Part 20 (1/2)

”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.