Chapter Twenty-Seven
But of course, like all magic, the spell must eventually end. And it does. The bad news arrives in the form of a telegram. “From Chester,” Mamma says, her face going ashen. “Kit.”
I fly to her side and read over her shoulder, staring at the words in mute disbelief.
Diphtheria. My brother, my beautiful little boy, has fallen to the dreaded disease that is sweeping through the halls of his boarding school. This infection, which has been ravaging the nation in recent years, has made its way to Pennsylvania. And now we have to return there, as well.
Mamma and I travel like two phantoms back to Tarentum, but this is a nightmare from which there is no waking. Stan arranges for our first-class rail travel the entire way, and has Kit’s body cleaned and placed into a walnut coffin, which he arranges to be transported directly to us in Tarentum.
Back in coal country, wrapped in black mourning weeds, we revisit the grave site where Daddy’s body rests.
We do battle with the frozen earth to lay Kit into the ground beside Daddy.
A small crowd gathers to pray with us as the village priest stands over Kit’s lowered coffin.
A trickling stream of dour-faced distant relatives and former neighbors offer their condolences, many of them pausing to tell me just how proud they are of my fame.
One matron even shows me a clipping she’s saved from a local newspaper, proudly brandishing my crumpled image as though tempted to ask for my autograph.
Mercifully, she does not, but I’m grateful for the black netting that drapes from my hat, concealing my face from their gawking, probing stares.
I don’t say much for several days. Not to these neighbors or to the priest, not even to Mamma.
I try not to think much, either. Every time I do, all I can think about is how I missed out on years with my brother.
How Kit was tucked away at school while I occupied a different world.
I always thought we’d get our time, eventually.
Someday, he’d join me up in the city. Until then…
I always felt this grinding need to work, to provide for his future.
But in doing so, I missed out on his life.
Years I can now never reclaim. I got so wrapped up in myself, in my climb toward comfort and perhaps even security.
Illusions, all of it. What does it matter on this bleak winter day?
No luxury can bring back my baby brother.
Kit, like Daddy, was snatched away in an instant.
Daddy. It’s the first time I’ve been back to his grave since his awful burial, so many years ago. All these years later, I’m just as confused as I was then. Why did he leave so suddenly? And why did Kit have to follow? And how will I, without them, be able to carry on?
Well, I know the answer to that one. Because this frozen ground is the exact spot where I first learned it. This grave site is the very place where I first had to do it, all those years ago. I have to push my tears back down and force myself to walk on.
Back in Manhattan, I pour myself into work.
Penny is a constant and reliable comfort, offering walks and chats, dropping by for visits on the mornings when I find it hard to rise from bed.
Stanny takes me to supper, or we order in and eat quiet meals at his brownstone.
My body, in spite of the cruel fates that have befallen the two people I loved most in this world, carries on with youthful vibrancy and energy.
And so, as winter unfurls, I carry on with life, playing for packed houses. What other choice do I have?
But that spring finds me staring glumly at the calendar, lamenting other news: Stan’s work will take him to the Continent for the upcoming summer.
“I’ve put this trip off for far too long, and that’s down to you,” Stan says, kissing the tip of my nose as I sit on the edge of his massive four-poster bed.
“I can’t be away from you for a day, let alone months.
But it’s time. It’s past time, in fact. Why, before you, I went abroad a few times a year.
I cannot put it off any longer; my warehouses are almost entirely empty, and my clients are growing frustrated.
Of course, I haven’t told them my reasons—that there’s a little kitten who holds me in her grip and makes it unbearable for me to leave. ”
I wanted another magical summer with Stanny. Another season of boat rides on the Hudson and beach outings at Coney Island. Most of all, I don’t want to be apart from him. Stan’s presence in my life is the only anchor these days that gives me any feeling of security.
So then, since I can’t keep him with me in Manhattan, I beg, “Take me with you to Europe.”
“Not this time, Kitten.”
“But you promised,” I press. Paris and London and Venice—as he outlines his itinerary, I yearn to go, not only to be with Stanny but also to see these fabled places he’s spoken about so often.
“This trip is work, not play,” he says. “Better that I go, see to what must be done, and return to you as quickly as I can manage.” I can tell from his tone that he’s decided.
I flop onto the bed, hoping to summon him to me, but he appears uncharacteristically impervious to my presence, so preoccupied is he with packing his trunks.
As he sorts through a pile of neckties, he goes on.
“I’ll bring you some nice things, I promise.
And besides, you’ll be so busy this summer, you’ll hardly notice I’m missing.
Though I’ll confess: I do hope you miss me at least a bit.
I don’t want some cad swooping in to fly off with you.
If your mother is a wise woman, she won’t allow that to happen. ”
“It would serve you right if one did,” I retort, my tone as sour as my mood.
I’m being petulant and I know it. But he’s the one who filled my imagination with tantalizing images of Paris and London.
And after all his talk of loving me madly, telling me his world is mine, wouldn’t this be the best time to show me? And to show others, as well?
I can’t help but suspect that at least a part of his reluctance to bring me stems from the fact that he does not wish to reveal to the wider world that we are a romantic pair.
And that irks me. I’ll be nineteen this year.
I’m a wildly successful artists’ model and a celebrated Broadway performer.
I’m not a child. I’m ready to tell the world that my lover is Stanley Pierce. But why won’t he claim me as his?
When I finally meet his eyes, I see I’ve wounded him.
No, it’s something else. I’ve offended him.
Stan’s lips are a tight line, and when he speaks, his words are cool.
“I am going to forget that you said that, Evelyn, because I do not believe you truly feel that way. I think you are being childish, and it’s not a side of you that I enjoy.
I’m going to excuse myself. When I return, I hope to find that you’ve regained your composure.
That, or you may excuse yourself until you have. ”
Stan leaves the room without another word, and I sit there alone on his bed, chastised, feeling every bit the child he has just accused me of being.
Our first quarrel, I realize. I draw my knees up into my chest, refusing to cry.
Nor will I follow him and beg for his forgiveness.
I won’t be made to look even more immature.
I turn away from his open trunk, rolling onto my side on top of the bedcovers.
And that’s when I see something I hadn’t previously noticed.
On his side of the bed, right next to the bedside table, lies a small leather-bound book.
Thinking it must be some sort of diary—the sort that I’d never keep, for fear that Mamma would find it and read my secrets—I now can’t resist the urge to peek at it.
I throw my eyes toward the doorway. No sign nor sound from Stanny.
He’s so cross with me that he’ll probably stay away for a while, hoping I’ll cool off.
I look back at the little book. Perhaps Stanny has written about me?
I slide over to his side of the bed, and I take the book into my hands.
One more glance toward the door, and then I open the diary. But instead of a diary, it appears to be a list. Or a series of lists. Packing arrangements?
The first column is labeled “New York,” and there follows a long series of names, scrawled in Stanny’s familiar handwriting.
Adeline
Alva
Annie
I swallow, noticing how my heart is hammering in my throat. But I force myself to read on.
Belle
Bernice (London for the winter season)
Beth
Blanche
Cara
Cate
Dee
Dinah
Dolly
The paper quivers in my hands, but I carry on, still on the New York list.
Edith
Elene
Elinor
Elizabeth C.
Elizabeth V.
Evelyn*
My stomach curdles, I feel as though I might be sick.
Fanny
Frances
Gillian
Greta
Hannah
Hattie
Hilda
Hillary
Ilsa (travels often to Berlin)
Ina
Ingrid
I’m still only on the New York column, but I can’t go on. Are these…lovers?
The room has tipped sideways, and I drop the book, my body collapsing alongside it on the bed.
Could Stan really have had that many lovers?
All before me? Or—terrible thought—is he still carrying on with these other girls?
And why is he packing this list, this book, for his summer travels?
The pages go on and on, and that’s only New York.
I flip ahead and come to a list labeled “London.” Pages later, “Paris.” And then “Rome.” “Berlin.” “Venice.” “Vienna.”