Upon further questioning, Mr. Rofrano admitted that his interest in the case was more than casual, for he himself had been raised to manhood within that same unfortunate building. He would not otherwise have made the connection, it seems, because when asked how his suspicions were first raised—considering, that is, how well the accused had covered all traces of his previous existence—Mr. Rofrano replied simply, “His ears.”
(Having been presented with an unobstructed prospect of said organs—perhaps wings will provide the reader with a more accurate description—for the past three days, I can confirm that no amount of careful disguise, by beard or by hat, could obscure this singular and unfortunate feature of the accused’s person. If, as Mr. Rofrano admits, he has studied this case from childhood—photographs, newspaper articles, and the like—I don’t wonder that he should look upon those ears with the same familiarity as a long-lost relative.)
In any case, once the first alarm was rung, Mr. Rofrano’s quick intellect began to gather other telling details: the names and ages of the daughters, the long absence of a mother, the curious reclusiveness of the family despite its riches. The singular profession of the accused, and his habit of disappearing for fathomless hours into his workshop. Further inquiries—such as that made of Mr. Philip Schuyler—soon hardened his suspicions into certainty.
The prosecution then attempted a line of questioning to do with Mr. Rofrano’s childhood memories of the case, to which the defense objected—Hearsay!—on the grounds that he had obtained his information from a neighbor, unreliable because of their mutual youth and the dozen or so years that had passed in the meantime. The defense then took over cross-examination of the witness, to which Mr. Rofrano responded—to the extent one can determine Mr. Rofrano’s emotional state at all—with some relief.
Why, the defense wanted to know, having formed this startling suspicion, did Mr. Rofrano not immediately report his discovery to the police? Mr. Rofrano replied that he had no proof at all, that the crime had occurred nearly two decades earlier, and that he had no wish to inflict such an ordeal upon the family of the accused, who were only young girls at the time of the awful event, and who would be greatly disturbed to learn all the grisly details of their poor mother’s demise. As the younger Miss Fortescue was engaged to be married, and the elder was already bound in matrimony, they would soon be removed from their father’s immediate physical influence in any case. On the other hand, Mr. Rofrano worried the threat of prosecution could inspire the heretofore complacent Mr. Fortescue—if, indeed, he were the killer—to commit some desperate act that might place the young ladies in danger.
Weighing all these considerations, and with due respect for the presumption of innocence, Mr. Rofrano said he decided that the safety and happiness of Miss Fortescue and her sister must, in this case, be placed above the demands of criminal justice.
Mr. Rofrano uttered this speech—longer by many degrees than any previous statement—without a single glance toward the two ladies in question, nor the accused himself. As to whether his words elicited any emotion from the former Misses Fortescue, I had no way to determine, other than the fact that both remained quietly in their seats, and disdained any audible reaction.
The defense, perhaps not surprisingly, did not dwell upon the dramatic events of the fourth of February, and Mr. Rofrano was dismissed with the admonition to hold himself ready for recall, should either side require further testimony from him.
Adjournment was then called until the next morning. As the temperature in the courtroom had, by this time, descended to a more habitable height, there was some disappointment that we would not have the opportunity to hear from Mrs. Lumley, the Scarsdale housewife who once served as a humble char in the Faninal household in Greenwich, now raised to respectability by a munificent husband, and on whose testimony the prosecution’s case is expected to hinge.
I suppose that in criminal justice, as in all else, such good things must come in their own time.
CHAPTER 14
You will never win if you never begin.
—HELEN ROWLAND
SOPHIE
February the fourth, just past seven o’clock in the evening
FATHER’S WAITING in the parlor when Sophie sails down the stairs in her party clothes. She was hoping to avoid him, but you can’t avoid Father when he wants to be found. He folds the newspaper and climbs to his feet, and to her surprise he’s wearing evening dress, black and white and crisp all over.
“Why, you’re not coming?” she gasps.
“Why not? It’s my daughter’s engagement party, isn’t it?” He meets her dismay with an unexpected smile, and Sophie, bewildered, detects wave after tiny wave of satisfaction shimmering from his skin, like he’s applied some strange new variety of shaving soap with a tonic effect. A different man from the one who stomped home from the workshop last night, muttering dusty nothings into the wallpaper.
“Yes, but—”
He laughs. Laughs! Laughs and uses her old nickname. “Never fear, Baby. I’ll come along later and linger at the back. You won’t even notice I’m there.”
Sophie hovers. Wavers. Starts forward a few steps and brushes his satin lapel. Where on earth did he get that jacket? Her fingers are shaking a little; her brain is recalculating. Somewhere in the corner, the gramophone is singing tinnily, some kind of sentimental nonsense. “Don’t be silly. I want you there. It’s just a surprise, that’s all. Last I heard, you’d decided not to come. It was just me and Virginia.”
“Well, it’s not my kind of party, you know. It’s the kind of thing your mother would have loved.” He takes her fingers, another unexpected gesture. “But I just—well, Baby, I’m not a man of many words. I haven’t been the most affectionate papa, I guess—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the best father in the world. You’ve given us a wonderful home, and a—a—that time in Europe, and . . .”
How strange, he won’t let go of her hand. His eyes are steady, but without all the awful steel. She can’t look away. She can’t quite remember what she was saying.
Then the gaze drops. Down to their linked hands.
“I just wanted to keep you safe, that’s all,” he mumbles.
“Well, you’ve done that, all right,” she says brightly, “and now look! Off we go, into the future.”
“Yes. A good, solid future. Trust me on this, Baby. Ochsner will make you happy. He might seem a little rackety, but he’s a good man. A good man. He’ll give you everything I can’t, and maybe—well, one day . . .” He looks up and finds her again, and this time it’s as if he’s pleading, just a little, in the corners of his eyebrows. As if there’s something he needs from her.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Just what Sophie needs right now, when she’s all resolved, when her plans are laid. She glances over her shoulder, hoping to see Virginia descending at last, and turns back with a faint laugh. “Oh, Father. You’re not getting sentimental on me, are you? It’s just a party.”
And the plea disappears, just like that, leaving his eyebrows back at their ordinary angles. He tugs an earlobe and steps back, dropping her hand. “Just a party. You’re right. Go on and enjoy yourself, I guess. Virginia will keep an eye on you for me.”
“And you’ll be there, too.”
“I’ll be there, too. Just for the toast, mind you. I can’t take any more than that.”
Oh, only the toast, Sophie thinks. A thin-skinned bubble of laughter rises in her throat. At least he’s going to get his money’s worth.
Virginia’s voice floats down the stairway. “Sophie! The taxi’s here!”
Sophie smiles and leans forward to kiss her father’s cheek. The skin is drier than she remembers, like he’s transforming into paper. An old man with two grown daughters.
She pats the cheek she’s just kissed: an act of supreme and modern boldness, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“It’s going to be spectacular, I promise.”
SOPHIE HAS THIS FUNNY HABIT, when she’
s walking down the street or entering a room. She’s doing it now, from the back of the taxi, in the middle of Fifth Avenue, on the way uptown to her engagement party.
Sophie was only two years old when her mother died, and she doesn’t remember her at all. Virginia says that’s a good thing. You never knew Mother, she says, so you never had a chance to miss her.
Sophie doesn’t agree, though she’d never say this to Virginia. Her sister cared for her so devotedly as a child, and she might be hurt. But Sophie grew into girlhood bearing a small yet distressing fissure in the center of her heart, and she was always looking for ways to fill the gap. There was Virgo, of course. There was the housemaid who came to live with them, a maid-of-all-work, really: a young woman from Brooklyn who gave Sophie sweets from the pocket of her pinafore apron, and who had a little girl of her own who was being brought up by relatives upstate. This was a secret, Muriel told Sophie, showing her the photograph, and Sophie ate the sweets and kept the secret and listened to her stories in the kitchen during the evening, when Muriel was doing the dishes. Until Muriel was dismissed, quite suddenly and without explanation, and Sophie turned to Mrs. Kelly and her soda bread downstairs.
The funny thing was, Sophie never really believed her mother was dead at all. In her childish way, she felt that Mother had only gone away, for some tragic reason of the variety you read about in sentimental novels, and that she was actually lurking around New York in some kind of disguise, watching over her family and longing to rejoin them. Sophie used to look for her, on the way home from school, or walking around the neighborhood. She would look in taxi windows and through library shelves; she would peek into the back rooms of shops and at every face they passed along the sidewalks. Hoping for a flash of recognition. Hoping that, if she—Sophie—were good enough and sweet enough and generally irresistible, her mother might be tempted to return to them.
Until Sophie turned twelve or thirteen, and she put away childish things. She understood her mother really was dead—yes, lifeless, expired, banished from human existence—and she wasn’t coming back, no matter how well Sophie behaved. How did she die? she finally asked Virginia, and Virgo said that she had become very sick, and one day she was too sick to go on.
That was all Virginia would say. She wouldn’t talk about what Mother was like, or where they used to live, or why they came to New York after she died. Only a few small, blurred photographs remained of that previous existence: one on Father’s bedside table, and three in the scrapbook Virgo keeps in her chest of drawers. (Mother was one of those people who hated having her photograph taken, apparently.) You look like her, that was all Sophie was told, and she used to gaze into the mirror, turning this way and that, wondering which features were borrowed from this mysterious woman who was present at her birth, and which belong only to Sophie.
But childish habits are hard to break, and when the taxi staggers into a knot of traffic on the corner of Forty-Ninth Street, Sophie’s gaze falls first on the face of a black-coated woman hurrying south along the sidewalk, brows all worried, clutching a pocketbook in her left hand; then a lady of massive bosom, steaming along like an ocean liner, flanked by two giggling girls; then a woman wearing a small hat, very neat and businesslike, carrying a valise that bounced against her leg.
Virginia nudges her. “What are you thinking about, Baby?”
“I was thinking about Mother.”
“Mother! My goodness. Why?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s my engagement party, I suppose. Every girl wants her mother to attend her moment of triumph.”
Virgo takes her hand and squeezes it. “She would be so proud of you, Baby. Look at you. All grown up and beautiful.”
“I don’t know about beautiful, but I do feel rather grown-up.”
“Your dress is certainly grown up.” Virginia’s tone stops just short of admiration.
“Julie helped me pick it out. We had a grand time at B. Altman’s, trying everything on. It’s a shame you couldn’t come.”
“You should have had something made for you, an occasion like this.”
“There wasn’t time. Anyway, who wants to sit around a dressmaker’s shop for endless fittings, when you can have anything you like in a department store?”
They still haven’t moved. It’s Fifth Avenue, always crowded. A beautiful new bronze and granite tower rises from the center of the avenue, topped by a light shining white for GO—mocking them, really, because there’s nowhere to move. A few dozen horns burp in outrage. Unconcerned, the light switches back to green.
“Let’s walk,” says Sophie.
“Walk! But your shoes!”
“It’s only a dozen blocks or so. I’ll bet we get there sooner than the taxi.”
“Oh, Baby, no—”
But Sophie doesn’t listen. She takes a dollar bill from the sequined bag at her wrist and shoves it over the seat at the driver. “Come on,” she says, reaching for the door handle.
Poor Virgo. She’s spent the past two weeks nursing a sick child, fever up and down, rashes appearing and disappearing, hardly two hours’ consecutive sleep. Little Evelyn’s doing better today, but now her mother’s a ruin. Her dress is ancient—of course, she hasn’t had time to shop—and her serene face is no match for her fatigue. Her old-fashioned hair is done up at the nape of her neck, without a sequin or a joyous feather in sight. But she’s here. She’s gathered up her strength for an evening out, her first bit of fun in ages—maybe ever—and as they clatter up the sidewalk, maneuvering around gray-hatted businessmen and floral-scented secretaries and the odd late shopper, Sophie feels the smallest bit guilty.
Maybe she should warn Virginia of what’s to come.
But no. Virginia—serene, staid Virgo—will be horrified. Virginia will try to talk her out of it. Virginia’s expression will stretch into astonished horror—Oh, Sophie, no!—and Sophie’s such a good girl, how can she resist a heart-tugging appeal like that? No, no, no. Virgo’s going to be just as surprised as the rest of them.
It’s going to be grand. It’s going to be—as Julie Schuyler puts it—fireworks.
CHAPTER 15
When a girl marries, she exchanges the attentions of many men for the inattention of one.
—HELEN ROWLAND
THERESA
A dozen blocks north, two hours later
YOU CAN tell right away if a party’s going to rise or fall, can’t you, and this one’s soaring straight up to the heavens. Like a helium balloon on a cold morning.
I’d like to claim all the credit, but that wouldn’t be fair. In the first place, the weather’s showing a bit of thaw, at least temporarily, and there’s nothing like the thawing-out of a cold February to lend everyone that bubbly springtime feeling, like there’s hope for the world after all. And there is hope, my goodness! Business is picking up again, I’ve heard, and people are beginning to shed that haze of dread that’s hung about ever since the war ended. All those fears—communists, anarchists, influenza—are lifting from our shoulders. Maybe another disaster isn’t waiting around the corner, after all. Maybe we can take our shoes off and have a sneaky drink and a good time, and fate won’t sock us for it. Or maybe fate will sock us anyway, whether we’re having a good time or not, so we might as well have a good time while we can.
Or maybe it’s just me. I’m happy, really happy, for the first time in ages. Everything’s working out. Sylvo’s being a gentleman about the divorce—taking all the blame, offering plenty of compensation—and the Boy seems to have forgotten his passing fancy for the Fortescue girl. We’re making plans to head out to California, once the papers are signed—the Boy says he’s through with New York, he wants to make a whole new start, far away from old Manhattan Island—and the only thing left is to break that news to Ollie and Billy. But they won’t mind, will they? California’s only three days away, ensconced in a comfortable Pullman car, and when you get there, you have sunshine and clean air and a nice wholesome ocean. And oranges! You can pick them right off the
trees, I’ve heard.
So that’s settled, and in the meantime there’s this party. I decided on a South America theme, just to whet the appetites of the happy couple, and the place really does take your breath. I’ve spared no expense. There’s an Amazonian jungle in the foyer, and the drawing room is Rio de Janeiro. I’ve dressed the staff in native garb, as depicted in the color plates of The Illustrated Guide to South America, and while I’m afraid the cook had some difficulty in finding authentic recipes for the aboriginal cuisine, we do have a sufficiency of imported pineapples.
As for my costume. Well! I think I’ve quite outdone myself. The Boy’s eyes practically swelled with admiration when I emerged from my dressing room, and while I can’t exactly move my head with ease, the entire ensemble’s really more comfortable than you’d think. For example, when the Boy set down his drink and set about testing my seams, we were able to arrange ourselves on the edge of the dressing table without too much trouble, hoisting skirts and unbuttoning trousers, and the very haste and passion with which the Boy consummated his admiration made the effort all worthwhile. Why, he didn’t even stop to put out his cigarette: just bang, bang, bang, while the fag dangled from his teeth, and his desperate fingers dug into my hips. It was exactly what I needed, at such a moment, and while my wrists still ache from the effort of bracing myself on that damned table, my hair is nonetheless full of the Boy’s hot breath, and my skin is flushed, and every rocky doubt has melted away under the geological pressure of copulation.