An Inconvenient Wife Part 20

"How much is it?" I asked.

"Ten cents," said the man with the paper.

I made a show of reaching into the pocket of my cloak, of pulling it aside to search for a purse, though I knew already there would be no money. Shopkeepers sent the bills directly to my husband.

My movements became more frantic. I tried to stem my mounting embarra.s.sment and horror-I could not pay, and it was too far to walk, and I must get there, I could not go back home.

The man beside me touched my arm, and I froze.

"Let me get this for you," he said, reaching into his vest pocket, tossing up the coin. His face was kind. "My wife forgets her bag from time to time."

"Yes, that's just what I did," I said, my words stumbling over themselves. "It was so silly. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Some days are like that, eh?" He brought up his paper again, burying himself within it, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying in sheer grat.i.tude.

The ride seemed so long. I stared out the window, but I could see nothing but the fire licking at the paper of my sketches, Was.h.i.+ngton Square curling into ash. The sorrow and pity on William's face fueled my anxiety, until I nearly jerked loose the string signaling my stop on White Street. I gave a smile to the man who'd paid for my trip, and he tipped his hat to me, and then I jumped from the stage into a puddle of mud that splashed into my boots and wet the hem of my gown. I hardly cared; I was too busy looking at the building before me. It was dim, the store beneath was dark. For a moment I thought I would have to break the gla.s.s to get in, but the door was unlocked.

When I reached his office door, it was locked. I tried the handle again, sure I was mistaken. Of course he was there; where else would he be? I rattled it until I was sure it would come loose. Then I knocked on the gla.s.s window that bore his name in black and gilt letters. Harder and harder until finally a light came on. I nearly cried in relief. I saw a shadow behind the patterned gla.s.s, and I laid my hands flat upon it and burst into a smile. When it opened, I nearly fell into his arms.

"Oh, thank G.o.d you're here. You'll never-"

I stopped short of pitching myself into him, because it wasn't Victor at all. It was Irene, looking annoyed.

"Mrs. Carelton," she said. "Whatever are you doing here at this hour?"

"I want to see him," I said firmly, pus.h.i.+ng my way past her to the office door. "Where is he? I demand to see him."

"He's not here," she said, rounding me, blocking my access. "Really, Mrs. Carelton, he's not here. You should go home. I'll be sure and tell him in the morning-"

I pushed past her. The door was open, and I burst through.

"Mrs. Carelton, please. He went home hours ago."

"Home?"

"Yes, of course. Where else would he go now that his appointments are done?"

"And where might home be?"

She hesitated only a moment. Then she went to the desk and scrawled out the address on a sc.r.a.p of paper. She handed it to me, and I turned on my heel without even a thank-you. The paper was precious; I wrapped my fist around it and headed to the door.

"You might want to have your driver take a weapon, ma'am," she said. "It can be dangerous in that part of town."

I went out the door and closed it behind me. When I was standing on Broadway, I opened my fist and looked at the paper. The address was unfamiliar; I did not even begin to know where to go, and the stage was already gone.

A street sweeper was raising the scents of manure and garbage down the way. I hurried over to him and said, "Excuse me, but could you tell me where Ess.e.x Street is?"

He gave me a queer look, one almost too familiar, that took in my lack of a bustle or gloves. "Ess.e.x Street? You sure you want to go there, lady?" he asked.

I a.s.sured him I did.

"Go up a block," he said, "and then take Ca.n.a.l Street to the East River."

Ca.n.a.l Street. The East River. I felt faint. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I fear you must be wrong. It couldn't be-"

"Well, it is," he said. "You want to know the direction or not?"

"Yes, yes. Please."

"When you get to Allen Street, turn left. Ess.e.x crosses it. You'll have to ask around there for who you're lookin' for."

"Allen Street," I said.

"You'd best take care, lady," he said, and then he went back to his sweeping.

I could not seem to move. The twilight was coming on strongly, the sky darkening. Soon the arc lights would come on, the rest of the world would be cast in darkness, and I was alone here on Lower Broadway.

I should go home. I didn't belong here. Not here, and certainly not on Ca.n.a.l Street, or Allen Street, or any of those little streets that gathered beneath Houston and stretched to the East River. I should not be here. I should be at home. With William. I should be living the life I was meant to lead.

Before I knew it, I had started to walk up Broadway, past the street sweeper, ignoring the stares and curious glances of those who wondered what a lady alone was doing on Lower Broadway at twilight. I walked quickly, afraid I would change my mind, grow weak somehow in my own steps. I knew if I went home, if I went back to William now, I would never see Victor Seth again.

The night began to come down around me, and still I walked. Ca.n.a.l Street began as retail shops and warehouses, and as it went on, the streets on either side became narrower and dingier, the smells grew stronger, less familiar-fish and sausage and garlic and garbage and manure-and the buildings changed from warehouses to small frame houses nearly falling apart.

The streets were muddy and strewn with garbage. Pushcarts were being led slowly home, moved by men and women with weathered faces and gray clothes, holding what fish or rags or tin had not been sold. I pushed past a woman with cages of chickens that squawked loudly as I went by, and she screamed after me in some foreign guttural language.

It was as though I had entered another world. I was afraid and more certain with every pa.s.sing moment that I had made a mistake, that he could not possibly be here. Not here, not my Victor. He was a doctor, a brilliant neurologist. How could such a man live in a h.e.l.l like this, its tiny little stores emblazoned with signs I could not read, and the terrible smells: urine and death and rot and blood from carca.s.ses hanging in windows and bad fish and spoiled milk and sweat and greasy smoke. . . .

I hugged myself close and walked faster, through a warren of old row houses that had been altered beyond recognition, windows boarded up and possessions piled in what had once been tiny yards and stoops. There were no signs now, at least none that I could read. I had to stop finally to catch my breath, to get my bearings, and when I did, some filthy little man came from the shadows and spoke to me in a language I couldn't understand, though I knew what he wanted.

"No," I said in horror, backing away from him. "Oh, no, no, no-"

He muttered at me and walked on, but I was shaken. I had no idea where to go. What had the street sweeper said? Walk up Allen to Ess.e.x, but where was Ess.e.x? How far had I gone?

I drew into the shadows, huddling there, afraid. Irene's words came back to me-You might want to have your driver take a weapon-and I was certain I would not get from this place alive.

The noises around me grew louder. Men laughing, shouting. Faint music. Coughing. The squeak of pushcart wheels. Weary footsteps. The high voices of women calling out in singsong.

I heard them before I saw them. The swish of a gown, of two, the step of heels. When they came nearer, I saw what they were, but I was afraid enough that I didn't care. I stepped from the shadows as they neared me. They laughed nervously and gave me a critical eye and began to walk by.

"Please," I whispered, and one of them stopped. She had the hardest face I'd ever seen. She looked at the woman with her-a younger version of herself, with a tattered kerchief hiding her hair-and rattled off a long string of words. I held up my hand to stop her and said desperately, "I'm looking for Victor Seth. On Ess.e.x Street. Ess.e.x Street."

"Ess.e.x," the younger one said, and I nodded in grateful relief.

"Yes. Ess.e.x."

"Seth?" She p.r.o.nounced it oddly-a long e-but again I nodded. She looked to the older woman and said something to her, and the older woman laughed and pointed to the corner beyond, saying over and over a word I couldn't come close to making out. Then she crooked her finger and held up her fingers-one, two, three-and then the two of them laughed again as I stared uncomprehendingly.

The older one grabbed my arm. She was quite strong, and I was tired and afraid, so I didn't protest; I stumbled along behind her. They led me down the street, and I had the dim thought that they were taking me to some terrible little house where I would be held prisoner. They could have thrown me into the East River, and I would have been helpless to stop them.

But they did not. They took me to the corner and turned right, and we were on a street lined with row houses and tenements indistinct from the first, and then we were before a ramshackle row house that looked to be sinking beneath the weight of its misery. They pushed me up the cracked and weathered stoop and left me sagging against the door before the younger one said, "Seth," in her odd way. They walked away again, chattering between themselves, abandoning me.

I was cold and sweating at the same time. My feet would no longer hold me, and I was so afraid I was nearly paralyzed. But I held one last hope that the women had brought me where I wanted to go-in any case, I had no choice-so I lifted my hand to the door and knocked.

There was no sound beyond. I knocked again, louder this time, and when that brought no answer, I began to pound. Someone must be there. There was a dim light coming from the second floor-someone had to be there. My pounding became rhythmic, almost soothing. I think I might have pounded forever, too mindless to stop, too terrified to leave, but then I heard footsteps beyond, and a muttered curse in something that sounded like German, and then the door was pulled open so abruptly I nearly fell into the man who stood on the other side.

He was short and wizened, with rheumy eyes that squinted at me before he straightened in surprise and said, "Fraulein, you must be lost."

It took me a moment to realize that I understood him. All I could say was "Victor. I-I'm looking for Victor Seth."

"Ah," he said, nodding. "Victor. Ja, ja, Victor. Come. Come." He stood back, motioning me inside. I almost collapsed in grat.i.tude and relief.

He closed the door behind me. The house had been converted into flats, and we were in a dimly lit hallway littered with old mattresses and straw and rags; with bodies that huddled, stinking, in the shadows beyond. There were boxes and cans, heaps of clothes, piles of fabric tied with twine. From somewhere came the monotonous hum of some kind of machinery. The smell of kerosene was strong, along with the smells of cooking-onions and cabbage and grease-and the stench of urine. The doorjambs were grimy with fingerprints, the stairs before us sagged in the middle, and the finish had been worn to bare, filthy wood. The banister shook as the man put his hand upon it and gestured for me to follow him upstairs.

We climbed the creaking stairs to the next floor, where wash lines were strung with clothing from room to room. One of four doors had been eased open to cast its faint light across the hall. From inside that room came the guttural sounds of talk punctuated by the clatter of dishes, and again that whirring sound.

The man pushed open the door. "Victor!" he called, and then he said something in German. I heard an answer, low and deep, in Victor's voice, and then there was the sound of a chair pus.h.i.+ng back, and footsteps, and he was there, stepping around the old man, pausing in the doorway, staring at me.

"Lucy," he said.

I fell sobbing into his arms.

Chapter 16.

My G.o.d, Lucy, what are you doing here?" He tried to hold me away from him, but I could only cling more tightly, so relieved to have found him, so certain he would make everything all right.

He gave me a little shake. "How did you find me? What happened?"

I could not answer. Finally he pulled me close while I sobbed against his chest, and I heard him say something to the old man in German-the gutturals made his chest rise and fall in jerky movements-and then he was leading me into the room beyond, where the whirrr became louder, the smells of food overpowering. I buried my face in his s.h.i.+rt; the scents of soap and sweat were oddly familiar and comforting.

"Come," he whispered to me. He spoke again to the man and to someone else-there was someone in the room whom I saw indistinctly-and then he led me across the room, which I had no sense of through my tears, into some small dark s.p.a.ce. He shut a door behind us. "Here. Sit down."

My knee b.u.mped into something-a bed, I realized, and I sank down upon it. It sagged beneath me, and when he sat beside me, it sagged even more. His arm was still around me; I leaned into his side, my sobs easing. I felt him fumble, and then he was shoving a handkerchief into my hand.

"Would you like something?" he asked. "Something to drink?"

"No." I shook my head, dabbing at my face. "No, nothing. Just you. I . . . I had to see you."

"Yes," he said. Then, "I'm going to light the lamp." He took his arm from my shoulders, and I heard the strike of a match. There was the flicker of flame and the small, dim light of what I realized was a kerosene lamp, and the darkness of the room eased. It was not a room, even, but a closet, like the closet between my room and William's, but smaller still than that. It held only the bed we sat on, no more than a cot covered with a stained, frayed quilt. The lamp was set on a shelf built into the corner, and piled around it were books, and above them a top hat. A brown suit hung on a hook in another corner, along with a coat. There was a lock on the door. The room held the strong, familiar scent of cigars.

"What is this place?" I asked. "You can't possibly live here."

I realized how undone he looked. His s.h.i.+rt was collarless. His braces were loose, looping at his hips, and his hair was tousled and curling at the nape. He looked younger than I'd ever imagined. "Why are you here, Lucy? Why have you come?"

I had thought of nothing but getting to him. He was to be my salvation. He understood me as no one had. But his questions were cold and faintly hostile, and I felt uncertain and embarra.s.sed.

"I'm sorry," I said, crumpling the handkerchief. "I should not have come."

"No, you should not have," he agreed. "How did you find me?"

"I . . . I went to your office. Irene gave me your address."

His gaze was a.s.sessing, dark. He was like another man altogether. "How did you get here?"

"I walked."

"You walked?"

"I didn't realize how far it was . . . or what it would be like-"

"You could have been killed out there. Didn't you know-"

"How could I have? Why should I a.s.sume a doctor-a neurologist-my neurologist-would live in a . . . in a . . ."

"Tenement."

"Yes," I whispered. I looked at him. "Yes. Why? Certainly you could live better than this, with the money William pays you alone."

"The old man you met out there is my father," he said grimly. "He and my mother have lived here since they came from Germany thirty years ago. He owns it now."

"Then he could sell it. There are other places, better ones."

"For Jews, Lucy? Jews who aren't of your cla.s.s? Where else would they go?"

I had no answer.

"They have a decent life here," he said, "though you wouldn't know it just to look. He does piecework. That noise you hear-those are sewing machines. They go nearly all night. He contracts with the mills and hires women to sew. Twenty, thirty women and their families live and work on this floor alone. The money he makes paid for my schooling. That and a donation from a generous mentor sent me to Leipzig."

I did not know what to say.

"You wanted to know more about me," he said bitterly. "Does this satisfy your curiosity?"

"I understand about your parents," I said. "But you-"

"They're getting old," he said. "They struggled to give me a better life, and they deserve a son to look after them now."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Sorry that you know where I come from? That I'm not what you wanted me to be? Or is it only that you're sorry you've trusted someone like me?"

"Don't."