Lawless (82 page)

He took a puff but the cigar had gone out. “To be a successful actress will take every bit of courage that’s in you. You’ll survive on that courage when there isn’t any logical reason for hope. I know, I’ve done it. A while ago, I was being the good and responsible uncle and urging you to square things with your father. Forget that. If you want to go into the theater, you won’t ask anyone’s permission. As I said before, you won’t be able to do anything else with your life. Just grant me one favor, my dear. For God’s sake don’t tell my brother I told you.”

She erupted from the chair, ran to him and flung her arms around him.

“Thank you, Uncle Matt. Thank you!”

He stepped back from the embrace, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I spoke one coherent, worthwhile sentence.”

“Yes, you did. You helped me decide something very important.”

His wry humor took over. “Well, I hope so. It’s too damn early in the day to discuss the insignificant. Wonder if I could be excused a minute? I’d like to stroll out to the kitchen and put a match to the stove for some—”

By the time he was that far, she’d left in a rush, her face joyous for no reason he could readily understand.

Just another of the mysteries that dwelled in the unfathomable hearts and minds of young girls, he thought as he relit his cold cigar and went in search of tea.

Eleanor was dressed by eight o’clock. At fifteen past, Uncle Matt went into the dining room with Will to have breakfast. As soon as she heard conversation and the clink of dishes, she slipped out the front door.

She’d be forever thankful that she’d worked up enough nerve to speak to her uncle when she did. She hadn’t understood some of what he’d said about an artist’s life. Yet the eloquence of it had thrilled her, and set her onto a path to a final decision.

One thing he’d said was very clear. She needed courage to implement her decision. She summoned all she had as she left the house and started downtown.

She had a long way to go. She ran until she was out of breath, then slowed her pace for several blocks. When she’d recovered her wind, she started running again. People gave her peculiar looks. One didn’t usually see well-dressed young ladies dashing down Fifth Avenue by themselves at this hour of the morning. Or any hour, for that matter.

She reached the Paramount Hotel just after nine forty-five. When she asked for Mr. Jefferson J. Bascom, the desk clerk gave her a dirty smile. His eye swept along the curve of her breast.

“Room three-sixteen.” The clerk must have disliked Bascom because he added, “Smallest and cheapest in the house.”

As she left the desk, the clerk turned and whispered to someone behind a partition. Eleanor was sure they were discussing her. What did they think she was, a prostitute come at Mr. Bascom’s bidding? Her face grew red and her back stiffened as she waited for the slow-moving elevator cage to descend. Then she remembered one of the words Uncle Matt had used.
Misunderstood.
And suddenly, she no longer cared a whit for anything the greasy clerk might say or think. Courage would help her endure that and a thousand other insults.

Presently the car arrived. Several male guests got off and she got on. As the car began to rise in the barred shaft, the operator studied her from the corner of his eye. Eleanor glared right back. He looked down at his unpolished shoes.

Odors of stale smoke and dust suffused the dim third floor. Halfway to Bascom’s room, she almost turned back. But she thought of Julia Sedgwick moving into the mansion—and again of Uncle Matt’s words—and she walked on. Her legs stopped wobbling.

Actually, Papa’s mistress had helped make her decision easier. She knew Julia Sedgwick had traveled all over the country, by herself, and never come to harm. Certainly Eleanor felt every bit as resourceful. Besides, she wouldn’t be traveling alone—

If she wasn’t too late.

Anxious now, she ran the rest of the way.

Bascom’s room was at the rear corner of the third floor. She knocked. There was no response. She held her breath, knocked again.

Again no response. He’d already gone out! She’d come blocks and blocks for nothing. She’d probably never find him.

Then she realized she was giving up too easily. She knocked a third time, much louder. Miraculously, she heard shuffling feet, then a wordless grumbling.

The door opened. She didn’t know whether to giggle or gasp in horror. There stood Bascom with his paunch ballooning the front of his faded nightshirt, and his jet black wig tilted down over his left ear.

Still, he was an intimidating sight, somehow. Before he had a chance to say anything, she screwed up her nerve and blurted, “Mr. Bascom, I’m here about the position with the troupe. Is it still open?”

Recognition finally erased his sleepy look. He realized his locks were canted and hurriedly straightened them. “Miss Kent!” he exclaimed. At least he recalled her name.

He opened the door wider as if to invite her in. Then he thought better of it. Eleanor glimpsed a cluttered room not much bigger than a spacious closet. It bore out one of Uncle Matt’s statements about the artistic life. Mr. Bascom’s quarters were about as low as you could get.

His red-rimmed eyes darted toward the curve of her hips. “Yes, I can still use you—” She didn’t like the suggestive undertone, but said nothing. She’d get the job first and worry about handling his advances later.

“It
is
Miss Kent, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir. It’s kind of you to remember.”

“Kind? Balderdash. I’ve a memory for a provocative—ah—” He stifled a belch. “Talent.”

One hand pressed his side as if he were in pain. His expression grew a trifle bilious as he added, “I’ll meet you down in the dining room in ten minutes. Meantime, you may begin your apprenticeship under J. J. Bascom by fixing one thought firmly in mind. Unless you are specifically instructed to do so, never, never,
never
wake a fellow thespian before ten in the morning.”

He slammed the door.

Buoyed by excitement, she rushed back to the elevator. She was too breathless to wait for the cage and instead ran down the three flights to the lobby. Before another hour had gone by, Jefferson J. Bascom had hired her for his Tom show.

Then he went through an elaborate ritual of patting and searching his patched frock coat. “Dear me, I came down in such haste. I do seem to have forgotten my money clip.” He passed her the bill for his enormous breakfast.

She was elated to have the opportunity to pay it. Uncle Matt was right. A little courage worked miracles.

C
ARTER AND WILL
slipped out the front door after breakfast. It was the second Saturday in August, a mild, bright morning fragrant with the odors of newly scythed grass in Central Park, and of fresh paint throughout the mansion.

Both boys wore old clothes. Will’s face had a sleepy look because he and Carter had stayed up till well after one o’clock, talking. At Will’s request, Carter had moved into the house, even though his mother insisted on remaining at her hotel and traveling back and forth to upper Fifth Avenue in a hack.

At night the older boy regaled the younger with lurid descriptions of his adventures with tobacco, alcohol, and willing, not to say eager, members of the opposite sex. About ninety percent of the stories were invented, but each boy gained something from them—Carter the sense of pride and burgeoning manhood that was important to someone his age, and Will the sense of great adventures that could be his when he was as old as his newfound friend.

Carter was halfway down the front steps when Will hesitated, looking across to the park. Behind some trees, boys could be heard yelling.

“What’s holding you, Will? You said you want to go.”

“I know, but I changed my mind.”

“None of that, now. Come on.”

“Carter, I’ve gone over there before. They never let me play.”

“I’ve told you it’s probably because of the way you ask. As if you expect them to say no. You’ve got to take charge and tell them what to do. But you have to be sly about it, so they don’t realize they’re being bossed.” He climbed back to the top of the stoop and grasped the younger boy’s hand. “I’ll show you how it’s done. You’ve got to learn to make your way, Will. If you don’t, you’ll be stuck in a house reading books all your life. Then you’ll be white as paste and no girl will want to look at you. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Hell no,” the small boy declared in a squeaky attempt to imitate Carter’s occasional profanity. The older boy suppressed a smile.

They crossed the Avenue, dodged through the sun and shadow of the trees and emerged in a fragrant meadow. On the far side, two teams were being organized by thirteen or fourteen boys about Carter’s age. Again Will hung back. Carter yanked the bill of his cap down over his forehead and hissed from the side of his mouth.

“Keep up with me. They’ll think you’re a sissy if I pull you along by the hand.”

As the two approached, the other boys fell silent and turned to stare. The boys were a rough-looking lot, most of them shabbily dressed and none too clean. One or two grinned, but not in a very cordial way. Carter sauntered up to a tall, emaciated youth who seemed to be the leader.

“Got two more players for you.”

A boy with a blemished face came from the back of the group to assume the role of spokesman. He jabbed a finger at Will. “That’s the rich little twit from across the Avenue. He’s tried to butt into our games before.”

“You should have let him,” Carter purred. His chilling smile made the pimply boy blink. “He wants to learn the game. I hope you don’t hold it against him that he’s a beginner. Or that his pa’s a rich newspaper publisher. I hope you don’t hold it against
me
that I smoke—”

With a flourish, Carter plucked a long black cigar from the breast pocket of his shirt. Where he’d gotten the cigar, Will had no idea.

“Not cheap ones, either. Genuine Havanas.” By then, a couple of the boys were looking impressed. He went on, “And I hope you don’t hold it against me that up at Dartmouth”—faint condescension—“that’s a college—I’ve studied scientific grappling—”

Will was stunned by Carter’s audacity in making up such tales. But the pimply boy lost patience and started to swear. Carter bit down on the cigar, grabbed the boy, whirled him around and demonstrated his mastery of scientific grappling by bending the boy’s left arm up behind his spine. Carter’s other elbow crooked around to crush the boy’s Adam’s apple.

He grinned and chewed his cigar while the pimply boy made gagging noises. But Carter didn’t really hurt his victim, and in a moment he let go. He dusted his hands, then struck a match on the sole of his shoe.

He puffed his cigar in a nonchalant way. The others didn’t know what to make of him. Finally he said, “Did you choose up yet?”

The tall boy muttered, “We were just starting.”

Carter rubbed his hands. “All right, let’s go. My cousin here—”

“That’s your cousin?” another boy jeered. “He don’t look like no greaser. You do, though.”

Carter didn’t turn a hair. “You’ve got a quick eye. My great-grandfather was Alphonsus the Mighty, eighty-seventh king of Spain. But he never married my great-grandmother, so I’m part Spanish and part bastard.” He said it so casually, yet with such conviction, that the only reaction was speechless surprise. “Now, my cousin here—his name’s Will—he hasn’t played ball as much as I have. He’s going to make mistakes. But it looks like we’ve got some pretty fair teachers in this crowd.”

Will was in awe. Carter’s combination of bluster and outrageous lying had completely overwhelmed them, and had kept them so busy, they forgot to be hostile. If ever there was a Kent born to sway and lead others, it was Carter.

“And good teachers don’t get sore when their pupils mess up,” Carter went on. “They show ’em how to do things right because the teacher is the older, smarter one, and how’s, anybody going to learn if the teacher won’t take time to teach?”

The tall boy grinned. “All right, we’ll show your cousin how it’s done.” He turned toward his friends. “I say these two can play. That okay with everybody?”

The pimply boy stared at the ground and grumbled. Another of the group said, “Sure, let ’em play. It’s better than having your arm busted.”

“Knew you’d see it my way.” Carter nodded with a quick smile at Will.

“Let’s quit messing around and choose up,” a third boy said. There were enthusiastic yells, and some clapping. Will was ecstatic. If Papa and Julia got married eventually, and they all lived together in another house, maybe Carter would teach him more about getting along in the outside world. It wasn’t such a frightening place after all, provided you had a little nerve.

He was so excited about the coming game, he didn’t notice the plume of smoke from the vacant lot on the south side of Sixty-first. There, hired workmen were starting to burn his mother’s belongings.

“Leaving?”

Gideon’s voice mingled consternation with disbelief. His ears had tricked him. She couldn’t have said she was joining a theatrical troupe.

He rose so hastily from his study chair, a taboret beside it overturned, spilling the copy of 100 Years which Matt had picked up at the express office and brought to the house the night before. After delivering the book, Matt had told Gideon that because the project was finished, he wanted to go back to England. He’d booked a cabin on a Cunard steamship. The vessel sailed for Southampton on Monday evening.

The book had fallen open at the engraving which depicted Matt’s favorite baseball team, the Cincinnati Red Stockings. 100 Years was a handsome volume, printed on better than average paper and bound in good-quality cloth.

But the book was forgotten as father and daughter stared at one another. Eleanor stood just inside the double doors of the library. She’d put on her best summer frock and a flowered hat. A bulging valise rested on the floor beside her.

“Yes, Papa, leaving,” she said. “I decided it was best for all of us.”

The smell of smoke filled the house. Out in the foyer, one of the workmen appeared, draperies from Margaret’s room folded over his arms. Two lacquered boxes rested on top of the drapes. Gideon had retreated to the library after breakfast because he couldn’t bear to watch the removal of Margaret’s things. Nearly every item brought back some special memory. He’d given her the lacquered boxes as an anniversary gift.