The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  “What are you ladies doing here?” said a gruff voice. “This place is for men.”

  Standing next to them was a man in his early thirties in a coat and tie, with red muttonchops with a thick mustache, holding a pint of beer. She recognized him as a reporter from the court she had fooled into sending her to Bellevue months earlier.

  “No,” spat out Nellie, “what are you doing here? This place is for reporters.” The room grew quiet. They didn’t expect her to stand up to the hazing.

  “I’m a reporter,” said the man defensively.

  “No, you’re not,” said Nellie. “You write for the Herald. They don’t have reporters, they have parrots. You’re a parrot.”

  Some chuckles from the Herald haters. Dale smiled.

  “Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp,” clucked Nellie.

  “Watch yourself, lady—” snarled the man.

  “You just write what the highest bidder tells you to write. You don’t report anything. The city could be on fire and you would just look the other way if the arsonist paid you enough.”

  “You’re done talking,” he said menacingly.

  “No, I’m just getting started. We are in trouble. Big trouble. And you just sit on your fat arse and drink beer and pick on people minding their own business instead of doing something that might make your wife and your kids proud. Or are they already ashamed of you, like the rest of us?”

  His face turned red, and he clenched his fist. He may have started it, but now he was getting pummeled, and he didn’t like it.

  “Go ahead,” she challenged. “Take a swing. That will help your reputation.”

  The man didn’t know what to do next. Everything out of her mouth was making him look lower and lower in his colleagues’ eyes. And Nellie wouldn’t ease up on him.

  “It’s easier to take a swing at me than at Henry Hilton, isn’t it? Let him ruin the city. What do you care? You’re getting paid, at least for a while.”

  Impulsively the guy poured his beer on Nellie’s head. He didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t move, just sat there and took it and smiled at him defiantly. The guy looked around for approval, but the crowd just averted their eyes, embarrassed for him. And Nellie was unbowed.

  “You write about prostitutes all day. Why don’t you just write about yourself? It’s the same thing, and that way you wouldn’t have to leave the office.”

  Utterly humiliated, the man slunk out, stripped of all dignity. The rest of the reporters looked at one another pathetically. But standing tall, even though she had beer on her head, was Nellie. She lifted her glass to the room.

  “To the gentlemen of the press. May they someday come out of hiding.”

  Dale lifted his glass. “Hear, hear.”

  They clinked glasses and drank. She sat back and sipped her tea. She was due home and behind schedule, but she’d be damned to let them think she was running off. Better to get home late than give these fellows one moment of satisfaction.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Benjamin Harrison

  Although Congress was normally in session less than half the year, and the new president would not be sworn in until March 4, the Fiftieth Congress, dominated in both houses by Republicans, convened on January 4, 1889, with one item on the agenda: legislation to provide federal funding for an immigration inspection facility at Montauk Point, New York. President Cleveland, in office for another two months, vowed to veto any such bill that came before him, so after whisking through the House, the legislation sat at the Senate desk, until President-elect Harrison would take the oath of office. At that point, the Senate would act quickly, and the bill would be the first presented to the new president after inauguration. The legislation, though dormant for the moment, signaled what was coming and added to the psychological assault on the city.

  Nellie continued to look furiously for some irrefutable link between Henry Hilton, Charles DeKay and Emma’s murder, but the going was slow, much too slow. The one ray of hope was the list from Sarah, Emma’s maidservant, which set out all the people who had visited Emma from the time she returned from Europe until her death three months later. It was surprisingly comprehensive, with detailed notations beside each name. Sarah had taken the assignment seriously and searched her memory for anything that might lead to Emma’s murderer.

  There were thirty-five names on the list. Hopefully one of the visitors had noticed Charles DeKay give Emma the arsenic or even been an accomplice themselves. But which one?

  And how would she go about asking? Nellie spent two afternoons painstakingly reviewing the list with the World’s archivist, a retiring man in his late sixties who seemingly knew everyone whose name had appeared in the New York papers over the past forty years. Nellie eliminated Emma’s immediate family—they were unlikely to cooperate—and anyone likely to protect Charles, such as Helena and Richard. That left about a dozen people. But one name in particular jumped out at her: Mary Hallock Foote.

  Mary Hallock Foote was a well-known Western writer and illustrator and, according to the archivist, Helena Gilder’s college friend and apartment-mate. She had moved to Colorado and Idaho shortly after Helena and Richard had married and rarely made it back to New York. Yet she’d visited Emma twice in the three months before she died, and according to Sarah’s notes, “they engaged in a shouting match, and Mrs. Foote stormed out of the house.” Nellie certainly wanted to know more about that but didn’t know how to get in touch with Molly Foote, as she was known. Although Foote was published in the Century, it was unlikely Helena or Richard would cooperate, and she knew no one else in that world. Dale was in Boston for the holidays. He might have some ideas when he got back.

  Other matters were occupying Nellie’s attention as well. Her mother’s senility was getting worse. At times Mary Jane didn’t recognize her or know where she was. The disorientation also made her tired, and Mary Jane would nap for several hours every afternoon and retire for bed right after supper. Nonetheless, the move to Ingram’s house had been a helpful tonic, and Nellie was grateful for that. Mary Jane was not as lonely during the day, with Ingram stopping in every so often to inquire about her health and taking walks on her own to the park in Washington Square, where she would enjoy the ducks and children for hours. Ingram arranged for a twelve-year-old boy, whose mother Ingram had cured of a nasty case of pneumonia, to keep an eye on her whenever she left the brownstone. In Harlem, the confinement had been almost unbearable and accelerated the senility: her days had been limited to sitting in the common room and staring out the window at the peddlers on the street below. And when she did venture out on her own, there was always the very real possibility she would not find her way home.

  The three of them took meals together at morning and evening. Ingram, who employed a cook since he often worked late into the night, simply had her prepare for three rather than one. He was pleased to do it. This allowed him to see Nellie every day.

  Mary Jane did not give much thought to her daughter’s relationship with Ingram. Nellie had told her mother that she wanted to live closer to the paper—the trip from Harlem to Newspaper Row was nearly an hour each way—and she had seen a lovely place in a home owned by a doctor she had met through her work. Mary Jane had balked, assuming that all New York doctors were like the pervert who had given Nellie a breast exam, but Nellie assuaged her concerns by telling her that the new doctor had very unpleasant things to say about that first doctor they had seen. Mary Jane found Ingram perfectly agreeable and consented to the move, especially when he had two large men help them transport their belongings and look after them. She also liked that those same two men took turns each evening standing outside the front door and making sure no one bothered them with loud noises or unwanted interruptions.

  The dinners themselves were pleasant affairs for each of them. Dining with Mary Jane alone night after night had become extremely tedious for Nellie, and she welcomed Ingram’s conversation. Mary Jane had begun to find dinners with her d
aughter equally tedious, and she enjoyed conversing with a handsome young man who treated her with respect and interest. And Ingram was happy for some semblance of normal life in an eighty-hour workweek seeing patients, visiting the asylum, and conducting research. The fatigue that had hounded him all his life seemed to vanish, and he would refer to his meals with the two women as his prescription tonic.

  They enjoyed a lovely Christmas dinner together, the finest Nellie had had since she was a child. It was a feast: Ingram’s cook prepared a roast, Nellie and Mary Jane made pudding and pies, and Ingram supplied three different kinds of wine. Mary Jane had held on to a lovely tablecloth ever since her husband died, and she brought it out for the occasion. They also exchanged gifts. Nellie presented Ingram with a leather-bound ledger for his research. He presented her with a virtually identical leather-bound journal for her notes. Both had to smile at the similarity of their thoughts. Maybe it was that, or it could have been the wine, but the curtain of formality seemed to drop, and they were suddenly back to their old ease and familiarity. Almost on cue, Mary Jane announced that she was tired and got up from the table. After Nellie put her mother to bed and returned for tea, she and Ingram sat in silence. The sexual desire was still there, more than ever, and it would be the easiest thing to slip into a bedroom and engage in prodigious lovemaking. Both of them thought often about that every time they were together. One glimpse of a hand or the nape of a neck would conjure up images of wonderful pleasures. But uncertainty about the future always hung over them, and both held back. It was at the Christmas dinner, over tea and dessert, with Mary Jane gone to sleep, when they finally broached the subject of their future once again.

  “Have you heard from your colleague in Vienna?” asked Nellie.

  “Yes. Regularly. We still correspond.”

  “Was he upset with you for staying here?”

  “He understood.”

  “You no longer mention spending time in his clinic.”

  “Other matters occupy me here.” The brevity of his answers only compelled her to learn more. She looked at him intently.

  “You have to go, Ingram. You are exploring a new field with great discoveries to be made. You need to be with scientists doing similar research. I feel horribly remiss that you are not there already.”

  “I would have worried myself sick had I left you here.”

  “I understand. But when my story is completed, you must go. I insist.”

  “And what of us?” he asked.

  She hesitated.

  “Do you still wish me to come with you?’ she asked.

  “I would marry you in an instant. You know that. But the decision is not mine alone. And I suspect the possibility will soon be out of the question.”

  “Why so?”

  “I see your excitement with your work. I also see the quality of your work. Mr. Pulitzer will dare not let you go abroad for a year. And you wouldn’t ask.”

  “If I fail in this story, I fear Mr. Pulitzer will have nothing to do with me.”

  “Mr. Pulitzer will hold on to you no matter what.”

  “Not if I were married.” She blurted it out. She surprised herself. She hadn’t realized how much she had been thinking about this.

  “He would find a way,” he said. “But marriage is not the issue. You need to be here. Your heart is with your work. It captures your imagination, and I will not deprive you of that. This is where you belong, not in Europe with me.”

  The quickness of his breathing seemed to punctuate the finality of his conclusion.

  “Then what do we do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Tears came to his eyes. She saw how much he loved her, and she was humbled.

  Tears came to her eyes as well, that someone she loved and genuinely admired could love her so much and treat her so kindly.

  He stared at her, saying nothing but his eyes pleading with her to come over to him. But she dared not do it. She knew what she would be giving up, as did he.

  She stood up.

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  She hurried to her room while she still had the power to think straight, before she was overcome by passion and sadness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Henry Hilton

  As it turned out, Alan Dale had also been looking for Nellie.

  When she arrived at work the day after Christmas, there was a note on her desk.

  “Please join me for a play tonight. I suspect you will find it of significant interest. Dale.”

  She searched the office for him to learn more, but he was nowhere to be found. She sent a message to Mary Jane that she would not be home that night and to Ingram asking him to check in on her mother from time to time. Dale did not return until late in the day. He had been out all afternoon reviewing a matinee in Chelsea.

  “You received my note?” he asked.

  “Yes. What is this play that is of such great interest?”

  “Held By the Enemy, in Brooklyn. Tomorrow is the official opening, but tonight is for critics and honored guests.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Nor do I—except that two names on its list of financial backers are Mr. Charles DeKay and Judge Henry Hilton. They will be at tonight’s premiere.”

  Nellie had to smile. He handed her a flyer.

  “The play is described as ‘a sympathetic view of the Confederacy’—Richard Gilder’s main cause these days, and of course Charles DeKay’s as well, now that he has taken up with the granddaughter of Robert E. Lee.”

  “I have some other questions for you—”

  “We will have plenty of time, Miss Bly. More than you’d like, I’m afraid—the theater is a long ride away. I have to write my review of the god-awful matinee I just saw, and then we will have dinner, courtesy of Mr. Pulitzer.”

  The elevated train to Battery Park, then the ferry ride to Brooklyn, and finally the elevated train to the Brooklyn theater district in Sheepshead Bay took ninety minutes. Nellie mused that all three legs of the journey were now owned by Hilton and Corbin, which meant the prices were about to rise dramatically and the quality of service about to drop equally so. Dale, as a nonpolitical person, normally didn’t much care about travelers suffering since most of his time was spent in Manhattan between Newspaper Row and the theater district, but he, too, became agitated that “a man of such low sensibilities” as Hilton could have such an impact on so many people.

  They had time for a brief dinner at a local restaurant—Dale complained the whole time and vowed never to eat there again, determined to warn his readers to stay away as well. Nellie had guessed right: Dale knew a great deal about Mary Hallock Foote. He had many friends in both the art world and the lesbian world, and nearly all of them had a strong opinion about Molly Foote. She was an enormous personality, one of the genuine artists of her time, but as difficult and unrestrained as she was talented. Dale delivered a wealth of varied anecdotes about her. Molly Foote did not seem the kind to protect Charles DeKay no matter what. Yet, despite all of Dale’s insights, it was hard for Nellie to keep her attention on Molly Foote now that she was about to see Charles DeKay and Henry Hilton, the men responsible for Emma’s death, together for the first time.

  She sat behind Dale in his balcony box overlooking the orchestra. For some in the crowd, it was another white-tie affair, though because of the Brooklyn location and the nature of the subject matter, most of the balcony seats and much of the orchestra were filled with people in more conventional dress: men with suits and waistcoats, women with long dresses and modest jewelry. This made those with white tie and tails and opulent gowns and jewels stand out all the more, though they seemed to prefer it that way.

  Charles DeKay sat in the middle of the fifth row with his new wife, Lucy Coffey. Next to Lucy was Judge Hilton, apparently there by himself. Hilton was transfixed by Lucy’s charms, and the younger couple hung on the older man’s every word. Nellie made sur
e to stay in the background. She wanted to observe the two men interacting naturally, with no awareness that a journalist was watching them. But she needn’t have worried.

  DeKay was not looking around for others who could help him make his way up the social ladder; his primary benefactor was already sitting just two seats to his right. On Charles’ other side, sitting quietly with her husband, was Helena DeKay Gilder. The two of them stared straight ahead, totally disengaged, as if their attendance were required, until finally Richard checked his pocket watch, walked to the aisle, and climbed the few stairs onto the stage. The audience quieted as Richard stopped and waited at stage center. He had a surprisingly commanding presence.

  “Good evening. My name is Richard Gilder, and I would like to thank all of you for coming tonight.”

  Polite applause. Gilder was among friends and admirers.

  “I am the editor of the Century magazine, and as many of you know, for the past three years, we have published a series on the Civil War, including memoirs by officers and soldiers on both the Union and Confederate side. These memoirs, I am pleased to say, have sparked a great deal of interest on the part of the public, so much so that we now distribute over two hundred thousand copies a month.”

  The audience reacted accordingly, with genuine applause.

  “Our magazine is located in New York City, the largest city in the Union, and yet there is extraordinary interest in the Confederacy, some twenty years after the war’s end. One explanation, of course, is the exemplary way the southern soldier conducted himself. I saw that with my own eyes, as a member of the Pennsylvania Regiment.”

  That’s not how my father described it, thought Nellie. And he also served in the Pennsylvania Regiment, as a cavalryman. He saw friends die at the Rebels’ hands and said they were animals. He swore he would never forgive them. I wonder if Gilder was even there—or if he just made it up.

  “They were fine men, honorable men, and if the southern politicians had been up to the caliber of their soldiers, the years following the war would have been very different indeed. I wrote a poem about these men I saw, these brave, devoted Americans, and with your indulgence, I would like to recite it now.”