The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

New York City, 1918

Do you need help, Mother?”

Laura smiled at her daughter and handed her one of the bags of groceries. “That would be lovely.”

In the four years since Jack’s suicide and their eviction from the library, Pearl had turned into Laura’s helpmeet, doing exactly what she should, when she should, and going above and beyond to make sure things were just right. As if she could make up for the loss of her father and brother, and Laura’s anguish. Laura knew it was unwise to take her good nature for granted, but days like today, when she was beat down with loss and worry for Harry, she welcomed it wholeheartedly.

“I made a lemon sponge cake,” said Pearl, pointing to the top of the oven, where it sat cooling. “For Harry’s birthday.”

Tears sprang into Laura’s eyes. “That’s so kind of you.”

They both stared at the cake for a moment, knowing that Harry would never taste it. He’d not come back to the library that day, nor come to his grandparents’ brownstone after Pearl and Laura had taken refuge there. Refuge that didn’t last long, as her father’s disapproval and contempt became insufferable. Finally, Laura had packed them up again and headed downtown, Amelia answering the door without a word and ushering them inside her apartment at Patchin Place, where they’d been ever since.

“Do you mind if I run over to Sarah’s for a bit?” asked Pearl.

“Of course. And we’ll have our cake after dinner. You’re a love.” Laura watched as she headed out, noting that the hem of her dress needed to be taken down again. At eleven, she’d sprung up several inches.

Pearl seemed to enjoy living in Greenwich Village, and had made friends with the other children who lived on the alley. If she had any resentments, she didn’t let them out and Laura chose not to pry. When she’d pried in the past, she discovered answers that ruined everything. Maybe later, when Pearl was grown up, she and Laura would be able to speak on the matter, but not yet.

Amelia had been a good friend and partner the past four years, taking over when Laura had her spells and couldn’t get out of bed. Luckily, they were occurring further and further apart these days. Since her own tragedy, the United States had entered and then won a war, and now, after an anxious and precarious time, a sense of optimism finally seemed to be winding its way back into daily life. That same hopefulness had slowly seeped into Laura, and every so often she even experienced short bursts of joy, like the day she deposited her first paycheck into her very own back account.

She was glad she had the financial freedom she’d always hoped for. But she’d never imagined obtaining it this way. The loss of half her family burned into her like a branding iron, a mark that would never fade. The day after Jack’s death, Dr. Anderson had told them they had to leave. She’d stood on the steps of the library, Pearl weeping by her side, holding whatever they could fit into their suitcases. Dr. Anderson had apologized, explaining that he had no choice, and handed her an envelope of money. She’d refused it, but had thanked him for his past kindness. It wasn’t his fault. That day, Laura had vowed to never be financially dependent upon another person again.

As the shock of their changed circumstances wore off, Laura began to see her past life in a new light, one that was slightly less filled with self-loathing. With Amelia, the workload of taking care of Pearl and running a household was shared, which meant Laura had more time to spare. What if she and Jack had shared the work of domestic life, been true equals both inside and outside the home? Then her year at Columbia wouldn’t have been such a shock to their children and Harry might not have been so vulnerable, not fallen into Red Paddy’s clutches. What if, as a rule, husbands helped out more around the house instead of putting their work ahead of family, the way Jack had done?

It wasn’t all her fault, and maybe it wasn’t so terrible that she’d wanted more out of life.

Once she’d had enough time to gather both her thoughts and her courage, she’d marched into Marie Jenney Howe’s parlor, prepared to see a sour expression on the woman’s beautiful features. Marie’s hand rested on the neck of a guitar she’d been playing, and she motioned for Laura to sit.

“I would like to make a proposal.” Laura had run through the speech in her head multiple times, but the compassion in Marie’s eyes stopped her cold. She didn’t want pity.

“What’s that, Mrs. Lyons, and may I say how sorry I am for your loss?”

Laura took a deep breath. “Thank you. I would like to interview a member of the club each week, and write about who they are, what they’re doing.”

“That’s an audacious idea, coming from you.” Marie’s sympathy went only so far.

But after dealing with Professor Wakeman’s resistance, Laura knew how to handle the same from Marie. She owed him thanks for that, at least. “The only way for women to gain equality—true equality, inside and outside of the home—is to showcase the accomplishments of those who are out there changing the world, as a way to inspire others to reach for more as well. I’ve spoken with Max Eastman at The Masses, and he thinks the column is a grand idea. We both know the article that ran in the World was edited by a man, and his perspective warped the interpretation. Mr. Eastman has promised me full editorial control over each essay. This will be our story.”

“Don’t you mean your story?”

“My story is intertwined in everyone else’s, I see that now. I can’t stand apart from the causes that are dear to me as a woman. I failed out of Columbia, and I no longer want to be a reporter. I want to editorialize, convince people that their way of thinking is out of date, and use words as a means to change minds.”

Marie, after speaking with Mr. Eastman, had agreed to allow Laura to interview her and use her as the first source. A test, of sorts. Their conversation had run deep into the night, and the resulting essay had stirred controversy with its candor and passion, which pleased Mr. Eastman—and Marie—to no end.

Much to Laura’s selfish relief, Amelia’s offer to move to London had been suspended as the clouds of war roiled over Europe. For this, she was grateful. At Patchin Place, they loved each other quietly and furtively but without the grand passion as before. This was an arrangement that suited them both, and their natures fit easily together because the relationship was balanced; neither had more power than the other. The members of the Heterodoxy Club had eventually warmed back up to Laura and allowed her to attend meetings, where she came up with more ideas for the column than she could write in a lifetime.

Here she was, living the life she’d dreamed about before everything else fell apart. Living in the Village with the woman she adored more than anyone else in the world, working as a writer, and part of a community that welcomed eccentricity and change.

But she hadn’t wanted it in this way, at the expense of Jack and Harry.

At dinner that evening, Pearl lit and blew out the single candle on Harry’s cake.

“Happy fifteenth birthday, my boy,” said Laura quietly under her breath.

Amelia handed Pearl a knife. “It looks delicious.”

So many bland words. How silly they all looked, having a cake for a boy who wanted nothing to do with them.

“Red Paddy’s gang is back on Fourth Avenue,” said Amelia as Pearl handed her a plate. “I have my inspectors keeping an eye out for you.”

Harry had been spotted several times over the years since Laura had taken to making near daily treks through the Lower East Side in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her son. But he had always disappeared into the crowds or around the corner before she could reach him. Over time, she’d gotten to know his routes, but he’d made it clear that he’d run if she got too close. Her sightings, though sporadic, gave her hope. One of these days, she’d reach him again.

“Thank you,” said Laura. “To think he’s fifteen now.”

“Almost a man.”

Laura didn’t look at Amelia and instead tried a small bite of cake. “It’s lovely, Pearl. Well done.”

“He’s been on his own for four years now, Laura.” Amelia wasn’t going to let up once she got started. “It might be time.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Pearl would like London, wouldn’t you, my girl? We can visit the Tower and Buckingham Palace, now that the war’s over and it’s safe to travel.”

Amelia didn’t have to add that her job offer still stood, and that it would be a boon to her career in public health. Laura couldn’t leave New York when her boy was still wandering its streets, likely still in pain.

“I would like that.” Pearl, always trying to take care of them both. “I could learn to make scones.”

“I’m going out,” said Laura.

She didn’t want to have this discussion, not on this day, and it irritated her to no end that Amelia would bring it up. They’d have a long talk about it later that night, no doubt, and Amelia would apologize and hold her close. But that wouldn’t change anything, not in Laura’s mind.

The sting of the October air in her lungs was a shock after a warm few days, punctuated with a light drizzle. Soon enough, she’d need to fetch out the gloves and scarves. Where did Harry get his clothes from? Did he steal them, like he had the books? The adorable boy she’d raised, with his bow-shaped lips and sparkling eyes, could not be reconciled with the feral young man, living on the streets, who no longer needed her. She carried his stuffed lamb in her bag when she went out looking for him, although she wasn’t sure why. Red Paddy would probably laugh and toss it in the gutter if she dared to pull it out.

Only one of the bookstores on Fourth Avenue was still open at this late hour. She entered to escape from the rain, breathing in the unique smell of the old books, a musty mix of vanilla and wet wood. When she’d lived at the library, she’d sometimes buried her head in one of the books and inhaled, even when the other patrons gave her strange looks. Better than any perfume, Jack had agreed.

“I got something for you.” The voice was familiar.

She peeked around a bookshelf to the back of the store, where a cashier stared down at a reedy boy wearing a cap, red curls wrapping around his neck like worms. Red Paddy.

The cashier sighed and put an elbow on the counter. “What now?”

Red Paddy pulled a book out from his coat. So they were still at it. The gang probably had moved on to other libraries, or stole from other bookshops. It was a lucrative business.

The cashier shook his head and returned to his newspaper, ignoring the protestations of Red Paddy, who eventually gave up and sauntered out.

Laura followed at a distance, the red hair like a beacon under the streetlamps, until Red Paddy reached a building on Second Avenue. He scampered down a stairway into a basement entrance. After a moment to gather her courage, Laura followed.

The door opened into a hallway so narrow a burly man would have to shift sideways to get through. To the right was a door, and she could hear Red Paddy swearing from inside.

“Bastard wouldn’t take it.”

Murmuring from other boys followed. She didn’t hear Harry, even though her ear was pressed close.

She could knock, but that would give them time to run.

Instead, she turned the knob, relieved and also terrified when she met no resistance and the door swung open.

She almost reeled back from the stench, a mix of sweat, alcohol, and rubbish. One tiny window near the street offered the only light, and just beneath it three small boys sprawled against an upturned barrel, fast asleep. In the far corners of the room, stuffed mattresses covered rickety-looking lofts, and a table of sorts was pushed against one wall, holding the remains of what looked like last week’s breakfast.

“Are you a charity lady?” said Red Paddy, nonplussed. “Going to give us a speech, are you?”

By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

There, at the table, sat a boy who stared back at her with an electric shock, who lacked the disdain of the others.

Her boy.

Harry.

The first year that they moved into the library, Jack had come up to dinner one evening complaining about the difficulty of fixing a leak in the basement, where a crawl space narrowed almost to nothing. “Can’t reach it for the life of me.”

Harry had offered to help, but Laura had dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Jack studied his son as if he was seeing him for the first time, sized him up, and announced that it was worth a try. Together, they disappeared after dinner and returned an hour later, both covered in muck and grinning madly. Harry had been able to reach the leak and patched it, following his father’s instructions.

The next day, Harry dashed into his room after school, pulled on his overalls, and told Laura he was going to work. She nodded solemnly, not wanting to let on how adorable he appeared. He returned less than fifteen minutes later, in tears.

Jack, caught up in whatever crisis had arisen that day, had roughly dismissed Harry, forgetting that he was only a little boy who just wanted to help. After dinner, Laura tried to explain to Jack why Harry was hurt, but Jack hadn’t listened. “The boy’s too sensitive,” Jack said, before turning away.

In the dankness of the tenement basement, Laura’s sensitive boy stared at her with huge eyes. This was her only chance.

“Harry, let me buy you something to eat. That’s all I want to do.”

She’d guessed correctly. He was hungry. He glanced down at the detritus on the table and then checked in with Red Paddy, who leaned against one of the lofts and raised his eyebrows.

“Please.” She locked eyes with Red Paddy.

Red Paddy shrugged. “He can do what he likes. I’m not in charge of him.”

As they walked up Second Avenue, Laura kept her arms tight to her side. She reminded herself that she mustn’t touch him, mustn’t reach out to grasp his hand or his arm, even if not doing so went against her every instinct. It took her a moment to get used to his height—he was now as tall as she was. This was a new Harry, and she’d have to treat him carefully, not baby him or beg him to come home.

They settled in at a Russian restaurant and ordered blintzes. She tried not to stare as he tore into the food. All those boys in that room, growing and needing to eat. What was dinnertime like for them? A fight over whatever scraps they could scrounge together, probably.

“Pearl made a cake for your birthday.”

“When was it?”

He didn’t even know. “Today. Do you not know the date?”

“No.”

Of course he didn’t. He must have outgrown the pair of glasses they’d bought together, so long ago. Without them, reading a newspaper would be impossible. “Why don’t you come home and have a piece. It’s delicious, and we saved you plenty.”

“No thanks.” He glanced up at her, then back to his food, as if it might be snatched from him if he didn’t put it away fast enough. “I don’t want to live with you and Father anymore. I don’t need to . . .” He trailed off.

Laura’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know his father was dead. Dr. Anderson and Mr. Gaillard had successfully covered up the suicide, so it hadn’t made the news. Of course, they’d been more concerned with protecting the institution’s reputation than maintaining discretion for Jack’s family. She took a ragged breath, focused on keeping a semblance of composure. Harry didn’t seem to notice, engrossed as he was in his meal.

She couldn’t tell him, not yet. “We’ve missed you.”

“You wouldn’t, not if you knew what I’ve done.”

“The manuscript? That’s over with, done. No one is angry with you about that. It was a moment, that’s all.”

He lifted his chin, a challenge. “I’ve done worse.”

“I know.”

The chin wobbled, slightly—almost imperceptibly—but Laura knew what it meant. It was a glint of the old Harry, letting down his defenses. She spoke as tenderly as she could. “I found your hiding place. I found the Tamerlane and the money. I’m not angry, you don’t have to worry about that.”

Relief washed over his face. He was still a boy in so many ways, his reaction no different from when he’d accidentally ripped the dress of one of Pearl’s dolls, confiding in a rush of regret as soon as he realized his mother knew it had been him.

“Why did you steal the books, Harry? Was it the gang that forced you to do so?”

“I took Leaves of Grass because I thought it would be about the countryside, where we used to live. I brought it to school with me one day, and Red Paddy saw me with it and started talking to me, asking about what it was like to live in a library. We became friends.”

Harry, who’d had a terrible time making friends, would have been easy prey for Red Paddy and his gang. Laura remained quiet, listening.

“He said that I could make money if I liked, by nicking books like that for him. I heard you and Father saying that you needed money, so I thought this way I could help out.”

He’d done it for her, for them. She wanted to embrace him so badly. “How did you get to the books? They’re locked up.”

He paused. “You already know.”

She thought of the hiding place. “The dumbwaiter.”

“I could fit inside the shaft. Couldn’t now, of course. But back then, I could crawl in and lower my way up, down, wherever I wanted. Another one brought me right into the stacks. I could pretty much get around the whole building without being detected, late at night, when everyone was asleep.”

He was such a scrawny kid—of course that would work. The dumbwaiters were scattered all over the library, and Harry had turned them into a thoroughfare of sorts, a way of moving from floor to floor undetected.

All along, they’d been looking for an employee, a grown man. It must’ve seemed like a game, like climbing up a tree. If something had gone wrong, though, if he’d slipped and fallen—

“Weren’t you scared, being in the dumbwaiter? What if you got trapped?”

“Nah. It was an adventure. And Red Paddy paid me well for the books I stole. He made me second in command. It was all for you, you see. So you could continue at school and not have to worry. All except the Tamerlane.”

“What do you mean?”

He waited a beat before replying. “That was to be your Christmas gift.”

She sat back and braced her hands on the table. “What?”

“The Tamerlane. You always said you loved those poems. But after I’d taken it, I overheard you and Father talking about it and realized that it was too rare, that you’d know I’d stolen it.”

The simplicity of his thinking disturbed her. But Harry had always been caught up in a dreamworld, or at least that’s what his teachers had said. Staring off into space, not listening. Running free with a gang of boys must have been a refreshing change to being in class. Not to mention stealing books—a way of taking revenge on the very objects that had given him so much trouble that year.

As she listened, she took in the small details, the changes. How he had the beginning of a beard in ragged spots of his chin and cheek, how his hair was matted under the plaid cap. One eye was crusty at the edges. He needed good food, a warm bed, and care.

“Look, Harry. I want you to come home with me. We live in Greenwich Village now. It’s a nice apartment, warm and cozy. I needed a fresh start, and I think you do, too.”

“I can’t go back with you. Not after what I did.”

“I don’t blame you. Neither does Pearl.”

“How is Pearl?” For the first time, his eyes softened.

“She’s fine. She misses you.”

“I bet Father doesn’t. He probably never wants to see me again.” The way he said it, with a prickle of hope, made Laura realize that, in fact, he desperately wanted to come back, to be part of the family again. To be forgiven.

She couldn’t put off the news any longer. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m afraid your father’s passed away.”

Harry grew pale. “What? How?”

“He was fragile, I didn’t realize how much.”

“When?”

“The night you left.”

“How?”

She scrambled for a way out of this line of questioning. “Harry, it’s over now. It’s been four years, you must come home.”

“Tell me.” Harry inhaled deeply, like he’d just swum a mile underwater. The look on his face was raw with need.

“He was upset.”

“He killed himself?”

She couldn’t answer that question. “What he did, it wasn’t your fault.”

Harry swallowed. “I killed him.”

“I promise you, you did not.”

But they both knew that the tragedy had escalated, one misdeed building upon another, until one of them had toppled over.

Harry whimpered softly, but could only hold back his tears so long. His cries eventually built into heaves of despair. Laura switched to the seat next to him and put her arm around him, letting him sob into her shoulder. No one at the neighboring tables looked up. The war had taken its toll on many, and grief was nothing new.

“At night, I dream of Father,” said Harry, finally. “Every night in my sleep I see him. He’s gasping for breath and calling for you.”

His sobs were for all of them, she knew. For the family that was no longer there and the wrenching pain that came with the separation. They had planned on life going one way, and then it had blown to pieces, sending each of them flying up into the air and then crashing down hard. Pearl’s tightly wound goodness, Harry’s wildness, Jack’s despair.

She handed Harry a napkin to blow his nose, and he did so like a child, shaking his head at the finish before handing it back to her. Just as he’d done as a boy.

How she’d missed him. “Please,” she said. “Come home with me.”

“I have no home. I don’t need you anymore.” His resistance was rising back into place.

“Of course you do. How will you take care of yourself?”

“We take care of each other. Red Paddy and the boys are my family now.”

“But you’re living in terrible conditions. You don’t look well. Please, come home. It’s been four years.”

“Which only shows that I am fine on my own.” He straightened. “We have plans.”

“What, stealing books from one bookshop and selling them to another? How much money can that bring in? How many of you are there, a dozen? More? It’s not sustainable. You’ll need a real job, eventually.”

His eyes hardened, and he shoved his empty plate away. She’d said too much, shown her desperation.

“I don’t want your help. Stop looking for me. Leave me alone.”

Without another word, he was gone.

That desolate night, she knew for certain that Harry was lost to her forever. He believed he deserved eternal punishment for the death of his father, his own self-sacrifice a stark contrast to Jack’s selfishness. Both of their perspectives warped by love and loss. Both gone.

Laura vowed never to love someone that much again.