Chapter 4 #2
Celia retrieved her knitting bag for whatever was waiting for her under the bench in Grace Church’s garden.
“Why are you taking that old thing?” Daphne asked, eyeing the bag with disgust.
“Hey, this old thing carries our bacon, our books . . . my knitting,” she said, remembering at the last minute. “And you never
know if I’ll find something interesting like . . . two bottles of root beer that will fit perfectly in ‘this old thing.’”
“You better bring three. Olivia was in a sour mood this morning.”
Celia hadn’t meant to buy any; now she’d have to spend part of what was left of her allowance (what Olivia called their salaries,
not that anyone could live off what they each allowed themselves). Of course, as part owners, they benefited from the profit
the shop made. Except there hadn’t been much of a profit since their father’s death. Dealers and customers alike were slow
to warm to the idea of female bookdealers. Even though Olivia was the real dealer. Celia and Daphne just did whatever else
needed doing.
She sighed and headed for the door just as Mr. Delereux stepped in.
He doffed his hat. Celia smiled and made her getaway.
It was even hotter out on the street, the fumes from the automobiles and delivery trucks combining with horse sweat and droppings
to hang over the environs like a malodorous fog. She was relieved to reach the cool passageway to the church grounds.
She was not relieved to find a nanny—a youngish woman in a crisp uniform—with two young children and a pram already there.
She cast her eye toward the bench where she normally sat but couldn’t see whether something had been left. For a moment she
entertained the idea of engaging in conversation with the nanny.
But they’d been instructed never to engage in conversation or a transaction of any kind with someone they didn’t know and
trust. It made the dissemination of information so difficult. And she did sometimes wonder if all this subterfuge was necessary.
They were perfectly aware of the means the “porn squad”—as the younger male booksellers dubbed the Society for the Suppression
of Vice—used to trap people into selling or exchanging particular material, only to arrest them on the spot.
Last fall, a bookseller had been entrapped into handing over a manual on birth control to a customer who said his wife was
too poorly to survive another pregnancy, and was immediately arrested. The customer had no such wife. He’d been planted by
Comstock, who swooped in for an arrest.
At the trial, Comstock had been chastised by the judge for such unscrupulous activity. The man had been made to pay a fine
and was released. And even though the recounting of yet another disgrace on Comstock’s record was reported in all the newspapers,
and cartoons poked jabs at him, he was not deterred in the least.
“Lovely day in the garden away from the heat, isn’t it?”
Celia nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked to make sure the nanny had spoken.
“Yes, very,” Celia said.
“We like to come here of an afternoon. So peaceful.”
“Ah,” said Celia, praying that the woman would take her charges and leave.
“Usually, we have the garden to ourselves at this time of day. I like to sit over there under the tree.” She gestured to Celia’s
bench.
Celia’s blood began to rush, hot and cold, cold and hot. Was she friend or foe? Or just a nanny out for a stroll with her
charges.
“But I had to sit over there in the sun today.”
They both looked to where a bench was washed in golden rays.
“Much too hot for sitting in the sun, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Celia said mechanically. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, it was very nice chatting with you. Come children, it’s time we were getting home.” They came dutifully and stood on
each side of the pram as the nanny pushed it into the passageway and out of view.
Still Celia didn’t rush to pick up anything that might have been left, by the nanny or whoever had stolen her usual bench.
She knew the importance of sometimes “acting a part.” Her group of about twelve women had been trained by an actress, and
Celia was pretty sure she’d enjoyed teaching them the skill of subterfuge with flair.
So she strolled along until she could see down the empty passageway to the street.
Only then did she wander first to her usual bench, where she found nothing.
Made a show of changing her mind then strolled over to the bench the nanny had indicated.
She was alone, but she felt as if eyes were watching her from all the shrubs and shadows where the sun’s rays hadn’t reached.
With a shudder, she sat, put her knitting bag by her feet, and moved one foot and then the other, searching under the seat, until her toe made contact with a rectangular package.
Still, she waited, looking around at the flowers and making sure she was quite alone before she quickly slipped it into her knitting bag and stood to leave.
She didn’t look back or slow down until she was almost to the Arcadia and remembered the root beer. She made a quick trip
back to the grocer on Eleventh Street and, minutes later, entered the Arcadia with three icy bottles, along with her secret
package.
Their root beers were quickly dispatched, and Daphne took the third upstairs to Olivia. While she was gone, Celia deposited
the package without looking inside, just thrust it into her special cubby beneath the dictionaries and was back at the counter
looking at WHSmith’s fall catalogue when her sister returned.
“Olivia said thank you, though I must say it’s much cooler on the third floor. Her precious books get more consideration than
we do.”
“Oh, Daphne, stop it. We can’t afford to keep all the floors cool, and our livelihoods are dependent on those books.” Immediately
contrite, Celia added. “Sorry, it’s the heat. It’s making me cranky.”
The day dragged on. Even the slow part of the afternoon, which she usually looked forward to, when only a few retired “regulars”
sat reading books they would never buy.
One of them, Mr. Estes, came every day to continue his Travels with Marco Polo.
They’d taken to leaving a bookmark for him when they returned the book to the shelves at close of day.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to buy it, but whenever Olivia raised a disapproving eyebrow, Daphne said, “He’s just lonely, and he isn’t doing any harm. ”
Daphne did have her surprising moments, when she wasn’t being totally self-centered.
During the late-afternoon swell of customers picking up the cheaper volumes from outside for their subway or tram ride home,
Celia forgot to think about the “interesting stranger” and started thinking about how she could keep her promise to Margaret
and the movement and not have to keep the increasingly burdensome secret.
But as they stepped into Union Square that evening to attend their weekly concert, Celia forgot about both in her enjoyment
of an evening out among people who didn’t want to buy books, free women from the tyranny of constant childbirth, or invade
Warsaw, but just wanted to enjoy the sights and sounds and have a little fun and relaxation.
That’s when the “interesting stranger” popped back into her mind.
It must have been the couples strolling by, laughing over their quickly melting cones of ice cream. The children expending
their last burst of energy before bedtime. Even the sellers hawking food, drink, and all sorts of things from carts or baskets
or boards they carried from place to place.
From the rollicking antics of the street urchins who would steal your purse if you didn’t pay attention. The clown who juggled
beneath the light of the park lamps. It all seemed so vital after a day spent in the dim light and heavy air of thousands
of books.
Celia didn’t look forward to sitting through a band concert when so much was going on all around them.
She enjoyed going to the Music Society, but they could afford only one visit per season, which didn’t bother Celia in the least, but her eldest sister did love music.
And Olivia hardly ever got outside to do anything but shop for necessities, attend the occasional book auction, or meet once a month with several of the other bookshop owners.
The same group that had started taking up a “bail” collection for those booksellers arrested or fined by the SSV.
So the least she and Daphne could do was accompany their sister to the free outdoor concerts and pretend they enjoyed them
as much as she did.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gruff but friendly voice.
“I declare, it’s the lovely Applebaum sisters,” said Mr. Krause. He was wearing a straw boater and a striped coat and carried
a rectangular case.
“Mr. Krause,” they all exclaimed.
“You look very dapper,” Daphne said.
“Oh, this. I’ve been asked to sit in for the trumpet player tonight; he caught a summer cold. Too windy in the chest to blow.”
“I didn’t know you played the trumpet,” Olivia said.
“Used to. Piano, too. Of course you can’t go carrying a piano around so . . .” He shrugged. “And now since my Marietta died,
it gives me something to do in the evenings.” He visibly shook himself. “Can I help you ladies find some seats before I join
the others?”
“Thank you,” Olivia said, and took his proffered arm.
Daphne rolled her eyes at Celia, and they fell in step behind.
“I hope he finds seats near the back,” Daphne whispered. “It hurts my ears.”
The seats were right down front with no inconspicuous way of escape until the band had blared its final blow. After they assured Mr. Krause that they were quite comfortable in the hard-back chairs brought out for the occasion, he took himself off with the promise to escort them home.
The concert was unexpectedly enjoyable. After the first two military marches, they moved on to several ragtime tunes, and
Dixieland jazz, ending with a dance tune in three-four time that had the listeners practically waltzing out of their seats.
Several couples standing on the outskirts of the audience were inspired to indulge in one-stepping down the brick path.
Celia had never learned any of the current dances. Or any of the old ones. Daphne had taken lessons when they were younger,
but Celia had thought they were silly back then—and now? Well, now there was no reason to learn.