A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  “So, are you serious about him, or just slummin’?” she asked as I started doling the strawberries onto dessert plates.

  I paused in midscoop. “I beg your pardon?”

  She shrugged a shapely shoulder. “I wouldn’t have figured you for his type, but I can see from the way he looks at you, he’s smitten. I just want to know if it goes both ways.”

  I was too glad to hear she thought Simon was smitten with me to be offended by the directness of her question. Indeed, I would have liked to ask her just how, exactly, he looked at me, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. “I care for Simon a great deal.”

  She studied my face for a long moment. “Fair enough,” she said, pushing off from the table. “I ain’t one to be a sore loser. Besides, I’ve got a pretty good thing going with Patrick.”

  “Yes, he appears to be very much in love with you,” I said, relieved that we seemed to have reached some sort of understanding.

  “Ha!” she crowed. “Love’s got nothin’ to do with it. I give him what he wants, and he takes good care of me. He bought me this dress,” she added, pirouetting on the linoleum floor. “Ain’t it a whizz?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Her face grew thoughtful as her attention returned to me. “You know, you could be a real looker if you tried. I could give you a few tips, if you like.”

  “I didn’t think I was doing so badly,” I said with an awkward laugh, spooning out the rest of the strawberries.

  “Oh, you’ve got the goods, all right. But what’s the point of having ’em if you’re going to keep ’em under lock and key? It’s not every woman who catches Simon’s fancy. If you want him to stay interested, you need to make him feel like a man.” She winked at me. “And that means showin’ him your womanly assets.”

  After seeing the way both Patrick and Simon reacted to Kitty, I had to believe there was something in what she said. But I found the idea of manipulating a man with my “womanly assets” repellent. “I’d like to believe that a woman’s physical attractiveness isn’t everything. I should think a meeting of minds would be just as important in a long-term relationship.”

  She tipped back her head and cackled. “Think whatever you like, dearie, but it’s a man’s little head, not his big one, that decides how long he’s going to stick around, and Lord help you if you don’t know that by now.”

  I found it difficult to look at Simon when we returned to the dining room. He must have sensed that something was amiss, for I could feel his eyes following me as I busied myself handing out the dessert plates and replenishing the cutlery.

  “That looks delicious,” he said as I sat down beside him, giving me an encouraging smile.

  On the other side of the table, Kitty lifted a cream-topped berry in her fingers and, with a sidelong glance at Patrick, delicately licked it clean. Patrick watched in dumbstruck fascination, his own fork hanging forgotten in the air.

  Could men really be that simple? I wondered crossly, mashing a berry between my own teeth. As a doctor, I had a fair understanding of the baser human instincts and their importance to the survival of our race. I would have liked to think, however, that thousands of years of civilization had put the “little head,” as Kitty had called it, in its place.

  “Mmm,” Kitty murmured, licking a fleck of cream from her finger and winking at me across the table. I decided I’d had entirely enough winking for one day.

  A few minutes later, the clock struck the quarter hour. “We’d better put a hole in it,” Patrick said, having apparently regained his senses. “I’m on the eight o’clock shift.” He lifted his nearly full glass and drained it in one long gulp. Simon had told me that under Commissioner Bingham’s new five-platoon schedule, officers now spent six hours in reserve before going out on patrol, which they could use to sleep and/or sober up, barring emergencies. Watching Patrick down his umpteenth glass of beer, it struck me that this might have been one of the commissioner’s most valuable contributions to the city to date.

  The first of the Wieran Club boys were already thundering up the hallway stairs when we opened the door to show out our guests. The rest of the members straggled in while Simon and I were washing up, all loud and “full of taspy,” as Simon would say, clearly eager for the celebrations to begin. If any of the oarsmen were suffering psychic distress from seeing the body at the pier, they were doing an excellent job of concealing it. Finn, as the eldest member of the club, started things off by climbing on a chair to deliver the customary reading from the Declaration of Independence, gesturing theatrically as the rest of the boys hooted their approval. “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor!” he finished in a grand crescendo, sweeping his arm through the air.

  From there, the evening proceeded in a whirlwind of frenzied male energy. After distributing rockets and Roman candles, Simon led the boys down to the street, where kegs of beer and tables heaped with sandwiches had been set up on the sidewalk. With the help of other block residents, the boys built an enormous pile of boxes, barrels, and fence boards in the center of the pavement and set the mound ablaze. The street was soon swarming with people, young and old alike, all apparently bent on creating the maximum amount of noise and smoke. Strings of Chinese crackers popped and snaked from the fire escapes, while Catherine wheels spat out sparks from every other door. Toddlers wandered down the sidewalk blowing on tin trumpets, watching their older brethren light giant crackers or launch bottle rockets from the curb. Those too poor to afford firecrackers simply packed gunpowder into cracks in the sidewalk and set it alight, or grabbed burning boards from the fire and ran with them down the street, loosing long trails of sparks.

  I stood near the door under the saloon canopy and watched it all with my heart in my mouth, waiting for someone to get hurt. I had insisted that all club members receive the tetanus antitoxin offered by Board of Health supply stations prior to the holiday, so at least they were safe from death by lockjaw, but there was always the danger of losing one’s finger or one’s eyesight to exploding powder or of being shot by a stray bullet. Although Simon forbade the use of even blank cartridges, not everyone on the street and bordering avenues was so disciplined, as the constant pop of pistol fire attested.

  My fears were temporarily forgotten, however, as I watched Simon interact with the boys. The lads clearly held him in great affection. I supposed he was one of the few people who’d ever given them something without expecting anything in return—for survival in the tenement districts, I’d come to learn, was a struggle from which children were not immune. It wasn’t unusual for the oldest siblings in a family to be sent into the streets to fend for themselves before they could even tie their shoes. More often than not, these outcasts were forced to become petty thieves, snatching fruit from the peddlers’ stands or bread from the cooling racks to survive. As they got older, they might progress to siphoning sugar from sacks on the docks or stealing coal from delivery chutes or lifting merchandise from cars in the train yards. A few would make a stab at honest labor, shining shoes or peddling pencils or newspapers, but the competition for turf in such industries was fierce, and their older street brethren would soon be demanding an extortionate cut of their meager proceeds. Eventually, the gangs, in constant need of reinforcements, would recruit them as lookouts and decoys, providing a twisted sense of “family” and cementing them in a life of crime.

  Simon’s Wieran Club offered something different. Although the neighborhood boys were often attracted initially by the club’s free meals and athletics, they stayed for the camaraderie and sense of pride they gained while advancing through its ranks. In between sporting events and excursions, they learned carpentry, machine repair, and accounting. Once Simon felt they were ready, he found them jobs in local businesses or put them to work for the Tammany machine. I knew that in the more he
avily populated, politically important districts of the Lower East Side, Tammany club recruits were often used to cast illegal ballots and intimidate opposition voters at the polls. But Simon didn’t condone such practices, believing he could win votes honestly by serving his constituents’ needs. Apparently he was right, for in the last two elections, he’d delivered over ninety percent of his district’s votes to the Tammany-backed candidate, without the use of dirty tactics at the polls. Meanwhile, his club recruits were all leading relatively productive, mostly law-abiding lives. It was a record, I thought, that even my Tammany-loathing father could admire.

  Simon came to stand beside me, his watchful eyes taking in all the activity on the street. “Having fun?”

  “If being in constant terror of injury and mayhem constitutes fun, then yes, I most certainly am.”

  “Don’t worry. We haven’t had a serious injury yet.”

  Even as he was saying this, one of the older boys starting swatting at his smoldering pant cuff with an unexploded rocket.

  “Use the hose, Tommy,” Simon called to him.

  I groaned and closed my eyes.

  “Sorry about the unexpected company at dinner,” Simon said a moment later.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I assured him. “After all, I’ve been pestering you to introduce me to your friends, and now I’ve met two of them.”

  “Kitty’s not the first friend I would have chosen to introduce you to. She’s a darb, for sure, but I can’t imagine any two women more different than you and her.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to take this. “Have you known her long?”

  “Since I was seventeen. She was living down the block on Leroy Street when my mother and I moved in. Mum’s sight was failing, and she needed someone to help her keep house, so I hired Kitty to come by for a few hours each week. I, ah, got to know her pretty well.”

  “So I gathered.”

  He turned to me with a frown. “She’s not usually so…prickly. I’m guessing she must have found you pretty intimidating.”

  “She found me intimidating? I thought she was going to cut my heart out with a spoon. I do hope you weren’t the great love of her life.”

  “Me? God no,” he said, looking back out over the street as a toddler was almost trampled by three running boys. “Hey, Tim, mind your little brother!” he called. “We had some fun together,” he continued, “but it was never serious. Kitty just doesn’t like giving things up.”

  I shot him a sidelong glance. For all Simon’s experience with women, he didn’t seem to recognize when one was carrying a torch for him. “She has an awfully utilitarian view of the male-female relationship,” I mused. “Was she always so practical?”

  He chuckled. “That’s Kitty, to a T.”

  “I rather pity Patrick if his money ever runs out.”

  He shrugged. “She hasn’t had it easy. She’s had to make the most of what she’s got to survive.” He gave me a quizzical look. “I suppose that shocks you?”

  I considered the question. “No, not really,” I said after a moment. “It isn’t so different from marrying for money, after all, or exchanging one’s wealth for a title, or any of the other trade-offs you hear about women making every day. It’s just that I, personally, could never do it.”

  “Don’t say never until you’ve walked in another person’s shoes.”

  “There are always other choices.”

  “Like starving?” he retorted. “Or watching the people you love suffer?”

  I stiffened, stung by the sharpness of his tone. “I’m sorry; I suppose you’re right. I can’t know how I would act until I’d actually lived Kitty’s life.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m being an arse. It’s just that I was hoping you’d like my friends.”

  “Oh, Simon, I don’t not like them. After all, I hardly even know them yet. But I do trust your opinion, and if you care for them, I’m sure I’ll come to appreciate them in time.”

  He smiled ruefully. “What I ought to be saying is, thanks for going to so much work and putting on such a nice supper.”

  “Yes, you should,” I replied in a tone of mock indignation. “And you’re welcome.”

  We remained in the doorway for another quarter hour, with Simon pointing out some of the more colorful neighborhood residents and shouting to the boys from time to time. But although harmony had been restored, I couldn’t stop thinking about his outburst. I understood now why he’d been reluctant to introduce me to other people in his life: he had appreciated, more than I, how difficult it might be. The fact was that while I truly believed I could find some common ground with Patrick—and even Kitty—if I tried, I was far less confident that we could ever become truly close. And what would life as a couple be like for Simon and me without the richness and support of mutual friends?

  Once the rockets and crackers were gone and the bonfire was reduced to embers, we all traipsed over to East River Park for the public fireworks display. I sat between Simon and Frankie on the grass, oohing and aahing with the others at each dazzling explosion and singing along with the band when it played between displays. Watching the boys’ upturned faces soften in amazement under the magic in the sky, it occurred to me that I’d never before enjoyed fireworks so much.

  When all that remained were wisps of smoke and a ringing in our ears, the boys wandered off in search of further entertainment and Simon offered to walk me home. I happily consented, eager to spend some time with him alone. He helped me up from the grass, tucking my hand under his elbow as we started across the lawn. It was a small gesture, but every part of me thrummed in response.

  The blocks just beyond the park were still full of merrymakers, echoing with the sounds of firecrackers and police gongs. As we continued further west and north, however, the celebrations became more subdued. Many of the houses along Madison Avenue were dark, their owners gone to the country or to their yacht clubs for the holiday. There were still occasional clusters of people on the sidewalk, however, returning from the theater or from private parties, and as we walked arm in arm toward Ninety-Second Street—Simon in his workday outfit of boots and suspenders and rolled-up shirtsleeves, me in my conservative but expensive gray suit—we attracted more than one curious stare. I pulled Simon closer, wanting him to know I was proud to have him at my side.

  When we were two blocks from my home, a stout older woman in an enormous feathered hat stopped short on the sidewalk beside us. “Doctor Summerford?”

  It took me a moment to recognize her. “Mrs. Richards!” A few months ago, Mrs. Richards, an acquaintance of my aunt’s, had discovered that her daughter, Serena, was secretly volunteering at a settlement house, an undertaking Mrs. Richards considered both dangerous and unseemly. When Serena not only refused to stop working at the settlement, but also threatened to stop eating if her mother forced her hand, Mrs. Richards sent her to me for “fixing.” After a single session, I’d concluded that the girl was displaying a healthy rebellion toward her overly domineering mother and tailored the rest of her “treatment” to helping her learn to manage her mother in less confrontational ways.

  “I see you’ve decided to stay in the city after all,” I said, extending my hand. Serena had told me her mother was threatening to haul the family off for an extended stay in the White Mountains to ensure that her daughter had no more contact with the “germ-infested” clients of the settlement house.

  She took my hand, looking Simon up and down with a frown. “Serena and I have come to an agreement,” she told me. “I’ve given her permission to work at the settlement so long as the doctor there guarantees it’s safe for her to do so. I must confess, I didn’t realize how much good these settlements do until I received a personal visit from Alva Belmont, seeking my help.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said, delighted to know our strategy had succeeded. Aware o
f her mother’s social aspirations, Serena had engineered the visit from Mrs. Belmont—who was a member of the settlement board, in addition to being a pillar of high society—by intimating that her mother was itching to make a large donation.

  Mrs. Richards turned a jaundiced eye on Simon. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “This is my very good friend, Simon Shaw,” I told her. “Simon, Mrs. Richards.”

  He held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She stared at his hand with unconcealed distaste before taking it briefly between her fingertips. “Do I recall correctly that your parents are abroad, dear?” she asked, turning back to me.

  “Yes, in Italy. Having a wonderful time, according to their postcards.”

  She sniffed. With another glance at Simon, she said ominously, “I’ll be sure to tell them I bumped into you, when I see them next.” Turning on her heel, she continued down the street.

  “She’s awfully high up the tree,” Simon said, frowning after her. “I’ve met gang members with better manners.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Someone ought to tell her she doesn’t own the sidewalk.”

  “The reason she’s so snooty is because she’s only one generation removed from the tenements herself, and desperate to dissociate herself from her humble beginnings,” I told him, mortified by her rudeness. “She probably wouldn’t acknowledge her own father if he passed her on the street.”

  “So why do you put up with her?”

  I sighed. “Because I need more paying clients, and she could be a valuable source of referrals.” In the six months since I’d opened my psychotherapy practice, I had acquired exactly five paying patients, two of whom were abroad for the summer. My therapy class at the settlement had gratifyingly expanded to eight women, but it claimed only a single hour of my time each Sunday and provided no financial remuneration. Though I’d been working hard to broaden my referral base, the combination of my gender and my youth was making this difficult. My dream of renting a flat over my tiny Madison Avenue office and moving out of my parents’ house had accordingly been postponed for the indefinite future, a fact that had me chafing at the bit—for although Father was trying hard to respect my desire for independence, so long as I remained under his roof, I feared the old patterns would be difficult to break.