The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

New York City, 1914

Jack stood frozen, but only for a moment. Within seconds, he had crossed the room to the fireplace and shoved Harry out of the way, reaching for the burning manuscript with his bare hand before pulling it back with a sharp cry. “We have to save it. Pearl, get water.”

Jack grabbed the poker and tried to drag the charred manuscript out as Pearl entered from the kitchen with a pitcher of water. Laura poured the water into the fireplace, but nothing could be saved; it was too late. The three of them stared into the soggy, charred mess.

There was nothing left of Jack’s masterpiece, his life’s work.

Jack slowly turned his head in a way that reminded Laura of a wolf. Deliberate, focused on his prey.

Focused on Harry.

The boy stood with one palm planted on the dumbwaiter door, the other clenched at his side.

“Harry, how could you?” Laura spoke to break the intolerable silence, but as she did, Jack was up and across the room.

He slapped the boy, once, hard. Harry fell against the door of the dumbwaiter and Laura cried out, imagining the door giving way and her son falling to his death. Laura ran to Jack and grabbed his arm, holding on tight. “Jack, don’t!”

Jack turned to her, other hand raised, ready to come down on her own cheek. She flinched, stunned at the fact that she was in combat with her own husband. How had it come to this? She’d never seen such a dark side to Jack, but then she never would have imagined her son could do such a terrible deed. Had they been like this all along, or had she missed it, focused on the happy family she imagined they were?

The sudden violence in the room was like an infection, contaminating Laura as well. She was desperate to lash out, to punish. She shoved Jack, hard, with both hands, the blood in her veins at the boil.

In the brief moment that Laura and Jack wrestled, Harry slipped away, down the stairs.

Jack whirled around and disappeared down the stairs after him as Pearl wrapped her hands around her mother’s waist. “Don’t leave me, don’t go.”

Laura turned to her daughter. “I won’t. Go to your room, all right? Everything will be fine, we just need everyone to calm down.”

“But Father’s book . . .” Pearl pointed to the fireplace, but Laura didn’t look. She couldn’t.

“Stay in your room. I’m here, I won’t leave you.”

Pearl did as she was told, and Laura, not knowing what to do next, went into Harry’s bedroom, where his stuffed lamb sat on the bed, looking desolate. Harry had always been closer to Laura than to Jack, it was just his way, and he’d seen Jack go after Laura in the basement. But to have burned the manuscript in retribution? It was unthinkable, something she couldn’t fathom doing even after what Jack had said about her relationship with Amelia and their “unnatural tendencies.” But Harry was so young, and Laura was beginning to grasp now how neglected and misunderstood he must feel. To skip school for months and have neither parent even notice? Not to mention the behaviors Harry might have witnessed with Red Paddy and this gang before he became ill.

She returned to the staircase and leaned against the banister. These rooms had held such happy memories, the fireplace mantel where Pearl had carefully arranged pine boughs in December, the kitchen where Harry had presented his tooth last year.

Her eye went to the place Harry had last stood, watching them as they tried to salvage the manuscript, as if by staring hard enough she could summon him to reappear. Something about the memory was strange, though. The way he’d positioned himself, with one hand flat against the dumbwaiter door, like he was holding it shut.

She stepped forward, examining the apparatus closer. A small piece of paper, hardly noticeable, jutted out from the crack at the bottom.

They’d never used the dumbwaiter; there was no need. In fact, Jack had warned the children soon after they moved in that they weren’t allowed to play with it, that it was too dangerous.

She rose and opened the small latch. As the door swung wide, something fluttered to the ground.

She reached down and picked it up. A ten-dollar bill.

The dumbwaiter car was out of position, a few inches from the top of the opening. Laura pulled on one of the ropes, and it slowly cranked into place.

Inside the car sat a wooden box, which she recognized as the one where Harry stored his keepsakes. Why was it here and not in his room? But when she opened it, she knew why. Ten- and twenty-dollar bills, dozens of them, covered a book. The Tamerlane.

The front door opened and she heard Jack’s heavy tread, but not a second one. Harry had escaped. For now.

Jack stopped at the top of the stairway. She held up the Tamerlane for him to see. “It was here all the time. In the dumbwaiter.”

He moved closer, breathing hard, and looked down at the contents of the box. “What is all this money?” He held up a couple of the bills.

None of this made sense. Stolen books and hidden money—nothing in front of her paired up with the sweet boy she loved so very much. She had to come clean, tell Jack what she knew. “When Harry wasn’t at school, he was hanging with a gang of boys, down near Union Square. My guess is he stole the other books as well, and sold them.”

Jack stood frozen for a moment, taking it in. “Our own son. The book thief. When were you planning to tell me this, Laura?”

“I found these just now, I didn’t know he was the thief. But the books are locked away. How would he get to them?”

“He had plenty of opportunity at night, while we slept, to figure that out. We should hand it over to Dr. Anderson.”

Laura shook her head. “Do you know what they’ll do to Harry if we turn him in? He’ll be sent away. We don’t know the whole story yet.”

Jack leaned against the stairway banister, his face white. “If we turn this in without Harry, I’ll lose my job. I don’t have the manuscript anymore, so there’s no advance, no income. We’ve lost everything.”

Again, Jack’s only care in the world seemed to be for his precious manuscript. But if they were going to figure this out, they would have to come together. For the sake of her children, Laura knew she had to slow her anger and treat her husband like an ally.

“What if we say we found the Tamerlane but don’t know how it got here?” she suggested.

It was a ridiculous idea, and Jack didn’t even bother answering.

“We have to find Harry and see if there’s another explanation,” she finally said. “Maybe the other boys forced him into it.” She moved to get her coat, but Jack stopped her.

“No. Let him spend the evening out on the streets and see how that feels. Maybe it’ll teach him something.”

“But he’s still recovering.”

“I’m not listening to you anymore, Laura.” Jack didn’t bother concealing his impatience. “You can blame yourself for this.”

“You put your hands on me, that’s what set him off. It was your beastly actions that made him angry.”

At that, Jack’s eyes grew wet. “My book. It’s gone. My son is a thief. My wife is . . .” He trailed off.

Laura blinked at him. Did it matter to him at all that their family had collapsed around him? “We destroy it, then. The Tamerlane.” Laura couldn’t believe she was saying this. “We don’t tell a soul. Then, when Harry returns, we put this family back together again.”

Jack regarded the book as if it were poisonous. “I need to think. I’m going downstairs.”

She encouraged him, knowing that it would be better for him not to be there when Harry returned.

She sat down in the big chair by the fire and cried. She cried for her boy, for her husband, for the life she’d imagined she’d be leading. For her arrogance at thinking she deserved more than she had. For the fact that she was willing to destroy a treasured piece of history if it helped keep her family together. She rose and carried the box to the fireplace, placing it on top of the detritus of her husband’s writings.

But she couldn’t light the match. Her fingers shook, the match wouldn’t take, and after a couple of tries she gave up, returning the box to its hiding place. A gentle tug on the rope lifted the box up and out of sight, into the darkness.

Laura woke with a start, unsure of where she was, before realizing she’d fallen asleep in the chair by the fire. Her neck and shoulders ached.

Harry.

She checked his room, but the bed was still neatly made; there was no sign he’d returned in the night. Pearl, one room over, was fast asleep, her head buried facedown in the pillow so that only a messy swath of hair was visible.

Yesterday’s events—the argument with Jack, the futile effort to save the manuscript, the dumbwaiter’s secret contents—washed over her in a painful wave. But the few hours of sleep had brought a renewed energy, a sense that she could fix this, make it right. She must think clearly, and her first goal was to protect her children. Harry shouldn’t be punished for something that was completely out of character for him. He was only a young boy and had been through a tough year, had made stupid mistakes. She wished they’d never moved into the library, that they’d stayed upstate, where life was simpler and none of them would have fallen victim to the temptations of the big city. Temptations like a career of her own, like Amelia. Like the rare books.

Jack was nowhere to be found; he’d probably spent the night downstairs on the sofa in his office. She’d talk with him, convince him to forgive his son.

Harry would return today, and they’d have a long discussion, without anger or tears. Without blaming each other. They’d find out why he’d done it, and how. The thought of him out on the streets all night made her ill, but at least he had Red Paddy and the gang to run to, which was an odd comfort. A terrible comfort. What if the gang had forced him to steal the books for them? If Harry explained to Dr. Anderson everything he knew, and turned in the awful boys who forced him to steal, wouldn’t he be offered some leniency? Of course he would; he was only eleven years old.

It wasn’t lost on her that he’d be turning in the sons of other women, mothers whose own boys had lost their way. But her own family must come first, from now on. She didn’t have any compassion to spare.

A solid knock on the downstairs door stopped her ruminations. She placed one hand on the door to the dumbwaiter, checking that it was firmly shut, before making her way down the narrow stairs. Mr. Gaillard stood in the hallway, two men in uniform lurking just behind him. She looked around for Harry, but the boy wasn’t there.

“Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Lyons, may we speak with you a moment? Would you please come with me?”

Jack must’ve said something, mentioned Harry’s crime. Turned him in as vengeance for his terrible misdeed. She imagined stepping into Mr. Gaillard’s office, seeing Jack sitting in one chair, tiny Harry in the other. Having to choose.

What would an innocent party say to this? She wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s awfully early. Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

Every fiber of her being resisted being led away. “I can’t leave the apartment just now.”

“An officer will stay with the children.”

Children. He didn’t know that Harry had run off. Which meant Harry was safe, for now.

She followed him and the other officer out into the hallway, where two librarians walked by, staring at her before quickly averting their eyes. Around the corner Mr. Benson, the janitor, stood frozen with his mop and bucket as they passed. What was going on?

Mr. Gaillard’s office was vacant, thank goodness. He asked the police officer to wait outside and gestured for her to take a seat.

“Mrs. Lyons, I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”

Harry. They must have found him. What if he’d been attacked in the middle of the night? She imagined his limp body lying under one of the lions, where he’d taken refuge in the dark, too scared to come home. He’d been so ill—to have made it through typhoid fever for this? She’d kill Jack for this, she would.

“What?” She needed Mr. Gaillard to tell her quickly, get it over with. Yet another part of her wanted to go back to the apartment, back to the chair, back before she knew her life was going to tilt precariously into danger.

“It’s your husband.”

“Jack? What about him?”

“The coal passer found him in the boiler room not long ago.” Somewhere, a clock chimed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s hanged himself. From the pipes.”

They must have it wrong. Jack would never do such a thing. She said as much, her voice trembling.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t believe you. I must see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He was wrong, and she’d prove it to him. “Show me.”

Mr. Gaillard held her arm as they walked down to the basement, as the workers scurried out of sight. Now she knew the reason for their discomfort. News must have spread fast. Still, they were wrong.

A body lay on the floor, the face covered by a small cloth. She knelt down beside it as Mr. Gaillard lifted the cloth. Bloodshot eyes stared up at the ceiling; a tongue, thick and swollen, protruded from the open mouth. None of these strangled features were familiar, not really Jack’s at all. The stuck-out ears were his, though. She pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “What have you done?” she whispered, the words coming out as barely a hiss of breath. “What have you done?”

The rope he’d used was still looped around his neck, the frayed end curled beside his head like a serpent. His cheek was cold.

This Jack wasn’t her Jack, who’d walk into the room at any moment and laugh at all this silliness. The husband who’d cried when they’d exchanged vows. No, this was the body of a stranger.

Mr. Gaillard took her by the arms and led her away, out of the room and into Jack’s office, where they’d had that terrible argument. Had that been only a day ago? It seemed like years. She let him place her in a chair.

All because of a lost manuscript. She wanted to fix things, make it all fine again. The book could be rewritten; she’d type as he dictated. They’d find Harry and bring him home.

But it was too late.

“Mrs. Lyons, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “I can’t imagine the pain you must be in, but I must ask you about a note we found near the body.”

She looked up. “A note?”

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “It appears to be a confession. For the thefts.”

“No. Jack didn’t do that.”

He handed it to her, and she read it, her hands shaking.

I’m sorry for the trouble I caused the library. The fault is mine, as is the shame. Please tell my family I love them.—Jack Lyons

Mr. Gaillard cleared his throat. “I must ask you, and I’m sorry but I must. Do you know anything about this?”

“I do not.” The lie was delivered smoothly, easily, over the turbulence of all these new emotions. Loss, disbelief, shock. They came to her in waves, one after the other. Pearl. How could she tell Pearl her father had killed himself? And Harry. What a horrible burden for any young child to have. How could Jack have inflicted this on them all?

To save his son. He’d done it for Harry’s sake.

The door opened, and the other officer came in, a groggy Pearl by his side. Laura rushed to the girl and held her as Mr. Gaillard and the officer exchanged whispers.

Mr. Gaillard offered a sympathetic look. “Mrs. Lyons, I’m afraid we have to search your apartment again. You and your daughter can wait in here. I’m told your son isn’t present.”

“He’s with my parents.” Another lie.

She sat with Pearl on her lap, holding her head to her shoulder, singing softly under her breath. Harry was somewhere out there in the alleys and streets, scared and alone. Jack had left her behind, the loss of his manuscript, the unfaithfulness of his wife, and the shameful acts of his son too much to bear.

This building had crushed their family, just as if it had crumbled to the ground right on top of them all.