Chapter 3 #2
A touch on her shoulder told her it was clear to leave, and she slipped silently into the night, moving close along the building
to the back door of the Arcadia. Her hands fumbled with the keys, and she chided herself for being silly, but she locked the
door immediately when she was inside. Relieved to be home again, she shoved the knitting bag and its contents in its hiding
place, then stood very still. After a few moments of wondering if there would be a knock on the door, she let out her breath
and tiptoed upstairs to bed.
Olivia looked out the parlor window to the avenue below. It was after eleven, and Celia had yet to return. There were still
a few people about, going home from the restaurants or the pubs, or from a late shift at work. It was a safe-enough area and
well lit, as far as street lighting went, but no young girl should be out that late, much less alone. Still, Olivia knew better
than to try to stop her. Celia was her rebel baby sister, had been from her first steps. And tempered further by the death
of their mother six years before.
Olivia sighed. What was the girl up to?
She couldn’t imagine her youngest sister making clandestine trysts. Celia was just eighteen and seemed to have no interest
in finding a husband, unlike Daphne, who seemed to think of nothing else.
Daphne could have Yannis Teller for the asking, but the silly girl was setting her sights higher. What could be higher in
a companion than a man who loved you in the way Yannis obviously loved her sister.
Just seeing them together sent a shiver of longing through her. Olivia bit her lip until it hurt. Just when she thought she
was safe from thoughts of love, she would catch a look, a tilt of a stranger’s head, a passage in a book that sent a dart
of pain straight to her heart. She had no illusions about her appeal to men, not like Daphne. Daphne was everything she wasn’t.
No matter, she had more important things to do than to moon over a lost love. As if she’d ever had love, however briefly,
to lose. And never would.
She pressed her cheek to the glass, trying to see down the street in order to catch a glimpse of Celia’s return. She was tempted
to open the window and lean out, but if Celia saw her, she would be mortified. The spinster sister spying on her.
Olivia didn’t believe for a moment that Celia was knitting socks for the unfortunate. Carrying that infernal knitting bag
everywhere she went. She’d adamantly refused to learn the craft when Olivia, feeling the pressure of fulfilling some kind
of motherly guidance to her younger sisters, had tried to teach them. It had been a colossal failure. Daphne declared that
store-bought hose were fine for her. Celia just looked blank and refused even to give it a try.
The girl was up to something. No doubt about that. But for the life of her, Olivia couldn’t figure out what. Any time she very subtly prodded her sister for a little illumination, Celia clammed up like she was being given the third degree.
Olivia heard a slight sound. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Her sister was home at last. But how had Olivia missed seeing
her return? No matter, she was back, and Olivia could stop worrying, at least for tonight.
She turned from the window and hurried back to her room, where she quickly slipped back into bed. It wouldn’t do to be caught
spying.
Someone was shaking her. Celia opened her eyes, and Daphne’s face appeared inches above her. “What’s wrong with you? Wake up!”
Celia blinked. “I just got to bed.” It had been late when she’d returned last night. Olivia and Daphne had both been asleep
when she’d tiptoed down the hall to bed. But not to sleep. Her mind was turning over and over, wondering how much longer she
could keep up the subterfuge, all the while making plans for a future that would give her the means to come out of the shadows
and fight openly for things that mattered.
“Didn’t you hear the alarm clock? It’s already eight o’clock. You’re supposed to do the shopping before we open.”
She also had to deliver her printed flyers to her contact. She’d meant to get up early, before the others were awake. She
shoved the covers away and headed for the bathroom. She dressed hurriedly and walked quickly past the kitchen, where her sisters
were preparing breakfast.
“Out to the grocer’s,” she announced without slowing down.
“We need coffee,” Olivia called after her. “ Have Mrs. Costello put it on our account.”
“And don’t you dare be late,” Daphne added. “You owe me.”
Celia barely heard Olivia’s admonishment to Daphne not to nag; her mind was already racing ahead to what she had to do.
She took the three flights of steps at breakneck speed and quickly retrieved her knitting bag, then let herself out the front
door and turned toward Grace Church.
It was early enough that shopkeepers and booksellers were just beginning to emerge from their businesses. Celia made sure
she smiled and even stopped briefly to say hello to the Dauber brothers, who stood outside their stationery store, all the
while keeping one eye out for anything, or anyone, who looked out of place. All that talk at Yannis’s last night and the need
for secrecy under the cloak of darkness had given her the fidgets.
A block later she slowed, bowed her head, and ducked into a narrow walkway between the church office buildings that led to
the back of Grace Church. The stone walls chilled the air in the narrow passageway, and on the hottest days of summer it was
often filled with urchins hoping for respite from the street heat, and possibly a biscuit or bit of sausage from the church
rectory.
Ahead of her, the church and spire rose like a scene from a Gothic fairy tale. The main entrance on Fifth Avenue was the real
marvel, with its massive tower and ornate detail.
But Celia preferred the serenity of the smaller beautiful stained-glass rose window that overlooked the back garden, where
several benches were placed for contemplation and communing with nature—and prayer, of course. Right now, Celia was selfishly
praying that her mission would be successful and she could visit the grocery and butcher and get back to the Arcadia with
time to spare before opening.
But she took her time, strolling a bit and looking at the various shrubs and perennials, clusters of yellow coreopsis and some spiky purple flowers that should be named Triumph.
She chose a bench and sat, placing her knitting bag by her foot, and bowed her head.
Casually, she leaned over and pretended to fiddle with her shoe, while she slipped the bundle of pamphlets from the bag.
Then she arranged her skirt, using the activity to push the package farther under the bench with one foot, before raising her face to the sky, trying to look inspired and holy, and hoping that God wouldn’t mind her using his grounds for a good cause, even if it was illegal.
After all, Jesus had thrown the Pharisees out of the temple, healed the sick, ministered to the weary, fed the masses, and
forgiven the sinners. And made a whole lot of enemies along the way. Surely he wouldn’t frown on her paltry attempts to help
others.
After an interminable minute or two, she stood and took a final appreciative look around, while also making sure no one was
watching her. Feeling a bit more at ease, and a little righteous, she walked back toward the avenue.
Halfway down the walkway, she passed a middle-aged woman, dressed in heavy mourning, walking her little dog. They exchanged
nods and went their separate ways.
When Celia stepped out into the sunlight, she didn’t look back. She knew where the woman would be sitting, and that when she
left, the stack of pamphlets would leave with her, hidden somewhere within the deep folds of her widow’s weeds.
She crossed the street and bought coffee and a bag of apples, then picked up three thick pork chops from Mr. Krause. She didn’t
stop to chat but hurried on her way.
She took a quick detour and ducked into the dry goods shop on Eleventh Street, where she quickly bought a dark gray skein from the bargain basket. Her old yarn was getting so dirty that not even a blind man would think she was actually using it for knitting.
Feeling very efficient, Celia struck off for the corner newsstand, where most mornings there would be a handful of booksellers
congregated on the sidewalk to buy their papers and catch up on gossip. It was probably too early to hear news about Margaret.
She was about to pass by when she heard Mr. Stammer say, “Must mean she made it out of the country by now.”
They had to be talking about Margaret. Celia breathed a sigh of relief. Margaret was still free and hopefully on her way to
England.
“They say she’s headed for Europe,” said Mr. Bender, who owned the art-book shop next to the church. “Just like a woman to
be going to Europe when there’s a war going on over there.”
“Don’t tell my wife I said this, but good riddance. That woman’s caused us all a might of trouble.”
“Very nearsighted of you, Gepfert. If Comstock’s not kept busy with harlots, abortionists, and the Margaret Sangers of the
world, he’ll turn his eye back to the bookshops. Cart off a few more truckloads of our inventory to be destroyed.”
“Especially with Mrs. Sanger’s unpublished manuscript floating around,” Mr. Schulte said. “I tell you, gentlemen, it’s a bad
business.”
“We better prepare for a visit by the morality man and his thugs fairly soon,” added Mr. Bender.
“Huh,” countered Mr. Schulte, whose shop was next door to Mr. Bender’s, and housed the largest theological inventory in the city.
“Just like a woman to leave a hornet’s nest. I don’t know why she had to tell the papers she’d written a book and left it behind to be printed.
Comstock’ll be tearing up the pavement looking for the damn thing. ”
“You’d think he would turn his sights back to the brothels,” said Mr. Stammer, “not the bookstores. Everyone knows he enjoys
their comfort a hell of a lot more than ours.”
The men laughed.
“They say he’s visited every brothel in the Tenderloin and beyond, some of them several times in order to judge whether it
was a brothel or not. Now I ask you, how many times does it take—” Seeing Celia, Mr. Stammer broke off and flushed to the
tips of his ears. He touched his hat to Celia. “Sorry, Miss Celia. Didn’t see you were there. Pardon my colorful language.”
Celia smiled. “Not at all.” She reached for a copy of the Sun. He should hear Olivia when she was on a tear.
But the other thing did bother her. Every time Comstock was thwarted in his war against prostitutes, midwives, actresses—all
women in general—he turned back to books, all of which he considered the most heinous threats of all to morality. He loved
flexing his muscle at Book Row and the smaller booksellers there. He’d destroyed hundreds, maybe thousands, of books, prints,
and paintings, most of which were perfectly acceptable to most people.
“You fellows can make jokes, but let’s face it, it says right here”—Mr. Henderson squinted at the newspaper he was holding—“Comstock
swears he will not rest until this purveyor of smut is in custody, and the manuscript she left behind is found and destroyed.”
Celia’s moment of relief twisted into a ball of anxiety, deep in the pit of her stomach. Margaret had left an unpublished manuscript. Surely not with anyone in their local group. Celia would have heard.
“And where do you find an unpublished manuscript? At a printer’s, waiting to be printed.”
Mr. Henderson slapped his paper against his thigh. “You’re talking about a man who thinks Michelangelo is a pornographer.
I don’t think he’ll be too particular about a few blocks on Fourth Avenue.”
“Well, if he’s planning to take on the whole publishing industry, the more fool he. He already raided Harper’s uptown. Got
a rap on the knuckles for that one.”
“That’s right. Let him march into Bible House with his thugs and see how far he gets.”
“They won’t put up with it,” said Mr. Stammer, whose shop was on the street floor of the Bible House building.
“It won’t be Bible House or Harper’s or any of the other big publishers. He’ll go after the little guy. And that’s all of
us, but somebody should give young Yannis Teller a heads-up. He’s already been hit twice.”
Celia made a mental note to warn Yannis, squeezed through the group to the counter, and read the lede line right on the front
page: “Elusive Mrs. Sanger Escapes Comstock’s Net.” She fished through her coins for a nickel and bought a copy to read when
she was alone in the shop.
“I hate to have to agree with you,” Mr. Bender said. “I hope this is resolved soon, or we’ll all be looking over our shoulders
through the Christmas rush.”
This roused horrified protests.
“That’s months away,” Mr. Schulte pointed out. “Surely it will be resolved by then.”
Mr. Bender shrugged. “We’ll see, but it’s getting to be late; let’s go sell some books while we can.”
There was some agreement, a little grumbling as the group broke up, nodding to Celia, tipping their hats, and walking away,
leaving, for the briefest second, a view of a man perusing the choices of newspapers and magazines. He chose a copy of the Sun and turned toward her.
And Celia’s stomach did a pleasant little flip-flop. A new face in the crowd of faces she saw every day. And what a face it
was. Embarrassed, she quickly folded her own paper and added it to the other things in her knitting bag, but not before eyeing
his well-cut suit and stylish homburg.
And she couldn’t keep the smile from her face as she hurried away.
But that unexpected pleasure didn’t last long.
A new face at a time like this? Probably just a customer, someone on his way to the office who stopped for a paper. Still . . . She risked a glance back.
He was watching her, and she almost tripped; then he smiled at her and walked in the opposite direction. She smiled, too—she
couldn’t help it—and part of her kept smiling until she was almost home.