Chapter 4
It wasn’t until Celia saw Yannis stepping out of the printshop, rolling his sale cart to the sidewalk, that her little bubble
of enjoyment burst. This was no time to be smiling at strangers. They had work to do.
Besides, she saw strangers every day. Of course, there were the regulars, but often the shop was visited by people she had
never seen, nor would ever see again. Visitors or residents out of their normal neighborhood, people who had come specifically
looking for a hard-to-find book or were just passing by and had always meant to stop in.
She turned her smile on Yannis.
He lifted his chin at her in greeting. He had his hands full maneuvering the cart.
“I thought you were going to get this wheel fixed,” she said, taking the other end and giving it a hard shove.
It finally stood flush against the wall.
“Thanks,” he said, brushing off his hands and sounding a little taciturn.
It made her feel doubly guilty for smiling at that . . . that person.
“You seem troubled,” she said, glad she’d stuffed the newspaper in her knitting bag.
“My father”—Yannis glanced back at the store—“he’s worried that harm will come to my mother.”
“Because of us?”
“He doesn’t know exactly what we’re doing. He thinks I’m writing a novel and use the sitting room to work in the quiet. He
hardly ever comes down. The stairs are hard for him.
“But evidently he heard Estelle crying last night when he was locking up. He asked me about it.”
“You think he wouldn’t approve?”
Yannis smiled sheepishly. “Probably more than he would approve of me entertaining someone with a baby behind a locked door.”
Celia winced. “Is that what he thought? That would be a hard one to explain.”
“He isn’t naive. He was a bit of a provocateur himself, as I recall. Which makes him all the more anxious that I don’t bring
troubles—any troubles—onto my family.”
Celia’s stomach fell. “You want to quit?”
He shrugged and turned away to straighten a row of books.
“I understand if you do,” she said. Understand, but disappointed. Where would she go now for printing? Who could they trust? She didn’t want to depend too much on Jon and Selena; they had
a baby to protect. And you have sisters.
He turned on her. “Do you? Do you really?”
Taken aback at his sharpness, Celia lashed back. “I have family, too.”
He blew out a deep breath, flexing his fingers several times.
“I didn’t mean that. Of course you do. It’s just that you haven’t seen what the authorities can do.
During the uprising the police beat people and tore them from their families.
It didn’t matter who you were. Why do you think my father has trouble climbing stairs? ”
“But that won’t happen here.”
“No? Isn’t that why your Mrs. Sanger is fleeing the country?”
Celia blinked. Margaret wasn’t fleeing from fear for her family or herself. She’d explained that she could work harder free
than from a prison cell.
But Celia had also heard stories about how Comstock boasted of having driven more than fifteen women to suicide rather than
face prison. He painted them as abortionists and prostitutes who were so afraid of him they’d rather die. Celia wasn’t afraid
of him. Well, she was, but her hatred was stronger than her fear. So far . . .
But could she depend on Yannis, who had neither wife nor sister to protect? “And what about Jon’s causes . . . and yours.”
He pulled a box of stationery from the bottom shelf and shoved it onto the top shelf. “I’m just saying we need to be more
careful.”
“Then we shouldn’t be discussing it on the street,” she reminded him.
“No.” He glanced around. “Can you come tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think of some excuse. Wait. I can’t. It’s our concert night in Union Square. Olivia is already
suspicious about my nights out. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Okay. Tell her my father asked you to help with the books again.”
Celia laughed in spite of the gravity of their conversation. “The last time I ‘helped’ him with the books, we ended up working
a jigsaw puzzle.”
“I just won’t tell him you’re coming.”
“All right. Tomorrow. After dinner.” She picked up a book that had fallen to the ground and put it back on the cart, and, relieved to see that Daphne hadn’t put out the Arcadia carts, she left him to quickly put out her own.
By the time she deposited her bags behind the counter, dislodged Jane Addams from the sale cart, and rolled it outside, Yannis
had gone inside and a customer was walking into his shop.
After the second cart was in place, she carried the throwaway box inside. She had a quick look through and found another bookmark
in another shabby cookbook. A date, a time, and a place, something more that needed printing. Was it because of Margaret’s
absence that things were suddenly moving more rapidly? Or was the unease she felt with each discovery because she feared that
one day, like in a game of Russian roulette, a bookmark would land Margaret’s manuscript in her knitting bag? And that would
put her—and her family—at risk.
Neither Daphne nor Olivia had come down yet, and suddenly Celia felt a sense of panic. Margaret gone, Yannis waffling about
even continuing her printing. She’d received no messages from Margaret’s closest loyalists who did much of the organizing
and the doling out of assignments. Would they continue to do so now that Margaret was gone? Celia didn’t like this sense of
not knowing. She was a foot soldier and a good one. But she’d planned to become one of the inner circle; she had some ideas
that would increase distribution. Despite what her sisters thought, she had a mind for organizing and she didn’t like the
feeling of being cast adrift.
As soon as Daphne came downstairs, Celia announced she was heating water for coffee and hied off to the kitchen, where she shut the door and dropped into a chair while she waited for some much-needed sustenance.
If this kept up, she would have trouble finding the time to sneak away from the shop.
Or finding more excuses to tell her sisters.
And she didn’t want to impose on Yannis, who already seemed a little unsure.
Besides the work he did for Celia and Selena and Jon, he had his regular printing and, unless she was wrong, was also helping others who had different fights to fight.
Celia didn’t ask what they were. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
She returned to the salesroom a few minutes later just as a customer entered; Daphne met him with a smile. He asked for the
section on home improvement. Daphne’s face fell, but she led him to the maintenance row of the “Nonfiction” section. Celia
collected her duster and trod over to tidy the “Fiction A through M” section.
Celia could hear Daphne chatting about some subject that Celia was sure she knew nothing about. But Daphne was good that way;
she knew how to draw people out, make them think she was interested in what they thought about or the things they enjoyed.
And maybe she was.
Celia didn’t always get her sister. She alternated between complaining and flirting, complaining and being polite to customers,
complaining and engaging customers in conversation about things she knew nothing about or cared less. The thing about Daphne
was that she was nice to everyone. She liked people. And they loved her.
Celia liked people, too. Most of the time. She just wished they’d be more tolerant. And that they would stand up to mean people,
and people who did real harm. Actually, she only liked some people. And that was the trouble with being human, wasn’t it?
You hardly ever got it right.
As the morning went on she found herself thinking about the new face she’d seen at the newsstand.
It was handsome in its way. Though she couldn’t exactly remember his specific features.
Well, she’d gotten only a glance . . . or two.
Straight nose, blue eyes. And a chin that .
. . Ugh. It wasn’t like her to moon over a stranger, or anyone else for that matter.
That was Daphne’s department. Still, she would catch herself looking up when the bell rang announcing a customer and had to admit a little disappointment when it turned out to be one of the regulars.
The rest of the morning did nothing to distract her from her dissatisfaction with something she couldn’t name and her indecision
over what to do next about her dilemma concerning what Daphne called her “clandestine” activities. Knitting was an activity.
While Celia might not get paid for her work for the cause, it was work and her real vocation.
She couldn’t expect Yannis to have the same enthusiasm. And, a little voice niggled, she might be putting him and his family
in danger. Then so were Jon and Selena, and the others, young men who came and went. Still, she didn’t want to be the one
that brought them harm.
The lunchtime rush kept her busy at the cash register and her mind off her other responsibilities. But she couldn’t deny the
smile that came to her lips when least expected, or her heart, which made a rebellious little flutter every time she heard
the door open, hoping it might be—she huffed away any thought of dalliance.
She didn’t need distracting smiles from interesting strangers.
It wasn’t so unusual to get smiled at. Daphne got smiled at all the time.
So did Celia, but mainly by Mr. Henderson, Mr. Kirsch, Mrs. Franchetti.
Even by Mr. Bender, the architecture and competing rare-book dealer on the other side of Grace Church.
That was more than any girl needed. She sighed.
Only this didn’t feel the same. She was in a fix.
As soon as the shop began to clear of clerks, shopgirls, and carriers, Celia announced to Daphne that she was taking her lunchtime
to go out.
“Where are you going?”
“Just walking around, the air is so heavy in here. I wish we had one of those new cooling systems like Brentano’s has.”
“In your dreams,” Daphne said.