The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Three,” I said, smiling.

  “Good,” she said, letting a giant breath escape her lungs. “He’s hardly permitted me to pick up a brush since our wedding day, but over the past few weeks, my heart has been so heavy that I knew if I couldn’t paint, my anxiety would just burst it.” My insides felt hollow. I remembered the feeling of unbearable tension after Charlie left and couldn’t imagine what would have become of me if someone had taken my notebook and pencil and forbidden me to write. Mae leaned down, opened the trunk, grabbed the edge of a miniature canvas, and shoved it into Cherie’s hand.

  “Sit down and paint,” she ordered. Cherie ran her hand over the canvas and sat down on the gray longue next to the fireplace. I shivered, wishing someone had had the decency to light a fire, and dragged the A-frame easel next to her chair.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and grabbed my arm. “How’ve you been? Have you been writing?”

  “She has,” Mae said before I could answer. “A book.” I grinned, wishing she hadn’t spoken for me.

  “A book? Ginny, you’ve outdone yourself.” Cherie smiled as she smeared paint along the clean palette and dipped the corner of her brush into the green. “What’s it about?”

  “Relationships,” I said vaguely. “Speaking of, Mae has a very promising new friendship.” Pausing on the word, I glanced over at Mae’s face, which flushed immediately at the mention of Mr. Trent. Cherie looked over at her and started to say something but I cut her off, sparing my sister the discomfort of detailing the yet undefined relationship. “And Alevia is going to audition for the Symphony again next month. A friend of Franklin’s is a relation of Damrosch’s and thinks she’ll be able to convince him to take a woman.” Cherie’s eyes flickered at the insinuation of a female friend of Franklin’s, but the diversion worked and she quickly launched into a conversation with Alevia about music, which led to Bessie piping in about the difficulty of procuring the scarlet ibis feathers for Consuelo’s toque.

  I was relieved that the conversation had turned from me and sat back against the couch. I hadn’t thought about my book in two weeks—ever since Franklin and I had gone back to the Hoppers’ for another Artists’ Society gathering. Mr. Blaine hadn’t been in attendance to go over our ideas for The Century, but Mr. Hopper spotted me as soon as we’d arrived and pulled me from Lydia’s side to say that he’d read my book and had some thoughts. He’d said it with such a huge smile that I thought he’d loved it. Lydia had apparently thought the same because she’d piped in to gush about its genius, though she had yet to read a word. I found out later, when we’d met in the study at the end of the night, that Lydia and I were mistaken. Mr. Hopper started by saying that my writing was strong and that he thought the book had potential. I was dreaming of a vibrant career and publication, when he began doling out a series of blows that hit me one after the other until my stomach churned. He thought the characters were one-dimensional, that they had no aspirations beyond loving each other, and that their lack of motivation otherwise was unbelievable and boring. I’d nodded and thanked him, hoping he’d stop, but he’d kept on, mentioning that he’d actually hoped something bad would happen to them just to make it interesting. “Wasn’t death at the end heartbreaking enough?” I’d asked, recalling my tears while I wrote it. Mr. Hopper laughed, shaking his head. “Death is a bit inevitable,” he’d said, twirling his pencil between his fingers. “Plus, she’s what, ninety when he dies? She’ll be along shortly.” His criticism in the moment made me want to pummel him. At the time I’d just finished reading his book, The Blood Runs from Antietam. True to life and war, the book was well written, but graphic and horrifying—following the lives of two generals on opposing sides during the Civil War. Every few pages it seemed that someone’s head was getting blown off by a canon ball or prisoners of war were being hung then gutted for their crimes. I’d wanted to criticize his work as well, to ask him if anything beyond mutilation interested him, but had held my tongue, mostly because at the bottom of my heart I knew what he’d said about my book was the truth and that his comments would only work to improve my manuscript. I realized I’d never received a true critique. Charlie and my siblings had been as honest as they could in their feedback, but at the end of the day, they’d only been supportive. They were too loving to be anything else.

  “Ginny.” I jerked at the sound of my name and looked over at Cherie. Her cheeks were flushed with contentedness and she smiled. I nodded my head along with Alevia playing what I assumed was one of Bach’s English Suites on the out-of-tune piano. I hadn’t heard her play this particular song since we were children, when she first learned to play by ear on Grandmother’s Steinway grand. I closed my eyes, realizing that I’d stopped hearing the sharp notes. “I think I’m nearly done with your portrait of me, do you want to see it?” Cherie asked.

  “Of course,” I said, glancing over to the windows where Mae and Bess were plopped on couches opposite each other reading selections from the adjacent bookshelf. Mae held The Ancient Regime and the French Revolution by de Tocqueville in one hand, brushing dust off the tea table beside her with the other. Bess flipped through an old Harper’s Bazaar, paying no mind to Mae’s compulsion to tidy. Something about the way Mae sat, eyes locked in a book made me think of Charlie. We’d been in his library at the beginning of the winter last year, watching the snow fall. I could still see the flakes piling up on the windowsill next to me. He’d been sketching an image of Benjamin Franklin for the Bronx Review’s Independence Day edition and I’d been writing a short biography on Founding Father John Jay. I’d felt Charlie’s eyes on my face and had looked up in time to see him staring at me, pencil hovering in midair. “You know,” he’d started, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s been said that the sight of Franklin’s wife, Deborah, stopped him in his tracks. He was walking down the street eating a piece of fresh-baked bread when he saw her. He never forgot it—the way she looked standing in the doorway of her father’s house.” Charlie had stood from the stool then and crossed the room. “This is one of those moments, Gin. The way you look right now with your hair half unbound,” he’d pushed a lock back from my forehead, “the brown in your eyes surrendering to the green like it always does when you’re writing, doing what you love. It’s the most beautiful picture I could never begin to draw, but will always remember.”

  “Look.” Cherie’s voice jarred me back to the room. She turned the canvas around.

  “Cherie . . . what?” is all I could make out. The painting was dark, swathed in black and dark green, completely unlike the optimistic portrayals she had been known for. She’d painted herself sitting in the middle of the room smiling, though her lips were tinged a disturbing gray. The skin under her eyes was so dark that her brown irises looked frightening. “Is that how you feel?” I asked, swallowing hard. She turned the painting back to face her and bit her lip, surveying it. Shrugging, she rose slowly from the lounge, plucked the easel from its place next to her and set it in front of me. “William will be back to get me soon,” she said softly. “For what it’s worth, tell Franklin that he wins, that his artistic vision was right all along. Somehow it makes me feel better to depict the truth rather than portray hope for a happiness that will probably never be.” Cherie smiled at me and I grinned back despite the melancholy I felt at her circumstance, knowing that even if her life wasn’t happy, in the past few hours she’d been free. “Do ask Franklin to call on me.”

  The door opened before I could respond to her request. Alevia’s fingers fumbled on the keys as Mr. Smith appeared in the doorway. “Are you finished, darling?” he asked and Cherie nodded, hand resting protectively on her stomach. Mae flipped her book shut and walked around the edge of the couch, inhaling sharply when she saw the portrait. Mr. Smith didn’t notice but took Cherie’s hand, kissed it, and then righted, heading toward me. I inhaled the heavy scent of turpentine, heart pumping. I assumed he’d react one of two ways: he’d either curse me when he saw it or tear it up. He patted my shoulder, then glanced a
t the portrait. “That’s lovely,” he said, and I froze at his cold indifference.

  Chapter Eight

  JANUARY 1892

  The Loftin House

  BRONX, NEW YORK

  I’d been staring out of my bedroom window at the chestnut tree for almost two hours and had only written four words. Mother and Mae were setting the table for lunch. I could hear the clatter of china and their laughter, and smell the pork fatback wafting from the reheated pot of brown beans. I pressed my pencil to the paper, as if the action would force the words, but nothing came. I was supposed to be writing a news piece for the Review about the upcoming Preakness Stakes at Morris Park Racecourse, but couldn’t settle my mind. It was Charlie’s wedding day. He’d be married in a matter of hours and the possibility that our friendship could be salvaged would be over. I’d made excuses to be home all week, thinking that at the last moment, he’d change his mind and come for me, but it was clear he was moving forward. Perhaps it was better this way. Our relationship had always been passionate, accented by arguments and apologies, but in the midst of heartbreak, I’d forgotten our fights, our immaturity.

  I glanced at my dresser drawer containing my book, and then at the roaring fire next to it. The pages only reminded me of something that didn’t exist. And, according to Mr. Hopper, it wasn’t good anyway. I rolled my eyes at his chiding voice in my head telling me that that’s not what he’d meant and reached into the drawer. I’d expected that it wouldn’t be perfect, but he’d pointed out so many flaws in my writing I didn’t know if I had the skill to fix them. Perhaps I was only fooling myself by thinking I could become a published novelist.

  The notebook was worn and familiar in my hand as I flipped it open.

  At a young age, you never have to try to be happy. You just are. That’s how Carlisle and I were from the beginning—young and happy and carefree, unaffected by what we should do or who we should be.

  The base of my neck tensed. “My heart. You have it.” As much as I wanted to ignore it, a naïve part of me believed Charlie. But he’d chosen. I caught my reflection in the mirror and swallowed hard as the image of Cherie’s painting flew into my mind. That would never be me; I wouldn’t allow it. Nothing, not the memory of what could’ve been or even Charlie himself could take my art from me. It was mine. I looked down at the page and closed the book, putting it back in the drawer. I couldn’t burn it. I’d take Mr. Hopper’s advice and make it better. I didn’t care if publication was improbable. If it could make even one person remember who they were before adulthood set in with its social structure and rules, perhaps they’d be saved from the prison of Cherie’s reality and Charlie’s future.

  “Mother!” Franklin’s voice rang through the windows. He’d been scarce at home for a month—traveling up to Maine for work and then to a funeral in Stamford, Connecticut, of a friend I’d never heard of. At first I thought I was hearing things, before he yelled again. A strange chugging sound came from outside, like a metal ball being shaken in a tin can, and I ran to the window. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but the automobile was still there, black paint gleaming in the afternoon light. Franklin lounged against the leather backrest, cigar clutched between his teeth, arm slung across the pink and white velvet ribbons along the standing collar of Lydia’s long wool coat. Mr. Trent tilted his head toward Franklin, said something, and laughed, his breath vaporizing in the winter air. He straightened as Mother appeared below me, dropped the butter knife she was holding, and clasped her hands to her mouth. Not bothering to wait for her response, I flew down the stairs and out the front door.

  “What . . . where did you get this?” Mother asked. Franklin swiveled a lever next to him to stop the motor.

  “I just bought it from John Hopper. I worked out a deal before he went out of town for the weekend. It’s yours. I had a little extra money and thought you shouldn’t be walking to your errands anymore.” I stared at it, unsure what to say or how he could’ve possibly afforded it. We’d been five dollars short on our bills last month. This kind of extravagance was reckless. We didn’t even have anywhere to store it beyond Grandfather’s old rickety garden shed out back. Franklin jumped down from his seat, helped Lydia out, and leaned to hug Mother who continued to gaze at it without blinking. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She’d always been adamant that wealth didn’t make a person happy, and had always encouraged us to be content with a simple life.

  “We’ll speak about this later, of course, but it’s a lovely gift, dear.” Mother smiled, giving none of her emotion away.

  “Mr. Trent, did you know about this?” Mae asked, untying the white linen apron around her yellow velvet skirt. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand and wrapped her arm across her body to block the cold as she descended the remaining steps. Mr. Trent walked toward her, reaching to clutch her hands, and I thought of Charlie gripping my own but pushed the sensation away. It was time to move on.

  “Not at all. I was just sitting in my room studying when I heard my name being shouted from the street. I looked out and it was ol’ Frank yelling at me to come take a ride to the Bronx in his new Benz.” Mr. Trent leaned down to kiss Mae’s hand and my mother smiled at them for a moment before turning back to Franklin and the wagon.

  “Do you like it, Gin? You haven’t said a word.” Franklin pulled Lydia behind him as he started up the walk.

  “Ginny,” Lydia said, breaking from Franklin to wrap her arm across my shoulders. “You know you’ve never seen anything more handsome in your life.” She leaned in to my ear. “The Benz’s nice, but I’m speaking of Franklin, you know. I’ve missed you since the last meeting. I hope we’ll be sisters some day.”

  “I’d love that,” I whispered back, squeezing her hand and trying to swallow the lump of irritation that had suddenly manifested in my throat. As warm and lovely as Lydia was, I wondered if some of Franklin’s sudden tendency toward extravagance had something to do with impressing her. The neighbors across from us had taken notice of the automobile and were now congregating on their front porch staring at it as though a dragon had materialized in the street.

  “So?” Franklin asked again, turning to look at me. “You like it, don’t you?” I nodded, amused by the goofy grin on my brother’s face.

  “It’s lovely, Frank,” I said, leaning in to him, “but how could we afford it? We weren’t even able to pay our debts last month. We haven’t bought groceries or coal or . . .” I drifted off and stepped back to glance at the automobile once more. The silver spokes glittered in the afternoon sun. “Aren’t automobiles nearly one thousand dollars?” Franklin cocked an eyebrow at me and shook his head.

  “They certainly are. If not more than that.” Bessie’s voice came from the porch behind me. She was wearing a new dress made of blue and cream brocaded taffeta, complemented by long suede gloves with a mousquetaire wrist opening. Our accumulating debt hadn’t affected her spending habits. “The Carnegies just bought a Million and Guiet Chariot D’Orsay the other week for well over two thousand, and it’s not even motorized. At least that’s what T—” She stopped abruptly and I turned to find her staring at Lydia. Bess’s face paled, making her upswept auburn hair appear shockingly red against her skin.

  “You’re the woman I saw . . . who I saw . . .” Lydia stuttered, glancing over at my mother standing next to Mae and then back at Bessie. “That I saw talking to my brother the other evening.” Bessie swallowed hard and nodded mechanically, causing the plume of turkey feathers jutting from the brim of her trilby hat to quiver. Alevia appeared in the doorframe behind her, grinning at Bessie’s back. Had Bess told Alevia about her and Mr. Blaine? I wondered where Lydia had come across them and what exactly they’d been doing.

  “You know Mr. Blaine, Bess?” I asked. Bessie’s eyes met mine, wide and pleading.

  “I do. We met at the Astors’ one afternoon,” she said softly. “He’s very nice.” Shooting me a thin smile, Bessie turned on her heel and walked into the house. Lydia grabbed my arm, and lean
ed into my ear.

  “I caught them kissing in our laundry a few days ago. I had no idea she was your sister,” she whispered, then shrugged. The thought that they’d been kissing shocked me. As far as I knew, he hadn’t even attempted to properly court her. “I suppose I’d be more upset if I thought you were interested in Tom. You’re not, are you?”

  “No.” I softened my tone. “He’s kind and smart and we’ll be good friends, but—” I started, but she smiled and shook her head, cutting me off.

  “You don’t need to explain,” she said. “Sometimes it fits, sometimes it doesn’t. I tried to make it work with my last beau for far too long. Only in the wake of his brother’s death did it become evident that I hadn’t been imagining his alternating tendency for seclusion and madness . . . and then I found your charming, compassionate brother.” She patted my arm. “It’s best to be true to yourself.” She let me go and walked toward Mother, the hem of lace ribbons along her ivory dress fluttering from beneath her coat in the wind. Franklin started to follow her, but I caught his sleeve.

  “Frank. How much was it and how could you possibly afford it?” I asked under my breath. He stared at me blankly and I tipped my head at the gleaming automobile.

  “Oh.” Franklin squinted toward the Benz. “Well, I got a raise at work—a large one—and thought that with the bonus I might get us something nice.” I stared at him skeptically.