The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

New York City, 1914

Laura lifted her head up to the late March sun as she walked through Bryant Park on the way home from class, taking in the tantalizing hint of spring through the bare branches of the trees. Two more months and she’d be done. The time had gone by so quickly.

“Laura.”

She turned to see Amelia seated on one of the benches, a book in her lap. Today, her usual uniform had been replaced with a blue plaid tunic and a brown velvet skirt that fell softly over her long legs. Amelia rose and greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. The warmth of her lips on Laura’s cheek lingered after she pulled away, smiling.

Laura instinctively looked up at the imposing facade of the library, as if Jack might be in one of the windows, looking down. “What are you doing here?” Together, they walked along the promenade toward Fifth Avenue.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. I’m feeling quite bereft, not having my cub reporter by my side.”

Ever since the morning after the protest, Laura had meant to stop by Amelia’s—she’d been downtown several times to finish up details on her thesis—but hadn’t been able to. She didn’t want to see Jessie lounging in the parlor, or hear her banging around in the kitchen as she and Amelia tried to talk. So instead, she’d avoided the street altogether. Besides, there was so much to do.

“It’s been busy, at school. But really, what brings you to the library?”

“I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d linger, in case you came by. And you did.”

Amelia had come for her. Laura didn’t know how to answer. “What are you reading?”

Amelia held up her book. “The Awakening, one of my favorites.”

“You were reading that book the first time I ever saw you, at Vassar.” Laura blushed at having shared such a vivid detail.

“Always good to return to the favorites, I say.” Amelia paused. “Everyone at the club has been asking about you. It’s been three weeks.”

She’d kept count. Laura’s stomach flipped.

“Did you hear about what happened to Frank Tannenbaum?”

According to the papers, Mr. Tannenbaum had been one of 190 men arrested the night of the protest. “I did, it’s terrible.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you.”

Laura had hoped Amelia had come by because she missed her. Obviously not.

“The patrons of Mabel Dodge’s salon arranged a fund to bail the protestors out, but we just learned today that Frank’s sentence is a year.”

“A year? That’s ridiculous.” They turned right just before Fifth Avenue, heading toward the front entrance.

“I know. We’re asking for everyone’s help to get the word out about this injustice, about how the protest was squashed.”

So that was why she’d come. “I’m not a real reporter. It’s all just for practice. The Blotto, remember?

“You’ll be one soon enough, and maybe there’s something you can do now.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, talk to your professors, something like that. Maybe they have colleagues at the papers who can take up the cause.”

“Reporters aren’t supposed to take up causes. Besides, I can barely catch my breath these days, I’m hanging on by a thread.” Laura knew she was being unnecessarily obstinate. She was a terrible person, awful.

Amelia came to a stop beside one of the lions and looked at her curiously. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Between us? Was it something I did or said?”

“No, of course not.” Laura shouldn’t behave this way with her friend, pushing her away. She tried to explain. “I’ll pass on the information about Frank to the other students, and mention it to my professor. I’m sure someone will jump at the chance to cover it.”

“I appreciate it.”

She couldn’t help herself. “How’s Jessie?”

“We broke up.”

Laura tried to rearrange her features into that of a caring friend, one for whom the news was just that—news—not a soaring relief, a gift. “You did? When?”

“The day after the protest. I didn’t want to be with her anymore, and I’d felt that way for a while, just hadn’t reckoned with it until then. She was sad, but understood. She was so much younger, and it began to fray my nerves.”

The kiss Laura had witnessed was one of parting, not passion.

But her joy quickly curdled. How easy it was for Amelia to discard a lover who no longer pleased. A bitter envy welled up inside Laura, and she hated herself for it. She wanted to be free to love like that, even just for a day.

“On to the next girlfriend, then?”

Amelia studied her. “Maybe. Maybe not. To be honest, I find your question rather patronizing.”

Laura had meant it to be flippant, but instead, she came off churlish and stern, just like her father. “Patronizing”—what a horrible word.

She was too close to her subjects for this thesis, too caught up in the Heterodoxy Club’s mystique and revolutionary ideas, the members’ pleas for equality. She’d lost her impartiality, a dangerous thing for a reporter. Even worse, she’d fallen in love with her source. She imagined leaning in and kissing Amelia right here on the steps of the library, in front of the whole world.

She looked around, as if waking from a trance, horrified at the thought.

No, this wasn’t love.

It was a crush. Amelia was everything Laura wished to be: brash, outspoken, taking what she wanted. And so Laura had somehow projected her own desires on the embodiment of them, Dr. Amelia Potter, the New Woman of bohemia.

She’d taken it too far, and regretted getting so caught up. Amelia’s world was so different from her own, an exotic country with its own rules and laws. Laura could never fit in. For all of her mother’s urging to follow her passions, this was not what she’d meant, not in the least.

“I’m sorry, you’re right, Amelia. I guess I just worry for you. That’s all.”

“I’m the last person you need to worry about, my dear.” She leaned against the lion’s pedestal. “Which one is this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which lion, Lenox or Astor?”

Amelia looked up at the sculptured feline. “Astor. The one to the south is Lenox.”

“I love that you know that.”

Amelia flashed a warm smile, and Laura couldn’t help but return it. Then they both laughed, the sound breaking through the awkwardness. They were dear friends after all.

“Will we see you at the meeting on Saturday?”

She could use a little more color for her thesis, which was due in two weeks. Now that she’d thought through her complicated feelings and come out the other side, she felt more in balance, more in control. Amelia was her friend, that was all, and that was enough. “Of course. I’ll see you there, thank you for coming uptown.”

Inside the library, Laura encountered Jack on the narrow stairway that led to their apartment.

“There you are!” He pulled her upstairs to the landing and lifted her into the air.

“Jack. What on earth is going on?”

“I came up to tell you some good news.”

“They’ve caught the thief?”

Her guess was off, judging from the dismayed look on his face. She couldn’t seem to read him anymore, to say the right thing.

“No, I’m afraid not. In fact, another two books were picked off this week.”

“That’s terrible.” Again, why hadn’t he told her? It was as if he’d held back the information on purpose.

“Certainly. However, since I don’t have access to the collection anymore, it means I am no longer a suspect. This has to do with my own book. An agent has asked to read it.”

“You finished it?”

“Yes. I finished it. Your patience with me has been wonderful, Laura. I don’t tell you that enough, and I’m sorry. After I finished it, I felt oddly forlorn, which is why I didn’t mention it. I haven’t been a good father, a good husband, as this manuscript has had me by the horns.”

“You have seemed removed lately, that’s true. But so have I. We’ve both been through a tough year.” Saying it out loud was such a relief, she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve finished the book. That’s an incredible accomplishment.” They stood there, rocking each other gently, the motion refilling the reserves of love Laura felt for her husband. “Tell me all about the agent.”

“I saw him in the Main Reading Room, when we were conducting an inspection of the pneumatic tubes. He knew my friend Billy, from back in the day, and came up to say hello. I wasn’t sure if it was too forward of me, but I knew this might be my only chance, my only connection, so I gave him a pitch, told him all about it. He said he’d like to read it, and I’m dropping it off at his office tomorrow, in person.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Follow me.” He led her to his study, where a thick ream of papers sat in the very center of his desk, tied with string. “There she is. Would you like to read it before I send it out?”

“I’ve love to.” She checked the clock. “But let me first get dinner started. So the children aren’t hungry.”

“I’ll do that. You sit by the fire and have a read, and I’ll put together something for us.”

“You?” The thought made her giggle.

“You’d be surprised at my culinary skill. Back when I was an eligible young bachelor, I was quite handy.”

She did as she was told, and a half hour later was called into the kitchen for scrambled eggs on toast.

“What on earth?” she said, laughing.

“Dad says today’s an upside-down day,” announced Pearl, clutching her fingers together with excitement. “Breakfast is for dinner.”

Harry brought the plates to the table, arranging them carefully in between the forks and knives. The last one he dropped, and it clattered to the floor, eggs scattering across the tiles.

“I’m sorry.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“But that’s perfect,” said Jack. “It’s upside-down day, so dinner’s on the floor, not the table.”

“Really?” Harry looked over at Laura for confirmation.

“Exactly right,” she said.

“I know,” said Pearl. “We should eat sitting on the floor. Don’t worry, Harry, I’ll get you a new plate.”

They left the mess and settled on the rug in the living room, like a group of picnickers in Central Park. Pearl spoke of her favorite teacher, going on and on at length, until finally Laura interrupted and asked Harry about his.

“You’re my favorite teacher,” he answered.

Jack reached over and put his large hand over the boy’s bony shoulder. “Good answer, my child. Mine, too.”

That evening, Laura dove into Jack’s manuscript, the only sound the low murmur of Jack reading aloud to the children from the other room.

The next day, he woke her from the easy chair where she’d fallen asleep, the last few pages on her lap.

“How was it?”

She yawned and smiled up at him. Losing a night of sleep had been well worth it. “Wonderful. Brilliant.”

“You’re not saying that because you’re married to me, are you?”

“It’s one of the best books I’ve read in ages.” She wasn’t lying. He’d captured the internal and external journey of a young man coming to New York at the turn of the century with an acuity that took her breath away. “It’s splendid, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

At the Saturday meeting of the Heterodoxy Club, Laura was greeted like a returning hero—or, more aptly, heroine—for having braved the protest with Amelia, for being part of the revolution. She tried to downplay her role in the demonstration, since she was truly there just as an observer, but that didn’t matter. Jessie approached Amelia, the two of them sharing a friendly chat before the opening remarks, but it didn’t bother Laura at all. What she’d experienced earlier in the month was simply leftover anxiety from being so close to violence, most likely. Needing a comrade to deal with the aftershocks, and that comrade naturally being Amelia, who took charge and offered safety. They were just friends, and that was perfectly fine, perfectly normal. She and Jack had weathered the storms of the past few months and come out the other end, now that he’d completed his book.

A hat was passed around for a collection for Frank Tannenbaum’s defense, and she handed over the money she’d put aside for her lunch. In the near future, she’d have a steady stream of income of her own. That day couldn’t come soon enough.

Her master’s thesis was almost finished, but she’d been worrying about how to wrap it all up. Inspiration, once again, came from the day’s speaker, a woman named Inez Haynes Gillmore, who read from a series of articles she’d published in Harper’s Bazaar, titled “Confessions of an Alien.”

“‘It seems to me,’” began Inez, “‘I hang in a void midway between two spheres—the man’s sphere and the woman’s sphere. The duties and pleasure of the average woman bore and irritate. The duties and pleasures of the average man interest and allure. I soon found that it was a feeling which I shared with the majority of my kind. I have never met a man who at any time wanted to be a woman. I have met few women who have not at some time or other wanted to be men.’”

At this, the members in the audience broke out in applause. For the first time, Laura wondered if she wouldn’t be happier as a journalist who went beyond mere reporting and actually stated an opinion, like Inez. Inez’s words struck a chord in every woman present, more than if she’d simply reported on the increase in the number of women working outside the home, reflecting the facts back to the public in the hopes that they understood the implications.

What if she wrote specifically to further a cause, in order to change minds?

She wasn’t ready for that, not yet. For now, she had to stick to the facts if she wanted to graduate. Professor Wakeman would have a fit otherwise. Luckily, when she’d shown the rough draft of her master’s thesis to him, he’d told her it was impressive. “But it’s a mess,” he’d added. “Tighten it up and get the sections to flow together better. Your transitions need work. However, I could see a book in this.”

A book! She’d almost fainted. Of course, it couldn’t be a book, as the club had its rules. But maybe after Amelia saw the finished thesis, she’d be just as impressed as Professor Wakeman, and convince the others to give their consent. To think that both she and Jack could have books of their own. In fact, once they were situated in their new careers, he could quit his job at the library and maybe they’d find a pretty apartment in the Village. Professor Wakeman had handed the pages back to her. “It’s better than the other women’s work I’ve seen so far, I’ll give you that. Tighten it up and turn it in. I want it perfect.”

She knew his idea of perfection was higher than any other advisor’s. No spelling errors, no dangling prepositions. Not only did the story have to be solid, but the presentation did, too.

Sunday evening, she retreated to Jack’s desk in the study to finish up the conclusion of her thesis. Now that he’d finished his book, she didn’t feel so obtrusive when she placed his many to-do lists in a neat pile in one corner (the best way to approach a challenge is methodically, he’d always say), before spreading out her own notes across the leather blotter. He walked in and gave her a kiss on the head. “How’s it going?”

“I have a new appreciation for what you’ve been through the past several years. How do I distill everything I’ve learned into a final section that’s powerful, but not repetitive?”

“Remember what made you want to write this in the first place, where that first spark of an idea came from. You can do it, I know you can.”

After he left, she remained in place, staring out the window.

She’d wanted to demonstrate what women were thinking, what the New Woman was thinking, specifically. The women she respected most were those who followed their passion and weren’t afraid to speak the truth out loud, like Amelia. Like her mother, although it was a more muted passion, she being of an older generation. If her mother had been born later, Laura had no doubt she’d be out there marching, instead of dependent on her husband for every little thing.

Laura picked up her pen and began scribbling over the typewritten words on the final pages of the latest draft, editing each paragraph one by one. She’d end this on a sharp note, she decided. She’d take a position, make a stand, and show how much this story meant to her, instead of hiding behind dry facts and quotes. It was a risk, she knew, but wasn’t that what Amelia had done when she’d performed health inspections when every other doctor faked the reports? When Frank Tannenbaum led hundreds in protest? By comparison, this act of rebellion was a minor one. Professor Wakeman had believed she might eventually write a book—why not show him how much she could do with words?

Thank goodness she’d gone back to the club, to get this last dose of inspiration before the final push. After she finished editing, she put a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter and retyped the last few pages, incorporating the new sections. After a thorough proofread, she placed the new pages at the bottom of the stack and sat back, smiling. Her thesis was complete.

Three weeks later, she sat next to Gretchen outside Professor Wakeman’s office on the seventh floor of the journalism school, waiting their turns for his critique. After this hurdle came final exams, and then graduation, which was to be held on the lawn in front of the university’s library. She imagined her father’s face in the crowd, finally proud. Her mother, crying and flapping her arms about like a pigeon.

“Last year, only a third of the class graduated,” said Gretchen. “That’s only nine of us.”

“I know. But we’ve both turned in consistently good work.” As the semester had progressed, Laura and Gretchen had relied on each other, figuring out ways to circumvent the professors’ sexism and comparing notes, and formed a respectful camaraderie. They’d come a long way from that first, tense week.

“Miss Reynolds?”

Gretchen gave Laura a quick smile and disappeared into the office.

Laura thought of the stack of paper that was her thesis, now sitting on Professor Wakeman’s desk. She’d created that from nothing, and even if he didn’t like it and gave her a low grade, she knew in her heart it was a valuable piece of reporting and writing. The school had taught her well, and had given her a confidence that would serve her for years to come.

Around fifteen minutes later, Gretchen emerged, a huge smile on her face.

“It went well?” asked Laura, relieved.

“Yes. He thought my profile of the mayor’s wife was ‘elucidating.’ I’m over the moon!”

“Good for you.”

Laura had to wait another few minutes before Professor Wakeman intoned her name.

“Mrs. Lyons. You may enter.”