by Echo Heron
Clara checked her watch. Alice and Henry were both late. She was sure Henry said they were to meet at the Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street corner of the Croton Egyptian Reservoir. Shivering, she decided rather than end up with frostbitten toes while she waited, she’d take a quick turn around the rim of the fortress-like structure for a bird’s-eye view of the city. Just as she finished one circuit and was about to begin another, she saw both of them hurrying toward her.
Without so much as a hello, Henry grabbed their hands and sprinted toward Fifth Avenue. “Come on, I’ve hired a private cab to take us to the Empire Hotel. I’m treating us to dinner.”
“What are we celebrating?” Alice inquired, after the cab was under way.
“I’ve given Tiffany notice that I’ll be taking a leave of absence for six months starting in May,” Henry said. “Mother has arranged a trip to the Italian Riviera then and insists George and I accompany her. I’m sure she’d settled for just George, but she’s too afraid of the gossip it would generate.”
“Perhaps we should have coordinated our timing,” Clara said. “I also gave him notice for the end of April. He’ll undoubtedly think we’ve conspired against him.”
“Or that we’re eloping,” Henry added.
They looked at one another and laughed.
“How did Mr. Tiffany receive the news of your engagement this time?” Alice asked.
“As you would expect,” Clara shrugged. “He listed all the things that could, and probably would, kill me while living in Mexico. He made it sound more like a safari to an unknown continent than the land just south of California.”
“While we’re on the subject of lost continents, Alice,” Henry said, trying to appear serious, “what exactly is all that business on your hat?”
“All what business?” Alice’s hand shot up to her hat—a complex affair of pinecones, pheasant feathers and what appeared to be a battalion of miniature snowmen standing at attention around the rim.
Clara squinted at the ersatz snowmen. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to achieve there. It looks like you’ve gotten into some dust balls.”
Alice regarded them sourly. “Obviously, neither of you knows the first thing about millinery fashion.” She fixed Clara with a stern look. “What in the blazes has come over you? For as long as I’ve known you, which is to say all my life, you’ve steadfastly claimed to anyone who would listen that your life is devoted to art. Suddenly you can hardly wait to give up your work and go off to some jungle to teach English to children. You hate teaching, and I’m not so sure you’re all that fond of children either.”
Hurt, Clara looked out the cab window. “My life will always be about creating art. As my dearest friend, you should know that. The simple truth is that I’m tired of working day to day to make Mr. Tiffany wealthy. From now on I’ll let Agnes Northrop do that, considering how she’s so fond of saying that she wants to work for him until her dying day.
“I’m no longer happy being just another cog in the Tiffany Company wheel. I long to wake up each morning happy to be alive and eager to work for myself. More than that, at the end of the day I want to be able to claim that whatever I’ve done is mine. Most of all, I want a new life, and I don’t care if it does include malaria and snakes.”
“It’s not so much the malaria or the snakes that worry me,” Alice said, her voice losing some of its it’s severity. “You have to admit this business of Mr. Waldo asking you to marry him in order that he might drag you off to some primitive, unknown land is frightening to those of us who care for you.”
The blood rushed to Clara’s face. “I’m quite aware that none of you like Edwin, but it’s only because you haven’t taken the time to know him.”
“That isn’t true!” Alice protested. “We’ve all made the effort to know this man.”
“I have to agree with Alice,” Henry said. “It’s Edwin who is unreceptive to being known. He’s guarded to the point that one has to wonder what he’s hiding. He’s polite about it, but he disregards people, except for you and George.”
“I’ll be blunt,” Alice said. “Edwin is handsome, a talented artist and well educated, but if he has more positive attributes than that, he hides them from us.”
“He rarely keeps his engagements with you,” Henry said, picking up where Alice left off, “and if the man is actually taken ill as often as he says he is, he should be in a sanatorium. He never laughs, and his moods have little range beyond various levels of pique. To tell the truth, were he not George’s brother and so close to your heart, I would have no association with him.”
She opened her mouth to argue when Alice leaned forward and grasped both her hands. “Nothing I can see in his demeanor suggests that Edwin Waldo is a man basking in the glow of love. Help us understand what drives you to a man who is so unworthy of you.”
Lost for an answer, Clara closed her eyes. His good works for the Settlement had initially drawn her, but after she’d had a chance to observe him at his occupation, she soon realized that his generosity and kindness were not so much for the benefit of those he served as for securing glory for himself.
His artistic skill had initially impressed her, until she took a closer look at the things he created and realized his artwork lacked the essential passion that makes art come alive. As the months wore on, it became clear to anyone paying attention that he had no real interest in art at all.
She could not deny that he had the appearance of a scholar, but she soon perceived this façade was, in fact, created by a certain amount of cleverness rather than possession of any real intellect. His eloquence when explaining his theories kept her interest, though more and more he’d begun to sound like someone reciting from memory rather than one who believed in the substance of his words. As of late he seemed less interested in conversing with her, which made her think he’d either run out of things to say, or couldn’t keep up with her.
She couldn’t even claim lustful desire as a reason for marrying him. He was, as Alice pointed out, a handsome man, but she didn’t feel any different on the occasions he’d kissed her, than from the instances she’d kissed the chimney sweep for good luck.
Once she’d peeled away the layers of pretense, she recognized the core truth—Edwin was simply her bridge from the endless drudgery of Tiffany’s to an adventurous and exciting new life. That he had no fear of venturing into the unknown aroused her far more than any physical passion.
At length, she raised her eyes to Alice and Henry doubting she could ever make them understand. Instead, she gave them the answer she thought they wanted to hear. “I’m sure that with time and patience, Edwin will grow to be a loving husband on whom I can depend.”
“Is that so?” Alice said, settling back in her seat. “In that case, my friend, I’m afraid you’re in for a terrible surprise.”
Tiffany’s
January 7, 1897
Dear Ones,
Last week’s trip to the Waldos’ in Danielson was not as exciting as I would have liked, although it was such a relief to get away. I wouldn’t have cared where I went, just as long as it was away from Tiffany’s.
For the entirety of the trip, George was about twice as crazy as usual, owing to his anxiety over an impending interview to teach mechanical drawing, a subject he knows not a whit about. Edwin remained calm, quietly reading an article on sociology, while brother George buckled and unbuckled his satchel, jumping about and talking for what seemed like a few thousand miles until I was nearly insane myself. At my urging, Edwin finally gave George one of his magic powders, and he slept like a baby for the remainder of the trip.
Edwin and I spoke of our favorite books and the various artists we like. We have much in common including our views on women’s rights and politics (Hooray for McKinley!).
I finally met Irenie, the Waldos’ beautiful cousin (the one Mrs. Waldo hoped George would marry). She wore a short-waist, square-neck gown that made her look like a tall flower. George says this is the new �
�slinky’ style of dress. (Slinky! Isn’t that the most wonderful word?). George’s attentiveness to his cousin is strictly cousinly, as he is much more interested in himself than in her. On the other hand, Edwin seemed quite absorbed by her beauty and wit—a difficult thing to witness for poor Clara with no slinky dresses or brilliant repartee. Still, even Irenie is no match for Mrs. Waldo, upon whom both sons dote.
If I am to be honest, I don’t find Mrs. Waldo particularly interesting. Her ideas are very old-fashioned. When I mentioned that I was saving up to buy a wheel, she thought I meant a spinning wheel instead of a bicycle. She was scandalized at the very idea of a woman in a bicycle suit.
All my love, Clara
Ming’s Dream Palace
Mott and Pell Streets, Chinatown
Fan Li Ming took Edwin’s dollar and bowed, backing away. The Chinaman placed two pipes on the ornate table in the middle of the room and began rolling a sticky clump of black resin into pills.
Edwin pressed against the woman lying next to him. Ming’s rule of one smoker per crib was relaxed for him and Sophie. They were his best customers, and lately business was slow due to the increasing frequency of police raids.
“Next time get one of them lower bunks,” Sophie said, fussing with her skirts, “so I don’t gotta worry ‘bout fallin’ out an’ breakin’ my head open.”
“The lower bunks cost more,” Edwin replied, shifting his body so they were facing each other. “I need to save money for now.”
“Save money? You never done that before, Eddie. What gives? You thinkin’ of buyin’ me one of them fancy diamond engagement rings or somethin’?”
Ming approached with the pipes, each bowl holding a precious ball of opium. Edwin pointed to his watch and held up a hand, fingers spread. “You come back in five minutes. The lady and I make talky-talky first. Understand?”
The Chinaman bowed and disappeared behind a curtain of glass beads.
Sophie rose up on her elbow to stare at him. “You’re scarin’ me, Eddie. You don’t never wanna talk. What’s a matter? You gonna skip out on me or somethin’? Found yourself another girl?”
Glancing around to make sure the other smokers were insensible, Edwin dangled his legs over the side of the bunk. “I’ve got a plan, Sophie, but you have to promise not to breathe a word to anyone, not even to the police if they come around asking questions.”
“You know me, Eddie, I’d never say nothin’ if you don’t me want to.” Sophie shrugged. “Hell, half the dandies in New York would be in jail if I ever opened my mouth ‘bout some of the things they told me, ‘specially them married ones.”
She patted at a clump of frizzy hair, bleached and hot-ironed into straw. “Besides, you’re the only one I love. Them others don’t mean nothin’ to me. You know that.”
“I do, but now you have to listen to everything I say.” He paused, picking his words carefully. “You remember I told you about my brother George and his—?”
She sat up so fast, she all but knocked him off the mattress. “You mean the nellie? The one that’s got fits?” She shook her head and began pulling on her jacket. “Oh no you don’t. I don’t care if he is your brother, Eddie, I ain’t gonna fool around with no nellie. It ain’t natural. He’d probably have a fit before he could even—”
“For God’s sake, be quiet!” Edwin jerked the jacket out of her hands. “I’m not asking you to be with my—”
“If it’s ‘bout posin’ nekked for them artist friends of his, I don’t do no posin’ for less than five dollars, an’ I get paid before I take off my clothes.”
“It’s not about nude posing. Now listen, my brother has a friend, a widow by the name of Mrs. Driscoll.”
“You mean the artist lady that has them art swarees you go to? You’re thick as thieves with them people, ain’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say thick, but I like to keep ties with people who might be useful to me someday. I think that someday has come.”
“You mean they’re gonna sell them art pictures you made?”
“Better than that.” He drew up his legs and leaned back. “After old man Driscoll died, I ran into a clerk who used to work for his accountant, and he told me Driscoll was worth a fortune. That got my curiosity up, because his widow was living in a second-rate boardinghouse and working six days a week. I thought I might show a little interest in her, you know, to see what the real story was, and well, she took a shine to me.”
“Hey, wait a minute. Is this widow lady a looker?” Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You steppin’ out with her?”
“Let me finish.”
Pouting, she fell to picking at a green ribbon that laced the bodice of her dress.
“A few months ago, I found the opportunity of a lifetime—a company in San Francisco is wanting to sell a Mexican coffee plantation. They’ve agreed to let me buy the place a little at a time after an initial down payment of a thousand dollars. The place is going to make thousands. I mean, everybody drinks coffee, right? I figure I’ll pay a little each month while I’m working the plantation. When the money starts rolling in, I can pay off the other four thousand, and the rest is mine. Maybe after a couple of years, I’ll sell it for two, three times what I paid for it.”
Sophie eyed him suspiciously. “Wait a minute, what’s the widow lady got to do with all this?”
He tried to gauge how she might react to his next piece of news. Other than a rare temper tantrum, she was a trouble-free companion. He figured she was the only woman he would ever be able to tolerate for longer than an hour at a time.
When she’d first come to the Settlement begging for help for her sick child, the depth of her trust in him had touched him. At his own expense, he’d taken the baby to a reputable doctor, but it did no good. After the child died, she’d gone mad with grief, refusing to eat or drink until she was on the brink of death herself. He’d stayed with her then, bathed and fed her until she came out of her misery.
And then, he’d introduced her to opium.
“You won’t like this much, Sophie, but I’ve asked her to marry me.”
Eyes wide with reproach, she opened her mouth to protest when he put a finger to her lips. “I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if there wasn’t something in it for you.
“Here’s how I’m going to work it: after the widow and I are married, I’ll convince her to put down the thousand dollars, and the first year’s operating costs. When the money starts rolling in and I know I’m in the clear, I’ll divorce her and send for you.
“You’ll take over managing the household, while I work on the plantation. We’ll be just like a regular married couple. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Brooding, Sophie shrugged. “How long do I gotta wait?”
“A year, maybe less. I’ll meet you in San Francisco, you’ll like it there. Frisco dream palaces have private rooms draped in satin and lace, and the customers are waited on hand and foot. The pipes are made of jade encrusted with jewels. They’ll make Ming’s look like a chicken coop.”
“I guess I like the part about San Francisco and Mexico,” Sophie said, “but I don’t much like you goin’ off and marryin’ the widow. What makes you so sure she’s gonna just give over her money to you?”
“She’ll give it to me because she’s loyal and she loves me, and because she‘s an educated woman who was raised like a lady. Women like that don’t go back on their word.”
“But it still don’t make no sense, Eddie. How come she works if she’s so smart an’ rich? Why don’t she spend the money on nice things and stay home?”
Edwin rubbed his fingers across his stubble of a beard. It was the one thing he hadn’t figured out yet. He was sure she had it, but Clara never talked to anyone about her money. A couple of times he’d managed to steer her to the edge of the subject, but she’d veered away, leaving him no wiser as to what she’d done with it.
“I’m pretty sure she has it stuffed away in some bank, saving it up to buy a studio downtown.”
>
“I’ll be old and wrinkled before you get rid of her,” Sophie stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t wanna wait so long.”
He pulled her close. “Think of the wait as the priming of a water pump—you’ve got to put in a little before you get a lot back. While you’re waiting you can spend your time imagining yourself as the lady of a big hacienda out on the side of a mountain with servants at your beck and call. When you get to San Francisco, I’ll buy you some fancy new dresses—respectable, quality dresses with pretty shoes and hats to match.”
At the promise of a new wardrobe, Sophie perked up. “Would you buy me a real wedding ring? One with diamonds and rubies?”
He heard the acquiescence in her voice and smiled. “If all goes according to my plan, I’ll buy you a ring for every finger.”
She threw her arms around his neck, but he pushed her off. “First, you have to promise on your babe’s soul that you will never whisper one word of this to anyone, not even the police.”
“Not my baby, Eddie. It’ll send his little soul straight to Hell if I slip. I couldn’t stand that. I’ll promise on my soul.”
Edwin shook his head. “Not good enough. You and I are already damned. Swear on the babe’s soul. That way you’ll be sure to keep your word.”
Nodding, Sophie dropped her head into her hands and cried softly.
Edwin waved to the Chinaman, signaling that they were ready.
With a long needle, Ming skewered one of the opium pills and heated it over the special lamp. The smell of burnt flowers filled the air, prompting Edwin to lie on his side. He pulled Sophie down next to him.
Ming placed the pill inside the pipe bowl and handed it to Edwin who touched the mouthpiece to Sophie’s lips.
Eagerly she pulled in the first long draw and held it. Her lids fluttered slightly as her eyes rolled back into her head and the smoke escaped from between her parted lips.
Edwin accepted his own pipe, taking only a short draw at first, wanting to make the pleasure last as long as possible. The sharp bitterness filled his mouth. A faint smile came to his lips as he recalled how the taste made him sick his first time. Now he relished it the same way some gentlemen savored their soup.
