Death of a New American--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  I was not a regular reader of any newspaper; whatever turned up in the kitchen did just fine. Not wanting to seem less well read than a six-year-old, I said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the Times.”

  He handed it over. “An excellent sedative for the trip.”

  We boarded the train. Mindful of my humiliation over Mr. Benchley reading my letters, I kept some distance from the reporter. Behan didn’t seem to notice as he switched from paper to paper; he was either comparing or searching for a particular story. The Titanic still dominated most of the front pages. When he held up the Herald, I saw MANY DIED NEEDLESSLY; LIFEBOATS LAUNCHED ONLY HALF FULL.

  As the train lurched into motion, I dedicated myself to the front page of the Times. There was election news and I decided I should be better informed. Not that I was going to march for suffrage, but it seemed … unethical to entertain the idea of voting and not have any notion whom to vote for.

  I read:

  ROOSEVELT WINS TWO MORE STATES

  Defeats Taft and La Follette in Nebraska and Oregon Primaries.

  Omaha, Neb., April 19—Theodore Roosevelt has carried Nebraska by anywhere from three to ten to one. Taft where from three to ten to one. The race between La Follette and Taft for second place is close.

  Champ Clark will, in all probability, receive the Democratic preferential vote. Harmon is a close second, and Wilson far in the rear, according to received returns.

  I read the paragraph three times and still failed to understand it.

  Not wanting to show ignorance even as I tried to remedy it, I asked Michael Behan, “Do you have a chosen candidate?”

  “What?” Reluctantly, he looked up from his paper.

  “The election. Do you like any of the candidates?”

  He shrugged. “All the same, aren’t they?”

  There was an echo of Bernadette here; maybe I wasn’t the only one who found electoral politics confusing. “What do you think of Mr. Roosevelt’s challenge to Mr. Taft?”

  “I think it’s two blowhards bellowing at each other and Roosevelt makes better copy than Taft.”

  “So, you’re voting for Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “Fine.” His eyes were back on the newspaper. Stymied, I decided to forget the election and give myself over to the latest about the Titanic. Taking up another newspaper, I saw a photograph of an elderly, well-dressed couple.

  MR. AND MRS. STRAUS GO DOWN WITH ARMS ENTWINED

  A vision of Mr. and Mrs. Isidor Straus clinging to each other after the last boat was gone was revealed by Mrs. Schabert of Dary, Conn., who, with her brother was rescued, Mrs. Schabert had stateroom twenty-eight on the starboard side amidships.

  “Mrs. Straus had a chance to be saved, but she refused to leave her husband. As our boat moved away from the ship, the last boat of all, we could plainly see Mr. and Mrs. Straus standing near the rail with their arms around each other.”

  I gazed at the photograph. She sat in a chair, he stood behind her, his hand on the chair near her arm. They inclined toward each other, in defiance of formality. She leaned sideways, he slouched slightly. There was humor in his eyes behind a pince-nez, a small, patient smile. She did not smile, but looked wryly at the photographer, eyebrow raised. She’s impatient, I thought, he knows it and without speaking, has reassured her it will be over in a moment. They know each other well. They are happy. They are … together. No wonder she had refused to leave him.

  I heard Behan say sarcastically, “Let me know if you need a handkerchief.”

  Suddenly aware that my throat was tight, I recovered myself enough to say, “No, thank you,” and distracted myself reading about a doctor who had performed a special surgery on a lamed Austrian boy to allow him to do something called a goose step. The chance to join his friends marching on the schoolyard had improved the child’s spirits to no end.

  Behan went through the Herald, passing pages from one fist to the other. “Ah, Moretti Sr. has another message for Charles Tyler.” He showed me the headline: MY BOY HAS A WEAK CHEST: Sirrino Moretti Worries over Son’s Fate in Prison.

  Behan read aloud, “‘I appeal to him as a father. He has sons. Can he not treat my son with the same compassion he would want for his own?’ Says Tyler will have blood on his hands if junior perishes from the damp.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Sounds like one, doesn’t it? They’re operatic people, dagoes.”

  That word again. Why was it so difficult to object when something objectionable was said?

  Scanning the article, Behan said, “He sounds like a man who wouldn’t say no if someone showed up on his doorstep with the Tyler baby.” He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe some low-level bimbo got it into his head to try and curry favor with Moretti by snatching the kid…”

  “How is it you’re suddenly an expert on Italians? I thought you were more interested in society scandals.”

  If he heard the rebuke, he didn’t show it, saying cheerfully, “A neighbor of mine is a police officer. He’s got a girl stashed in Woodside and occasionally finds himself hard up for cash. So he gives me a call when something good comes in.”

  “That’s why you’re not writing about the Titanic like every other reporter.”

  “That story’ll be dead in a few months. I’ll stick to my lovely murderous wops, thank you.”

  This time, I let silence speak. After a moment, he glanced up. “What?”

  “I’m just wondering if that’s your headline for Sofia. ‘Lovely Wop Murdered.’”

  “‘A Pure and Blameless Girl of the Italian Persuasion…’”

  “Why does she have to be of any persuasion?”

  He peered at me. “You think the fact that she was Italian had nothing to do with her death?”

  “Why should it?”

  I waited for him to explain what he meant, but the conductor came through and announced we were arriving in Pennsylvania Station.

  It was just after eleven, almost an hour before we were supposed to be in the third car of the Ninth Avenue elevated. There was a stop near Pennsylvania Station, and Behan had suggested we get on and ride until “our fellow,” as he called him, arrived.

  “Of course,” he said as we walked to the station, “we may not know our fellow when we see him. ‘Excuse me, sir, are you of Italian extraction?’ ‘Were you hoping to meet a young lady with dark eyes? I’m afraid we have some bad news…’”

  “We don’t know that he’s Italian.”

  “Oh, now, that’s true. Maybe Sofia found herself a nice homespun American boy.”

  As we climbed the stairs to the platform, Behan asked, “Any idea what we do if you do recognize the man?”

  “It depends on whether he’s holding flowers or a bloody knife.”

  Behan paused. “You think we might be meeting up with her killer?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Why would he show up? Presumably he knows she’s not coming.”

  “This might be his normal route. Maybe he’s a salesman. Or an engineer. I don’t know, Mr. Behan. But whoever he is, he knows more about Sofia Bernardi than we do, so let’s go meet him.”

  Behan did have a point. It wouldn’t be easy to spot Sofia’s suitor—or killer or both—on a train full of strangers. I could only hope he was obvious in his search for the dark-eyed girl whose price was above rubies. My hopes were not bolstered when I saw the third car was extremely crowded. The man could get on and off the car without me ever seeing him in the press of people. Behan and I had to stand for several stops, lurching and swaying with every turn of the train. I strained my arm to stabilize myself, focused my eyes on the front pages held aloft by men who preferred not to see me so they wouldn’t have to give up their seat. Although, I thought, craning to see past my fellow passengers’ shoulders and hats, sitting would not help me see better.

  I grew more and more anxious as the meeting time approached. People got on the train, people got off. Anytime the crowd grew thick, I moved from foot to foot, trying to get the be
st view of the doors and cursing the fact that I was not taller. Behan was also watching the doors, but he stayed still, shifting his gaze from entry to entry anytime there was a stop.

  The train pulled to a halt, followed by the now-familiar rhythm as the car emptied and refilled. There was a brief moment between ebb and flow when you had a clear view of everyone coming in, and I was aware of straining my eyes wide as if that would help me see more.

  And then I saw him. Aldo Grimaldi. Dressed in street clothes—a nice suit, just what you’d wear if you wanted to impress a girl—he came onto the train, clearly looking for someone.

  I looked pointedly at Behan and nodded to the chauffeur. I heard him mutter something profane as he realized I had been right and started moving toward Grimaldi.

  But as he made his way through the crowd, bodies shifted and I was able to see a dark young man I had missed earlier. He looked panicked and was also moving hastily toward an exit.

  I knew him.

  The recognition came in a flash, an instinct with no information attached. Without thinking, I shouted something—You! Or Stop! Or some other single syllable of accusation. The young man froze, began looking to the doors. But the train was still moving and there was no way out. At the same time, Behan had reached Grimaldi.

  The train slowed, stopped. The doors opened. Both men pushed toward the exits, Grimaldi shouldering his way through, murmuring apologies. The young man was not as polite. He shoved bystanders aside, leaping in a panic. Behan was close on Grimaldi, who was moving faster as he neared the exit. I started pushing to block the young man from leaving.

  Grimaldi slipped through the door and began running down the platform. Behan ran after him. There was a ripple of unease in the crowd; what was going on? The young man made good use of their distraction to shove past me—a cry of approbation went up as people were jostled—and ran out the door. Calling, “Sorry!” to the passengers, I made it through the doors just as they closed and hurried after him. But he had too much of a head start and my skirts made it hard to run. I continued to chase, but the distance between us grew steadily until he made it to the staircase, knocking people aside and leaping four steps at a time. Frustrated, I gazed down from the railing. As he landed on the street, I shouted, “I know you!”

  My voice reached him and for a brief moment, he turned in my direction, then kept running.

  “I know you,” I said again to myself, furious that I could not think how.

  The differences in their employment made it easy for Behan to catch the chauffeur: Behan was used to sprinting, while Grimaldi, used to driving, was soon out of breath. Triumphant, Behan hauled him over to me, a broad smile inviting praise and admiration.

  “It isn’t him,” I said. “There was another man. He ran, but I couldn’t catch him.”

  Panting from his chase, Behan looked annoyed. He gave the chauffeur a shake and said, “Come on, you. You made me run, you must have something to tell us.”

  Grimaldi stood very still. Then in a sudden move, he threw his arm up in an attempt to dislodge Behan, but the reporter held on.

  “Why were you on that train?” I asked.

  “I drive”—he waved a dismissive hand in the air—“the nephew. I drive him in.”

  No “Mr. William” in private, I noticed. “William Tyler is on Long Island. He canceled his plans.”

  Grimaldi recovered, saying, “He tell me to run errand for him. Because he cannot come. He tell me to buy something,” he said vaguely. “A present for Miss—”

  “That train was going uptown. There’s nowhere on the Upper West Side to buy the sort of thing William Tyler would buy for his fiancée.”

  He smiled thinly, barely bothering to lie. “Private. Surprise.”

  “And you thought you might run into the fair Sofia on the way,” said Behan, wrenching the man’s collar. “Except of course, she’s dead, so—”

  “Don’t talk about her.”

  “Anyway, it’s not likely she’d be meeting a toad like you, is it?”

  “I said you don’t talk about her.”

  Shaking his head, Behan said, “I sympathize, friend, it’s hard when a woman doesn’t return your affections and you look like the back end of a baboon.…”

  If Behan’s intentions had been to inflame Grimaldi’s temper to the point of violence, he succeeded. Taking advantage of the fact that the reporter was effectively single-handed—the other hand holding tight to his jacket—Grimaldi swung wildly, managing to land his fist in the reporter’s ribs. Behan responded by swinging the Italian toward the brick wall. Shoulder first. Then head for good measure.

  I had seen too many fights growing up to be panicked by violence. But I stood wary in case the fight was not entirely out of Grimaldi. He slumped to the pavement, cradling his head in his hand, the picture of defeat.

  “Did you place that ad?” I asked him.

  He grunted in bitter amusement. “Why would I do that?”

  “Those ads are blind for a reason. Maybe you thought if you got her away from the house, she’d see you differently.”

  He stood, wearily brushing his pants. “No. I have no hope of that. Young girls…” A tired wave toward the pavement.

  “Young girls what?”

  “They are foolish.”

  Behan seemed ready to shove him into the wall again, but I made a motion to leave him be. “Why do you say that?”

  Grimaldi straightened, pulling at his coat. He took some pride in his appearance, I noticed. “How about I ask you a question? Why are you here?”

  “Sofia was coming here today. We wanted to know why.”

  He nodded. “Yes. And it is not the first time. Three times in the past few months, Sofia comes to the city. She says she is seeing her family. But when I ask, ‘How’s your mother?’ she doesn’t have answers for me. Just ‘Fine. Good.’”

  Simple answers meant to discourage conversation. From a girl who said she had no family.

  “What did you argue about?”

  “This foolishness. I tell her, I know what you’re doing. I know you are meeting someone. She says I am crazy, there is nobody. After she died…” His face twisted and I felt a pang of sympathy with the ugly little man. “I think I know who it is who has done this. That man. So that night, I go to her room. I find newspaper, I see I am right.” He made a circle in the air with his finger to indicate the ad.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Behan said, “But you have an idea.”

  “I have no ideas.” He gave the last word a sarcastic twist. “I come today to see if the stronzo comes…”

  “Or maybe you don’t really think he killed her,” said Behan. “You just wanted to kick his head in now that she’s dead and won’t hold it against you. After all, he was the only thing standing between you and the girl of your dreams. Aside from your good looks and charm.”

  Grimaldi sneered, no longer intimidated by the reporter. I picked through the tangle of maybes, trying to find a truth. It was possible he had killed Sofia in a jealous rage, his suspicions confirmed by the newspaper advertisement, and now meant to kill his supposed rival as well. I glanced at his feet. They were small for a man. But the little man’s face was running sweat and he was still out of breath from the chase. A four-story window would be difficult for him.

  While the young man who had run, he had been quite fast.

  I asked Grimaldi, “Do you have any idea who this man might have been?”

  He was quiet a long time. “I don’t want to say. I don’t like to think.”

  His reluctance surprised me. “You don’t think the man she was meeting had anything to do with the kidnapping, do you?”

  “Evil gets in many different ways,” he said cryptically. “As I said, young girls are foolish.” He adjusted his tie. “I have to go. Mr. Tyler expects me back.”

  Anxious to keep him talking, I said, “Does he know why you came here today?”

  “Mr. Tyler doesn’t need to be b
othered with these things.” Before leaving he took a sudden step toward Behan, who instinctively backed up. This restored some of the chauffeur’s pride and he walked away head high.

  When he was gone, Behan said, “You believe him?”

  “He seemed resigned to the fact that she didn’t care for him. And he sounded genuinely worried about her, almost protective.”

  Actually, now that I thought of it, I only had Sofia’s word for it that Aldo was making a nuisance of himself because he was attracted to her. Yes, he had seemed overly familiar as he approached her, but perhaps he had been nervous? And perhaps she had been foolish? The vision of Sofia wandering idly toward the woods, crooning with Frederick in her arms came to my mind. Alva Tyler demanding, “Why do you not listen, Sofia?”

  Why hadn’t she?

  Behan interrupted, saying, “So, Grimaldi’s not our killer—but he wanted to kill our killer. That is the general idea with them, you can never kill enough people. Big believers in eye for an eye.”

  I decided to ignore the anthropological analysis. “What do you think he meant by ‘young girls are foolish’?”

  “Fair observation—they’re only marginally smarter than young men. Speaking of which, what about your man who ran off the train?”

  “He must have been meeting Sofia. Why else would he run?”

  “Some of them do, when their business is dirty. First sign of trouble that might bring the police, they figure it’s better to be elsewhere.”

  “But he looked familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him before.”

  “They do tend to look alike.”

  I thought of what my friend Anna would say to that, regretting I didn’t have her words or temper. I imagined her taking Behan by the arm and pointing to a passing Italian and saying, “Oh, yes, do I look like him? True, he is elderly and wears a mustache. How about her? Maybe you confuse me with that six-year-old girl across the street—we all look so much alike. Or my brothers, they have dark hair, just as I do…”