by Marge Piercy
TWENTY-FOUR
ANTHONY WAS PROUD of their fine house in Brooklyn. One of their neighbors was H. B. Spelman, whose son-in-law John Rockefeller was in the oil business. Anthony had already made Mr. Spelman’s acquaintance. Although he was a Baptist, not a Congregationalist, Spelman did seem an honest Christian gentleman and should prove a good neighbor.
Maggie ran the household perfectly with the help of an Irish maid. Anthony did not like her being a papist, but they could not afford to pay much. Although he was a good salesman, the job had begun to bore him. Nor did he see how he could rise in Cochran, McLean. Every morning he caught the ferry across the East River and made his way to Broadway and Grand, then out into the field to sell notions. Every evening he came home on the ferry and rushed to Maggie. She cooked the simple, ample meals that pleased him: roasts, chops, hams, New England boiled dinner, potatoes boiled or mashed, roast turkey or chicken or duck, venison when the butcher had it, boiled cabbage or turnips.
Domesticity was everything he had hoped for. He had a neat clean obedient Christian wife, almost a saint. Twice a month she endured the marital embrace without complaint. He felt calm now, in control of his body and his mind even if his ability to succeed financially was proving a disappointment. He felt destined for far more than being a salesman of ribbons and buttons and laces, but what?
In the meantime, they enjoyed the Clinton Congregational Church, within walking distance of their house. Anthony, who always sought counsel from older, wiser men, had established a deep connection with the pastor, William Ives Budington, a tall lean New Englander with black side-whiskers peppered with white. They understood each other, for they had a similar commitment to rigorous Christianity, to high morality, to fighting Satan in whatever form he appeared to corrupt men and women but especially youth. Budington had been educated at Yale and Andover Seminary; during the war he had been a delegate in the Christian Commission, another bond between them. Sometimes they talked of the war and its dangers for troops beyond the bullets, grapeshot and cannonballs—the moral dangers. Budington called him “son” and allowed him to visit at night if he was troubled so that they might pray together, kneeling on the floor beside Budington’s narrow bed—for the minister was a widower whose wife had died years before in childbirth.
Every Sunday Anthony and Maggie went to church. Then Anthony stayed on to teach a Sunday school class for boys while Maggie prepared Sunday dinner for him and often for Budington. After dinner, Anthony gathered a group to hold a Sunday prayer meeting at a nearby jail while Maggie cleaned up. The lost souls there were sometimes open to the Lord and sometimes obdurate, hardened to a life of crime. His weekends were filled with the Lord’s work; his workdays felt trivial by comparison. Still, he must work to keep his wife and support their sweet tidy home. Whenever he walked into the homely parlor Maggie had created, he felt a sense of possession that filled him like a good warm meal. His wife, his piano, his sofa, his heavy draperies, his fine flowered wallpaper, his chandelier. He could sink into the horsehair sofa and close his eyes knowing that Maggie would come shortly and ask him what he needed—a powder for his headache, a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea or to have his forehead or shoulders rubbed. How he loved those attentions. He had been wise to persist in his courtship, for home life was all he had imagined in dreary boardinghouses, in the cold drafty dormitory of the boys’ school, in the run-down farmhouse after his mother passed on. He could tell Maggie was happy too, for she often sang while she worked, and sometimes played hymns on the upright piano.
Maggie was naturally maternal. He was sure that soon they would be fruitful and multiply. All that their house lacked was a baby. He was patient. He prayed for a boy to call son, as Budington called him son, to continue his line, to instruct in the proper way to be a man. Soon Maggie would be that way, and out of their true marriage of souls, a child would be born.
Except for the stagnation of his work life, Anthony considered himself truly happy. However, as he was walking back from the prayer meeting at the jailhouse, he passed two saloons open in spite of the Sunday blue laws. This was inexcusable on the Lord’s day. The reek of beer and whiskey choked him. Men and women were in there together laughing, singing ribald songs, playing cards. One old salt had a concertina. Two couples were dancing, rubbing their bodies together. He went in search of a policeman and eventually found one, sitting on a bench overlooking the East River. A forty-five-minute search had not put Anthony in a better mood.
“There are two saloons open today against the Sunday laws. It’s your duty to close them. Here are the addresses.” He handed the policeman, a burly blond man with a scar across his left hand as if from a knife attack, one of his order slips with the addresses of the offending saloons on the back. “I’ll go with you, if you need me.”
“What would I need you for? You’d be best off not meddling in working people’s business. So you want to go to church, go. There’s folks that want to go to the saloon on their one day of rest, and I for one am not about to roust them out.”
“You refuse to enforce the laws you are sworn to uphold.”
“Stick it up your snout. I enforce the real laws—murder, rape, burglary, robbery. Working stiffs having a couple of beers do nobody harm.”
“Give me your name, please.” Comstock wrote that down on the same receipt that the policeman refused to take. Then he set off for the precinct. He made a complaint against the offensive policeman and also reported the open saloons. He walked briskly home through the spring air, moist and busy with little breezes, the leaves just opening on the trees that lined his street.
The next Sunday, the same two saloons were still wide open, their doors ajar leaking boozy stench from within. Drink weakened the strength and stamina of a man, but worse, it sapped his will to duty. It led him into vile acts his sane self would never sink to. Edward had been led astray by drink, by dives like these, by the company of unclean women, unto his untimely death. He could close his eyes and see those couples rubbing against each other to the wheezing of the concertina, the woman’s bosom swinging loosely against the man’s chest as she gyrated her hips.
Obviously the police were not inclined to act. The next time he saw his neighbor Mr. Spelman in the street, he stopped him and asked if he might have a moment of his time to discuss a local problem. Mr. Spelman seemed surprised but invited him in. He sat in Mr. Spelman’s luxurious parlor, with a grand piano instead of the upright in his own parlor, furnished sumptuously with plush sofas, a brocade fainting lounge, oil paintings of hunting dogs and horses leaping fences. He described the problem succinctly, for he had learned not to waste the time of important men.
“They have obviously corrupted the constabulary.” Spelman frowned. “You’ll go to the mayor. I was a heavy contributor to his last election. If I give you a note of introduction stating I’m one hundred percent behind your crusade, I’m confident he will act.”
Spelman gave him the letter in a fine envelope sealed with wax and they shook hands. Anthony would steal the time from his salesmanship this very week to make an appointment with the mayor of Brooklyn. That policeman, whose name he still had handy, and that precinct riddled with corruption would soon feel the heat, a foretaste of what was in store for them in the afterlife, where they would burn like living torches. Thinking of hell always made him feel better.
The mayor, a heavyset man with a bald head he must polish like a doorknob, received Anthony cordially, read the letter and said he would do something forthwith about the problem. Anthony was pleased but not convinced. He next went to the Board of Excise. They seemed to take the matter more seriously than the mayor and promised by a unanimous vote that they would shut down the offending saloons.
On Friday, he was walking briskly from the ferry and had just turned onto his street when a short well-muscled man waylaid him. “Anthony Comstock?”
“I am he. And who are you?”
“Randolph Parsons, proprietor and owner of the Lucky Monkey. You’re trying
to shut me down and take my livelihood, you son of a bitch.” The man shook his fist.
Anthony assumed a defensive stance. He knew how to fight and he had forty or fifty pounds and at least six inches on the brute. “You were breaking the law. Lawbreakers deserve to be shut down.”
“Sunday’s the only day poor folks get to enjoy themselves. What would you know of that?” The man had withdrawn a pace. He reached into his coat and drew out a large nasty pistol. “You lay off me or I’ll blow your brains out. You hear me? I pay my protection regular and I deserve to be left in peace to make a decent living for my wife and eight kids. Meddle with me, it’s the last stupid thing you’ll ever do.”
The man returned his pistol to his coat and strode off. Anthony could fight. He was strong and fast, fearing the fists of no man, but a pistol could kill him and then what would happen to Maggie and who would protect this neighborhood? It was full of men like Spelman who would give him verbal support, write a note, shake his hand and perhaps even contribute a dollar or two, but who would never put themselves in danger to protect women and children and the susceptible. He would not walk in fear. In the morning, he went to the mayor to report the threat to his life.
The mayor took it calmly. “Buy yourself a revolver. You may need it for protection if you continue your crusade.”
“That’s all you have to say? I should descend to the level of the animal who threatened me?”
“You can’t expect a police guard, Mr. Comstock. After all, you’re trying to take his livelihood. I don’t imagine you expect congratulations.”
“From him, perhaps not. But from decent citizens.”
The mayor sighed, wiping his shiny head with a handkerchief marked with his initials. “You’ll find that decent citizens by and large prefer to let others enjoy their vices so long as it doesn’t bother them. Even when they like what you’re doing, they don’t look out for their champions the way that the wicked certainly do.”
Anthony bought himself a revolver. He did not wish to start carrying it through the streets like a ruffian, but he had seen the saloon keeper hanging about. Although he had managed to avoid him by circling around and coming through the yard in the next street, he could not keep hiding. The one person who took the threat seriously was Maggie, who wept and clutched him. Tears were rare for her—she was a woman of admirable self-control—but in this case he felt they were justified.
The next week, the man caught him again in the next block. “I warned you to leave me alone, but you keep trying to put me out of business!”
Anthony looked around. Two men were walking along chatting as they carried their briefcases home. He signaled to them, but they immediately turned and retreated up the street. He saw curtains on the houses stir, but no one came out to support him. “I’m obeying the law, as you should.”
“You’re meddling in my business. You’re trying to force my family to starve.” The man pulled out his pistol and stuck it into Anthony’s face.
Anthony drew out his own revolver. “Back off, lowlife. I was in the army and I know how to use this. Understand?”
They stood with their weapons trained on each other. Finally the man turned and trudged away. “You haven’t seen the last of me, you priggy son of a bitch.”
“If you malign my mother again, I’ll shoot you like a rabid dog,” Anthony called after the man. Then he walked on home.
Still, the man could not be left to wave a gun around the streets of Brooklyn. Anthony had moved here, like many of his neighbors, for a quieter, more respectable ambience than Manhattan offered. Anthony again went before the Board of Excise and into the courts in pursuit of justice. He was lucky in his judge, as he found himself facing one who was sympathetic, a Baptist like Mr. Spelman and a teetotaler who despised drunkards. The saloonkeepers were hauled into court.
Anthony was happy to testify. One of the men died of a heart attack during the trial, but the other—his attacker—lost his license. Anthony was pleased. One dead, the other defanged. He was disappointed, however, to see nothing but a three-line summary in the report on the docket of the court. He began to keep a diary to record his triumphs. He took far more satisfaction in his victory over the two merchants of vice than in his daytime job. His boss, however, at Cochran, McLean was not so pleased with him. He called Anthony into his office.
“Your performance this last month leaves much to be desired, Mr. Comstock. You were one of our star salesman, but of late you are fulfilling old customers’ orders, not finding new ones. We can’t remain stagnant. Other companies are out there competing. If we don’t grow, we shrink.”
“I have been a little distracted of late,” Anthony began. “I have recently married—”
“You married last June. Surely you don’t expect me to believe you’re still on honeymoon?”
“I’ve been trying to clean up my neighborhood, to rid it of vice and lawbreaking saloons.”
“On your own time. If it interferes with your work for us, then we’ll no longer require your services. Dozens of young men are begging for a good job with us. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. I’ll try to give better satisfaction.” Anthony sounded meek, but he was angry. Doing the Lord’s work was surely more important than selling ribbons and laces. Still, he could not afford to lose this job.
If only he could find some way to support himself and Maggie doing the right thing. That would be a destiny to satisfy him—upholding the law, fighting evildoers, protecting innocent children and young people from the filth of the streets and the temptations that could corrode that innocence quickly enough. He could not sacrifice his family to carry out what Spelman had been kind enough to refer to as his crusade. Surely the Lord would show him how to do both at once without skimping on either duty. The Lord, if he had faith, would provide.
TWENTY-FIVE
FREYDEH FOLLOWED UP on the address Madame Restell had given her. Yes, the landlady said, a young pregnant woman had stayed there, claiming her husband was in the West looking for work, but she had grown suspicious and asked her to leave. No, she didn’t have a forwarding address.
Every few weeks, Freydeh visited one of the few shuls people from the Pale attended—Polish, Russian or Lithuanian Jews—to ask about Shaineh. Winter passed into spring, spring into summer, summer into fall, and now winter was closing in again. Sammy was doing all right in school. He could write English and do sums and even long division, although the teacher said his spelling was weak. It was hard to dress him as he kept growing. He was taller than Freydeh and his voice was breaking. She redoubled her watch on him, for puberty was a time when the street might call to him again and seduce him from her. He was the only family she had, and she poured out her affection on him.
In January of 1870 at a storefront shul on Clinton she found someone who recognized Shaineh. “Yes, she comes here sometimes with her little girl. She says she’s a widow, but maybe her husband deserted her.” The rabbi was as young as Freydeh—if she could be called young any longer. “She uses the name Samantha Leibowitz but she told me her name at home was Shaineh.” He had a scar running through his brown beard—a scar such as a whip or a saber might leave. She could guess how he had gotten it and why he had left the Pale.
“How old is the little girl?”
“Just a babe in arms. Six months? A pretty little pisherkeh.”
“Do you know where I can find my sister?”
“She has a job in a German bakery. Not Jews. She comes so irregularly, I can’t tell you more.”
She thanked him fervently, again and again. She put a little in the tsedakah box. Once she could have used charity herself, but now they were eating enough, with warm coats for the winter. They had quilts, each with a nice little bed. They even hung curtains on the windows so no one from the street could look in. They had decent secondhand boots to keep their feet dry. If only she could find Shaineh and her little girl, she would be happy as a widow could be.
Sammy did most deliveries, f
ulfilling orders at pharmacies, rubber goods places, the occasional bookstore. But while he was in school, sometimes she had to carry an order over herself. One of those times she ran into her old admirer Izzy White, wizened as a finger left in water too long, a small man with a huge voice booming at her. “So this is my thanks being so nice to you? You go into business as my rival? And what kind of business is this for a woman?”
“A good one, believe me. Yonkelman let me go.”
He pointed to the pharmacist. “Old Abey here, he says you undersell me. Well, I got a family to support. I need the money more than you.”
“I got a family to support too. My adopted son, my sister, her baby. And how come you said you wasn’t married, Izzy, tell me that? Carrying on flirting with me.”
“So I find you attractive, sue me.”
“So now I undersell you and I make better merchandise.” She put her bundle down on the counter and turned to Abe, the pharmacist. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Berger?” To him she spoke German. It seemed to her she switched languages every five minutes all day, from Yiddish to German to Russian to English and back to Yiddish again.
“She delivers good product, Izzy,” Abe Berger said. “My customers like her stuff. A woman, a man, what do I care? Just so I make my little profit.”
