The Gallery (9 page)

Chapter

I
wasn't the only one with gangsters on the brain that night.

The next morning Ma and I arrived to discover a scrum of reporters on the sidewalk—not in front of the Sewell house, but next door, in front of a swish apartment building that had recently gone up on the bones of a collapsed mansion. A handful of cops held the jostling mob at bay.

Ma went over for a quick word with a reporter, then made a beeline, tight-lipped, to the servants' entrance. Inside she set me to work on a catalog of chores before I could ask any questions. Whatever was going on outside had no effect on today's to-do list.

I was set to work straight off mopping that long marble hall that led from the front foyer all the way
to the central courtyard. I started at the front door, hoping to find Alphonse at his station, where I could needle him for the full story that Ma refused to give me.

Unfortunately Alphonse was nowhere to be seen.

Although, I realized with a smile, that meant no one was manning the front door.

I laid my mop aside and seized the giant brass doorknob with two hands, hanging my weight on it to twist and swing the solid oak behemoth, then the wrought iron and glass outer door, on the hinges.

I was lucky that one of the cops from the building next door was going on break, crossing in front of the house at that moment.

“Pssst,” I waved him over. “Officer! What's happening over there?”

“Haven't you heard?” His accent identified him as a fellow from our neighborhood back in Brooklyn. “Arnold Rothstein was shot last night.”

“Who?”

“Doncha read the papers, kid?” Would everyone stop asking me that? “A gangster, one of the biggest. Bootlegging, racketeering, and, uh”—he blushed and tipped his hat to me—“other vices. The guy who fixed the World Series back in 1919! But you know what the Good Book says: You live by the sword, you
die by the sword. Remember that, kid.” He tipped his hat to me again and strolled on, in search of a cup of coffee, on the house.

I closed the doors, practically trembling with excitement, and made my way back to my mop. A real-live gangster, living right next door! Did Mr. Sewell know? Was gangland violence making its way to the Upper East Side? As I swabbed my way down the hall, my head swam with shoot-outs, tommy guns, getaway cars fleeing down Fifth Avenue, and mob molls on the stoop, chewing gum and cracking wise. Wait till I told the twins—they'd insist on joining me at work the next day, even if it meant picking up a mop themselves.

I was halfway down the hallway, just in front of Mr. Sewell's office, when I heard the explosion.

—

It wasn't much of a bomb, the cops said, only some cheap Chinatown gunpowder mixed with ingredients found in any closet of cleaning supplies—basically, an oversized firecracker. But it was strong enough to shatter the glass on the outer door. (The wrought iron was fine.)

From the scraps of brown paper and string, they said it was a package bomb—wrapped and disguised to look like an ordinary parcel. Nothing had been
on the steps when I'd last peeked out; my blood ran cold to realize it must have been placed there mere minutes—even seconds—after I went inside.

I stood frozen and clutching my mop for safety, as the rest of the house came running past me: Ma, the other maids, Mr. McCagg from upstairs, even Mr. Sewell, who, as it turns out, had been working from his office at home.

In fact, Mr. Sewell ran directly out onto the steps before the smoke had even cleared, with no regard for his own safety. He brushed off the cops and stomped out the few smoldering embers scorching the marble steps with his fine wingtips, while his employees cowered just inside, in the foyer. I tiptoed up to join them, the fear of missing out greater than my fear of being blown to bits.

Mr. Sewell was holding up his hands to quiet the reporters around the steps, who, giddy with the promise of a terrific news day, had abandoned the Rothstein building and now pulsed around him, snapping photos and flinging questions.

“Mr. Sewell, do you have reason to believe the bomb was related to the Rothstein shooting?”

“Was the attack intended for you, sir?”

“Was it a revenge attack, sir? From Sacco and Vanzetti supporters?”

Sacco and Vanzetti? I looked to Ma for an explanation, but her stone face revealed nothing.

But even without reading the papers, I knew the names. Everyone did.

Sacco and Vanzetti were two Italian immigrants who tried to rob a factory in Boston and shot a couple of people in the process. A lot of people said they were innocent and the papers were prejudiced against them because they were Italian. Everyone was suspicious of Italians in those days—they were anarchists or terrorists or bombers, they said (although that hardly described Mrs. Annunziata to me). But innocent or guilty, last year they got the electric chair, so I guess it didn't matter what people thought. It was all over Mr. Conescu's newsstand—from the
Yodel
to, I guess, the
Daily Standard
.

Mr. Sewell cleared his throat, and the reporters all stopped to poise pencils to notepads.

“I was not the target,” Mr. Sewell boomed, “of this dastardly act, an act born out of the violence that threatens to swamp this great country of ours, from the streets of Chicago to”— and here he winked at the reporters—“‘The Sidewalks of New York.'” (The reporters all chuckled here.) “No, the real target was the American way of life. America itself is under siege, attacked on all sides. By whom, you ask? By
bootleggers, drowning this country in the depravity of alcohol. By gangsters, who'd rather smash and grab than earn an honest living. By the immigrants and anarchists who'd rather destroy our way of life than adapt to it.”

Pencils scratched frantically. Even I could tell this was good copy.

“Now, I don't know which of these nefarious forces have conspired to do me harm. But I can't say I'm surprised. The voice of the righteous is always resented by the forces of darkness.”

A smattering of applause here, from some of Mr. Sewell's guys in
PRESS
:
D
AILY
S
TANDARD
badges. Probably the same guys who'd laughed on cue.

Mr. Sewell held up his hands again, as if calming a roaring crowd. “But I do know that there's one man to keep this country on track and its enemies at bay. A man with grit. A man with character. A man with”—here it comes, I thought—“vision. That man,” Mr. Sewell paused dramatically, as if the assembled were held in suspense, “is Herbert Hoover.” Clapping again from the
Daily Standard
suck-ups, and this time even they looked embarrassed about it.

“And that's why the
Daily Standard
staunchly endorses Herbert Hoover for president! Read the paper tomorrow for our official endorsement and
all week for election coverage! That's all for today. Thank you.”

Mr. Sewell pushed the doors closed against the onslaught of flashbulbs and throwaway questions and locked it with a flourish.

“Well!” He smoothed over his already flawless hair as the servants scattered back to their posts. “I think I said everything that needed saying. What did you think, Mrs. O'Doyle? And, eh, you there.” I tried to slink away. “Martha?”

What I thought was that he seemed to be in an awfully good mood for someone who'd almost gotten blown up.

Fortunately, Ma spoke first. “A powerful speech, Mr. Sewell.”

“Yes, very, um, powerful.” I nodded, my eyes trained on my mop.

“But, Mr. Sewell,” Ma continued, “shall we get a man or two on the perimeter of the house? For security? That was a close call, to be sure, and after the threats you received last month . . .”

Mr. Sewell wasn't listening to a word Ma said. He was looking at me. “You don't sound convinced, Martha. Do you have a difference of opinion?”

I looked at Ma, who closed her eyes wearily, as if telepathically willing me to agree with him.

“As I've said, we are all a team here, and as a member of that team, I value frankness in all matters. Now, what do you have to say?”

“It's just . . .” I could see Ma's eyes fly open and widen. “It's just that I didn't think newspapers were supposed to say who should be president.” I opened my eyes back at Ma, as if to say, “What, did you know that?”

“Ah, is that the issue? Or is it that you disagree with my endorsement?” Mr. Sewell took a step closer to me. “Could it be that your allegiance lies with your countryman, Mr. Al Smith?”

I said nothing, and in response to my silence, he guffawed. “I take it you did not read my paper this morning? For if you did, you would know you're throwing your hat in with a loser.”

I lowered my eyes. My extra fourteen cents this week had all gone to the gangster film.

He took my silence as acquiescence. “So you'd vote for Al Smith, anyway? Turn over our country to the pope?”

Confusion shook me out of my silence. “What? No, to Mr. Smith, sir, he's not the pope.”

“But he's a Catholic.” Mr. Sewell pronounced it Cath-o-lick, and he poured suspicion on each syllable.
“Which makes the pope—de facto—as the head of him, the head of the rest of us.”

“Well, I don't think that's true.”

“And you'd let your Al open the saloons again,”—I didn't dare say that, in Brooklyn, none of them had ever closed—“and allow the blood of gang violence to come to our very front doors? And you'd see the pure, honest country lanes and village squares of this great country become, like your Mr. Smith revels in, ‘the Sidewalks of New York?'”

I had many thoughts. Many things I'd like to say. But as I looked at Ma, I saw that we also had many bills to pay.

“No, sir, I guess not,” I murmured, suddenly and assiduously swabbing my mop around the floor.

“You guess not, eh?” I could feel his eyes on the top of my head, looking down from on high. “Well, I
guess
it's a good thing you won't be voting. And thank God, as of tomorrow, I shan't be hearing that idiotic song about sidewalks again!” And he turned on his heel—leaving a black mark on the floor—returning to his office.

I couldn't help myself. “That's only if Hoover wins, sir.”

“If?” He stopped and slowly turned back,
regarding me like a simpleton. “
If
Hoover wins? Do you think I would allow any other outcome?”

“I don't see how it's up to you, sir. You're only allowed one vote.”

He walked back over to me, bent over, and ruffled my hair. “No, dear,” he said quietly, his hot breath smelling of black coffee, “
you
are only allowed one vote. I have one million, stretching from coast-to-coast, wherever the
Daily Standard
is found. And as long as I'm its publisher, every one of those votes will go to Hoover.”

He stood up. “Mrs. O'Doyle?”

“Yes, sir.” Ma's voice sounded weary, weighted with her disapproval of me.

“Could you see that the steps are cleared of that trash?”

“Of course, sir. I'll get someone—”

At that moment, I think Ma and I suddenly realized that someone had been missing throughout the whole episode. The one person who should have been working the door, who might have seen . . .

“Yes, ma'am?” Alphonse crept in like a fog behind us. “The front steps. I will see to it immediately.”

Alphonse turned away to get whatever cleaner removed a bomb blast from marble. Mr. Sewell turned back to his office, his candidate assured and his
chambermaid put in her place. And Ma turned away from me, her head shaking, as if a scolding was the height of wasted effort.

“I must check on Miss Rose,” she muttered, pulling out her ring of keys as she headed to the stairs. “The blast surely startled her, and Lord knows what the aftermath will be of that. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

—

The hall floor waited silently for me, freshly smudged by Mr. Sewell's shoes.

Fortunately, the angrier I got, the harder I mopped.

I hated the way Mr. Sewell spoke to me. Like I was an ignorant maid. Like he knew more than me about the things that mattered.

I hated more that it was true.

Whatever was happening behind all the cold, closed lifeless doors in this house, he knew about it.

And maybe he's right. Maybe I don't know anything.

But there's one person in this house who knows everything.

Ma.

Chapter

“D
oes it seem strange to you that Mrs. Sewell never leaves her rooms?”

We were stopped at the corner of Park and Seventy-Second, the early evening well dark. The night had been stealing in a few minutes at a time, a day at a time, and now we found ourselves in this blackened sea of glowing streetlamps at a time when, just a few weeks prior, the kids would still have been playing stickball in the street.

Ma had her face deep in her purse, rifling for a peppermint. Chef had loaded the day's chicken stew with garlic, which always provoked Ma's dyspepsia. (The stew actually was quite tasty, despite having the word “cocoa” in its name.) “And what do you expect me to say to that, Dr. Freud?” she muttered as she
stifled a burp. “Yes, I think it's the height of normalcy to barricade yourself in a room?”

“What I mean is, do you think she needs help of some kind?”

The light turned green, but Ma stayed put, letting her purse drop back to the end of her arm and turning back to look at me. A taxi stopped in anticipation, but she waved it away. “What help, pray tell, is she missing? She has New York's finest doctors on call, a nurse standing by twenty-four hours a day, and a house full of servants.” She struggled to stifle a burp, interrupting her lecture. “Not to mention my near constant attention. The entire household is designed around keeping her out of a loony bin, where she'd be heaped in with the screwballs and ruffians and Georgie Riordans of the world.”

Was that such a terrible thing? We rubbed elbows with Georgie Riordan every day (not to mention Crazy Lady Minchin and the speakeasies' stranger regulars), and no one seemed to think it was any great hardship for us.

The light turned red again, and Ma kept talking.

“Miss Rose has everything Mr. Sewell's money can buy.” She coughed around a burp or a lump in her throat, I couldn't tell which. “And his love, obviously. And still she founders.”

She stopped talking long enough for a bus to rattle by, the driver laying on his horn the whole way.

In the moment of relative quiet that followed. I ventured, “And her money, you mean.”

“What's that?” The light had turned green, and Ma was already heading for the other side of the park.

I trotted after Ma. “You said everything Mr. Sewell's money could buy. And
her
money too, right? Isn't Mr. Sewell spending that as well?”

“There is no more ‘her money.'” Ma sighed. “There's the house and its contents: the paintings, the library, a few other baubles. That's all that's left of her father's fortune. But Mr. Sewell spends down
his
fortune maintaining them, just to keep her happy.” She stopped to struggle with another rising belch. “You know he could give two hoots for that house and those pictures. He'd be rid of them in a flat minute if he could.”

“So why doesn't he? Sell them, I mean?”

“As I said, they make her happy, and her happiness is foremost in his mind.” A loud burp finally escaped from Ma's pursed lips. Too relieved to look embarrassed, she sighed and started walking again. “But even if he wanted to, he couldn't. They're hers, legally.”

Like that rising belch, a bubble of a thought rose in my mind.

“Ma, what would happen if Miss Ro—I mean Mrs. Sewell went well and truly . . . well, nuts? If she did go into an asylum? Then would Mr. Sewell maybe take ownership over her things? Like how Mrs. Phelan cashes Georgie's Saint Vincent de Paul Society checks?”

Ma stopped again and turned back to me with a look I hadn't seen since I borrowed her Sunday stockings to make mud grenades with the twins.

“I can't believe what I'm hearing!” We'd reached the entrance to the subway by now, and with a shake of her head, she broke off to race down its steps. But almost immediately she flew back up. “You talk of your employer as if he is some kind of a monster!” Now I could see she was more baffled than angry. “Like it's some kind of story from one of your detective rags! Well, you like spinning yarns? Here's the story for you. Mr. Sewell is no monster imprisoning a fair maiden; he's a knight. A knight who married a princess who was cursed, and now
she's
become the monster.

“Every day, he fights the good fight.” Ma turned back down the stairs wearily. “For Rose. For all of us.”

I followed meekly behind Ma, scolded . . . but unconvinced. I wasn't sure Mr. Sewell did want his wife to get better. And I was even less sure why Ma believed it so fervently.

—

An infuriatingly brief postcard from Daddo—“
Next stop: Dixie!”
—awaited us when we got home. Ma glanced at it, then tossed it on the table to be buried under the grocer's bill. The boys and I dug it back out, poring over the mysterious illustrations of children chased by alligators and studying the postmark for clues.

“Why'd he mail it from Penn Station if he's headed down South?” I wondered aloud.

“Probably dropped it off while switching trains,” noted Ma as she filled the tub with steaming water for the twins' scrub. “Don't worry,” she said brightly, “he'll be back before you know it.” But her promise sounded hollow.

I took my own soak while Ma settled the boys. Too lazy to pour a bath of my own, I sat knees up in the tepid water, listening to her wrestle pajamas over wet heads, tell stories of pirates and mermaids, lead prayers, lay out uniforms for the next day. Soon she'd be out preparing the morning's porridge, sorting her own uniform out, reviewing the bills, scratching out grocery lists, and attending to whatever else it took to keep our family afloat.

She had reason to believe in her employer, I supposed, when that employer stood between us and
the hardship and hungry bellies that lurked around Willoughby Street.

With my own wet head on the pillow that night, I felt ashamed. Not so much for my ideas, but for the pain they'd caused Ma. For all the pain I'd caused Ma. From the moment I walked in that Fifth Avenue address, I'd caused nothing but trouble for her and her employer, and my inevitable expulsion would mean not just another dressing-down, but possible the sacking of the whole O'Doyle family. So if Ma had to believe that Mr. Sewell was a knight in shining armor to keep working for him, well then, so did I.

The wind creaked and moaned outside. A drafty damp swirled in from the windows and snuck into the wrinkles in my quilt. Whether the chill of the room or the chill between us, something drew me to the warmth of Ma's bed, where Ma snored lightly—still ladylike, I thought—on her side.

Ten years and nothing had changed: Daddo on the road, me padding in my bare feet and burying any bad thoughts under Ma's snoring body. I slipped one foot, then two, under her covers, gingerly tucking them behind her nightgown-wrapped knees. Rather than bolt from the shock of my icy feet, Ma hugged her knees tighter around them.

But even the welcome warmth couldn't push
two competing thoughts out of my head: Was Mrs. Sewell a victim of some nefarious plan? Or was she a goonie bird to start, luring me to crazytown with her fantastical ideas?

Tossing and turning, I grabbed in desperation Ma's well-pawed copy of
Jane Eyre
on her bedside, hoping its many syllables would bore me to sleep.

I skimmed the book by the streetlamp streaming in the window, flipping past orphan whinings in search of the adventure (of which there was almost none).

There was romance, however. The romance between a lowly governess and her powerful, brooding employer, who has a secret: a mad wife in the attic. Whom he is too noble a man to leave, though he loves this governess so very, very much.

And that's when I understood why Ma returned to this book, over and over.

Ma wasn't in love with Daddo anymore. She was in love with Mr. Sewell.