by Amanda Vink
MARJORIE HART AND THE TREE OF LIFE
First Edition
Published in 2021 by
Kaledena Press, LLC
P.O. Box 602
Fredonia, NY 14063
Please visit our website: kaledenapress.com.
Copyright © 2021 Kaledena Press, LLC
Editor: Kristen Susienka of Kristen S. Editorial
Interior Design: Amanda Vink
Cover Design: Milan Jovanovic
The interior of this book was designed using the following fonts:
Tiverton Font Trio by AF Studio
Adobe Garamond
Westmeath by Twicolabs Fontdation
Damion by Vernon Adams
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This novel is set during the 1920s. Names and places will be referred to as they were known at the time.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer.
Printed in The United States of America
to my brother Alex—for so many adventures
and
to all the intrepid believers out there
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
MARJORIE HART AND THE TREE OF LIFE
June 1928
Buffalo, New York
Chapter One
The rushing sound of machinery filled the room as the woman in the gray dress waited at The Buffalo Herald. All around her, newspaper reporters operated the twenty-odd typewriters packed inside the room. Love the news or hate it, its current changed the world every day.
For Marjorie Hart, there were few sounds lovelier—well, maybe the click of a camera’s shutter. But today, even the spelling out of all those words could not quell her nerves. She wanted to pull at her collar, which felt increasingly restrictive. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap. After spending the better part of the week walking in and out of the top newspaper offices in the city, she had exhausted her other connections. But she was sure The Buffalo Herald was the newspaper. It had to be.
She sat in the makeshift waiting area—a few chairs next to the only office on the floor and a grimy window. Someone had drawn the shape of a star onto the window’s glass. Through that outline, another tall building reached high into the sky of the modern city of Buffalo, New York.
Just a few hundred years back, the city as it stood today was unimaginable. Nearby, Fort Niagara had been a frontier outpost for the French and then later for the British. But Buffalo’s position at the bottom of Lake Erie made it a natural spot to settle—and people did. Grain shipments coming across the Great Lakes allowed it to flourish. Industry giants carved the city with their hands, creating massive factories and bustling stores. In Buffalo, fortunes were ready to be made.
It was hot outside, but inside the Herald, it was worse. The newsroom was small, crowded, and loud. The building had been converted from a warehouse, so airflow was minimal. Buffalo, a city of industry, had a lot of buildings that were similar. Things were constantly moving, being repositioned and repurposed.
Everyone in the room was sweating buckets. The nearest journalist rolled up his shirtsleeves but did a sloppy job, so that when his arm came down again on the typewriter, the sleeve unrolled right away. This time he ignored it, too caught up in his story to notice.
“You’re here to see Conrad?” asked a young man walking by. He looked like most of the reporters—hungry for news and wearing a suit not made for him.
Marjorie nodded, smiled.
The man didn’t smile back. Instead, he looked away. “God bless,” he said. He carried on, picking up a stack of papers from a desk.
Soon after, the office door opened and a young woman walked out. She wore a dark blue dress that made her shoulders look square. She looked ruffled and practically ran from the room. Following the sound of her heels was a gruff voice that said, “Come in!”
Marjorie took a deep breath. Then she stood and entered.
The room was dark and stuffy. Behind a messy desk sat a balding man absorbed in papers scattered before him. This was Gus Conrad, editor in chief of The Buffalo Herald. He didn’t even look up at her. “Can you type?” he asked, his voice clipped and to the point. A line of sweat beaded on his upper lip.
“Yes,” she said.
“Shorthand?”
“No,” she said.
He didn’t wait a beat before speaking. “I’m sorry, miss. All our girls use shorthand. Best of luck to you.”
Marjorie didn’t budge. She wasn’t afraid of him, and she wasn’t going to leave. “You don’t seem to understand,” she said, reaching for her briefcase. “I’m not here to apply for any position.”
For the first time, Conrad looked up. One moment, his expression was sour and suspicious. Then the next, he saw to whom he was speaking.
“Miss Hart!” Conrad stood up and extended his grubby hand.
Marjorie took it gingerly. He shook her hand exuberantly.
“Nice to see you again,” Marjorie said.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
She unhooked the string that kept her briefcase closed and pulled out a handful of photographs. “You can publish these,” she said, laying them out on his desk. He watched her for a moment, like he was expecting something else, but then he leaned over his desk to take a closer look.
“Oh my god,” he said. He spread the photos apart and leaned closer.
Marjorie smiled. The photographs were worthy of the front page. It had taken her weeks to uncover the truth—bribery, scandal, and political positioning—but there it was in black and white. Marjorie had caught the candidate for senator, none other than Hugh Wright, with his hand in the cookie jar. She had caught him taking bribes—not a new story, surely, but it was a big deal when the person in question belonged to a family that had allegedly been tied to some of the biggest mobsters east of Chicago. Not allegedly anymore. It was a dangerous piece, and Marjorie couldn’t help but be a little proud. To get this story, she’d visited some pretty seedy establishments.
Conrad leaned back and grasped his hands together over his belly. He studied her. Marjorie waited patiently for him to congratulate her.
Finally, he spoke. “I can’t use these.”
They stared at one another for a moment—a shocked silence separating them. Then, Marjorie said, “Why not?” A surge of fresh blood, hot and angry, ran to her heart.
Conrad at least had the good sense to look sheepish. He pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and sopped up the sweat
hanging from his lip. Then he rubbed the back of his neck with the cloth. “I’ll admit it’s good work, Miss Hart. But I can’t run this. No newspaper in the country could run this right now.”
Marjorie’s eyes narrowed into slits. Coward.
“Trust me,” he continued. “This one is too hot—and way too dangerous. It’s politics, honey.”
“You run political stories all the time,” Marjorie argued. She hated that her voice was full of so much emotion.
“That’s true,” Conrad said. “But not this one. Look, I don’t want to discourage you, but you could get in a lot of trouble if they knew you had this.”
Marjorie blinked. She felt herself deflate. Her story was not going to be published. All that work done for nothing. “Don’t you care about the truth?” asked Marjorie.
“Miss Hart, believe me, people aren’t always ready for the truth. My advice?” He gestured to the papers with a flippant hand. “Burn them.”
The words seemed to slap Marjorie across the face. She took a moment to gather herself before collecting her photographs and haphazardly returning them to her briefcase. She snapped the case shut with a loud click and tied the closure. Her hands shook, making the movement difficult. She turned on her heel and had made it to the door when Conrad spoke again. Marjorie stopped, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
“You’re a good photographer, Miss Hart. You’ll make an excellent photojournalist if you can figure out whose back to scratch and whose to leave alone.”
Marjorie slammed the door behind her, causing the glass to rattle in its frame and scaring the poor girl who was waiting, apparently next in line for the typist position. The girl, who looked about eighteen years old, started and jumped. She had long hair that was clipped up to resemble the short bobs that had been in fashion for a few years now.
Marjorie made it to the stairs, but then she turned back and crossed to the girl, who seemed to be trying to make herself invisible. Marjorie leaned down just enough so the girl knew she was talking to her. The girl glanced up, an expression of fear on her features. “They’ll get away with whatever you let them get away with. Don’t let them.”
“Miss?” the girl squeaked.
“Give them hell.”
***
It was a busy day out on the street. A carriage drove by, kicking up the summer dust. The streets were a mix between carriage and motorized vehicle. Many people still rode bicycles to get where they needed to go. Brick buildings huddled close together, with windows that lined up next to each other like cards. Toward the main intersection, awnings extended over the sidewalk. Underneath, a fruit vendor and a shoeshine crowed to the masses, side-by-side. Across the street, another fruit vendor loomed. The two men who owned these stores had a rivalry going back twenty years, at least.
Two ladies carrying hatboxes—one green and the other white—turned onto the street where Marjorie stood. One of them was obviously wearing a new hat. Marjorie could tell by the way she walked, head held high. The hat in question was of the cloche variety, asymmetrical and made of blue beaver pelt. For the working girl, it was a significant expense.
Had she been in a better mood, Marjorie might’ve wondered what the lives of these two ladies were like, but not today. They continued on, leaving Marjorie alone.
A jet black Pierce Arrow turned the corner and pulled up near the sidewalk, close to where Marjorie stood just outside the entrance of the newspaper building. The car was a polished jewel on the city street, and it wasn’t the only one. Just like Marjorie herself, the Pierce Arrow was a product of Buffalo. In fact, the manufacturing plant sat less than a mile from where Marjorie stood. This one was her family’s car.
Jenkins got out of the Pierce Arrow and tipped his hat to her. He always did this exactly the same way, as he had done for years and years. Jenkins was a practical man, always tuned into the details. His gray hair and mustache were always perfectly trimmed. His suit was expertly made, though not ornate at all. There was not a speck of lint on his person—the lint wouldn’t dare. He was also the kind of man who always knew what to say—or when saying nothing was preferable. Right now, he noticed Marjorie’s upset but didn’t pry.
Instead, he opened the back door, and Marjorie slid across its interior. The leather was hot on contact. Marjorie rolled down the window. She longed for the breeze coming from Lake Erie. The summers in Western New York were typically pleasant, but they could be humid.
Jenkins went around to the driver’s seat. Then, with a flip of his fingers, the car roared to life. Jenkins turned to look behind him and then pulled out into traffic. As the car began to move, Marjorie’s hair lifted off her forehead.
The car turned onto Main Street and moved around a swarm of people, who were all taking advantage of their lunch hour to get some fresh air. They piled on street corners, waiting until it was time to cross the street in droves. They all moved together, a flock of birds pushed this way and that by the winds of commerce. A trolley car stopped in front of them, and Marjorie watched as passengers shuffled on and off. They each found their places, just like in a well-rehearsed play.
She placed her briefcase on the seat next to her, leaned out of the window, and tried to let the wind blow the cobwebs out of her mind. It didn’t work.
The Pierce Arrow passed the area off Court Street that had been approved for the new city hall building. They were supposed to begin working on it the following year, and once it was completed, the offices would move from where they currently stood on Franklin Street. Marjorie had seen the plans for the new building, drawn up by her friend John Wade. The Art Deco-styled building would be bold, beautiful, and gigantic—the tallest building in the city, Wade boasted. From its observation tower, a visitor could see the wide expanse of the city. It would be breathtaking. Marjorie couldn’t wait to get up there.
The Pierce Arrow followed another trolley car, and when Marjorie looked up, she spotted a young girl near the back of the car. The girl stood on the seat inside, just enough to reach an arm out of the top of the window. Her fingers stretched to catch the wind. All of a sudden, she caught Marjorie’s eye. Marjorie lifted a hand to acknowledge her. But just at that moment, the young girl’s mother noticed her and yanked on the girl to get down. The girl tossed Marjorie a guilty smile, and Marjorie felt the tension in her shoulders abate just a bit. The trolley stopped for an exchange of passengers, and Jenkins pulled out and around it.
Downtown melted into residential neighborhoods then, as the Pierce Arrow turned onto Delaware Avenue. The scenery changed, opening up into elegant houses and sweeping landscapes. They passed North Street, which had only been developed in the 1860s.
Large elm trees shaded lawns and elegant, well-manicured gardens. Rich families lived in this area of the city, which gave it the nickname “Millionaire’s Row.” It extended a few streets up to Bryant. Just a few years back, the city succeeded in widening the avenue. At the time, Marjorie’s mother called it a travesty.
In moments, Delaware Park came into view. Frederick Law Olmstead’s massive green site was also the location of the Pan-American Exposition. On May 1, 1901, a quarter of a million light bulbs powered by alternating current lit up the night, banishing the darkness. That same evening, Marjorie’s father proposed to her mother.
As a child, Marjorie imagined that moment again and again. That sight was no longer what it would’ve been then—the exposition had been built to last only temporarily. Only a few features, such as the Albright Art Gallery and the Buffalo History Museum, remained. Whenever she could, she visited Delaware Park and stood on the edge of Hoyt Lake, in the very same spot the proposal took place.
Now, ladies in summer dresses and large-brimmed hats picnicked in the sun there. Musicians played by the water’s edge, and Marjorie spied a small child dancing to the music. His body wiggled along in time, arms flailing, and a sun-soaked expression splayed across his features.
Not far from this scene sat the Hart family home on Lincoln Park
way. Marjorie inherited it from her mother’s side of the family. The Vales had always had a lot of money, since even before they emigrated from England in the early 1800s. Besides that, Marjorie’s grandfather had invested well. That was the reason the family moved to Buffalo in the first place.
Only when Marjorie started taking photojournalism seriously did she start to realize how lucky she was with the lot she drew in life. On assignments Marjorie gave herself, she pushed herself to leave the cushy areas of the city she was used to. The result was that it didn’t always sit well with her, this familial wealth.
In many ways, Julian Hart and Josephine Vale were an odd match. No one questioned Marjorie’s mother when she told them she married for love. Julian Hart came from a comfortable middle-class family. From what Marjorie understood, their courtship and then marriage was tolerated, never encouraged. In truth, Julian swept Josephine off her feet. They married just a month after the proposal.
When her parents met, Julian was newly a professor. He spent his summers traveling the world and researching lost civilizations and ancient myths. During the rest of the year, he taught and worked as hard as possible in order to attract donors to sponsor his travels.
Both Marjorie’s parents were dead now. Josephine died when Marjorie was still a child. She had become ill with the flu first, and then Marjorie also became sick. Marjorie remembered a steady week of on-and-off fever and the blurred haze of her childhood bedroom. She did not learn of her mother’s fate until after recovering from the worst of it.
Following Josephine’s funeral, Julian began traveling in earnest. He was gone not just during the summer, but he had scheduled a world tour that lasted from fall through the following spring. Marjorie knew he had been obsessed with one myth in particular—the Tree of Life. It was the very mythological entity in the Garden of Eden. According to the bible, next to the Tree of Life stood the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil where, after just a bit of coercion, Eve took a bite of fruit and convinced Adam to do the same. It was that act that had angered God. As punishment, Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden to a life of hunger and suffering. It was the very first sin of the world.
