The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

New York City, 1914

Professor Wakeman’s office window offered a lovely view over an oval patch of grass where several of Laura’s classmates lolled in the April sun. Laura peered out before taking a seat in the battered wooden chair beside his desk and waiting for him to speak. She wasn’t nearly as nervous as she’d been at their first meeting, when he’d initially scoffed at her idea of profiling a women’s club for her master’s thesis.

He leafed through a couple of pages before looking up at her over his spectacles. “You took my advice and tightened up the middle, which I approve of. I like what you’ve done there, and the women’s points of view are much stronger than I expected. You brought them to life.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“I don’t agree with all of their ideas, of course. But you’ve presented the issues clearly and thoughtfully. The narration flows.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I also admire the way you included a section that gives the reader some historical perspective on the club.”

“I thought that might help. You see, what these women think and say is quite different from their mothers’ ideas, or their grandmothers’. With the surge of interest in the life and rights of the common man, the worker, there’s been a similar surge in the rights of women, as an oppressed class.”

He shuffled the stack of paper until the edges were perfectly even. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Lyons, your grade is an F.”

She must have heard wrong. “I’m sorry?”

“As I’ve said since the first day of class, a journalism degree is not one to be handed over lightly. Just as the law school students must pass the bar, we demand that any graduates of the journalism school pass a similar bar. You, sadly, have not.”

For a moment she wondered if he had mistaken her for another student, or mixed up her thesis with someone else’s. But no, the pages in front of him were the very ones she’d typed up in Jack’s office. “I’m sorry? How? You’ve said only kind things, and I made the changes you asked for.”

“Your conclusion reads like an editorial in one of Hearst’s slimy broadsheets. It’s shrill, and even though it’s just words on a page, it hurt my ears. This is not what we teach at this institution. You are not here to tell me what to think. Has that not been hammered into you in every class?” As he spoke, splotches of pink emerged on his cheeks.

Laura thought of Amelia and the pushback she got for standing up for herself and her work. This was no different, and she refused to step down. “You mean it offends your sensibilities? You don’t like what you’ve read, and it doesn’t agree with your morals, and so you fail me? That’s not fair.”

If Laura received a failing grade on her thesis, she wouldn’t graduate. She wouldn’t be one of the students standing out on that fine lawn; she wouldn’t get a degree; there would be no job. The whole point of going to graduate school was to be able to land a decent job right off, not fetch tea for the top brass for five years and hope to land a scoop that impressed them. She sat back and clasped her hands on her lap, a ladylike gesture that seemed to mollify him slightly. “Professor Wakeman, you’ve seen that I can report and write and edit just as well as the men. You know I can. Just because I showed some feeling at the very end of my thesis, I’m being punished?”

Professor Wakeman tugged at his collar. “Believe me, it hurts to do this, as you’ve been a promising student up to now. I know this is upsetting, but the school must maintain its high standards.”

She laughed out loud, not caring about her rudeness. She’d been stupid, taking this risk. She’d known about the low graduation rate but had figured it wouldn’t be her. Couldn’t be her. All that money, gone. Wasted. She thought of her mother’s engagement ring; of Dr. Anderson at the library, who’d gone out of his way to secure her a scholarship. She’d disappointed all of them, including Harry and Pearl. Pearl, who she’d hoped would see that women deserved satisfying careers, just as men did. Jack, who’d be overly kind and understanding in a way that would make her squirm.

She tried again, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “You’ve said my work’s been good and consistent. I’ve been out in the trenches with the best of the boys. Please.”

He gathered up her master’s thesis and placed it on the desk in front of her. “I’m afraid not.”

“Let me ask you, how many other women who are under your tutelage did you fail?”

“That has no bearing on your case.”

“Tell me. Otherwise, I have the investigative chops to find out myself, you see. I know Gretchen passed. How many others besides me did not?”

He tensed up. “All except Gretchen failed. She did a lovely profile on the mayor’s wife. There was no reason to fail her, none at all. No private agenda. It was factual, straightforward, and well written. Delightful. I’ll have you know that last year, none of the women whom I advised for their master’s theses passed. So you see, there’s been an improvement, Mrs. Lyons.”

She didn’t bother to hide her incredulity. “Have the men been allowed to express their opinions in their writing?”

He paused. “It’s different for them because their topics are more complicated. Politics, wars, economics.”

“So they’ve been allowed to editorialize?” She waited. “Keep in mind, the master’s theses are on file in the library, so I can see for myself.”

He lowered his eyes, staring down at the sheaf of papers in front of her. “Some do, yes. But it’s not the same.”

“How?”

He sputtered, then fell silent.

“You must change my grade, then.”

“I see your point, I do.” He shook his head. “It’s too late to change the grade, though. It’s been entered with the registrar.”

“Then my first article out of school will be on the sex discrimination rampant at the Columbia Journalism School.” She snatched her thesis off the desk.

“Rampant? No need for hyperbole, there’s no need for that, Mrs. Lyons.” He touched his desk where the thesis had been, his fingertips splayed like spider legs. “I’m sorry, I can’t change it. But I do appreciate you bringing this to my attention. I will certainly keep it in mind for next year. Will that do?”

With that, she swept out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Without classes to attend, without a goal to achieve, Laura would be back to square one. Reading to the children at night, cooking meals, ironing and mending clothes. It was all she could do not to burst into tears when Jack opened his office door to her.

“Darling, how grand to see you.” He closed the door behind her and gestured to the chair. She’d hoped he would take her into his arms, but he seemed unaware of her distress.

“I have great news.” He took his seat behind the desk and finally looked up at her. “What is it? Is something wrong, the children?” He half rose from his chair, but she motioned him to sit.

“No, they’re fine. It’s me. I failed my master’s thesis. Professor Wakeman failed me.”

“What? I read it, and it was wonderful.”

“He’s known to be tough—last year he failed a top student for a mere spelling error. School of hard knocks and all that, I suppose. He liked everything except the very end.”

“I loved the way you summarized it. He’s bonkers.”

“I changed it before handing it in. I added in my own opinions and thoughts. He didn’t approve.”

Jack frowned. “What made you do that?”

She wanted to scream. “Because I had them,” she cried. “Because I felt they mattered.”

“Of course, that makes sense.” He rose and came to her, leaning down to give her a hug, as if it might erase his stupid question.

She accepted the embrace but pulled away first. “What’s your good news, then? We sure could use it.”

“The agent loved my manuscript.” He reached into a drawer and pulled it out, placing it on top of his desk. “There are some changes to be made, of course. But I agree with them all, they’re going to make it even better.”

“That’s terrific. I’m so proud of you. What’s the next step?”

“I edit the book, then turn it back in. He’s given me a couple of months. It’ll be tight, but I think I can manage. After that, he’ll send it out to publishers. He said he’s already mentioned it to several and they’re all excited to see it. ‘A bidding war’ is what he said to me. ‘They’ll get into a bidding war for your book.’”

He was like a child on Christmas Eve, beaming and giddy, and his excitement was infectious. She reached her arm across the desk and took his hand. “Well done, my dear. You’re going to be a literary sensation, of that I have no doubt.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Laura-love. Don’t you worry, we’ll find something interesting for you to do, something other than that journalism school.”

The black cloud settled back over her. “Like what? I even sold my mother’s engagement ring, and now it’s all for nothing. What have I done?”

“Don’t fret, the book advance will make it easy to pay her back. She can buy a new one.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I have an idea. What about if you type up my edits for me?”

Her heart sank. “No, thank you. I don’t want to be your assistant or your secretary. I want to write on my own, do something on my own.”

“Don’t get upset, it was just a thought.”

That he would voice that thought out loud disturbed her to no end. He didn’t seem to understand, after all this time, that she wanted a passion like he had. She would never have imagined asking him, if the agent had taken a pass, if he would like to type up her master’s thesis for her instead. As if that might make him feel useful. It would never have crossed her mind.

She excused herself and went up to the apartment, where her mother and Pearl were sitting at the kitchen table, sewing clothes for Pearl’s doll.

“What are you doing home so early?” asked her mother.

“I failed. It’s over. Where’s Harry?”

“What?” Her mother rose and held out her arms, but Laura waved her away; she didn’t want to cry in front of Pearl. “Harry’s off with friends. You had your master’s thesis review today, right?”

“I did. The professor failed me, for a senseless reason. We got into an argument about it, and to be honest, I think I won. But it doesn’t matter, it’s too late for him to change it.” She sat at the table, next to Pearl. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we will find a way to make it up to you. Jack got good news about the book, and in a couple of months things will be brighter.”

“For him. What about for you?”

“Why did they fail you?” Pearl asked. She sat very still.

Her concern took Laura out of herself, finally. She put an arm over her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close, placing her forehead against Pearl’s. “I took a risk and it didn’t work out. It was a foolish mistake.”

“That’s nonsense,” said her mother. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a risk. I highly recommend it, whenever possible. Pearl, your mother is strong and will be fine. Taking risks is what life is all about.”

Pearl looked from her grandmother to her mother. “But Mother seems unhappy.”

“Maybe for now,” said Laura. “But I assure you I’ll be fine. That we’ll all be fine. Grandmother is right.”

The buoyancy of Laura’s mother’s faith in her future sustained her through the evening, but the next morning, Laura found herself standing dejectedly at the kitchen sink. She threw down the dish towel, took off her apron, and headed to the Village, to Patchin Place.

Over the past several months, whenever Laura had discussed the thesis with Amelia, she’d provided a watered-down summary, one that lacked any specific references to the Heterodoxy Club. She didn’t bother to elucidate further today, as it really didn’t matter anymore. Amelia listened quietly as Laura told her what Professor Wakeman had done.

“The professor knew he was wrong,” said Laura, her fists clenched in anger. “He knew it.”

“You should do what you threatened—compare the number of women who’ve failed to the men.”

“It would be a very small sample, and probably wouldn’t prove anything. I suppose the good news is that, going forward, Professor Wakeman will consider women students in a new light, and think before he dismisses and fails them for something that he allows, encourages even, in the men. I had the bad luck of the draw.”

“I’m so sorry.” Amelia reached over and gave her a hug, holding her close, before getting up to put another log on the fire and rejoining her on the sofa. They sat, side by side, staring at the burning log without speaking for a minute, and Laura’s mind spun. How would her life change once Jack’s book came out? Would they move from the library? Would he agree to move downtown? Every possibility nagged at her, and in every one, her wishes were secondary to her husband’s. If she’d graduated, she might have landed a job and held some economic weight. The right to have an opinion. Without a salary or income of her own, Jack’s desires were more important, even if he insisted otherwise. It wasn’t fair.

Her head ached. “I feel like with every year, my brain is a sponge that soaks up painful experiences like water, so by the time I’m fifty, I won’t be able to hold it upright.”

Amelia laughed and turned to her. “What on earth are you talking about? You’re raving mad.”

“You’re probably right.”

“But I know exactly what you mean.”

“I knew you would.”

They looked at each other; Amelia’s brown eyes were soft and kind. Laura was glad she’d come.

“So what now, Mrs. Lyons?” Amelia asked.

“Jack wants me to be his typist.”

“God, no.”

“Don’t worry, I said pretty much the same thing. But I’m not sure what else to do.”

“You don’t need a journalism degree to be a journalist.”

“It’s going to be harder starting from the ground up. I have no experience, no published pieces, nothing to offer an employer.”

“You’ve got all of us. The club. We’ve got a lot of connections in newspapers, magazines.”

“I suppose so.” She hadn’t realized until just now how wide her social circle had become. Maybe Amelia was right.

“Hell, write a book about the women’s movement. I’d buy it.”

Amelia considered the world as if it were full of possibilities, not closed doors. Laura studied her friend’s features in the firelight. The way her mouth moved, the curve of her chin. What Laura wanted, more than anything, was to sit across from Amelia all day, listen to her speak, and stare at her features, just take in her very being. The last time she’d felt this way was when the children were newborns—a rush of love, of devotion, that was unstoppable.

“You are part of our family, now,” Amelia said. “You can count on us.”

“Thank you.”

Amelia closed her eyes and leaned back again, smiling.

The temptation was too much. It was if an invisible wave propelled Laura slowly forward, leaning closer and closer.

Until their lips met.

She pulled back immediately, the shock of the softness too much, but Amelia stayed still, placing a hand on Laura’s arm, the gentle pressure leaving no question about her own desire.

Laura kissed her again, and this time Amelia’s lips parted and then there was tongue and breath. A fire raced through Laura’s body, from her stomach to between her legs. She shifted her hand from where it rested on Amelia’s waist up to her breast, which was full and heavy. She’d dreamed of touching Amelia this way the last time she and Jack had made love. While her hands had stroked his body, her mind had imagined another silhouette, a woman’s.

Amelia’s.

Laura’s love for Amelia, their friendship, the way their bodies moved, defied any kind of categorization. Over the past few weeks, the minute they found themselves alone, it was as if a magnet pulled them close, and before long their skirts and petticoats were mixed in with the sheets and pillows, two pairs of stockings lumped down at the very foot of the bed.

They spoke quickly and easily around each other, interrupting and correcting, reevaluating their own positions and opinions. Laura had never seen anything of the sort between her mother and her father—her father’s desires always overruled her mother’s—nor really between her and Jack. Jack was a traditional husband, in many ways, and made the lion’s share of the decisions for their family. She hadn’t noticed until now how much she deferred to his wishes, even if they came from a place of benevolence. They weren’t equals, as much as she’d pretended they were.

But that was no excuse for what she was doing. Every time she turned the corner into Patchin Place, Laura’s guilt peaked into a sick panic. But then Amelia would draw Laura into her arms, and their inevitable dance of desire would unfold as naturally as a summer rain.

Amelia stretched out on her stomach on her bed and ran her finger along the inside of Laura’s arm, rattling off possible interview subjects for Laura’s book. “Marie Jenney Howe, of course. I’m sure we can get Emma Goldman, if we approach her the right way.”

“I’m still not sure. I’ve written articles, but an entire book?”

“You have to stop doubting yourself,” Amelia said, taking her hand and kissing each finger lightly on the tip. “It’ll be good for you to write this book,” she said, after. “Get you out in the real world.”

“I am out in the real world.”

“It’s way bigger than New York City, my girl.”

Something in the way Amelia spoke caught Laura’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“You should come with me.”

“Where?”

“London.” Amelia’s lips twitched.

“London?”

“I’ve been asked to move there in the fall, once my study here is complete. They want to try to re-create the conditions and programs I’ve set up here, in the East End, where they’re battling similar issues with regard to infant mortality.”

“That’s wonderful news. What an opportunity. I’m so happy for you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Amelia knew her so well. She didn’t need to explain, but tried anyway. “I am happy that you’ve been given such an opportunity. To travel, to have this recognition of your accomplishments. But I’ll miss you.”

“Why don’t you come along?”

Laura laughed. “Because I have a husband and children. Or am I supposed to bring them, too?”

“I don’t want to be without you.”

This was madness. “Exactly how do I explain to Jack that we must follow you across the ocean? He’d know something was going on.”

“There is something going on. I love you, Laura.”

The words she’d been desperately hoping to hear landed hard. “You know I can’t.”

“Consider it, please?”

She shouldn’t do any of this. She should return to her family and assume the role of dutiful wife and mother.

She stood and looked out the window as if searching for an answer, but the cloudless sky overwhelmed her. She was exposed down here in the Village. Or perhaps she was truly herself down here. Both thoughts frightened her.

The horn from a passing automobile made her jump. Amelia came up behind her and wrapped her arms around Laura’s waist. “You don’t have to decide right away.”

More than anything, Laura wanted to lose herself in Amelia’s scent, one that hinted of cinnamon and the sea, and not think about what the future held.

Together, they retreated to the warmth of the bed and each other’s arms.