The Gilded Hour

  “You know,” he said. “We don’t have to go to the school today. It’s waited this long. How about a picnic in Central Park instead? We could let Bonny stretch her legs and then go sit by one of the lakes.”

  It did sound like a very good idea, and she said so. “But I think we have to do it today, Jack. It would be a week or more before we get another chance.”

  • • •

  HE ASKED HER about the school for the deaf, and Anna told him the little she knew. “They have an excellent reputation. I’ve never had a patient from there, but Sophie has and she liked the place. The children are well looked after and there were no signs of abuse.”

  “You think a lot about the welfare of children.”

  Anna’s head came around quite quickly. “Does that surprise you, given the work I do?”

  “Not in the least. I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want you to get mad.”

  “Not a very hopeful start,” she said, but she produced a single dimple, which he took as encouragement.

  “I’m wondering if there are many women who would rather not have children, if they had a choice.”

  “Are you asking about me?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about Janine Campbell and the others.”

  Her gaze shifted and lost its focus. She was letting her mind lead her, following whatever images and words and ideas it presented. Many of them beyond his understanding.

  She said, “Really you want to know if women are mentally destined to become mothers. I think the answer is no. It’s primarily a matter of what a girl is raised to believe is right and normal. I’m sure there are many women who would prefer not to have children, but few of them are honest with themselves about that. They know of two ways to be female: to marry and raise families, or to never marry and forgo children. The third and fourth possibilities are not something any woman would plan for. Infertility is a terrible burden for some, but worse still—”

  “Children born out of wedlock.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen young girls so devastated by news of a pregnancy that they would rather die. Some of them do choose to die; you know better than I do about the bodies that wash up on the riverbanks. But if a woman chooses not to marry and chooses to never have children, she is branding herself in a different way. Even if she has an income and can do what interests her, she is still seen as suspect. Unnatural. In the end few people are strong enough to reject what society expects of them.”

  “You might have done that,” Jack said.

  “I would have done that,” she said. “If not for Hoboken. But I am very odd, Jack. You know that. I’m an unusual person in an unusual family.”

  “Part of why we suit. We have that in common.”

  Her expression was solemn. “That’s not entirely true. A man has the freedom to choose not to marry. No one would have thought you unnatural.”

  He couldn’t contradict that statement. His mother would have been sad, but none of his brothers or friends would have made an issue of it. At the same time there would be suspicions, in some quarters.

  Anna said, “In general men are free to find comfort and companionship where they please. So long as they don’t flout expectations openly.”

  She often surprised him, and he was beginning to understand that she always would. The way her mind worked was still a mystery and would probably remain a mystery, at least in part, but there was another trap that he fell into: he forgot how much experience she had in the world of things most women never were exposed to. In a city like New York, a physician could not be innocent or naïve.

  They had never talked about sex except as something they shared, in the privacy of their home and bed, but that didn’t mean that she was unaware. He wondered if she was thinking of Oscar, who had never married and would never marry.

  “The ‘confirmed bachelor.’” He used the euphemism and saw that he had understood her correctly. But she wasn’t thinking of Oscar, or at least, not in this instance.

  She said, “Uncle Quinlan would never have married, if he had had the choice as a young man. His affections were elsewhere, with one of Aunt Quinlan’s cousins, actually. But it was impossible, and he married the girl his family chose for him. He met Aunt Quinlan at the funeral of that cousin he had loved as a young man. Later when he was widowed he proposed a marriage of convenience, I suppose is the term, and she moved down here.”

  “You mean they never shared a bed.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. They were the closest of friends, and they supported each other through very difficult times.” She paused, her gaze still speculative. “Is that the subject you wanted to raise, when you asked about women who don’t want to have children?”

  Jack said, “Now I’m not sure exactly what I was asking.”

  She shifted in her seat to look at him directly. “I have never been drawn to other women.”

  “Anna!”

  She gave him a cool look. “You never wondered?”

  “I can say with all honesty that it never occurred to me. I saw you as desirable and my sense was, you felt the same way about me.”

  Finally, she produced a smile. “Oh, I did. After you put those rosebuds in my hair I couldn’t get you out of my mind. So you are asking me about children.” She studied her clasped hands for a moment. “I never thought very much about having children because I didn’t expect to have that opportunity. Now I think I do want to have a child or two of my own. With you. I think I’ll be ready next year, if you’re ready. And if you are still willing to have a wife who is a mother and a practicing physician and surgeon, all at once. It can be done. Mary Putnam is going to be my role model. A physician of the highest rank, and a wife and mother. And of course, exhausted, all the time.”

  She made him laugh. “You being exhausted is not in my plan.”

  “And you intend to have your way.”

  “You have grasped the essence of my character. Do you know why I raised the subject just now?”

  “I expect it has to do with my first visit to Greenwood,” she said. “And the questions that will be coming my way.”

  • • •

  WITH THE SUN in her eyes Anna couldn’t quite make out Jack’s expression, but she caught the change in tone. Discomfort, maybe even reluctance. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  “People will be cornering you with personal questions, you’re right. But there’s another subject that will be raised, and I wanted to make sure you knew the particulars before you hear about it. About Celestina.”

  “Now you’ve surprised me. Go on.”

  “You know that she goes to temple a few times a month on the Sabbath?”

  “I’m aware, yes. Bambina goes too, doesn’t she?”

  “Less often. Bambina goes to please Mama. Celestina goes to please herself.”

  Anna smoothed her skirts, thinking. “I confess I have no idea where this is going.”

  “Then I’ll get to the heart of it. Celestina had a marriage proposal, from the rabbi of her congregation.”

  In her surprise Anna found nothing suitable to say, and so she asked the obvious question. “When was this?”

  “A couple days ago. She told me about it yesterday.”

  “And what did she say to him?”

  “She put him off.”

  “She didn’t refuse him?”

  “Or accept him.”

  Anna thought for a moment.

  Jack said, “You just did that humming thing. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m wondering about this—what’s his name?”

  “Nate Rosenthal.”

  “Mr. Rosenthal—”

  “Rabbi Rosenthal.”

  “Does she love him?”

  He glanced at her, his mouth quirked up. “She doesn’t say.”

 
“But she didn’t refuse him outright.”

  “No. I think she would have accepted him, if not for—

  “Bambina. She thinks the rabbi is not good enough for her sister. She doesn’t approve.”

  “Why do you come to that conclusion?”

  Anna raised an eyebrow, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  “Yes, all right. She doesn’t really approve of anybody. She doesn’t like Nate Rosenthal because he’s forty. A widower with two little girls. Or at least, that’s her official stance.”

  Anna had seen sisters who loved and valued each other, sisters who tore at each other out of jealousy and spite, and everything in between. She and Sophie had never fought the way sisters sometimes did, and never took each other or the value of their connection for granted. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the way these things worked.

  She thought of Bambina as someone who was difficult to live with and drew most of the attention to herself. If Celestina found this unfair, she hid her feelings well.

  Jack said, “You don’t like Bambina.”

  “There are things I don’t like about her,” Anna said. “She can be narrow minded and judgmental, and it will take a long time for me to get over the way she treated Sophie. Assuming for a moment that she has changed her mind and her manners in that regard. But she’s very young and bright and ambitious, and she’s frustrated. I think the best thing for her would be to live on her own for a good while.”

  The look he shot her way was pure surprise tinged with irritation. “When this subject first came up I told you that it’s not acceptable for young Italian women to live alone. It’s just not done.”

  Anna pushed out a soft breath. “Listen before you reject the idea out of hand.”

  “Anna—”

  “Listen,” she said again. “There are some excellent boardinghouses for young women, extremely selective, in very good neighborhoods and with spotless reputations. They aren’t cheap—the one I’m thinking of is six dollars a week for room and board—but no male visitors are allowed, not even relatives, except in the parlor, and then only chaperoned. I know of two women doctors who live in a boardinghouse just across from Gramercy Park. I’ve even visited them there. It’s beautifully kept; the food is excellent. It’s run by an elderly couple. She’s a Quaker and he’s a retired police officer. As far as I know they’ve never had any kind of incident or trouble—but you could, you should inquire at the station, couldn’t you?”

  He shrugged in reluctant agreement.

  “You act as if I’m suggesting she go live on the moon.”

  “But what would she do with herself all day long?”

  Anna resisted the urge to laugh at him, this disgruntled and overprotective and—it had to be said—clueless older brother. “She could continue with her sewing and embroidery, or she could teach, or here’s an idea and it’s one you really should consider. She could learn something else, study something that interests her and take up a career of her own choosing. Bambina is difficult and demanding because she’s unhappy, and she’s young and selfish enough to demand that her sister keep her company in her misery.”

  Anna forced herself to stop talking. Jack would think about this idea if she allowed him the time he needed to do that.

  “She’d be alone,” he said finally.

  This time she did let out a small laugh. “Alone? She would be within a short walk or ride of us, your aunt Philomena, Celestina in her new home, and your many, many cousins. I still haven’t figured out exactly how many cousins you have, by the way. She would also have friends her own age, young women she could go to concerts or lectures or for walks or to the theater with. Living among other young women who have careers might make a very large difference in the way she sees the world. You think she would reject the idea out of hand?”

  He shrugged. “That’s not what worries me. What worries me is that she’ll like the idea, and my parents will forbid it. Then Celestina is worse off.”

  Anna put her hand on his thigh and felt him start in surprise. It was a bold thing to do in public, even with so little traffic on the streets—but she meant to startle him. “What if I talked to your mother about it? If she agreed, could she win your father over? At that point the subject could be raised with Bambina.”

  He shook his head and let out a half laugh. “Go ahead and talk to Mama if you can get her alone for a quarter hour.” He covered her hand with his own and squeezed. Anna gave him a smile, wondering what exactly she had gotten herself into.

  • • •

  TRAFFIC PICKED UP but they still made good time. Broadway became Bloomingdale Road and houses grew farther apart, interrupted now and then by churches, dairy farms, hatcheries, horse pastures, warehouses, nurseries. This far out of the city every building was surrounded by parks: the Leake and Watts Orphan Asylum, the Insane Asylum, the Colored Orphan Asylum all looked like pleasant places to those who kept their distance. Anna, who had visited many such places when she was in training, knew better.

  But they did look wonderful from the road. They drove past the Convent of the Sacred Heart in an ocean of green that stretched from 130th to 135th Streets, and then the Hebrew Orphan Asylum, one place Anna had never been but Sophie had, making rounds with Dr. Jacobi. Jack turned left on 155th and right on Eleventh Boulevard, passing Audubon Park; and turned one last time left onto a half-built road to arrive, finally, at the New York School for the Deaf and Dumb.

  Anna had expected something quite small, and was surprised to see four large, well-kept buildings arranged in a quadrangle. The road approached from the rear, and as they circled around to the front entrance the landscaped grounds opened into a larger field where children were playing with a ball. The whole of the property was surrounded by woods, the kind that offered cool shade in the hottest months. A breeze came from the Hudson, which must be just beyond the woods.

  Jack said, “From a distance you wouldn’t know anything was different about them.”

  She followed his line of sight to the children.

  “I thought there would be more of them,” he said. “It looks like they’d have room for at least four hundred students.”

  Anna watched for a moment as they drew closer. Deaf or hearing, children were fearless; boys climbed onto a tree stump to fling themselves into space as though gravity had no authority and deserved no respect. A small group of girls stood in a circle playing cat’s cradle, all eyes intent on the hands of the two girls who were competing. There were children playing like this everywhere in the world, but few of them would be as silent.

  “I would guess that most of them go home for some part of the summer. It’s not an orphan asylum.”

  “Which raises a question,” Jack said, just as a gaunt man of about sixty stepped out of the front doors of the school. There was a woman with him who Anna guessed must be his daughter, so strong was the resemblance, from the line of the jaw and nose to the color and texture of their hair. Neat, orderly, like schoolteachers everywhere; reserved, but not unfriendly. The two waited as the carriage came to a standstill and Jack helped Anna down.

  She looked up at them, using a hand to shield the sun from her face. “Hello. We were hoping to speak to the director, if he’s available on a Sunday.”

  “That would be me. Alan Timbie.” He came down two steps to shake hands, gesturing to the young woman to join him. “This is my daughter Miranda, one of our teachers. We are expecting the Humbolt family, but you aren’t the Humbolts, are you?”

  They introduced themselves and then waited as Alan Timbie turned to his daughter and they had a conversation in sign language.

  To Anna and Jack he said, “We have a new student arriving within the hour, but I can talk to you until they come, if you like. I’m quite curious about what brings a New York Police Department detective sergeant to our door.”

  They sat down in a waitin
g room while Jack described Tonino, saying nothing of his circumstances beyond the fact that he had been separated from his family. Anna watched for some reaction, but the director’s expression revealed nothing but polite concern. When Jack had finished Timbie nodded.

  “We have a boy here who fits your description, but I don’t think he’s the child you’re looking for.”

  Anna said, “Could we see him, just to be sure?”

  He showed them to a large common room with open windows on two walls that faced a small wood of birch trees. There was a young man signing to a group of three boys while a fourth boy sat by himself with a picture book in his lap. About seven years old, he seemed on the face of things to be healthy: his color was good, his cheeks rounded, he was dressed appropriately for the season, his clothes neat, if much mended. His hair had been dampened and parted and combed into submission, furrowed as neatly as a newly plowed field. He was staring blankly at the book in his lap, like a child on the verge of sleep.

  Anna felt Jack’s attention focusing on the boy and the shock of recognition, exactly like her own. Tonino Russo, without a doubt.

  The director was saying, “We call him Jimmy. I don’t believe he can hear you, but please talk to him, if you like.”

  Jack cleared his throat and called across the room in a voice gone slightly hoarse.

  “Tonino. Your sisters are looking for you. They miss you.”

  Nothing. Not the slightest shimmer of recognition. Jack nudged Anna’s arm, gently, and she tried, piecing the Italian together carefully.

  “Rosa has been searching for you everywhere. Lia asks for you every day.”

  The boy turned his face away.

  Jack walked toward him, quietly, slowly, and then crouched down, his hands on his knees. Now the boy did look at Jack. He took in his features, watching his mouth as he talked, his voice lowered so Anna couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Tonino looked at him with a kind of detached politeness, nothing of hostility or interest in his expression.

  “He’s not a difficult child,” said the director to Anna. “If you can make him understand what is expected of him, he complies without complaint. But he isn’t quite in the world, if I can put it that way. He’s hiding in his head. It’s not a medical term—”