Lawless

by John Jakes

  Presently the car arrived. Several male guests got off and she got on. As the car began to rise in the barred shaft, the operator studied her from the corner of his eye. Eleanor glared right back. He looked down at his unpolished shoes.

  Odors of stale smoke and dust suffused the dim third floor. Halfway to Bascom’s room, she almost turned back. But she thought of Julia Sedgwick moving into the mansion—and again of Uncle Matt’s words—and she walked on. Her legs stopped wobbling.

  Actually, Papa’s mistress had helped make her decision easier. She knew Julia Sedgwick had traveled all over the country, by herself, and never come to harm. Certainly Eleanor felt every bit as resourceful. Besides, she wouldn’t be traveling alone—

  If she wasn’t too late.

  Anxious now, she ran the rest of the way.

  Bascom’s room was at the rear corner of the third floor. She knocked. There was no response. She held her breath, knocked again.

  Again no response. He’d already gone out! She’d come blocks and blocks for nothing. She’d probably never find him.

  Then she realized she was giving up too easily. She knocked a third time, much louder. Miraculously, she heard shuffling feet, then a wordless grumbling.

  The door opened. She didn’t know whether to giggle or gasp in horror. There stood Bascom with his paunch ballooning the front of his faded nightshirt, and his jet black wig tilted down over his left ear.

  Still, he was an intimidating sight, somehow. Before he had a chance to say anything, she screwed up her nerve and blurted, “Mr. Bascom, I’m here about the position with the troupe. Is it still open?”

  Recognition finally erased his sleepy look. He realized his locks were canted and hurriedly straightened them. “Miss Kent!” he exclaimed. At least he recalled her name.

  He opened the door wider as if to invite her in. Then he thought better of it. Eleanor glimpsed a cluttered room not much bigger than a spacious closet. It bore out one of Uncle Matt’s statements about the artistic life. Mr. Bascom’s quarters were about as low as you could get.

  His red-rimmed eyes darted toward the curve of her hips. “Yes, I can still use you—” She didn’t like the suggestive undertone, but said nothing. She’d get the job first and worry about handling his advances later.

  “It is Miss Kent, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, sir. It’s kind of you to remember.”

  “Kind? Balderdash. I’ve a memory for a provocative—ah—” He stifled a belch. “Talent.”

  One hand pressed his side as if he were in pain. His expression grew a trifle bilious as he added, “I’ll meet you down in the dining room in ten minutes. Meantime, you may begin your apprenticeship under J. J. Bascom by fixing one thought firmly in mind. Unless you are specifically instructed to do so, never, never, never wake a fellow thespian before ten in the morning.”

  He slammed the door.

  iv

  Buoyed by excitement, she rushed back to the elevator. She was too breathless to wait for the cage and instead ran down the three flights to the lobby. Before another hour had gone by, Jefferson J. Bascom had hired her for his Tom show.

  Then he went through an elaborate ritual of patting and searching his patched frock coat. “Dear me, I came down in such haste. I do seem to have forgotten my money clip.” He passed her the bill for his enormous breakfast.

  She was elated to have the opportunity to pay it. Uncle Matt was right. A little courage worked miracles.

  Chapter IX

  From out of the Fire

  i

  CARTER AND WILL slipped out the front door after breakfast. It was the second Saturday in August, a mild, bright morning fragrant with the odors of newly scythed grass in Central Park, and of fresh paint throughout the mansion.

  Both boys wore old clothes. Will’s face had a sleepy look because he and Carter had stayed up till well after one o’clock, talking. At Will’s request, Carter had moved into the house, even though his mother insisted on remaining at her hotel and traveling back and forth to upper Fifth Avenue in a hack.

  At night the older boy regaled the younger with lurid descriptions of his adventures with tobacco, alcohol, and willing, not to say eager, members of the opposite sex. About ninety percent of the stories were invented, but each boy gained something from them—Carter the sense of pride and burgeoning manhood that was important to someone his age, and Will the sense of great adventures that could be his when he was as old as his newfound friend.

  Carter was halfway down the front steps when Will hesitated, looking across to the park. Behind some trees, boys could be heard yelling.

  “What’s holding you, Will? You said you want to go.”

  “I know, but I changed my mind.”

  “None of that, now. Come on.”

  “Carter, I’ve gone over there before. They never let me play.”

  “I’ve told you it’s probably because of the way you ask. As if you expect them to say no. You’ve got to take charge and tell them what to do. But you have to be sly about it, so they don’t realize they’re being bossed.” He climbed back to the top of the stoop and grasped the younger boy’s hand. “I’ll show you how it’s done. You’ve got to learn to make your way, Will. If you don’t, you’ll be stuck in a house reading books all your life. Then you’ll be white as paste and no girl will want to look at you. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Hell no,” the small boy declared in a squeaky attempt to imitate Carter’s occasional profanity. The older boy suppressed a smile.

  They crossed the Avenue, dodged through the sun and shadow of the trees and emerged in a fragrant meadow. On the far side, two teams were being organized by thirteen or fourteen boys about Carter’s age. Again Will hung back. Carter yanked the bill of his cap down over his forehead and hissed from the side of his mouth.

  “Keep up with me. They’ll think you’re a sissy if I pull you along by the hand.”

  As the two approached, the other boys fell silent and turned to stare. The boys were a rough-looking lot, most of them shabbily dressed and none too clean. One or two grinned, but not in a very cordial way. Carter sauntered up to a tall, emaciated youth who seemed to be the leader.

  “Got two more players for you.”

  A boy with a blemished face came from the back of the group to assume the role of spokesman. He jabbed a finger at Will. “That’s the rich little twit from across the Avenue. He’s tried to butt into our games before.”

  “You should have let him,” Carter purred. His chilling smile made the pimply boy blink. “He wants to learn the game. I hope you don’t hold it against him that he’s a beginner. Or that his pa’s a rich newspaper publisher. I hope you don’t hold it against me that I smoke—”

  With a flourish, Carter plucked a long black cigar from the breast pocket of his shirt. Where he’d gotten the cigar, Will had no idea.

  “Not cheap ones, either. Genuine Havanas.” By then, a couple of the boys were looking impressed. He went on, “And I hope you don’t hold it against me that up at Dartmouth”—faint condescension—“that’s a college—I’ve studied scientific grappling—”

  Will was stunned by Carter’s audacity in making up such tales. But the pimply boy lost patience and started to swear. Carter bit down on the cigar, grabbed the boy, whirled him around and demonstrated his mastery of scientific grappling by bending the boy’s left arm up behind his spine. Carter’s other elbow crooked around to crush the boy’s Adam’s apple.

  He grinned and chewed his cigar while the pimply boy made gagging noises. But Carter didn’t really hurt his victim, and in a moment he let go. He dusted his hands, then struck a match on the sole of his shoe.

  He puffed his cigar in a nonchalant way. The others didn’t know what to make of him. Finally he said, “Did you choose up yet?”

  The tall boy muttered, “We were just starting.”

  Carter rubbed his hands. “All right, let’s go. My cousin here—”

  “That’s your cousin?” ano
ther boy jeered. “He don’t look like no greaser. You do, though.”

  Carter didn’t turn a hair. “You’ve got a quick eye. My great-grandfather was Alphonsus the Mighty, eighty-seventh king of Spain. But he never married my great-grandmother, so I’m part Spanish and part bastard.” He said it so casually, yet with such conviction, that the only reaction was speechless surprise. “Now, my cousin here—his name’s Will—he hasn’t played ball as much as I have. He’s going to make mistakes. But it looks like we’ve got some pretty fair teachers in this crowd.”

  Will was in awe. Carter’s combination of bluster and outrageous lying had completely overwhelmed them, and had kept them so busy, they forgot to be hostile. If ever there was a Kent born to sway and lead others, it was Carter.

  “And good teachers don’t get sore when their pupils mess up,” Carter went on. “They show ’em how to do things right because the teacher is the older, smarter one, and how’s, anybody going to learn if the teacher won’t take time to teach?”

  The tall boy grinned. “All right, we’ll show your cousin how it’s done.” He turned toward his friends. “I say these two can play. That okay with everybody?”

  The pimply boy stared at the ground and grumbled. Another of the group said, “Sure, let ’em play. It’s better than having your arm busted.”

  “Knew you’d see it my way.” Carter nodded with a quick smile at Will.

  “Let’s quit messing around and choose up,” a third boy said. There were enthusiastic yells, and some clapping. Will was ecstatic. If Papa and Julia got married eventually, and they all lived together in another house, maybe Carter would teach him more about getting along in the outside world. It wasn’t such a frightening place after all, provided you had a little nerve.

  He was so excited about the coming game, he didn’t notice the plume of smoke from the vacant lot on the south side of Sixty-first. There, hired workmen were starting to burn his mother’s belongings.

  ii

  “Leaving?”

  Gideon’s voice mingled consternation with disbelief. His ears had tricked him. She couldn’t have said she was joining a theatrical troupe.

  He rose so hastily from his study chair, a taboret beside it overturned, spilling the copy of 100 Years which Matt had picked up at the express office and brought to the house the night before. After delivering the book, Matt had told Gideon that because the project was finished, he wanted to go back to England. He’d booked a cabin on a Cunard steamship. The vessel sailed for Southampton on Monday evening.

  The book had fallen open at the engraving which depicted Matt’s favorite baseball team, the Cincinnati Red Stockings. 100 Years was a handsome volume, printed on better than average paper and bound in good-quality cloth.

  But the book was forgotten as father and daughter stared at one another. Eleanor stood just inside the double doors of the library. She’d put on her best summer frock and a flowered hat. A bulging valise rested on the floor beside her.

  “Yes, Papa, leaving,” she said. “I decided it was best for all of us.”

  The smell of smoke filled the house. Out in the foyer, one of the workmen appeared, draperies from Margaret’s room folded over his arms. Two lacquered boxes rested on top of the drapes. Gideon had retreated to the library after breakfast because he couldn’t bear to watch the removal of Margaret’s things. Nearly every item brought back some special memory. He’d given her the lacquered boxes as an anniversary gift.

  A breeze stirred the library curtains. A large wagon went rattling north on Fifth Avenue carrying fifteen or twenty young people on an excursion into the country. From the Park came the cheers and catcalls of a lively ball game.

  Gideon was hardly aware of any of it. He felt as if someone had bludgeoned him. He raked a hand through his hair. Jerked the belt of his morning robe tighter. Finally, he erupted, “I don’t know what you mean, best for all of us. It certainly isn’t best for you. Girls your age don’t just walk in one morning and announce that they’re leaving home.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa, but this could never be my home now. Not with Julia here most of the time.”

  “I told you we weren’t going to stay in this house—” He was floundering.

  “It would be the same no matter where we moved.”

  “Eleanor—” He took a step forward, saw her go tense, and stayed where he was. He held out his hand. “Please. Come in. Close the door and let’s talk.”

  Two more workmen grunted their way down the staircase with the secretary from Margaret’s room resting on their thighs. The desk had remained locked since her death.

  When the workmen were out of sight, Eleanor shook her head.

  “There isn’t any point. I’m going.”

  “You are not of legal age! You don’t have permission to leave!”

  She flared suddenly. “I don’t want or need your permission. I could have run away without telling you! I looked for Will but he and Carter must have gone to the Park. I left a note for him.”

  Desperate now, he pointed to a chair. “Eleanor, sit down. I beg you. Tell me what brought this about. That blasted theatrical club you mentioned a few days ago?”

  “I have no time to visit, Papa. I’m due at the New York Central depot in half an hour. There’s a hack coming for me. The manager of the troupe arranged for it.”

  “Depot? When you said you were joining a theatrical company, I thought you meant here in the city.”

  “No, it’s a traveling troupe.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “I don’t understand why that upsets you so much. You gave me scripts to read. You took me to see my very first play at Booth’s—”

  “Taking you to Booth’s isn’t the same as encouraging you to run around the country with a bunch of immoral—what’s so funny? Damn it, Eleanor, answer me!”

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to laugh. I can’t help it. Because of all the things you publish in the paper, everyone thinks of you as a radical. But here you are ranting against the immoral theater. Almost like Mama used to do—”

  “My liberality doesn’t extend to allowing my fifteen-year-old daughter to travel with a pack of godless wastrels.”

  She shrugged. “I’m going, though.”

  How assured she sounded, in contrast to his own confusion.

  “What—what’s the name of this troupe?”

  “Bascom’s Original Ideal Uncle Tom Combination.”

  “God in heaven—a Tom show? That’s even worse.”

  “You’re making this very unpleasant.” She was beginning to anger. “It’s a grand opportunity. I’m to play one and perhaps two parts, and help backstage with the wardrobe. I couldn’t find better preparation for a career as an actress.”

  “Who’s been encouraging you? My brother? Has he been filling your head about how fine it is to be a free-spirited artist?”

  “No, Papa. Uncle Matt had nothing to do with my decision.” But the pink in her cheeks gave her away.

  “I don’t believe you,” he shot back. “Whatever Matt said, it was nonsense. A painter’s existence—or an actor’s—isn’t glorious or noble. I know. My own mother tramped around the country with her second husband. She was miserable because Lamont was a typical actor. No sense of reality, or of responsibility—it’s a wretched, disorderly life.”

  Very quietly, she replied, “It can’t be any more wretched or disorderly than the life in this house.”

  “Eleanor, I don’t want to hear that again.”

  She paid no attention, answering his anger with her own. “But of course you wouldn’t know anything about that. You were always too busy to care about your wife and your family. I don’t see why you’re suddenly doing a turnabout now.”

  The familiar accusation defeated him for a moment. He lowered his head, covered his eye with his right hand.

  He couldn’t let her go. Despite the flip way she brushed his arguments aside, actors were amoral people. And what did she know about men’s desires at her age—o
r how to deal with them? She knew nothing.

  Unless—

  Oh, good God. Had someone already—?

  He could barely stand to think about it. If he ever discovered that some middle-aged man had sullied his daughter, he’d turn into a Tom Courtleigh himself, and do murder. Only he’d do it personally. He’d horsewhip the damned lecher to death.

  Despite his panic, he tried to speak calmly. “All right. It appears your decision’s final. But you can give me a few more facts, can’t you? How long will this junket last? A couple of weeks? A month?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years?”

  “Three if we’re successful. Mr. Bascom, the proprietor of the company, wants to take the production all the way to California.”

  He had a notion that he must look like an idiot, his mouth open and consternation on his face. And was that the hack clattering up Fifth Avenue this very moment?”

  “Where did you meet these people? What do you know about them?”

  “I met Mr. Bascom at the theatrical club, just as you guessed. We’ll be traveling together like a big family. There’s even a boy in the company whom you met once. Remember Leo Goldman?”

  With a blank look, Gideon shook his head.

  “In any case, trouping’s nothing new for most of them. They’re quite experienced.”

  “And I don’t doubt they’ll use you to enhance that reputation.”

  “That’s indecent, Papa.”

  “It’s a matter of fact. A girl your age doesn’t know how to take care of herself. How to guard against—against—”

  “I know what you’re trying to say and I want no part of it. Ever.”

  There was such pain in her eyes, and such venom in her tone, that he was taken aback. What had happened to her? Had she been attacked when the house was invaded? Julia spoke of the secret grief she sensed in Eleanor. Was the cause something she dared not reveal to anyone?

  He shot a frantic glance at the window. The hoofbeats of the hack horses sounded loudly outside, slowing down.