Chapter 2 #2
And all the other volumes tucked away in a second hidden safe that the two younger girls had discovered only when his will was read. Their father didn’t trade in pornography but in fine bookbinding.
And now they were stuck with the onus of trying to sell them, all because of one overly zealous man who considered himself
the “morality man of Manhattan,” Anthony Comstock.
“Well, no matter,” said Olivia brightly, though Celia could tell she was still beyond peeved. “Edmund Price is still interested
in the Audubon watercolor portfolio. Even Mr. Comstock couldn’t find anything questionable about flowers.”
After that, Olivia withdrew to her workroom upstairs. And Celia and Daphne went about their daily duties.
At noon, there was the usual lunchtime rush of shopgirls looking for the latest romances, and law clerks and shop boys in
search of adventure and detective stories.
That was the good thing about books, Celia thought as she tied up a bundle of old Nick Carter magazines for a freckle-faced
printer’s assistant (you could tell by the ink under his nails). They added spice to otherwise ordinary lives.
At one o’clock, Celia took her lunch while Daphne minded the till.
They always took their lunches singly (bread and hard cheese, since neither dripped or ran onto the merchandise). That way
there was always someone to tend the floor.
And thanks to their grandfather’s foresight, they didn’t have to eat standing outside in the back courtyard.
Fifty years ago Henry D. Applebaum had bought not just the property but also the corridor between the bookshop and the neighboring printshop that was being used as a horse path to a courtyard and several carriage houses.
He enclosed the narrow area to enlarge the Arcadia’s floor space—on all four floors.
This intelligent and financially lucrative move made it possible to create a small office, a small elevator shaft, a lavatory,
a staff kitchen, and a spacious storage closet on the first floor
The second floor was expanded to accommodate better-quality texts and scientific books.
On the third floor he’d set up a client parlor at the street window and partitioned the back half of the area with a wall
of dark wainscoting and carved friezes, creating an atmosphere of elegance. Behind the wall were the binding and repair workrooms.
Unlike the first two floors, the original area of the second floor remained as it was. The enclosed horse path was carefully
concealed by more dark wainscoting and could only be accessed through a small, discreet entrance cut into it. This was where
their most delicate volumes were maintained in a controlled atmosphere and where a high-security safe was housed behind a
secondary wall of brick.
Arcadia Rare Bookshop wasn’t the only shop with secure storage spaces or hidden safes. Some of the books sold on Book Row
were extremely expensive, rare, even antique, stretching back centuries. The additional security was not only because of their
delicate condition and the fortune they would bring, but also because a number of their classical literary works were banned
in the United States. Just having them in their possession would incur a heavy fine, and any attempt to sell them would lead
to imprisonment. But none of their books were pornography.
They never dealt with works of pornography. Not at the Arcadia.
No one had ever questioned the disparity of floor space, and the Applebaums certainly never mentioned it.
The carriage houses gradually fell into disuse, and the courtyard was mainly used by store clerks for a quick smoke or as a shortcut to the pub on East Twelfth Street.
And the fact that there had once been a cart path dropped from memory.
At six o’clock Daphne and Celia rolled the outside bins inside. Celia pushed the throwaway box, from which most of the books
had disappeared, into the door well, where it was ready to receive more castoffs during the night, and turned the sign to
closed.
While Celia counted up the day’s receipts and locked them in the office safe, Daphne straightened the shelves and returned
the few rickety wooden chairs used by the afternoon regulars to their proper places.
Then they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, turning off lights and locking each floor as they went. On the third floor,
Celia double-checked the door to Olivia’s office and workspace. Celia couldn’t remember a time when Olivia hadn’t locked her
door, but she checked anyway; it would take only once, as her sister often reminded her. Though she never explained what “it”
was exactly.
As soon as they reached the landing of the fourth floor, the aroma of bacon filled them with anticipation. Celia’s stomach
rumbled. She’d only had a roll and cheese all day.
Both girls headed straight through the parlor, a comfortable sitting room that looked exactly the same as when their mother was alive.
Down the narrow hall were the two bedrooms, Olivia’s on the left, and the one that Celia and Daphne shared right across from it.
There was a larger third chamber on the far side of the parlor; that had been their parents’ room, where their mother and so many of their siblings had died.
None of them wanted to use it as a bedroom, separated from her sisters and having to sleep alone among the ghosts of the past.
They stopped at the bathroom and quickly washed their hands and faces, not even bothering to bicker over who hogged most of
the towel or used the most water. In a minute they burst into the kitchen, not two clever workingwomen but voracious young
girls, crowding around their sister to see what else would be on the menu.
Mashed potatoes, bread, and greens. Olivia was a firm believer in greens. To her, no meal was complete without a serving of
something green.
The kitchen was at the very back of the apartment, with windows that overlooked the old courtyard, which by day was just a
boring space of run-down sheds and piles of discarded cardboard. But at night, looking out the window at the courtyard, unlit
and forgotten, was like looking into the ocean on a starless night—or the depths of the stygian pit of hell.
The kitchen was cozy, with colorful curtains and several needlepoint samplers their mother had stitched. Daphne set the table
while Celia carefully transferred the serving dishes from the warming oven.
After the briefest moment of silence in order to better appreciate their meal, all three of them dug in.
“I suppose you’re off again to your knitting club,” Olivia said.
Celia nodded. Fortunately, her mouth was full of bacon, which precluded her needing to say more. She called it her do-gooders
club. And she was doing good. Just not in the way she’d led her sisters to believe.
Daphne reached for another slice of bread. “I still can’t imagine you knitting socks for orphans. Wouldn’t it be easier to buy ones that are machine made and won’t have big gaps in them like yours probably do?”
Celia shrugged. That’s exactly what she did. Donated a percentage of her spending money to the Ladies of Charity, which met
at Grace Church a half block away. Even though she’d never been to one of their meetings, donating, she hoped, made her lie
a little less of a lie.
But Olivia and Daphne didn’t need to know that. None of them went to church, so there was little chance of any members of
the Ladies of Charity giving her away. And it was for their own protection. What Celia did on the sly was extremely illegal.
But shouldn’t be. It was an important contribution to women who had no voice of their own.
As soon as dinner was over—the dishes washed, dried, and put away, along with leftover potatoes to be fried the next morning
for breakfast—Celia slipped her apron over her head. “I’d better get going.”
“Maybe you should take Daphne with you,” Olivia suggested. “It wouldn’t hurt her to do a little charitable work.”
“I’m standing right here. And it’s my bath night, and then”—she gave a little shiver of delight—“I’m going to finish reading
my book. I’ve only four chapters left.”
Celia leaned close. “Better read it under the covers, or Mr. Comstock may snatch it away before you find out how it ends.”
“I already know how it ends.”
Celia shook her head. “Then what’s the point of reading it, if you already know how it ends when you begin?”
“I have to make sure it has a happy ending. I only want to read books with happy endings.”
Olivia hung her apron on the hook by the door. “I’ve got more work to finish up. Don’t let the tub overflow while I’m gone.”
Daphne made a face and hurried away.
As Celia began to head downstairs, Olivia called out, “Be sure to lock up, and make sure there are no hooligans waiting on
the street to bother you. If you see anyone loitering, come right back inside.”
“Olivia, it’s not even eight o’clock. There will be plenty of people to save me from hooligans and fancy men.”
Olivia scoffed.
“Gotta run.” Celia blew her sister a kiss. “Dinner was delicious.”
When she reached the first floor, Celia stood for a few seconds listening for the sounds of footsteps overhead or descending
the stairs. Any sign that Olivia might have followed her down to make sure of her safety. She could sometimes be as protective
as a mother.
A mother we don’t have, she reminded herself.
All was silent. Still, she tiptoed to the back of the store, where she knelt down by the shelf of dictionaries and, after
once more straining her ears, very carefully moved the OED volumes from her hiding spot and filled her knitting bag. It was Selena who’d convinced Celia to find a secure hiding place,
Selena who told her about Yannis’s work for the cause and many others, and made her take an oath of total secrecy. At first
Celia could hardly believe it. Yannis had been their neighbor and friend for years. And she’d had no idea he even had a cause.
Celia had come a long way since that day on the street when a cheery young woman, named for moonlight, had bumped into her and, in the commotion that followed, slipped Celia a flyer for a meeting about women’s health and invited her to come. She’d decided to attend, and she hadn’t looked back.
She nearly let out a scream when Jane Addams jumped down from where she’d been sleeping among the thesauruses.
Celia stroked the calico. “You’re right. I was ruminating. And I’m going to be late.” She replaced the OED. It seemed that no matter how much she hurried, she was always late.
Hoping Olivia hadn’t decided to watch her from the front window, Celia let herself out the back door and into the dark courtyard.
She locked the door, double-checked to make sure it was secure. Hugging the wall against the dark, she felt her way for the
few feet to the next shop and the back door of Tellers’ Fine Printing and Stationery. She stopped again to listen, squinting
into the shadows for any movement that didn’t belong to the rats or the alley cats that stalked them. Then she felt her way
to the Tellers’ back door.
She knocked, two slow taps, followed by three quick taps. Another tap. A pause and two more taps. Sometimes she felt silly
using a secret knock, but not tonight.
She pressed herself close against the door, heard the lock turn. The door eased open. She was yanked inside. The darkness
was complete.