The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER THREE

New York City, 1913

Laura and Jack waited outside Dr. Anderson’s office on the second floor like schoolchildren caught cheating in class. She could hear the chimes of the grandfather clock on the other side of the wall, one of the many refined pieces on display. Dr. Anderson trusted only Jack to wind it each week; no one else was allowed to even touch it. It was as if the clock were the library’s heart, ticking away, and Jack its surgeon.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” he whispered.

She didn’t mention her encounter with Dr. Anderson in the Main Reading Room a few days back. Certainly, she hadn’t said anything untoward. But maybe he’d been more upset than she’d realized to learn that she was turning down Columbia after he had done her the favor of his recommendation. If they were turned out, they’d have absolutely nowhere to go, and no savings.

Jack had grown up on a thriving orange tree farm in California, attending a private school where he studied Latin and French, literature and philosophy, before throwing away a full scholarship to Stanford and heading to the East Coast with a friend. He wasn’t ready for college, he told his disappointed mother, and might never be. There was more to life, he believed. Plus, Jack wanted to write.

Through connections, he and his mate Billy broke in with a crowd of wealthy young men and women who fancied themselves budding literary giants. Among them, Jack was certainly the most serious about his craft. The rest of the group devoted the majority of their energy to throwing parties for artistic types, like the one where Jack and Laura had met. But Jack had imagined writing a novel contrasting city with country life that would take the world by storm. He was so close to finishing it, he’d said repeatedly the past several months. Any day now, it would be ready to be submitted. Sometimes she wondered what would have happened if they hadn’t met. He might have already been a shining star in the publishing world, probably on his second or third book. Not winding Dr. Anderson’s clock week after week.

Dr. Anderson appeared and ushered them inside. He didn’t gesture for them to take a seat. “Mr. and Mrs. Lyons, come in. This won’t take long.”

Oh no.

He picked up a thin envelope on his desk and held it out. Jack lifted his hand, but Dr. Anderson shook his head. “This is for your wife.”

Laura took it, looking from one man to the other.

“I have good news,” Dr. Anderson said. “I was able to secure a scholarship for Mrs. Lyons at the Columbia Journalism School for the first term. Just the first, I’m afraid. It was the best I could do.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m sorry. You what?”

“I reached out to the bursar, who’s an old college chum. Apparently, there was some scholarship money returned by a student who opted not to enroll, and I suggested it be directed your way.”

“I have a scholarship?” asked Laura.

“You do. For one term. I wish you the best of luck.”

Outside the office, Jack took Laura’s arm and led her down to the basement level. Although the official building superintendent’s office was on the main floor of the library, he’d also commandeered a small storage space in the basement, to be closer to the rest of the staff. They passed the chief engineer and several porters, all taking off their hats and nodding as Laura went by, as if she were the queen of the place, when it was really a testament to Jack’s good standing among them. He was a natural leader who made a point of knowing the name of everyone who worked for him. Finally, they reached his basement office. Laura shut the door and leaned against it as he made his way behind the desk to his chair.

She quashed any outward show of excitement at the news, unsure of how to react, even as her thoughts raced in a loop: She’d gotten a scholarship. She could go after all.

“When did Dr. Anderson find out about our financial issues?” asked Jack. She could tell he was trying to keep his voice even, like she’d heard him do with an employee who’d disappointed him. Resentment rose up at the idea of being treated like a worker instead of a wife.

“He didn’t. He’d asked me about my application a few days ago, but I told him I’d decided not to attend because of the children. You remember he wrote a letter of recommendation?”

Jack nodded.

“Well, he wanted an update, and that was that.”

“So then he went and arranged a scholarship for you?”

“I don’t believe it myself, to be honest. I know he likes my column, and the recommendation was nice, but I never expected something like this.”

His nose scrunched up in a way that reminded her of Harry when he was miserable about something. She wished he could be happy for her, at this lovely turn of events. But Dr. Anderson was his boss, and she understood that Jack didn’t want his relationship with his superior to become muddied or complicated.

She came around and perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at him and taking his hands in hers. “He did something kind, that was all. I’d like to go, and I’d like to have your support.” She reached down and kissed him, feeling his rough beard on her lips. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

He shook his head.

“I can get a job at a newspaper next year and write a glowing review of your new book, saying that you’re the next literary sensation. We’ll play up the idea that you’ve been living in the library, scribbling away after hours, a poet who’s soaked up the words of the masters and created a masterpiece himself. It’s a terrific story.”

Jack’s smile spread slowly. “May I point out that it’s a huge conflict of interest, a wife reviewing her husband? It seems that you need some schooling after all. They teach a course in ethics, I hope?”

Laura had already memorized the list of classes: “Training in Reporting and Interviewing, Editing and Rewriting Copy, History of Journalism, and Elements of Law.”

“I suppose the law class will keep you on the straight and narrow. No sensational journalism for my wife.”

“Never, my love.” She’d done it. Somehow, she’d done it. “Never.”

While the journalism school had officially opened its doors the year before, classes had been scattered around the campus until a new building was constructed, just in time for the class of 1914, Laura’s year. The five-story Beaux Arts–style journalism building was located just south of the main campus library, and after registration, Laura and a dozen other students were given a quick tour. The spacious entryway reminded her of the prelude to her own home on Fifth Avenue, with a soaring ceiling and marble floors. In one corner, Rodin’s bust of Joseph Pulitzer, the founder of both the New York World newspaper and the journalism school, glared at all who passed by. While the building had regular classrooms like those at Vassar, it also boasted a “morgue,” which held a collection of newspaper clippings dating back to the 1870s, as well as a full-blown replica of a newspaper city room, replete with typewriters, a telephone, and a copy desk.

Laura made her way to a seat in the lecture hall. The opening address by the head of the school, Mr. Talcott Williams, flew by in a blur of pronouncements and a recap of the school’s brief history. After, Laura gathered her things and sped to the city room, where her year was meeting under the tutelage of a well-known newspaperman named Professor Wakeman.

“Everyone, please, your attention.” Professor Wakeman sported an unruly white mustache and barked out his words like a terrier. “Introduce yourselves, class of 1914.”

One by one, they made their way around the room. Several of the men had already worked in journalism for a few years, and exchanged witty repartee with the professor about various editors they’d worked under, sharing chuckles and knowing smiles. The woman sitting beside Laura introduced herself as Gretchen Reynolds, a recent graduate of Barnard, who said her dream was to write for Ladies’ Home Journal on the subject of fashion. Laura spoke of her desire to study journalism and left it at that, as she was too tongue-tied to go any further. Of the twenty-eight students who comprised the class of 1914, four were women. After the last student spoke, Laura pulled out a notebook and a fountain pen, eager to begin.

But Professor Wakeman had other ideas. “Gather your things, I’m sending you out on your first assignment. Go down to City Hall and listen to Mayor Kline’s eleven-o’clock speech. After, get a statement from someone—you decide which official—about how the new mayor is settling into the role.”

City Hall. She’d imagined the first week or so would be about the basics of newswriting, not to have to go right out and report so quickly. The thought unnerved her. But she knew where to go, and certainly listening to a speech, getting a quote, and doing a write-up wouldn’t be that difficult. She was gathering her things in her satchel when the professor held up one hand.

“Wait a minute, that’s only for the men.” He glanced over in Gretchen and Laura’s direction. “For the women, your assignment is to investigate what’s going on at the Women’s Hotel in the East Twenties, off of Park.”

Laura’s mind raced. A scandal at the first women’s hotel in New York? One that called for an investigation? Whatever it was, this sounded much juicier than covering city politics.

Professor Wakeman gathered steam. “They’ve announced that they are no longer serving butter to the hotel guests, as part of a health initiative or something. Write up five hundred words on that. For everyone, the deadline is four o’clock this afternoon. Put your copy inside the vault.” He pointed to what looked like a safe on one of the corner tables. “It locks automatically at four. Anything that’s not inside will not be accepted.”

A couple of students groaned.

“You don’t like it? Then you don’t deserve to be a journalist. We live on deadlines and cigarettes, remember. This is your first assignment, so make it count.”

A steamy rain poured down as Laura, Gretchen, and the other two female students made their way downtown. Outside the hotel, they paused, unsure of what to do next.

Gretchen tried to smooth over the mangled curls of her bangs with one hand, irritability dripping from her like the rain. “This weather is wreaking havoc on my coiffure. Shall we go inside?”

“I suppose we should ask for the manager,” Laura suggested, eager to get on with it.

Right then, a couple of young women draped in percale and long strings of pearls exited the hotel. As they waited under the awning for a cab, the other two students broke off and approached them, notebooks open, while Gretchen and Laura headed inside.

With surprising alacrity, they were shown up to the manager’s office, where a woman with a long neck sat upright in her chair. “You’re reporters?”

“Yes,” said Laura. She didn’t want to specify where from, not just yet. “We heard about the butter ban and were curious what prompted it.”

“We care deeply for the health of our guests, who tend to be on the younger side.” She looked over at Gretchen. Laura supposed she was too old to make the cut. “After a year of study, I have concluded that it is not conducive to good health. Same with cotton mattresses.”

“I’m sorry?” said Gretchen. “What’s wrong with cotton mattresses?”

“They will be switched out for hair mattresses instead. The cotton ones will be burned.”

“But why?” asked Laura.

“Hair is healthier.”

“Do you mind if I ask where exactly you found this information?”

The manager threw her an irritable glance. “I don’t remember, exactly. A magazine article, I think.”

“Have you consulted a physician about these two issues, about not eating butter and sleeping on hair mattresses? I mean, to get a professional opinion.”

“I don’t need to. I can see it with my own eyes, what’s good for the girls and what’s not.”

Laura was about to ask her to be more specific, when Gretchen jumped in. “Do you worry that guests will go elsewhere if they can’t get butter on their bread?”

“The parents of the girls are the ones who decide where they will stay, and they understand our concerns. We are the first and oldest women’s hotel in New York City, and my guess is the other hotels will soon follow our lead.”

What an utter waste of time. Who on earth cared about this subject? The men were downtown talking about the future of the city with the people who decided the future of the city, while Laura was stuck discussing hair mattresses. “Do you eat butter?” she asked.

The manager sniffed. “I do not. I have a very strict diet and follow it religiously, and believe all should do the same.”

Laura couldn’t help herself. “Can I ask what type of mattress you sleep on at home?”

The woman’s eyes gleamed with the pride of the martyr. “I sleep on a mat on the floor, in fact. Much better for one’s spine and circulation.”

“So why not insist the guests do the same? Cheaper, by far, probably.”

Gretchen threw her a look to stop teasing, but it was too late. The manager rose from her chair, the interview over.

“May I ask who you write for?” asked the manager.

Laura and Gretchen exchanged glances. “We’re students at the Columbia Journalism School,” Laura said.

“So you’re not real reporters?”

“Not yet.” Laura wished Gretchen would jump in and help out, but the girl remained mute.

“Why are you wasting my time, then?” The woman shooed them out and was still castigating them as they hurried down the hall.

“Well, that was a bust.” Gretchen looked about. “I’m going to wait for a couple of guests to leave and interview them. I’ll see you back at the school.”

Laura walked east, annoyed at the whole ordeal. Ahead of her, she spied a red-haired woman heading to a smaller entrance off to the side of the hotel. “Excuse me,” she called out.

The woman stopped, one hand on the door. “Yes?”

“Do you work here? I was hoping I might have a word with the cook.” It was worth a shot.

“Sure. Follow me.”

She was led down an alley and into a back entrance. The kitchen bustled with waiters pouring in and out from what must be the dining room. They moved with the synchronicity of ice-skaters, twisting their torsos to narrowly avoid colliding, and barking out orders above the din. At the center of the swirling stood a sixtyish woman with frizzy hair and enormous hands, cursing in an Irish brogue.

“I’m here about the butter!” yelled Laura when she got near. “May I ask you some questions?”

“The butter. Gah.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and stepped off to one side. “What do you want to know about the butter?”

“I’m a student journalist at Columbia.” Better to be up front about the whole business this time. “I’ve been asked to write an article on the butter ban.”

“You don’t have better things to write on?”

“It’s really not my decision. At any rate, how are you managing?”

“It’s repressive and stupid. Write that down.”

Laura already was, as fast as she could.

“The new management has silly ideas that will sink this ship fast.”

“Have you had any complaints from the guests?”

“Not yet.” The cook pointed in the direction of the stove, where a massive slab of butter sat nearby on a plate. “I have my principles.”

“So you’re just ignoring the new rule?” This was fantastic. The subject matter itself was deathly boring, but Laura knew she’d stumbled on a conflict worth writing about. The quarrel between kitchen and management would make for a juicy read.

“You bet I’m ignoring the rule,” said the cook. “And you can write that down, too. If they don’t like it, they can fire me. I won’t go in for any nonsense when it comes to the quality of my food. My reputation is at stake.”

Back uptown in the city room at the journalism school, Laura banged out an article with five minutes to spare, reading it over once quickly before putting it into the vault. The pressure made her heart beat fast, and the energy in the room—the students all tapping away on their typewriters, knowing that this assignment was crucial in making a good first impression—fueled her nerves even more. But in a good way. This was a challenge, even if the subject matter was a bore. Figuring out which quotes to include and which to summarize, how best to portray the hotel and that manager without seeming judgmental. If this was journalism, she couldn’t wait for more.

The next day, they sat through a law class in one of the lecture halls. Unlike her time at Vassar, where Laura was overwhelmed by the social circles within the school, here, as an older, married student she didn’t feel the need to hobnob the way the younger set did. She spent two hours scribbling notes as fast as she could, realizing that she’d need to look up some of the cases cited by the professor at home in the library to fill in the missing gaps in her knowledge.

Later in the city room, Professor Wakeman called the students up one by one to go over their articles from the day before. Laura was edgy with anticipation as she took the chair next to his desk and looked over at the paper in his hands, which was filled with red marks. Not a good sign.

“Mrs. Lyons, the assignment was five hundred words. This is five hundred eighty.”

“Sorry, Professor, I figured an extra few sentences wouldn’t make a difference.”

He gave her a sharp look. “You seem to think that you’re an artiste, and I’m here to disabuse you of that notion. If your editor says five hundred words, you give them that. You are one small part of a giant newspaper, one where every inch counts. So don’t tell me that the manager’s neck was ‘long like a dancer’s,’ and I don’t care what they are wearing. It’s about butter.”

“Of course.” This wasn’t like writing a column for Dr. Anderson’s newsletter, where her flowery prose was encouraged. She really should’ve known better, but she’d been trying to show off. “I understand.”

“Today, I want you to edit it and fix it. Get to the point.”

“I certainly will.”

She rose to go.

“But nice work getting the cook to talk. No one else had that. That’s a well-reported story. Not well written, mind you. It was painful to read. But the reporting was good. Quite good.”

She practically floated back to her seat. Writing more succinctly, more like a journalist, was something she could learn. But her instincts were on target. Professor Wakeman had given her a compliment. For her first assignment.

She couldn’t wait to tell Jack.