering what to say.

  Lloyd leaned forward, so close to Jane she could feel his breath on her cheek. “But I do know we shouldn’t be in this war. It is not for the United States of America. Why do you think we should enter the war?”

  “I don’t. I don’t want anyone killed any more than you do. But I believe there is a moral…”

  He put his hand on hers, effectively stopping her speech in its tracks. “Let’s not talk about that right now. I want to get to know you.”

  “Me? I’m no one. Why…?” Unable to finish, Jane dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

  Lloyd cocked his head. “You are an interesting woman,” he said. “And different from the empty-headed girls I so often meet. Why wouldn’t anyone want to get to know you?” He took her hand in his. “I know this may seem too forward, but the moment I saw you, I had to talk to you.” Releasing her hand, he stayed close. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Looking away from his eyes, Jane tried to quell her trembling. “There isn’t very much to tell. I live with my sister and I work as a secretary in a stock brokerage.” She swallowed. “What about you? What do you do when you aren’t giving speeches?”

  “I also work on Wall Street. But I’d much rather talk about you. Is it just the two of you? You and…?”

  “Olivia. Yes. Ever since Father died.”

  “When?”

  Jane blinked back a tear. “Five years ago.” Her father had never recovered what he lost in the stock market crash, and his health had declined steadily since that black day. He had taken any job he could, in those times when jobs were so scarce, and had somehow managed to leave just enough money for Jane to finish college, although she’d had to work nights and weekends in Macy’s to be able to afford clothes for herself and her sister.

  “And your mother?”

  “She passed away when I was two. It was a riding accident.”

  Lloyd had a surprised look on his face, and he glanced at her coat, one far more expensive than any Jane could now afford. She did not explain the change that had occurred in the family circumstances.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you said you had a sister. Is she older?”

  “No, Olivia is younger. My father remarried a year later. She was Olivia’s mother.” If she concentrated very hard, Jane could almost remember Vanessa, a young woman whom her father had met at the home of a friend when he was barely through grieving his first wife. She had been younger than Jane was now w
hen she married Jane’s father, and had looked very much like Olivia. The resemblance in the only picture they had of her was striking.

  “A few months after Olivia was born, Vanessa died,” Jane explained. She did not remember why, and no one ever spoke of it. “Then, a few years later, Father married Pearl.” She was a woman he’d known his whole life, who had secretly loved him since she was a young woman, she had once confessed to Jane and Olivia.

  “I had set my cap for him when we were very young,” Pearl had told the girls. “He was so busy with his wine importing business then, constantly traveling to Europe, and in no way ready to settle down. When he saw the writing on the wall and the coming of prohibition, he sold out all his interests and came back to the States. He met Hope, fell instantly in love, and married her. Then there was Vanessa. One day, though, there was only me and I could finally be with my life’s love.” Pearl was a good woman, never bitter about it, and Jane still missed her.

  “In 1934, Pearl got TB and died,” Jane told Lloyd. That had been devastating. They had tried everything for a cure, including trips to the clean air of the country and a sanitarium in Saranac Lake. When she passed away, leaving the girls motherless again, their father, a great baseball fan, said that three strikes rendered him out and he would not remarry. He swore he would raise his daughters on his own. He had almost made it.

  Lloyd’s face was filled with sympathy. “That must have been so hard.”

  Jane chanced another look into those black eyes. “It’s all right. Father left us able to fend for ourselves. We manage.” She clenched her fists and looked away. She would manage to take care of her sister, no matter what.

  “You’re very brave.”

  “Enough about me,” said Jane, who was becoming uncomfortable with Lloyd’s praise. “Do you have a family?”

  “No. I’m alone. I don’t have time for a family. Maybe someday I’ll find a woman who can take care of me.” His wistful gaze made Jane a bit uncomfortable.

  “It’s getting so late,” she said. “I must go home.”