Transcription Note:

Often, contracted words are missing an apostrophe, two words are printed as one, and ellipses and hyphens are used inconsistently. Words may have multiple spelling variations; all variations are kept as they were printed. Dialect, outdated words, alternative spellings, and misspelled words were not corrected.

Obvious printing mistakes, like letters and punctuation that are backwards, upside down, or partially printed, were fixed. Missing final stops and quotation marks were added.

The nurse, holding the basket at arm’s length as if it were a bedpan, opened the door to a large, dry, hot room with greenish walls coated in paint. The air was filled with the smells of alcohol and iodoform, mixed with a faint sour squalling coming from other baskets along the wall. As she set her basket down, she glanced inside with pursed lips. The newborn baby squirmed in the cotton wool feebly, like a bunch of earthworms.

On the ferry, there was an old man playing the violin. He had a monkey-like face scrunched up in one corner and kept time by tapping the toe of a scuffed patent-leather shoe. Bud Korpenning sat on the railing, watching him with his back turned to the river. The breeze stirred the hair around the tight fit of his cap and dried the sweat on his temples. His feet were blistered, and he felt exhausted, but when the ferry pulled away from the dock, bouncing over the small, choppy waves of the river, he suddenly felt a warm, tingling rush through his entire body. “Hey, buddy, how far is it to the city

The young man’s gaze shifted from Bud’s swollen shoes to the red wrist that protruded from the ragged sleeves of his coat, past the thin turkey's neck, and confidently moved up to meet the focused eyes under the broken visor of his cap.

“That depends on where you want to go.”

“How do I get to Broadway?... I want to be in the heart of it all.”

“Walk east for a block, then turn onto Broadway, and if you walk far enough, you’ll find the heart of it all.”

“Thanks, sir. I’ll take care of that.”

The violinist moved through the crowd with his hat out, the wind blowing through the wisps of gray hair on his worn bald head. Bud looked down at the face staring up at him, the sunken eyes like two black pins boring into his. “Nothing,” he said roughly and turned away to gaze at the river, which shimmered like knife blades. The wooden walls of the slip tightened around him, creaking as the ferry bumped against them; chains rattled, and Bud was pushed forward through the crowd in the ferryhouse. He passed between two coal wagons and walked out onto a dusty stretch of street towards the yellow streetcars. His knees started to shake. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

EAT at a food truck halfway down the block. He sat down stiffly on a spinning stool and stared at the menu for a long time.

“Fried eggs and a cup of coffee.”

“Do you want them turned over?” asked the red-haired man behind the counter, wiping his beefy, freckled forearms with his apron. Bud Korpenning sat up with a start.

“Excuse me?”

“The eggs? Do you want them scrambled or sunny side up?”

“Oh sure, turn them over.” Bud slouched over the counter again with his head between his hands.

“You look worn out, man,” the guy said as he cracked the eggs into the sizzling grease of the frying pan.

“Came down from upstate. I walked fifteen miles this morning.”

The guy whistled through his teeth. "You're heading to the big city to find a job, huh?"

Bud nodded. The man dropped the sizzling eggs, perfectly browned, onto the plate and slid it toward Bud, along with some bread and butter on the side. “I’m going to give you some free advice, buddy, and it won’t cost you anything. You should get a shave and a haircut and clean up your suit a bit before you start looking. You’ll be more likely to get something. It’s all about appearances in this city.”

“I can work just fine. I’m a hard worker,” Bud grumbled with his mouth full.

“I’m telling you, that’s it,” said the red-haired man and turned back to his stove.

When Ed Thatcher climbed the marble steps of the large hospital entrance, he was shaking. The smell of medication hit him in the throat. A woman with a stiff expression was staring at him from behind a desk. He tried to steady his voice.

“Can you let me know how Mrs. Thatcher is doing?”

“Yes, you can go ahead.”

“But please, miss, is everything okay?”

“The nurse on the floor will know anything about the case. Stairs to the left, third floor, maternity ward.”

Ed Thatcher was holding a bunch of flowers wrapped in green wax paper. The wide stairs wobbled as he clumsily climbed up, his toes bumping against the brass rods holding down the carpet. The slamming of a door interrupted a muffled scream. He stopped a nurse.

"I'd like to see Mrs. Thatcher, please."

“Go ahead if you know where she is.”

“But they’ve relocated her.”

“You’ll need to ask at the desk at the end of the hall.”

He chewed on his chapped lips. At the end of the hall, a red-faced woman smiled at him.

"Everything's great. You’re the proud dad of a lively baby girl."

“You see, it's our first, and Susie's so delicate,” he said, blinking his eyes.

“Oh yes, I get it, of course you were worried.... You can go in and talk to her when she wakes up. The baby was born two hours ago. Just make sure not to tire her out.”

Ed Thatcher was a small man with two wisps of blond mustache and pale gray eyes. He grabbed the nurse’s hand and shook it, revealing his uneven yellow teeth in a grin.

"It's our first time."

“Congrats,” said the nurse.

Rows of beds under sickly yellow gaslight, a nauseating smell of restless bedclothes, faces round, thin, yellow, and white; that’s her. Susie’s yellow hair lay in a loose coil around her small white face that looked shrunken and twisted. He unwrapped the roses and placed them on the nightstand. Looking out the window felt like looking down into water. The trees in the square were tangled in blue cobwebs. Down the avenue, lamps were turning on, illuminating green-tinted blocks of brick-colored houses; chimney pots and water tanks sharply outlined against a sky blushing like skin. The blue lids slid back off her eyes.

"Is that you, Ed? Why, Ed, those are Jacks. How extravagant of you."

“I couldn’t help it, my dear. I knew you liked them.”

A nurse was standing near the foot of the bed.

“Can’t you let us see the baby, miss?”

The nurse nodded. She was a thin-faced woman with gray hair and tight lips.

“I hate her,” whispered Susie. “She makes me fidget; that woman is just a nasty old maid.”

“It's okay, sweetheart, it's only for a day or two.” Susie closed her eyes.

“Do you still want to call her Ellen?”

The nurse came back with a basket and placed it on the bed next to Susie.

“Oh, isn’t she amazing!” said Ed. “Look, she’s breathing... And they’ve oiled her.” He helped his wife lift herself onto her elbow; the yellow coil of her hair unraveled and dropped over his hand and arm. “How can you tell them apart, nurse?”

"Sometimes we can't," said the nurse, forcing a smile. Susie was looking at her with a frown, examining the tiny purple face. "Are you sure this one is mine?"

"Sure."

“But it doesn't have any label on it.”

"I'll tag it right away."

“But mine was dark.” Susie lay back on the pillow, gasping for air.

“She has soft little light fuzz that’s the same color as your hair.”

Susie raised her arms above her head and shouted, “It’s not mine. It’s not mine. Get it away... That woman has stolen my baby.”

“Dear, for heaven's sake! Dear, for heaven's sake!” He tried to wrap the covers around her.

“Too bad,” said the nurse, calmly, picking up the basket. “I’ll have to give her a sedative.”

Susie sat up rigid in bed. “Get it away!” she shouted and collapsed back in a fit, letting out a stream of weak, desperate shrieks.

“O my God!” cried Ed Thatcher, pressing his hands together.

“You should probably leave for the evening, Mr. Thatcher... She’ll settle down once you’ve left... I’ll put the roses in water.”

On the last flight, he came across a hefty man who was slowly walking down, rubbing his hands as he moved. Their eyes connected.

“Everything okay, sir?” the chubby man asked.

“Oh yeah, I guess so,” Thatcher said softly.

The chubby man turned to him, excitement bubbling through his thick voice. “Congratulate me, congratulate me; my wife has given birth to a boy.”

Thatcher shook a chubby little hand. “I have a daughter,” he confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“It’s been five years already and every year it's been a girl, and now think about it, a boy.”

“Yes,” said Ed Thatcher as they stepped onto the sidewalk, “it’s a great moment.”

“Will you allow me, sir, to invite you to have a congratulatory drink with me?”

"Of course!"

The half doors with latticework were swinging open in the saloon at the corner of Third Avenue. They shuffled their feet politely as they went into the back room.

“Ah,” said the German as they sat down at a worn brown table, “family life is full of worries.”

"That’s right, sir; this is my first."

"Will you have beer?"

“Sounds good; anything works for me.”

“Two bottles of Culmbacher imported to toast our little ones.” The bottles popped and the brownish foam rose in the glasses. “Here’s to success.... Cheers,” said the German, raising his glass. He wiped the foam from his mustache and pounded on the table with a pink fist. “Would it be rude, sir...?”

"I'm Thatcher."

“Would it be rude, Mr. Thatcher, to ask what your profession is?”

“Accountant. I hope to become a certified accountant soon.”

“I’m a printer, and my name is Zucher—Marcus Antonius Zucher.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zucher.”

They shook hands over the table, around the bottles.

“A certified accountant makes a lot of money,” said Mr. Zucher.

“Big money is what I need to have for my little girl.”

“Kids, they eat money,” continued Mr. Zucher, in a deep voice.

“Won't you let me buy you a drink?” said Thatcher, calculating how much money he had in his pocket. “Poor Susie wouldn’t want me drinking in a place like this. But just this once, and I’m figuring things out, figuring out fatherhood.”

“The more, the merrier,” said Mr. Zucher. “... But kids, they cost a fortune.... They do nothing but eat and wear out clothes. Once I get my business up and running.... Ugh! Now what about mortgages and the tough process of borrowing money, and what about wages going up and these crazy trade union socialists and bomb throwers...”

“Well here’s how, Mr. Zucher.” Mr. Zucher squeezed the foam out of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “It isn't every day we bring into the world a paper boy, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Or a baby girl, Mr. Zucher.”

The bartender wiped the spills off the table when he brought the new bottles and stood nearby listening, the rag hanging from his red hands.

“And I have hope in my heart that when my boy drinks to his boy, it will be in champagne. Ah, that's how things go in this great city.”

“I want my girl to be a calm, home-loving type, not like these young women today, all about fancy clothes and tight laces. By then, I’ll be retired and will have a small place by the Hudson, spending my evenings working in the garden.... I know guys downtown who have retired on three thousand a year. It’s all about saving.”

"Ain't no point in saving," said the barkeep. "I saved for ten years and the savings bank went bust, leaving me with nothing but a bankbook for my trouble. Get a solid tip and take a chance, that’s the only game in town."

"That's just betting," Thatcher snapped.

“Well, sir, it’s a gambling game,” said the barkeep as he walked back to the bar, swinging the two empty bottles.

“A gambling game. He’s not that far off,” said Mr. Zucher, looking down into his beer with a glassy, thoughtful gaze. “A man who is ambitious must take risks. Ambitions are why I came here from Frankfurt at the age of twelve, and now that I have a son to work for... Oh, his name will be Wilhelm after the mighty Kaiser.”

“My little girl's name will be Ellen, after my mom.” Ed Thatcher's eyes filled with tears.

Mr. Zucher stood up. “Well, goodby Mr. Thatcher. It was nice to meet you. I have to get home to my little girls.”

Thatcher shook Mr. Zucher's chubby hand again, and while thinking warm, soft thoughts about parenthood, birthday cakes, and Christmas, he watched Mr. Zucher waddle out through the swinging doors in a dreamy, hazy atmosphere. After a bit, he stretched out his arms. Well, poor little Susie wouldn’t want me here.... Everything is for her and the cute little baby.

“Hey there, how about settling up?” yelled the bartender after him as he reached the door.

"Didn't the other guy pay?"

“Yeah, right he did.”

“But he was treating me....”

The bartender laughed as he covered the money with a red cloth. “I guess that guy believes in saving.”

A small man with a beard and bandy legs wearing a derby hat walked up Allen Street, through the sunlit tunnel decorated with sky blue, smoked salmon, and mustard yellow quilts, scattered with second-hand gingerbread-colored furniture. He walked with his cold hands clasped over the back of his frock coat, carefully stepping around packing boxes and darting children. He kept biting his lips and clasping and unclasping his hands. He walked without noticing the shouting children or the deafening noise of the L trains overhead or the unpleasant, sweet smell of packed tenements.

At a yellow-painted drugstore at the corner of Canal, he stopped and stared blankly at a face on a green ad card. It was a distinguished, clean-shaven face with arched eyebrows and a neatly trimmed bushy mustache, the face of a man who had money in the bank, confidently above a crisp wing collar and a wide dark cravat. Below it, in neat handwriting, was the signature King C. Gillette. Hovering above was the motto NO STROPPING NO SHARPENING. The little bearded man pushed his derby hat back off his sweating forehead and stared for a long time into the confident eyes of King C. Gillette. Then he clenched his fists, straightened his shoulders, and walked into the drugstore.

His wife and daughters were out. He heated up a pitcher of water on the gas stove. Then, using the scissors he found on the mantel, he clipped the long brown strands of his beard. Next, he began shaving very carefully with the new shiny safety razor. He stood there, trembling, running his fingers down his smooth white cheeks in front of the stained mirror. He was trimming his mustache when he heard a noise behind him. He turned to see his face, smooth like King C. Gillette's, with a bland smile. The two little girls' eyes were wide with surprise. “Mom, it’s Dad!” the oldest one shouted. His wife collapsed into the rocking chair and threw the apron over her head.

“Oyoy! Oyoy!” she groaned, rocking back and forth.

“What's the matter? Don't you like it?” He walked back and forth with the safety razor glinting in his hand, occasionally running his fingers over his smooth chin.

When the door of the room closed behind him, Ed Thatcher felt really lonely, full of restless energy. If only Susie were here, he'd tell her about the big money he was going to make and how he’d deposit ten dollars a week in the savings bank just for little Ellen; that would add up to five hundred and twenty dollars a year... Why, in ten years, without any interest, that would be more than five thousand dollars. I need to calculate the compound interest on five hundred and twenty dollars at four percent. He paced excitedly around the small room. The gas jet buzzed comfortably like a cat. His eyes landed on the headline of a Journal that lay on the floor next to the coalscuttle where he had dropped it to rush for the cab to take Susie to the hospital.

MORTON SIGNS THE GREATER NEW YORK BILL

Finalizes the law that makes New York the world's second
City

Breathing deeply, he folded the paper and placed it on the table. The world's second-largest city... And Dad wanted me to stay in his old, foolish store in Onteora. I might have, if it hadn't been for Susie... Gentlemen, tonight as you do me the great honor of offering me the junior partnership in your firm, I want to introduce you to my little girl, my wife. I owe everything to her.

In the bow he made toward the fireplace, the tails of his coat knocked a piece of china off the console next to the bookcase. He made a little clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth as he leaned down to pick it up. The head of the blue porcelain Dutch girl had broken off from her body. “And poor Susie loves her knickknacks so much. I should probably head to bed.”

He pushed up the window and leaned out. An L train was rumbling past the end of the street. A whiff of coal smoke stung his nose. He stayed there for a long time, looking up and down the street. The world's second-largest city. In the brick houses, the dim lamplight, and the sounds of a group of boys joking and arguing on the steps of a house across the street, in the steady footsteps of a policeman, he felt a rhythm like soldiers marching, like a steamboat cruising up the Hudson under the Palisades, like an election parade, moving through long streets toward something tall, white, full of columns and grand. City.

The street was suddenly filled with people running. Someone, out of breath, shouted the word "Fire."

“Where's that?”

The group of boys drifted off the porch across the street. Thatcher turned back into the room. It was suffocatingly hot. He was itching to get outside. I should go to bed. Down the street, he heard the sound of hooves pounding and the frantic ringing of a fire engine's bell. Just take a peek. He dashed down the stairs with his hat in hand.

"Which direction is it?"

“Down on the next block.”

“It’s an apartment building.”

It was a six-story tenement with narrow windows. The hook-and-ladder truck had just arrived. Dark smoke, with occasional sparks flying out, was quickly pouring from the lower windows. Three policemen were swinging their clubs as they pushed the crowd back against the steps and railings of the houses across the street. In the clear space in the middle of the street, the fire engine and the red hose wagon gleamed with bright brass. People watched silently, staring at the upper windows where shadows moved and flickering light appeared. A thin column of flame began to flare up above the house like a Roman candle.

“The airshaft,” whispered a man in Thatcher’s ear. A gust of wind filled the street with smoke and the smell of burning rags. Thatcher suddenly felt sick. When the smoke cleared, he saw people struggling in a cluster, hanging by their hands from a windowsill. On the other side, firefighters were helping women down a ladder. The fire in the center of the house flared brighter. Something black had dropped from a window and lay on the pavement, screaming. The police were pushing the crowd back to the ends of the block. New fire trucks were arriving.

“They’ve got five alarms in,” a man said. “What do you think about that? Every one of them on the two top floors was trapped. It was an arsonist who did it. Some damn firebug.”

A young man sat curled up on the curb next to the gas lamp. Thatcher found himself standing over him, nudged forward by the crowd behind him.

“He's Italian.”

“His wife’s in that building.”

“Cops won’t let him through.” “His wife’s pregnant. He can’t speak English to ask the cops.”

The man was wearing blue suspenders held together with a piece of string in the back. His back was heaving, and every now and then, he let out a string of groaning words that nobody could understand.

Thatcher was pushing through the crowd. At the corner, a man was checking out the fire alarm box. As Thatcher brushed past him, he caught a whiff of coal oil from the man’s clothes. The man looked up at him with a smile, revealing sagging cheeks and bright, bulging eyes. Thatcher suddenly felt his hands and feet go cold. The arsonist. The papers say they hang around like that to watch it. He hurried home, ran up the stairs, and locked the door to his room behind him. The room was quiet and empty. He had forgotten that Susie wouldn’t be there waiting for him. He started to undress, unable to shake the smell of coal oil from the man’s clothes.

Mr. Perry tapped the burdock leaves with his cane. The real-estate agent was begging in a melodic tone:

“I don't mind telling you, Mr. Perry, this is an opportunity you shouldn't pass up. You know the saying, sir... opportunity only knocks once for a young man. In six months, I can almost guarantee that these lots will have doubled in value. Now that we’re part of New York, the second largest city in the world, don’t forget that.... The time will come, and I truly believe that you and I will see it, when bridge after bridge across the East River will connect Long Island and Manhattan, making the Borough of Queens just as much the heart and vibrant center of the great metropolis as Astor Place is today.”

“I know, I know, but I’m looking for something completely safe. And on top of that, I want to build. My wife hasn’t been very well these last few years....”

“But what could be safer than my offer? Do you realize, Mr. Perry, that at a significant personal loss, I’m giving you the chance to get in on one of the biggest real estate opportunities of our time? I’m providing you not just with security, but also with ease, comfort, and luxury. Whether we like it or not, Mr. Perry, we’re riding a huge wave of expansion and progress. A lot is going to change in the next few years. All these technological inventions—phones, electricity, steel bridges, cars—they're all leading somewhere. It’s up to us to be a part of it, to be at the forefront of progress... My God! I can’t begin to explain what it will mean...” As he poked through the dry grass and burdock leaves, Mr. Perry moved something with his stick. He bent down and picked up a triangular skull with a pair of spiral horns. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That must have been a great ram.”

Drowsy from the scent of shaving cream and bay rum, along with the smell of singed hair filling the small space of the barbershop, Bud sat there nodding off, his big, red hands hanging loosely between his knees. In his ears, he could still feel, through the sound of scissors snipping, the pounding of his feet on the busy road coming down from Nyack.

"Next!"

“What's that?... All right, I just want a shave and a haircut.”

The barber’s chubby hands sifted through his hair, the scissors buzzing like a hornet behind his ears. His eyes kept shutting; he struggled to keep them open, battling against sleep. He could see past the striped sheet covered in sandy hair to the bobbing head of the boy shining his shoes.

“Yep,” a deep-voiced man droned from the next chair, “it’s time the Democratic Party nominated a strong ...”

“Do you want a neck shave too?” The barber's greasy-skinned, round face leaned in close to his.

He nodded.

"Shampoo?"

“No.”

When the barber tilted the chair back to shave him, he felt like a turtle flipped onto its back, wanting to crane his neck. The lather slowly spread across his face, tickling his nose and filling his ears. Drowning in pillows of lather—blue lather, black, sliced by the distant glint of the razor and the hoe through the dark lather clouds. The old man lying in the potato field, his beard sticking up, lathered white and stained with blood. His socks soaked in blood from blisters on his heels. His hands gripped each other, cold and rough like a dead man's hands under the sheet. "Let me get up..." He opened his eyes. Soft fingertips were brushing his chin. He looked up at the ceiling where four flies were making figure eights around a red crêpe-paper bell. His tongue felt like dry leather in his mouth. The barber adjusted the chair again. Bud glanced around, blinking. "Four bits, and a nickel for the shine."

ADMITS KILLING DISABLED MOTHER ...

“Do you mind if I sit here for a minute and read that paper?” he hears his voice dragging on in his thumping ears.

“Go ahead.”

Parker's friends have his back...

The black text wriggles in front of his eyes. Russians ... MOB STONES ... (Special Dispatch to the Herald) Trenton, N. J.

RELIEVE PORT ARTHUR IN FACE OF ENEMY ... Mrs. Rix Loses Husband’s Ashes.

Bud folds the paper carefully, places it on the chair, and leaves the barbershop. Outside, the air is filled with the smell of crowds, noise, and sunlight. Just like trying to find a needle in a haystack... “And I’m twenty-five years old,” he mutters to himself. Think of a kid who’s fourteen... He walks faster along the bustling sidewalks where the sun shines through the Elevated, casting warm, swirly yellow stripes on the blue street. Just like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Ed Thatcher sat hunched over the piano keys playing the Mosquito Parade. Sunday afternoon sunlight poured dustily through the heavy lace curtains, bounced off the red roses of the carpet, and filled the cluttered parlor with specks and shards of light. Susie Thatcher sat weakly by the window, watching him with eyes that were too blue for her pale face. Between them, carefully stepping among the roses on the sunny carpet, little Ellen danced. Two small hands lifted her pink-frilled dress, and now and then a determined little voice exclaimed, “Mummy, watch my expression.”

“Just look at the kid,” said Thatcher, still playing. “She’s a real little ballerina.”

Sheets of the Sunday paper were scattered where they had dropped from the table; Ellen began dancing on them, ripping the sheets beneath her quick little feet.

"Don't do that, Ellen dear," whined Susie from the pink plush chair.

“But mom, I can do it while I dance.”

“Don’t do that,” Mother said. Ed Thatcher had slipped into the Barcarole. Ellen was dancing to it, her arms swaying along, her feet deftly tearing the paper.

“Ed, for goodness' sake, pick the child up; she’s ripping the paper.”

He played a lingering chord with his fingers. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t do that. Dad isn’t done reading it.”

Ellen kept going. Thatcher swooped down from the piano stool and set her, squirming and laughing, on his knee. “Ellen, you should always listen when Mommy talks to you, and honey, you shouldn't be destructive. It costs money to make that paper, and people worked hard on it, and Daddy went out to buy it, and he hasn't finished reading it yet. Ellie understands, right? We need construction, not destruction, in this world.” Then he continued with the Barcarole, and Ellen kept dancing, stepping carefully among the roses on the sunny carpet.

There were six guys at the table in the lunchroom eating quickly with their hats pushed back on their heads.

“Wow!” exclaimed the young man at the end of the table, holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Can you believe it?”

“Beat what?” grumbled a long-faced man with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“Big snake shows up on Fifth Avenue.... Women screamed and ran in all directions this morning at eleven-thirty when a large snake slithered out of a crack in the masonry of the retaining wall of the reservoir at Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street and began to cross the sidewalk....”

“Some fish tale....”

"That’s nothing," said an old man. "When I was a kid, we used to go snipe hunting on Brooklyn Flats..."

“Holy cow! It’s quarter to nine,” muttered the young man as he folded his newspaper and rushed out onto Hudson Street, which was bustling with men and women walking briskly through the bright morning. The sound of horses’ hooves and the grinding wheels of delivery wagons created a loud racket and filled the air with fine dust. A girl in a flowered bonnet with a big lavender bow under her chin was waiting for him at the door of M. Sullivan & Co., Storage and Warehousing. The young man felt all bubbly inside, like a freshly opened bottle of soda.

“Hey Emily!... Guess what, Emily? I got a raise.”

“You're almost late, did you know that?”

“But I swear I've got a two-dollar raise.”

She tilted her chin first to one side and then to the other.

“I don’t care.”

"You know what you said if I got a raise." She looked into his eyes, giggling.

“An this is just the beginning ...”

“But what good is fifteen dollars a week?”

"That’s why it’s sixty dollars a month, and I’m learning about the import business."

“Silly boy, you’re going to be late.” She suddenly turned and ran up the messy stairs, her pleated bell-shaped skirt swishing from side to side.

“God! I can’t stand her. I can’t stand her.” Wiping his tears that burned in his eyes, he hurried down Hudson Street to the office of Winkle & Gulick, West India Importers.

The deck next to the front winch was warm and salty. They were lying next to each other in greasy jeans, talking lazily in whispers, their ears filled with the sound of choppy water as the bow pushed steadily through the long, grass-gray waves of the Gulf Stream.

“I'm telling you, old man, I'm heading to New York.... The moment we dock, I'm getting off and staying off. I'm done with this miserable life.” The cabin boy had light hair and a round pink-and-cream face; a burnt-out cigarette butt slipped from his lips as he spoke. “Damn it!” He reached for it as it rolled down the deck. It slipped through his fingers and bounced into the drain.

“Forget it. I have more than enough,” said the other boy, who was lying on his stomach, kicking a pair of dirty feet up into the hazy sunlight. “The consul will just send you back.”

"He won't catch me."

"And your military experience?"

"To hell with it. And with France too, for that matter."

“Do you want to become an American citizen?”

“Why not? A person has the right to choose their country.”

The other guy rubbed his nose thoughtfully with his fist and then exhaled with a long whistle. “Emile, you’re a smart one,” he said.

“But Congo, why don’t you come too? You don’t want to be stuck shoveling garbage in a filthy ship’s kitchen for the rest of your life.”

Congo rolled over and sat up cross-legged, scratching his head that was thick with tightly curled black hair.

“Tell me how much a woman costs in New York?”

“I don’t know, probably expensive.... I’m not going ashore to cause trouble; I’m going to find a good job and work. Can’t you think of anything other than women?”

“What’s the point? Why not?” said Congo and lay flat on the deck again, burying his soot-smeared face in his crossed arms.

“I want to make something of myself, that’s what I mean. Europe’s corrupt and decaying. In America, a person can succeed. Where you come from doesn’t matter, education doesn’t matter. It’s all about moving forward.”

“And if there was a nice, passionate woman right here now where the deck’s warm, wouldn’t you want to be with her?”

“Once we’re wealthy, we’ll have more than enough of everything.”

“And they don't have any military service?”

“Why should they? It’s the money they’re after. They don’t want to fight people; they want to do business with them.”

Congo didn't respond.

The cabin boy lay on his back, staring at the clouds. They drifted in from the west, massive white formations with sunlight streaming through, bright and shiny like tinfoil. He walked through tall, white streets that towered above him, striding in a frock coat with a tall white collar up shiny tinfoil stairs, wide and clean, through blue doorways into streaked marble halls where money rustled and clinked on long tinfoil tables, banknotes, silver, and gold.

“Merde, it’s that time.” The sound of the bell in the crowsnest rang softly in their ears. “But don’t forget, Congo, the first night we’re on land...” He made a popping noise with his lips. “We’re outta here.”

“I was asleep. I dreamed about a little blonde girl. I would have had her if you hadn’t woken me.” The cabin boy got to his feet with a grunt and stood for a moment looking west at where the waves ended in a jagged line against a sky that was hard and abrupt like nickel. Then he pushed Congo's face down against the deck and ran toward the back, the wooden clogs clattering on his bare feet as he went.

Outside, the hot June Saturday was dragging its exhausted afternoon down 110th Street. Susie Thatcher lay restlessly in bed, her hands spread out, pale and bony on the blanket in front of her. Voices filtered through the thin wall. A young girl was crying through her nose:

“I’m telling your mom I’m not going back to him.”

Then came the voice of an old, traditional Jewish woman: “But Rosie, married life isn’t all fun and games. A wife must submit and work for her husband.”

“I won't. I can't help it. I'm not going back to that filthy brute.”

Susie sat up in bed, but she couldn’t hear what the old woman said next.

“But I’m not a Jew anymore,” the young girl suddenly yelled. “This isn’t Russia; it’s little old New York. A girl has some rights here.” Then a door slammed and everything went quiet.

Susie Thatcher stirred in bed, moaning restlessly. Those awful people never give me a moment’s peace. From downstairs came the sound of a player piano playing the Merry Widow Waltz. Oh Lord! Why doesn’t Ed come home? It’s cruel of them to leave a sick woman all alone like this. So selfish. She twisted her mouth and started to cry. Then she lay still again, staring at the ceiling, watching the flies buzz teasingly around the light fixture. A wagon clattered by outside. She could hear children’s voices screeching. A boy passed by yelling an advertisement. What if there had been a fire? That terrible theater fire in Chicago. Oh, I’m going to go mad! She tossed around in bed, her pointed nails digging into her palms. I’ll take another tablet. Maybe I can get some sleep. She propped herself up on her elbow and took the last tablet out of a little tin box. The gulp of water that went down with the tablet felt soothing to her throat. She closed her eyes and lay still.

She woke up suddenly. Ellen was bouncing around the room, her green tam slipping off the back of her head, her coppery curls in disarray.

“Oh mom, I want to be a little boy.”

“Be quiet, dear. Mom isn’t feeling well at all.”

“I want to be a little kid.”

“Why Ed, what have you done to the kid? She’s completely upset.”

“We’re just so excited, Susie. We went to the most amazing play. You would have loved it; it’s really poetic and all that kind of stuff. And Maude Adams was great. Ellie enjoyed every second of it.”

“It seems silly, as I mentioned earlier, to take such a young child ...”

“Oh daddy, I want to be a boy.”

“I like my little girl just the way she is. We’ll have to go again, Susie, and take you.”

“Ed, you know I won’t be well enough.” She sat up straight, her hair hanging down her back like faded yellow strands. “Oh, I wish I’d die... I wish I’d die, so I wouldn’t be a burden to you anymore... You both hate me. If you didn’t hate me, you wouldn’t leave me alone like this.” She choked and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, I wish I’d die,” she sobbed through her fingers.

“Come on, Susie, don’t say things like that. It’s just wrong.” He wrapped his arm around her and sat down on the bed next to her.

Crying softly, she rested her head on his shoulder. Ellen stood there, staring at them with her round gray eyes. Then she began jumping up and down, repeating to herself, “Ellie’s going to be a boy, Ellie’s going to be a boy.”

With a slow, steady limp from his blistered feet, Bud walked down Broadway, passing empty lots where tin cans sparkled among the grass, sumac bushes, and ragweed. He made his way between rows of billboards and Bull Durham signs, past ramshackle shanties and abandoned squatter shacks, and by heaps of trash where dump carts were unloading ashes and clinkers. He walked past mounds of gray rock where steam drills constantly tapped away, and by excavations from which wagons loaded with rock and clay climbed up wooden roads to the street. Eventually, he found himself on new sidewalks alongside a row of yellow brick apartment buildings, peering into the windows of grocery stores, Chinese laundries, lunchrooms, flower shops, vegetable shops, tailors, and delicatessens. As he walked under a scaffolding in front of a new building, he caught the eye of an old man sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, trimming oil lamps. Bud stopped beside him, adjusted his pants, and cleared his throat:

“Hey, sir, could you tell me where a good place is to look for a job?”

“Ain't no good place to look for a job, kid... There are jobs, sure... I’ll be sixty-five in a month and four days, and I’ve worked since I was five, I guess, and I still haven't found a good job yet.”

"Anything that’s a job will work for me."

“Do you have a union card?”

"I don't have anything."

“Can’t get any job in the construction trades without a union card,” said the old man. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin with the back of his hand and leaned over the lamps again. Bud stood staring into the dusty maze of girders in the new building until he noticed a man in a derby hat looking at him through the window of the watchman’s shelter. He shuffled his feet nervously and walked on. If I could get more into the center of things....

At the next corner, a crowd was gathering around a raised white car. Clouds of steam were pouring out of the back. A policeman was holding a small boy up by his armpits. From the car, a red-faced man with white walrus-style whiskers was shouting angrily.

“I’m telling you, officer, he threw a stone.... This kind of behavior has to end. For an officer to tolerate troublemakers and loudmouths....”

A woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun on top of her head was screaming, shaking her fist at the man in the car, “Officer, he almost ran me down, he did, he almost ran me down.”

Bud moved closer to a young guy wearing a butcher's apron and a baseball cap turned backward.

"What's the matter?"

“Hell, I don't know.... One of those automobile riots, I guess. Haven't you read the paper? I don't blame them, do you? What right do those damned automobiles have racing around the city, knocking down women and children?”

“Wow, do they really do that?”

"Of course they do."

“Um ... can you tell me a good place to learn about getting a job?” The butcher boy threw his head back and laughed.

“Kerist, I thought you were going to ask for a handout... I guess you aren't a New Yorker... I'll tell you what to do. You keep going down Broadway until you get to City Hall...”

“Is that really the center of everything?”

"Sure it is... And then you go upstairs and ask the Mayor... Tell me there are some seats on the board of aldermen..."

"Not a chance," Bud muttered as he quickly walked away.

“Roll, you babies ... roll, you lopsided sons of bitches.”

“That’s it, talk to them, Slats.”

“Come on, seven!” Slats flicked the dice from his hand, quickly sliding his thumb along his sweaty fingers with a snap. “Oh man.”

“Wow, you’re quite the gambler, Slats.”

Dirty hands each added a nickel to the pile in the center of the circle of patched knees pushed out in front. The five boys were sitting on their heels under a lamp on South Street.

“Come on, girls, we’re waiting for it... Roll, you little rascals, damn you, roll.”

“Cheese it, guys! Big Leonard and his gang are coming down the block.”

“I’d knock his block off for a ...”

Four of them were already slouching off along the wharf, gradually scattering without looking back. The smallest boy with a chinless face shaped like a beak stayed behind quietly picking up the coins. Then he ran along the wall and vanished into the dark passageway between two houses. He flattened himself behind a chimney and waited. The confused voices of the gang echoed in the passageway; then they moved on down the street. The boy was counting the nickels in his hand. Ten. “Wow, that’s fifty cents... I’ll tell them Big Leonard scooped up the cash.” His pockets didn’t have bottoms, so he tied the nickels into one of his shirt tails.

A goblet for Rhine wine sat next to a champagne glass at each spot along the sparkling white oval table. On eight shiny white plates, eight canapés of caviar looked like round black beads on the lettuce leaves, accompanied by lemon wedges, sprinkled lightly with chopped onion and egg white. “A lot of care went into this, and don’t you forget it,” said the old waiter, wrinkling his knobby forehead. He was a short, waddling man with a few black strands of hair slicked down across a bald head.

“Alright.” Emile nodded his head seriously. His collar was too tight for him. He was shaking a final bottle of champagne into the nickel-bound bucket of ice on the serving table.

“Lots of care, dirty madonna.... This guy throws money around like confetti, see.... Gives tips, see. He’s a very rich gentleman. He doesn’t care how much he spends.” Emile patted the crease of the tablecloth to smooth it out. “Don’t do that, okay.... Your hand’s dirty, maybe it’ll leave a mark.”

Resting first on one foot and then on the other, they stood waiting, their napkins under their arms. From the restaurant below, amid the buttery smells of food and the clinking of knives, forks, and plates, came the gentle, swirling sound of a waltz.

When he saw the headwaiter bowing outside the door, Emile pressed his lips into a respectful smile. There was a long-toothed blonde woman in a salmon opera cloak, swishing on the arm of a moon-faced man who held his top hat in front of him like a bumper; a little curly-haired girl in blue showing her teeth and laughing; a stout woman in a tiara with a black velvet ribbon around her neck; a bottlenose; a long, cigar-colored face ... shirt fronts, hands adjusting white ties, black gleams on top hats and patent leather shoes; there was a thin man with gold teeth who kept waving his arms and shouting greetings in a voice like a crow’s, wearing a diamond the size of a nickel in his shirt front. The red-haired cloakroom girl was collecting the coats. The old waiter nudged Emile. “He’s the big boss,” he said quietly as he bowed. Emile flattened himself against the wall as they shuffled and rustled into the room. A whiff of patchouli made him suddenly heat up to the roots of his hair.

“But where’s Fifi Waters?” shouted the guy with the diamond stud.

“She said she couldn't get here for half an hour. I guess the Johnnies won’t let her through the stage door.”

“Well, we can’t wait for her, even if it is her birthday; I’ve never waited for anyone in my life.” He paused for a moment, scanning the women around the table, then adjusted his cuffs a little further from the sleeves of his tailcoat and quickly sat down. The caviar disappeared in an instant. “And waiter, what about that Rhine wine coupe?” he croaked huskily. “Right away, sir…” Emile, holding his breath and sucking in his cheeks, was clearing the plates. A chill settled on the goblets as the old waiter poured the coupe from a cut glass pitcher filled with mint, ice, lemon peel, and long strips of cucumber.

“Aha, this will do the trick.” The man with the diamond stud lifted his glass to his lips, smacked them, and set it down with a sideways glance at the woman next to him. She was spreading butter on pieces of bread and popping them into her mouth, muttering the whole time:

“I can only eat the tiniest snack, just the tiniest snack.”

“That doesn't stop you from drinking, Mary, does it?”

She let out a cackling laugh and tapped him on the shoulder with her closed fan. “Oh Lord, you’re a character, you are.”

“Allume me that, filthy madam,” hissed the old waiter in Emile’s ear.

When he turned on the lights under the two chafing dishes on the serving table, the aroma of hot sherry, cream, and lobster began to fill the room. The air was warm, filled with the sounds of small talk, perfume, and smoke. After helping serve the lobster Newburg and topping off the glasses, Emile leaned against the wall and ran his hand through his damp hair. His gaze drifted along the curvy shoulders of the woman in front of him and down her powdered back to where a tiny silver hook had come undone beneath the lace. The bald man next to her had his leg intertwined with hers. She was young, about Emile's age, and kept glancing up at the man’s face with her lips slightly parted. It made Emile feel lightheaded, but he couldn’t look away.

“But what’s happened to the lovely Fifi?” said the man with the diamond stud while chewing on lobster. “I guess she stole the show again tonight, and our little gathering doesn’t interest her anymore.”

“It’s enough to grab any girl’s attention.”

“Well, she’s in for the surprise of her life if she thought we’d wait. Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the man with the diamond stud. “I’ve never waited for anyone in my life, and I’m not starting now.”

Down the table, the round-faced man had pushed back his plate and was playing with the bracelet on the wrist of the woman beside him. “You look just like the perfect Gibson girl tonight, Olga.”

“I’m getting my portrait done now,” she said, holding up her goblet to the light.

"To Gibson?"

"Not a real painter."

"By God I’ll buy it."

“Maybe you won't have a chance.”

She nodded her blonde pompadour at him.

“You’re a naughty little tease, Olga.”

She laughed, keeping her lips pressed tightly over her long teeth.

A man was leaning towards the guy with the diamond stud, tapping a chubby finger on the table.

“No sir, as a real estate investment, Twentythird Street has failed. That’s generally accepted. But what I want to discuss with you privately sometime, Mr. Godalming, is this: How has all the big money in New York been made? Astor, Vanderbilt, Fish... in real estate, of course. Now it's time for us to get in on the next big opportunity. It’s almost here. Buy Forty...”

The guy with the diamond earring raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “For just one night in Beauty’s embrace, I’ll put aside all my worries ... or something like that.... Hey, waiter, why the hell is the champagne taking so long?” He stood up, coughed into his hand, and started to sing in his raspy voice:

Everybody clapped. The old waiter had just sliced up a baked Alaska and, his face as red as a beet, was struggling to yank out a stubborn champagne cork. When the cork finally popped, the lady in the tiara let out a shout. They raised their glasses to the man in the diamond stud.

“Now what kind of dish do you call this?” the man with the bottlenose leaned over and asked the girl next to him. Her black hair was parted in the middle; she wore a light green dress with puffy sleeves. He winked slowly and then stared intently into her black eyes.

“This is the fanciest food I’ve ever tasted.... Do you know, young lady, I don’t come to this town often....” He finished his drink in one gulp. “And when I do, I usually leave feeling a bit disgusted....” His bright, feverish eyes from the champagne traced the curves of her neck and shoulders and wandered down her bare arm. “But this time I think....”

“It must be a great life, searching for gold,” she interrupted, blushing.

“It was a simple life back in the day, a tough life but a real man’s life.... I’m glad I made my money back then.... I wouldn’t have the same luck today.”

She looked up at him. “How humble you are to call it luck.”

Emile was standing outside the door of the private room. There was nothing more to serve. The red-haired girl from the cloakroom walked by with a big flounced cape draped over her arm. He smiled and tried to catch her eye. She sniffed and turned her nose up. She won't look at me because I'm a waiter. When I make some money, I'll show them.

“Dude, tell Charlie two more bottles of Moet and Chandon, Gout Americain,” came the old waiter’s hissing voice in his ear.

The man with the round face stood up. “Ladies and Gentlemen....”

“Silence in the pigsty ...” a voice called out.

"The big sow wants to talk," Olga murmured.

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to the unfortunate absence of our star performer and regular act....”

“Gilly, don’t curse,” said the woman with the tiara.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as unaccustomed as I am....”

“Gilly, you’re drunk.”

“... Whether the tide ... I mean whether the waters are with us or against us...”

Somebody tugged at his coat tails, and the round-faced man suddenly sat down in his chair.

“It’s awful,” said the woman in the tiara, speaking to a man with a long, tobacco-colored face who sat at the end of the table ... “It’s awful, Colonel, the way Gilly gets foul-mouthed when he’s been drinking...”

The Colonel was carefully unrolling the tinfoil from a cigar. “Really, is that so?” he said lazily. Above his bristly gray mustache, his face was emotionless. “There’s a truly awful story about poor old Atkins, Elliott Atkins who used to work with Mansfield...”

“Really?” said the Colonel coldly as he sliced the end of the cigar with a small pearl-handled knife.

“Hey Chester, did you hear that Mabie Evans is really gaining popularity?”

“Honestly, Olga, I don’t see how she does it. She has no figure...”

“Well, he gave a speech, totally wasted, you know, one night when they were campaigning in Kansas...”

"She can't sing..."

“The poor guy never really thrived in the bright lights...”

“She doesn’t have the slightest bit of a figure...”

“And gave a kind of Bob Ingersoll speech...”

“The dear old guy.... Ah, I knew him well back in Chicago in the old days...”

“You don't say.” The Colonel carefully held a lit match to the end of his cigar...

"And there was a huge flash of lightning and a fireball came in one window and went out the other."

“Was he ... um ... killed?” The Colonel blew a blue puff of smoke up towards the ceiling.

“What, did you say Bob Ingersoll got struck by lightning?” Olga shouted. “He totally deserves it, that awful atheist.”

“No, not exactly, but it scared him into realizing what’s really important in life, and now he’s joined the Methodist church.”

“Isn't it amusing how many actors become ministers?”

“Can’t get an audience any other way,” groaned the man with the diamond stud.

The two waiters stood outside the door, listening to the noise inside. “A bunch of real pigs... damn it!” the old waiter whispered. Emile shrugged his shoulders. “That brunette was checking you out all night...” He leaned in close to Emile and winked. “Who knows, maybe you’ll score something good.”

“I don’t want any of them or their nasty diseases either.”

The old waiter slapped his thigh. “No young men these days.... When I was a young man, I took a lot of chances.”

“They don't even look at you ...” said Emile through clenched teeth. “Just an animated suit, that’s all.”

“Hold on a second, you’ll learn over time.”

The door opened. They bowed respectfully toward the diamond stud. Someone had drawn a pair of women’s legs on his shirtfront. There was a bright flush on each of his cheeks. The lower lid of one eye drooped, giving his weasel-like face a quizzical, lopsided look.

“Wazzahell, Marco wazzahell?” he was muttering. “We don’t have anything to drink... Bring the Atlantic Ocean and two quarts.”

“Right away, sir....” The old waiter bowed. “Emile, tell Auguste, immediately and well done.”

As Emile walked down the hallway, he could hear singing.

The moonface and the bottlenose were returning from the restroom, swaying arm in arm among the palm trees in the hallway.

“These stupid idiots make me sick.”

"Yes, these aren't the champagne dinners we used to have in San Francisco back in the day."

"Ah, those were good times."

“By the way,” the man with the round face leaned against the wall, “Holyoke old friend, did you see that really neat little article on the rubber trade that I got published in the morning papers...? That’ll definitely get the investors interested... like little fish.”

“Whatcha know about rubber?... That stuff isn’t any good.”

“You wait and see, Holyoke old man, or you’re losing the opportunity of your life... Drunk or sober, I can smell money... in the air.”

“Why don't you have any then?” The guy with the bottlenose had a beefy face that turned purple; he bent over, letting out loud bursts of laughter.

“Because I always share my tips with my friends,” said the other man seriously. “Hey buddy, where’s this private dining room?”

"Right this way, sir."

A red accordion-pleated dress swirled past them, a small oval face surrounded by brown flat curls, bright pearly teeth showing in an open-mouthed laugh.

“Fifi Waters,” everyone yelled. “Oh my darling little Fifi, come into my arms.”

She was hoisted onto a chair where she stood bouncing from one foot to the other, champagne spilling out of a tilted glass.

"Happy Christmas."

"Happy New Year!"

"Happy birthday to you..."

A fair young man who had followed her in was weaving skillfully around the table singing:

“Hoopla,” shouted Fifi Waters, messing up the gray hair of the man with the diamond stud. “Hoopla.” She leaped down with a kick, danced around the room, kicking high with her skirts flaring up around her knees.

“Oh wow, the French high kicker!”

“Keep an eye out for the Pony Ballet.”

Her slim legs, shiny black silk stockings narrowing to red rosetted slippers, caught the attention of the men.

“She’s crazy,” exclaimed the lady in the tiara.

Hoopla. Holyoke was leaning in the doorway with his top hat tilted over the bright bulb of his nose. She shouted and kicked it off.

"It's a goal!" everyone shouted.

“For crying out loud, you kicked me in the eye.”

She stared at him for a moment with wide eyes and then broke down in tears on the broad chest of the diamond-studded shirt. “I won't be treated like that,” she cried.

“Wipe the other eye.”

“Get a band-aid, someone.”

“Damn it, she might have put his eye out.”

“Call a cab, waiter.”

“Where's a doctor at?”

"That's hell to pay, old man."

A handkerchief soaked with tears and blood pressed to his eye, the man with the bottlenose stumbled out. The men and women rushed through the door after him; last came the blond young man, swaying and singing:

Fifi Waters was crying with her head on the table.

“Don’t cry, Fifi,” said the Colonel, who was still sitting where he had been all evening. “Here’s something I think might do you some good.” He slid a glass of champagne towards her down the table.

She sniffled and started sipping it slowly. “Hey Roger, how’s the kid?”

“The boy’s doing well, thank you... But he’s pretty bored, you know? An evening with such awful people...”

"I'm starving."

“There doesn't seem to be anything left to eat.”

“I didn't know you'd be here, or I would have come earlier, I swear.”

“Would you really?... That sounds great.”

The long ash fell from the Colonel’s cigar as he stood up. “Now Fifi, I’ll call a cab and we’ll take a ride in the Park....”

She downed her champagne and nodded happily. “Oh my, it’s four o’clock....” “You have the right wraps, don’t you?”

She nodded once more.

“Splendid Fifi ... I must say you look great.” The Colonel’s cigar-colored face was breaking into smiles. “Well, let’s go.”

She looked around in a dazed way. “Didn’t I come with someone?”

"Totally unnecessary!"

In the hall, they found the handsome young man quietly throwing up into a bucket next to a fake palm tree.

“Oh, let’s just leave him,” she said, scrunching up her nose.

“Totally unnecessary,” said the Colonel.

Emile brought their jackets. The red-haired girl had gone home.

“Listen up, kid.” The Colonel waved his cane. “Get me a cab, please... Make sure the horse is good and the driver is sober.”

"Right away, sir."

The sky above the rooftops and chimneys was a rich sapphire blue. The Colonel took a few deep breaths of the fresh morning air and tossed his cigar into the gutter. “How about we grab some breakfast at Cleremont? I haven’t eaten anything decent all night. That horrible sweet champagne, ugh!”

Fifi giggled. After the Colonel checked the horse’s fetlocks and patted its head, they got into the cab. The Colonel tucked Fifi carefully under his arm, and they drove away. Emile stood for a moment in the restaurant's doorway, smoothing out a five-dollar bill. He was tired, and his arches ached.

When Emile stepped out of the back door of the restaurant, he saw Congo sitting on the doorstep, waiting for him. Congo’s skin had a green, chilly hue under the frayed, turned-up coat collar.

“This is my friend,” Emile said to Marco. “We arrived on the same boat.”

“You don't have a bottle of good wine under your coat, do you? Wow, I've seen some pretty decent chickens come out of this place.”

"But what's wrong?"

“Lost my job, that’s it... I won’t have to take any more crap from that guy. Come over and grab a coffee.”

They ordered coffee and donuts from a food truck in an empty lot.

“Hey, do you like this sacred pig of a country?” asked Marco.

“Why not? I like it anywhere. It’s all the same; in France you're paid poorly and live well; here you're paid well and live poorly.”

“This country is completely upside down.”

“I think I’ll go to sea again...”

“Say, why the hell don't you guys learn English?” said the man with a cauliflower face as he slammed three mugs of coffee down on the counter.

“If we speak English,” snapped Marco, “maybe you won’t like what we’re saying.”

“Why did they let you go?”

“Messed up. I don’t know. I got into a fight with the old guy who runs the place.... He lived next to the stables; in addition to washing the carriages, he made me scrub the floors in his house.... His wife, she had a face like this.” Congo sucked in his lips and tried to look cross-eyed.

Marco laughed. “Holy Mary, what a mess!”

“How did you talk to them?”

“They pointed to things; then I nodded my head and said, 'Alright.' I went there at eight and worked until six, and every day they gave me more disgusting tasks to do.... Last night they told me to clean out the toilet in the bathroom. I shook my head.... That’s women’s work.... She got really angry and started yelling. Then I began to learn English.... 'Go to hell,' I told her.... Then the old man came and chased me out into the street with a carriage whip and said he wouldn’t pay me for the week.... While we were arguing, he got a policeman, and when I tried to explain to the policeman that the old man owed me ten dollars for the week, he said, 'Get lost, you lousy wop,' and hit me on the head with his nightstick.... Damn it all...”

Marco was blushing. “Did he call you a lousy wop?”

Congo nodded with his mouth full of doughnut.

“Just a worthless Irishman,” Marco muttered in English. “I’m sick of this awful town....

“It’s the same everywhere, the police beating us up, rich people cheating us out of our meager wages, and whose fault is it?... Damn it! Your fault, my fault, Emile’s fault....”

“We didn’t create the world.... They did, or maybe God did.”

"God is on their side, just like a cop.... When the time comes, we'll take God down.... I’m an anarchist."

Congo hummed "the bourgeois to the lantern, for God's sake."

“Are you one of us?”

Congo shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a Catholic or a Protestant; I don’t have any money and I don’t have a job. Look at that.” Congo pointed with a dirty finger to a long tear in his trouser knee. “That’s anarchist... Hell, I’m going out to Senegal to be a nigger.”

“You look like one already,” Emile laughed.

"That’s why they call me Congo."

“But that’s all nonsense,” Emile continued. “People are just the same. It’s just that some people get ahead and others don’t... That’s why I came to New York.”

“Damn it, I think that was twenty-five years ago.... When you're old like me, you understand better. Doesn’t the shame of it ever get to you? Here” ... he tapped his knuckles on his stiff shirtfront.... “I feel it burning and choking me here.... Then I tell myself, 'Stay strong, our day is coming, our day of blood.'”

“I tell myself,” said Emile, “When you’ve got some cash, old kid.”

“Listen, before I leave Torino for the last time to see my mom, I went to a meeting with some comrades.... A guy from Capua stood up to speak ... a really handsome man, tall and very thin.... He said there would be no more oppression when, after the revolution, nobody lives off someone else's work.... Police, governments, armies, presidents, kings ... all that is oppression. Oppression isn't real; it's an illusion. The working class creates all that because they believe in it. The day we stop believing in money and property, it will feel like waking up from a dream. We won’t need bombs or barricades.... Religion, politics, democracy—all of that is just to keep us in a dream.... Everyone needs to go around telling people: Wake up!”

“When you go down into the street, I’ll be with you,” said Congo.

“You know that man I always talk about?... That guy Errico Malatesta, the greatest man in Italy after Garibaldi.... He spent his whole life in jail and exile, in Egypt, England, South America, everywhere.... If I could be a man like that, I wouldn’t care what they did; they could hang me, shoot me ... I don’t care ... I’m really happy.”

“But he must be crazy, a guy like that,” said Emile slowly. “He must be crazy.”

Marco finished his coffee. “Hold on a second. You’re too young. You’ll get it... One by one, they help us understand... And remember what I’m saying... Maybe I’m too old, maybe I’m gone, but it’s going to happen when the working class wakes up from their slavery... You’ll walk down the street and the police will flee, you’ll walk into a bank and there will be money everywhere, and you won’t even bother to pick it up, it won’t mean anything... All around the world, we’re getting ready. There are comrades even in China... Your Commune in France was just the start... socialism didn’t work out. It’s up to the anarchists to take the next step... If we fail, there will be others...”

Congo yawned, “I’m as sleepy as a dog.”

Outside, the lemon-colored dawn soaked the empty streets, dripping from the ledges, from the rails of fire escapes, from the tops of trash cans, breaking apart the patches of shadow between buildings. The streetlights were off. They glanced up Broadway, which was tight and burnt as if a fire had wiped it out.

“I never see the dawn,” said Marco, his voice shaky, “without thinking to myself maybe... maybe today.” He cleared his throat and spat against the base of a lamppost; then he waddled away from them, taking short, deep breaths of the cool air.

“Is that true, Congo, about shipping again?”

“Why not? I need to see a bit of the world...”

“I’m really going to miss you... I’ll need to find another room.”

"You'll find another friend to share a room with."

“But if you do that, you’ll be a sailor for the rest of your life.”

“What does it matter? When you’re rich and married, I’ll come and visit you.”

They were walking down Sixth Avenue. An L train roared above them, leaving a humming rattle that faded among the beams after it passed.

“Why don't you get another job and stick around for a bit?”

Congo pulled two bent cigarettes out of his coat's breast pocket, handed one to Emile, struck a match on his trousers, and slowly exhaled the smoke through his nose. “I’m so done with it here, I swear....” He ran his hand across his throat, “up to here.... Maybe I’ll go home and visit the girls in Bordeaux.... At least they’re not all fake.... I’ll sign up as a volunteer in the navy and rock a red pompom.... The girls love that. That’s the way to live.... Get drunk, cause some trouble on payday, and see the Far East.”

“And die of syphilis in a hospital at thirty....”

“What does it matter?... Your body refreshes itself every seven years.”

The stairs of their boarding house smelled like cabbage and old beer. They awkwardly climbed up, yawning.

“Waiting’s a really exhausting job.... Makes your feet ache.... Look, it’s going to be a nice day; I can see the sun on the water tank across from us.”

Congo took off his shoes, socks, and pants, then curled up in bed like a cat.

“Those dirty curtains let in all the light,” Emile muttered as he stretched out on the edge of the bed. He lay tossing and turning on the wrinkled sheets. Congo's breathing next to him was soft and steady. If only I could be like that, Emile thought, never worrying about anything... But that’s not how you survive in the world. My God, it’s foolish... Marco’s crazy, the old fool.

And he lay on his back, staring at the rusty stains on the ceiling, flinching every time an elevated train rattled the room. Sacred name of God, I need to save up my money. When he turned the knob on the bed, it rattled, and he recalled Marco’s hissing, husky voice: I never see the dawn without thinking to myself, maybe.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Mr. Olafson,” said the house agent. “While you and the lady are making a decision about the apartment...” They stood together in the empty room, looking out the window at the slate-colored Hudson, the warships at anchor, and a schooner sailing upstream.

Suddenly she turned to him with sparkling eyes; “Oh Billy, just imagine that.”

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. “You can almost smell the ocean.”

“Just think, Billy, that we’re going to live here, on Riverside Drive. I’ll need to take a day at home... Mrs. William C. Olafson, 218 Riverside Drive... I wonder if it's okay to put the address on our business cards.” She took his hand and guided him through the empty, spotless rooms that no one had ever inhabited. He was a tall, awkward man with eyes of a pale blue, deeply set in a soft, childlike face.

“It’s a lot of money, Bertha.”

“We can definitely afford it now. We have to live within our means.... Your role requires it.... And just think about how happy we’ll be.”

The real estate agent came back down the hall rubbing his hands. “Well, well, well... Ah, I see we’ve reached a good decision... You’re very smart too; there’s no better location in New York City, and in a few months, you won’t be able to find anything out this way for love or money...”

“Yes, we’ll start from the first of the month.”

“Very good.... You won’t regret your decision, Mr. Olafson.”

“I’ll send you a check for the amount tomorrow morning.”

“At your own convenience.... And what is your current address, please....” The real estate agent took out a notebook and wet the end of a pencil with his tongue.

“You should put Hotel Astor.” She stepped in front of her husband.

“Our stuff is stored right now.”

Mr. Olafson blushed.

“And, um, could we get the names of two references in New York City, please?”

“I’m with Keating and Bradley, Sanitary Engineers, 43 Park Avenue...”

“He just got promoted to assistant general manager,” added Mrs. Olafson.

When they stepped onto the Drive walking downtown against a gusty wind, she exclaimed, “Darling, I’m so happy... It’s really going to be worth living now.”

“But why did you tell him we lived at the Astor?”

“I couldn't tell him we lived in the Bronx, could I? He’d have thought we were Jewish and wouldn’t have rented us the apartment.”

“But you know I don't like that kind of thing.”

"Well, we'll just move to the Astor for the rest of the week, if you're feeling so honest.... I've never stayed in a big downtown hotel in my life."

“Oh Bertha, it’s the principle of the matter... I don’t like it when you act like that.”

She turned and looked at him with flaring nostrils. “You're so soft, Billy... I wish to God I had married a real man.”

He grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s go up here,” he said roughly, not facing her.

They walked up a side street between vacant lots. At a corner, the run-down half of a weatherboard farmhouse was still standing. There was part of a room with blue flowered wallpaper stained brown on the walls, a smoky fireplace, a broken built-in cupboard, and a metal bed frame bent in half.

Plates slide continuously through Bud’s greasy fingers. The smell of leftover food and hot soapy water fills the air. He goes around with the small mop twice, dipping, rinsing, and stacking in the rack for the long-nosed Jewish kid to dry. His knees are wet from the spills, grease creeping up his forearms, and his elbows feel stiff.

“Hell, this isn’t a job for a white man.”

“I don’t care as long as I get to eat,” said the Jewish boy over the noise of dishes clanging and the sizzling sounds from the stove where three sweating cooks were frying eggs and ham, hamburger steak, browned potatoes, and corned beef hash.

“Yeah, I ate just fine,” said Bud, running his tongue around his teeth to dislodge a bit of salt meat that he mashed against the roof of his mouth. Twice around with the little mop, dip, rinse, and stack in the rack for the long-nosed Jewish kid to wipe. There was a pause. The Jewish kid handed Bud a cigarette. They leaned against the sink.

“Ain't no way to make money dishwashing.” The cigarette wobbled on the Jewish boy’s thick lip as he spoke.

“Ain't no job for a white man anyway,” said Bud. “Waiting is better; there are tips.”

A man in a brown derby walked in through the swinging door from the lunchroom. He was a big-mouthed guy with pig-like eyes and a long cigar sticking straight out of the middle of his mouth. Bud caught his gaze and felt a cold shiver twist in his stomach.

“Who’s that?” he whispered.

"Not sure... Customer, I guess."

“Doesn’t he look to you like one of those detectives?”

“How the hell should I know? I’ve never been to jail.” The Jewish boy flushed and jutted out his jaw.

The busboy dropped off another stack of dirty dishes. He mopped twice, dipped, rinsed, and stacked them in the rack. When the guy in the brown derby walked back through the kitchen, Bud focused on his red, greasy hands. What does it matter if he’s a detective? After Bud finished the load, he walked to the door, wiped his hands, grabbed his coat and hat from the hook, and slipped through the side door past the trash cans and out into the street. What a fool to give up two hours' pay. In an optician’s window, the clock read twenty-five past two. He walked down Broadway, past Lincoln Square, across Columbus Circle, further downtown towards the center where it would be busier.

She lay with her knees pulled up to her chin, the nightgown snug under her toes.

“Now sit up straight and go to bed, sweetheart... Promise me you’ll go to sleep.”

“Won't Dad come and kiss me good night?”

“He'll be back when he gets in; he went back to the office, and Mom's going to Mrs. Spingarn's to play euchre.”

"When's dad coming home?"

“Ellie, I said to go to sleep... I’ll leave the light on.”

“Don’t, Mom, it makes shadows... When will Dad be home?”

“When he’s ready.” She was turning down the gaslight. Shadows from the corners merged and rushed together. “Goodnight, Ellen.” The light from the door shrank behind Mom, slowly narrowing to a thread along the top. The doorknob clicked; the footsteps faded down the hall; the front door slammed. A clock ticked somewhere in the quiet room; outside the apartment, outside the house, the sounds of wheels and galloping hooves, distant voices; the noise grew louder. It was dark except for the two beams of light forming an upside-down L in the corner of the door.

Ellie wanted to stretch out her feet, but she was too scared to do it. She didn't dare take her eyes off the upside-down L in the corner of the door. If she closed her eyes, the light would disappear. Behind the bed, out from the curtains, out of the closet, and from under the table, shadows crept toward her. She held onto her ankles and pressed her chin between her knees. The pillow bulged with shadow, and rummaging shadows were slipping into the bed. If she closed her eyes, the light would disappear.

The black, spiraling roar outside was seeping through the walls, causing the cuddled shadows to pulse. Her tongue clicked against her teeth like the ticking of a clock. Her arms and legs were stiff; her neck was stiff; she was about to yell. Yell over the roaring and the rattling outside, yell to make Daddy hear, Daddy come home. She took a deep breath and screamed again. Make Daddy come home. The roaring shadows staggered and danced, the shadows lurched around and around. Then she was crying, her eyes filled with safe, warm tears, running down her cheeks and into her ears. She turned over and lay crying, her face in the pillow.

The gas lamps flicker for a bit along the chilly purple streets and then go out as the harsh dawn breaks. Gus McNiel, still sleepy, rubs his eyes as he walks next to his wagon, swinging a wire basket of milk bottles, stopping at doors to collect empties, climbing cold stairs, remembering grades A and B, and pints of cream and buttermilk, while the sky behind the rooftops, water tanks, and chimneys turns rosy and yellow. Frost sparkles on doorsteps and curbs. The horse with its head hanging low stumbles jerkily from door to door. Dark footprints start to appear on the frosty pavement. A heavy brewer's dray rumbles down the street.

“Hey Moike, feeling a bit cold, are you?” shouts Gus McNiel at a cop waving his arms on the corner of Eighth Avenue.

"Hey Gus. Still milking cows?"

It’s broad daylight when he finally throws the reins down on the gelding’s worn-out back and heads back to the dairy, with empties bouncing and jiggling in the cart behind him. At Ninth Avenue, a train rushes overhead, clattering downtown behind a little green engine that puffs out chunks of smoke, white and thick like cotton candy, which dissolves in the chilly air between the stiff black-windowed houses. The first rays of the sun highlight the gold lettering of DANIEL McGILLYCUDDY’S WINES AND LIQUORS at the corner of Tenth Avenue. Gus McNiel’s mouth is dry, and the dawn has a salty taste. A can of beer would really hit the spot on a cold morning like this. He wraps the reins around the whip and jumps over the wheel. His numb feet sting when they hit the pavement. Stamping to get the blood flowing back into his toes, he pushes through the swinging doors.

“Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t the milkman bringing us a pint of cream for our coffee.” Gus spits into the newly polished spit bucket beside the bar.

“Boy, I’ve got a sore throat....”

“Been drinking too much milk again, Gus, I bet,” roars the bartender out of a square, meaty face.

The bar smells of brass polish and fresh sawdust. Through an open window, a beam of warm sunlight touches the backside of a naked woman who lounges, as relaxed as a hardboiled egg on a bed of spinach, in a gold-framed picture behind the bar.

“Well Gus, what’s your pleasure on a fine cold morning like this?”

“Guess beer will work, Mac.”

The foam rises in the glass, shakes a bit, and spills over. The bartender uses a wooden scoop to trim the top, lets the foam calm down for a moment, then puts the glass under the slightly hissing tap again. Gus is comfortably resting his heel on the brass rail.

"How's the job going?"

Gus gulps down the glass of beer and makes a mark on his neck with his flat hand before wiping his mouth with it. “I’m loaded up to the neck with it... I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going out West, take some free land in North Dakota or somewhere and grow wheat... I’m pretty skilled around a farm... This city life isn’t for me.”

“How will Nellie react?”

"She won’t take to it very well at first, likes her comforts of home and all that she’s used to, but I think she’ll like it just fine once she’s out there and everything. This isn’t life for her or me either."

“You're right about that. This town's really going downhill... I guess me and the wife will sell out here soon. If we could get a nice, classy restaurant uptown or a roadhouse, that would be perfect for us. I have my eye on a little property out in Bronxville, which is just a short drive away.” He lifts a fist shaped like a mallet in thought to his chin. “I’m tired of dealing with these damn drunks every night. Why did I even leave the boxing ring? Just last night, two guys started throwing punches and I had to jump in and break it up... I’m fed up with fighting every drunk on Tenth Avenue... Want something on the house?”

“Jez, I’m afraid Nellie will notice it on me.”

“Oh, never mind that. Nellie should be used to a bit of drinking. Her old man likes it well enough.”

“But honestly, Mac, I haven't been drunk once since my wedding day.”

“I don’t blame you. She’s a really sweet girl, Nellie is. Those little spit curls of hers would almost drive a guy crazy.”

The second beer sends a foamy, bitter rush to Gus’s fingertips. Laughing, he slaps his thigh.

“She’s a real sweetheart, that’s what she is, Gus, so ladylike and everything.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be heading back to her.”

"You lucky young devil, heading home to bed with your wife while we're all starting to go to work."

Gus's face turns even redder. His ears are buzzing. "Sometimes she's still in bed... Take care, Mac." He stomps out into the street again.

The morning has turned gloomy. Heavy clouds are hanging over the city. “Get up, you old skin and bones,” Gus yells as he tugs at the gelding’s head. Eleventh Avenue is filled with icy dust, the grinding rattle of wheels, and the scrape of hooves on the cobblestones. Down the railroad tracks comes the clang of a locomotive bell and the clatter of freight cars being shuffled around. Gus is in bed with his wife, speaking softly to her: “Hey, Nellie, would you mind if we moved West? I’ve filed for a homestead in North Dakota, where the soil is rich, and we could make a good amount of money growing wheat; some guys get rich with just a few good harvests... It’d be healthier for the kids anyway... “Hello, Moike!” There’s poor old Moike still on his beat. It’s tough work being a cop. Better to be a wheat farmer with a big farmhouse, barns, pigs, horses, cows, and chickens... Pretty little curly-haired Nellie feeding the chickens at the kitchen door...

“Hey there for crying out loud....” a man is yelling at Gus from the curb. “Watch out for the cars!”

A shouting mouth open beneath a visor cap, a green flag waving. “Oh my God, I’m on the tracks.” He pulls the horse’s head around. A crash tears through the wagon behind him. Cars, the gelding, a green flag, red houses spin and collapse into darkness.

A slim-faced young man with steel eyes and a thin, high-bridged nose leaned back in a swivel chair with his feet on his new mahogany-finish desk. His skin was pale, and his lips were slightly pouting. He shifted in the swivel chair, watching the little scratches his shoes were making on the veneer. Damn it, I don't care. Then he sat up suddenly, making the swivel screech, and hit his knee with his clenched fist. “Results,” he shouted. “Three months I’ve sat here, rubbing my butt on this swivel chair.... What’s the point of going through law school and being admitted to the bar if you can’t find anyone to practice on?” He frowned at the gold lettering on the frosted glass door.

NIWDLAB EGROEG
aT-tA-rotterW

Niwdlab, Welsh. He jumped to his feet. I’ve read that damn sign backwards every day for three months. I’m going crazy. I’ll go out and grab some lunch.

He straightened his vest and brushed some dust off his shoes with a handkerchief, then, pulling a serious expression, he rushed out of his office, jogged down the stairs, and stepped out onto Maiden Lane. In front of the chophouse, he saw the headline on a pink extra: Japanese Thrown Back From Mukden. He grabbed the paper and tucked it under his arm as he walked through the swinging door. He sat at a table and examined the menu. He couldn’t be extravagant right now. “Waiter, I’ll have a New England boiled dinner, a slice of apple pie, and coffee.” The long-nosed waiter jotted down the order while glancing at it sideways with a cautious frown.... That’s the lunch for a lawyer without any clients. Baldwin cleared his throat and unfolded the paper.... Should boost the Russian bonds a bit. Veterans Visit President.... Another Accident on Eleventh Avenue Tracks. Milkman seriously injured. Hey, that could lead to a nice little damage suit.

He should sue the railroad. By gosh, I need to get a hold of that guy and make him sue the railroad.... He still hasn't regained consciousness.... Maybe he’s dead. Then his wife can sue them even more.... I’ll go to the hospital this very afternoon.... Get there before any of these shady lawyers. He took a determined bite of bread and chewed it vigorously. Of course not; I’ll go to the house and see if there’s a wife or mother or something: Forgive me, Mrs. McNiel, if I intrude upon your deep sorrow, but I’m currently working on an investigation.... Yes, retained by prominent interests.... He finished the last of the coffee and paid the bill.

Repeating 253 W. 4th Street over and over, he got on an uptown subway on Broadway. Walking west along 4th, he passed by Washington Square. The trees stretched out brittle purple branches against a dove-colored sky; the large-windowed buildings across the street glowed a soft pink, looking casual and prosperous. It seemed like the perfect place for a lawyer with a big conservative practice to live. We’ll see about that. He crossed Sixth Avenue and followed the road into the rundown West Side, where there was a smell of stables, and the sidewalks were littered with scraps of garbage and crawling kids. Imagine living down here among the low Irish and foreigners, the scum of the earth. At 253, there were several unmarked doorbells. A woman with gingham sleeves rolled up on sausage-shaped arms poked her gray mop of hair out the window.

“Can you let me know if Augustus McNiel lives here?”

“Him that's up there lying in the hospital. Of course he does.”

"That's it. Does he have any relatives living here?"

“Then what would you want with them?”

“It’s a small business issue.”

“Go up to the top floor and you’ll find his wife there, but she probably can’t see you. The poor thing is really upset about her husband, and they’ve only been married for eighteen months.”

The stairs had muddy footprints all over them and were scattered with bits of ash from trash cans. At the top, he found a newly painted dark green door and knocked.

“Who’s there?” a girl’s voice called out, sending a slight shiver through him. She must be young.

“Is Mrs. McNiel here?”

“Yes,” came the girl's cheerful voice again. “What is it?”

“It’s a business matter regarding Mr. McNiel’s accident.”

“Is it about the accident?” The door opened in little cautious jerks. She had a sharp, pearly white nose and chin, and a pile of wavy reddish-brown hair that lay in flat curls around her high, narrow forehead. Her gray eyes were sharp and suspicious as they looked him hard in the face.

“Can I talk to you for a minute about Mr. McNiel’s accident? There are some legal issues here that I think I should inform you about.... By the way, I hope he’s doing better.”

“Oh yes, he’s awake now.”

“Can I come in? It’s a bit lengthy to explain.”

“I guess you can.” Her pouting lips turned into a sarcastic smile. “I guess you won’t eat me.”

“No, seriously, I won't.” He laughed awkwardly in his throat.

She walked ahead into the dimly lit living room. “I’m not pulling up the shades so you won’t see the mess everything’s in.”

“Let me introduce myself, Mrs. McNiel. I'm George Baldwin, 88 Maiden Lane. I specialize in cases like this. To summarize... Your husband was hit and almost killed due to the irresponsible or possibly criminal negligence of the employees at the New York Central Railroad. There's definitely enough cause to sue the railroad. I also have reason to believe that the Excelsior Dairy Company will file a lawsuit for the losses they incurred, including the horse and wagon, and so on.”

“You think Gus is more likely to get compensation himself?”

"Exactly."

“How much do you think he could make?”

“Why that depends on how seriously injured he is, on the court's attitude, and maybe on the lawyer's skill.... I think ten thousand dollars is a safe estimate.”

“And you don't ask for any money upfront?”

“The lawyer's fee is usually not paid until the case is successfully resolved.”

“Are you really a lawyer? You look kind of young to be one.”

The gray eyes sparkled in his. They both laughed. He felt a warm, unexplainable rush of emotions.

“I’m a lawyer after all. I specialize in cases like this. Just last Tuesday, I got six thousand dollars for a client who got kicked by a relay horse on the loop.... Right now, as you might know, there’s a lot of movement to completely revoke the franchise of the Eleventh Avenue tracks.... I think this is a really good time.”

“Do you always talk like that, or is it just for work?”

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Poor old Gus, I've always said he had some luck in him."

The cry of a child filtered softly through the wall into the room.

“What is that?”

“It’s just the baby... The little brat doesn’t do anything but cry.”

“So you have kids, Mrs. McNiel?” The thought sent a chill through him somehow.

“Just one ... what can you expect?”

"Is this the Emergency Hospital?"

“Yes, I think they’ll let you see him since it’s a business matter. He’s groaning something awful.”

“Now if I could get some reliable witnesses.”

“Mike Doheny has seen it all.... He’s on the police force. He’s a good friend of Gus’s.”

“Wow, we have a case and a half.... They'll definitely settle out of court.... I’m heading straight to the hospital.”

A new round of cries came from the other room.

“Oh, that kid,” she whispered, scrunching up her face. “We could use the money, right Mr. Baldwin....”

“Well, I have to go.” He grabbed his hat. “I’ll definitely do my best in this case. Can I come by and update you on my progress from time to time?”

“I hope you do.”

When they shook hands at the door, he couldn't seem to let go of her hand. She blushed.

“Well, goodbye and thank you so much for calling,” she said stiffly.

Baldwin stumbled unsteadily down the stairs. His head was pounding. The most stunning girl I’ve ever seen in my life. Outside, it had started to snow. The snowflakes were cold, sneaky touches against his warm cheeks.

The sky above the park was dotted with fluffy little clouds that looked like a bunch of white chickens.

“Look, Alice, let’s go down this little path.”

“But Ellen, my dad told me to go straight home from school.”

“Chicken!”

“But Ellen, those awful kidnappers...”

“I told you not to call me Ellen anymore.”

“Well, Elaine, then. Elaine, the lily maid of Astalot.”

Ellen was wearing her new Black Watch plaid dress. Alice had glasses and legs as thin as hairpins.

“Scaredy-cat!”

“They're awful guys sitting on that bench. Come on, Elaine the beautiful, let's head home.”

“I’m not afraid of them. I could fly like Peter Pan if I wanted to.”

"Why don't you do it?"

"I don't want to right now."

Alice started to whine. “Oh, Ellen, I think you’re being mean... Come on, home, Elaine.”

“No, I’m going for a walk in the park.”

Ellen started down the steps. Alice paused for a moment on the top step, balancing first on one foot and then on the other.

“Scaredy scaredy scaredycat!” yelled Ellen.

Alice ran off crying. “I’m going to tell your mom.”

Ellen walked down the paved path surrounded by the bushes, kicking her toes in the air.

Ellen, in her new Black Watch plaid dress that she bought at Hearn’s, walked down the asphalt path, kicking her toes up in the air. There was a silver thistle brooch on the shoulder of her new Black Watch plaid dress from Hearn’s. Elaine of Lammermoor was getting married. The Betrothed. Wangnaan nainainai, went the bagpipes playing through the rye. The man on the bench has a patch over his eye. A watching black patch. A black watching patch. The kidnapper of the Black Watch, among the rustling shrubs where kidnappers keep their Black Watch. Ellen’s toes don't kick in the air. Ellen is terribly scared of the kidnapper of the Black Watch, a big smelly man with a patch over his eye. She’s afraid to run. Her heavy feet scrape against the asphalt as she tries to run fast down the path. She’s scared to turn her head. The kidnapper of the Black Watch is right behind her. When I get to the lamppost, I’ll run as far as the nurse and the baby; when I get to the nurse and the baby, I’ll run as far as the big tree; when I get to the big tree... Oh, I’m so tired... I’ll run out onto Central Park West and down the street home. She was scared to look back. She ran with a stitch in her side. She ran until her mouth tasted like pennies.

“What are you running for, Ellie?” asked Gloria Drayton, who was skipping rope outside the Norelands.

“Because I wanted to,” panted Ellen.

Winey afterglow stained the muslin curtains and filtered into the blue gloom of the room. They stood on either side of the table. Out of a pot of narcissus still wrapped in tissue paper, star-shaped flowers gleamed with a faint glow, giving off a damp earthy smell tangled with a lazy, prickly perfume.

“It was really kind of you to bring these to me, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll take them to Gus at the hospital tomorrow.”

“For God’s sake, don’t call me that.”

“But I don't like the name George.”

“I don’t care, I like your name, Nellie.”

He stood there, looking at her, with scented weights wrapped around his arms. His hands hung like empty gloves. Her eyes were dark and wide open, her lips pushed forward towards him over the flowers. She suddenly raised her hands to cover her face. His arm was around her small, thin shoulders.

“But honestly Georgy, we have to be careful. You shouldn’t come here so often. I don’t want all the old ladies in the house to start gossiping.”

“Don’t worry about that... We shouldn’t worry about anything.”

“I've been acting like I’m crazy this past week... I need to stop.”

“You don't think I’ve been acting normally, do you? I swear to God, Nellie, I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m not that kind of person.”

She laughed, showing her even teeth. "Oh, you can never tell about men."

“But if it weren’t something remarkable and unique, you don’t think I’d be chasing after you like this, do you? I’ve never loved anyone but you, Nellie.”

"That's a great one."

"But it's true... I've never been into that sort of thing. I've worked too hard getting through law school and all that to have time for girls."

“Makin’ up for lost time, I guess.”

“Oh, Nellie, please don’t say that.”

“But honestly, Georgy, I need to stop this. What are we going to do when Gus gets out of the hospital? I’m neglecting the kid and everything.”

“God, I don't care what happens.... Oh Nellie.” He pulled her face towards him. They clung to each other, swaying, their mouths passionately mingling.

“Watch out, we almost knocked the lamp over.”

“God, you’re amazing, Nellie.” Her head rested on his chest, and he could feel the rich scent of her tousled hair surrounding him. It was dark. Winding streams of light from the streetlamp wrapped greenly around them. Her eyes looked up into his, eerily serious and black.

“Look, Nellie, let’s go in the other room,” he whispered in a small, shaky voice.

"Baby's inside."

They stood apart with cold hands looking at each other. “Come here and help me. I’ll move the crib in here... Careful not to wake her, or she’ll scream her head off.” Her voice was rough and husky.

The baby was asleep, her tiny rubbery face tightly closed, small pink fists clenched on the blanket.

"She looks happy," he said with a forced laugh.

“Can you please be quiet? Here, take off your shoes. There’s already been enough stomping around with men’s shoes up here. Georgy, I wouldn’t do this, but I just can’t help it…”

He searched for her in the dark. “You darling....” Awkwardly, he hovered over her, breathing heavily.

"Flatfoot, you're stringing us along..."

“I’m not lying, I’d swear on my mother’s grave it's the truth... Latitude 27 south by 12 west... You can go there and see... On that island we made in the second officer’s boat when the Eliot P. Simkins sank, there were four men and forty-seven women, including women and children. Wasn’t it me who told the reporter all about it and it ended up in all the Sunday papers?”

“But Flatfoot, how did they manage to get you away from there?”

“ They took me away on a stretcher or I’m a liar. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t struggling, going down by the bow like the old Elliot P..”

Heads thrown back on thick necks burst into laughter, glasses clinked on the round, ring-marked table, thighs echoed with slaps, and elbows jabbed into ribs.

“Uh, how many guys were in the boat?”

“Six including Mr. Dorkins, the second officer.”

“Seven and four adds up to eleven.... Wow.... Four and three-elevenths people per capita.... What a place.”

“When does the next ferry leave?”

“Better grab another drink for that... Hey Charlie, fill them up.”

Emile tugged at Congo’s elbow. “Come outside for a sec. I have something to tell you.” Congo’s eyes were tearful; he swayed a bit as he followed Emile into the outer bar. “Oh, the little mysterious one.”

“Listen, I need to go visit a female friend.”

“Oh, is that what's bothering you? I always said you were a smart guy, Emile.”

“Look, here’s my address on a piece of paper in case you forget it: 945 West 22nd. You can come and crash there if you’re not too drunk, and don’t bring any friends or girls or anything. I’m on good terms with the landlady and I don’t want to mess that up.... You understand.”

“But I wanted you to come to a great party.... We need to celebrate a bit, for goodness' sake!...”

“I started work in the morning.”

“But I’ve got eight months of pay in my pocket....

“Anyway, come over tomorrow around six. I’ll wait for you.”

“You're really annoying me with your ways, you know;” Congo spat a stream of saliva into the spittoon in the corner of the bar and turned back with a frown into the inner room.

“Hey there, sit down, Congo; Barney is going to sing the Bastard King of England.”

Emile hopped on a streetcar and rode uptown. At Eighteenth Street, he got off and walked west to Eighth Avenue. Two doors from the corner was a small store. Above one window was Candy shop, and above the other Deli. In the middle of the glass door, white enamel letters read Emile Rigaud, High Class Table Dainties. Emile walked in. The bell jingled as the door opened. A dark stout woman with black hairs at the corners of her mouth was dozing behind the counter. Emile took off his hat. “Bonsoir Madame Rigaud.” She looked up with a start and then smiled widely, showing two dimples.

“Tieng, that’s how one forgets their friends,” she said in a booming Bordelais voice. “Here’s a week where I tell myself, Monsieur Loustec is forgetting his friends.”

“I don’t have any time anymore.”

“Lots of work, lots of money, right?” When she laughed, her shoulders shook and the big breasts under the tight blue bodice moved.

Emile squinted one eye. “It could be worse... But I’m tired of waiting... It’s so exhausting; nobody pays attention to a waiter.”

“You're a man of ambition, Mr. Loustec.”

“Que voulez-vous?” He blushed and said shyly, “My name’s Emile.”

Mme. Rigaud rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “That was my late husband’s name. I’m used to it.” She sighed heavily.

"How's business going?"

“Like this, like that... Ham’s gone up again.”

“It’s the Chicago ring’s doing that.... A corner in pork, that’s how to make money.”

Emile noticed Mme. Rigaud’s bulging black eyes studying his. “I really enjoyed your singing last time.... I’ve thought about it a lot.... Music is good for the soul, right?” Mme. Rigaud’s dimples deepened as she smiled. “My poor husband couldn’t carry a tune.... That caused me a lot of heartache.”

“Could you sing me something tonight?”

“If you want me to, Emile?... But there’s no one to help the customers.”

“I’ll rush in when we hear the bell, if you don’t mind.”

"Alright... I've learned a new American song... It's so stylish, you know."

Mme. Rigaud locked the cash register with a key from the bunch that hung at her belt and went through the glass door at the back of the shop. Emile followed with his hat in his hand.

“Hand me your hat, Emile.”

“Oh, don't worry about it.”

The room beyond was a small parlor with yellow flowered wallpaper, old salmon pink curtains, and under the gas light, which had a cluster of crystals hanging from it, a piano decorated with photographs. The piano stool creaked when Madame Rigaud sat down. She ran her fingers across the keys. Emile sat carefully on the edge of the chair next to the piano, with his hat resting on his knees, leaning forward so that she could see his face tilted up toward hers from the corner of her eye as she played. Madame Rigaud began to sing:

The bell on the shop door chimed loudly.

"Excuse me," cried Emile running out.

“Half a pound of bologna sausage sliced,” said a little girl with pigtails. Emile ran the knife across the palm of his hand and sliced the sausage carefully. He tiptoed back into the living room and placed the money on the edge of the piano. Madame Rigaud was still singing:

Bud stood on the corner of West Broadway and Franklin Street, eating peanuts from a bag. It was noon and he had no money left. The Elevated train rumbled overhead. Dust motes danced in front of his eyes in the striped sunlight. Trying to figure out which way to go, he spelled out the names of the streets for the third time. A shiny black cab pulled by two sleek black horses turned the corner sharply in front of him, its red wheels clattering on the cobblestones as it suddenly stopped. There was a yellow leather trunk on the seat next to the driver. Inside the cab, a man in a brown derby was loudly talking to a woman wearing a gray feather boa around her neck and gray ostrich plumes on her hat. The man suddenly shoved a revolver up to his mouth. The horses reared and bolted in the middle of a pushing crowd. Policemen were elbowing through. They pulled the man out onto the curb, where he collapsed, vomiting blood, his head hanging limply over his checked vest. The woman stood tall and pale beside him, twisting her feather boa in her hands, the gray plumes in her hat bobbing in the striped sunlight under the elevated train.

“His wife was taking him to Europe.... The Germany was leaving at twelve. I’d said goodbye to him for good. He was departing on the Germany at twelve. He’d said goodbye to me for good.”

“Get out of the way,” a cop jabbed Bud in the stomach with his elbow. His knees shook. He made it to the edge of the crowd and walked away, still trembling. Automatically, he shelled a peanut and popped it in his mouth. Might as well save the rest for later. He twisted the bag shut and dropped it into his pocket.

Under the harsh pink and green light, the man in the checked suit passed by two girls. The girl closest to him had a full-lipped oval face; her eyes were like a knife stab. He walked a few steps, then turned and followed them, fiddling with his new satin necktie. He made sure his horseshoe diamond pin was secure. He passed them again. Her face was turned away. Maybe she was... No, he couldn’t tell. Thankfully, he had fifty dollars with him. He sat on a bench and let them walk by. It wouldn’t be smart to make a mistake and get arrested. They didn’t notice him. He followed them down the path and out of the park. His heart was racing. I’d pay a million dollars for... Excuse me, isn’t this Miss Anderson? The girls walked quickly. In the crowd crossing Columbus Circle, he lost sight of them. He rushed down Broadway, block after block. The full lips, the eyes like a knife thrust. He glanced at the faces of girls to the right and left. Where could she have gone? He hurried on down Broadway.

Ellen was sitting next to her dad on a bench at the Battery. She was admiring her new brown button shoes. A flash of sunlight reflected off the toes and on each of the little round buttons as she swung her feet out from under the shadow of her dress.

"Just picture it," Ed Thatcher was saying, "going overseas on one of those cruise ships. Imagine crossing the vast Atlantic in seven days."

“But Daddy, what do people do all that time on a boat?”

“I don’t know ... I guess they walk around the deck and play cards and read and stuff like that. Then they have dances.”

“Dancing on a boat! I bet it would be really wobbly.” Ellen giggled.

“On the large modern ships, they do.”

“Dad, why don't we go?”

“Maybe we will someday if I can save up enough money.”

“Oh daddy, please hurry up and save a lot of money. Alice Vaughan’s parents go to the White Mountains every summer, but next summer they’re going abroad.”

Ed Thatcher gazed out over the bay, which sparkled blue as it faded into the brown haze toward the Narrows. The Statue of Liberty stood hazily like a sleepwalker among the swirling smoke of tugboats, the masts of schooners, and the bulky shapes of brick barges and sand scows. Occasionally, the bright sun glinted white on a sail or on the upper deck of a steamer. Red ferry boats moved back and forth.

“Dad, why aren't we rich?”

“There are a lot of people poorer than us, Ellie.... You wouldn’t like your dad any better if he were rich, would you?”

“Oh yes, I would, Dad.”

Thatcher laughed. “Well, it might happen someday.... How would you feel about the firm of Edward C. Thatcher and Co., Certified Accountants?”

Ellen got to her feet: “Oh, check out that big boat.... That’s the boat I want to go on.”

"That there’s the Harabic," croaked a Cockney voice next to them.

“Oh, is it really?” said Thatcher.

“Absolutely, it is, sir; as fine a ship as sails the sea, sir,” explained an eager, frayed-voiced man sitting on the bench next to them. A cap with a broken patent leather visor was pulled down over his little pointed face, which carried a faint smell of whiskey. “Yes, sir, the Harabic, sir.”

“Looks like a nice big boat that works well.”

“One of the biggest ships afloat, sir. I’ve sailed on her many times and on the Majestic and the German too, sir, fine ships both, though a bit lightheaded in rough seas, as you might say. I’ve been a steward on the Hinman and White Star lines for thirty years, and now in my old age, they've let me go.”

“Oh well, we all have tough times sometimes.”

“And some of us, as it happens, sir... I’d be a happy man, sir, if I could get back to the old country. This isn’t any place for an old man; it’s for the young and strong, it is.” He drew a gnarled hand across the bay and pointed to the statue. “Look at her, she’s looking towards England, she is.”

“Daddy, let's get out of here. I don't like this guy,” Ellen whispered nervously in her father's ear.

“All right, we’ll go check out the sea lions... Have a good day.”

“You couldn’t find me the price of a cup of coffee, could you now, sir? I’m really hungry.” Thatcher put a dime in the dirty, knobby hand.

“But Dad, Mom said to never let people talk to you in the street and to call a cop if they do, and to run away as fast as you can because of those awful kidnappers.”

“No way they’d kidnap me, Ellie. That’s just for little girls.”

“When I grow up, will I be able to talk to people on the street like that?”

“No, sweetheart, you definitely will not.”

“If I had been a boy, could I?”

"I guess you can."

In front of the Aquarium, they paused for a moment to gaze out over the bay. The cruise ship, with a tugboat puffing white smoke on either side, was lined up next to them, towering over the ferries and harbor boats. Seagulls swooped and squawked overhead. The sun shone warmly on the upper decks and on the large yellow funnel with a black cap. From the foremast, a string of small flags waved cheerfully against the gray sky.

“And there are a lot of people coming over from abroad on that boat, right, Dad?”

“Look, you can see ... the decks are crowded with people.”

Walking across Fifty-third Street from the East River, Bud Korpenning found himself standing next to a pile of coal on the sidewalk. On the other side of the coal pile, a gray-haired woman in a flouncy lace blouse with a big pink cameo resting on the curve of her chest was staring at his stubbly chin and the raw wrists hanging below the frayed sleeves of his coat. Then he heard himself speak:

“Do you think I could take that load of coal in back for you, ma’am?” Bud shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"That's exactly what you could do," the woman said in a shaky voice. "That awful coal guy dropped it off this morning and said he'd come back to bring it in. I guess he's probably just drunk like the others. I wonder if I can trust you in the house."

“I’m from upstate, ma’am,” Bud stammered.

"Where from?"

"From Cooperstown."

“Um... I’m from Buffalo. This is definitely the city for people coming from other places... Well, you’re probably a burglar’s partner, but I can’t help it; I need to get that coal in... Come in, my man. I’ll give you a shovel and a basket, and if you don’t spill any in the hallway or on the kitchen floor, since the cleaning lady just left... of course, the coal had to arrive right after the floor was clean... I’ll pay you a dollar.”

When he brought in the first load, she was hovering in the kitchen. His starving, craving stomach made him feel a bit dizzy, but he was glad to be working instead of dragging his feet endlessly along sidewalks, across streets, dodging delivery trucks, carriages, and streetcars.

“How come you don’t have a regular job, man?” she asked as he returned breathless with the empty basket.

“I guess it’s because I haven’t gotten used to city life yet. I was born and raised on a farm.”

“And what did you want to come to this awful city for?”

“Couldn't stay on the farm anymore.”

“It’s awful what’s going to happen to this country if all the good, strong young men leave the farms and move to the cities.”

“Thought I could get a job as a longshoreman, ma’am, but they’re laying off workers down at the docks. Maybe I can go to sea as a sailor, but nobody wants a rookie.... I haven’t eaten for two days now.”

“How awful.... Why, you poor guy, couldn’t you have gone to some mission or something?”

When Bud brought in the last load, he found a plate of cold stew on the corner of the kitchen table, half a loaf of stale bread, and a glass of milk that was slightly sour. He ate quickly, hardly chewing, and stuffed the last of the stale bread in his pocket.

“Well, did you enjoy your little lunch?”

"Thank you, ma'am." He nodded with his mouth full.

“Well, you can go now, and thank you very much.” She placed a quarter into his hand. Bud stared at the quarter in his palm.

“But ma'am, you said you’d give me a dollar.”

"I never said anything like that. The idea... I’ll call my husband if you don’t leave right now. Actually, I’m really thinking about calling the police anyway..."

Without saying anything, Bud put the quarter in his pocket and shuffled out.

“Such ingratitude,” he heard the woman scoff as he closed the door behind him.

A cramp was knotting up his stomach. He turned east again and walked the long blocks to the river with his fists pressed tightly under his ribs. At any moment, he expected to throw up. If I lose it, it won't do me any good. When he reached the end of the street, he lay down on the gray refuse slide beside the wharf. A smell of hops seeped gruelly and sweet from the buzzing brewery behind him. The sunset lit up the windows of factories on the Long Island side, flashed in the portholes of tugs, and spread swaths of curling yellow and orange over the swift brown-green water, glowing on the curved sails of a schooner that was slowly bucking the tide up into Hell Gate. Inside him, the pain was less intense. Something flared and glowed like the sunset seeping through his body. He sat up. Thank God I'm not going to lose it.

On deck, it's chilly and damp at dawn. The ship's railing feels wet when you touch it. The brown harbor water smells like washbasins and gently laps against the sides of the steamer. Sailors are removing the hatches from the hold. You can hear the clinking of chains and the clattering from the donkey engine, where a tall man in blue overalls stands at a lever in the middle of a cloud of steam that wraps around your face like a wet towel.

“Muddy, is it really the Fourth of July?”

Mother’s hand is tightly holding his as they walk down the hallway into the dining room. Stewards are stacking luggage at the bottom of the stairs.

“Muddy, is it really the Fourth of July?”

“Yes, dear, I’m afraid it is.... A holiday is a terrible time to show up. Still, I guess they’ll all be here to welcome us.”

She has on her blue serge and a long, trailing brown veil and the little brown animal with red eyes and real teeth around her neck. There’s a smell of mothballs, unpacked trunks, and wardrobes cluttered with tissue paper. It’s hot in the dining saloon, and the engines hum softly behind the bulkhead. His head droops over his cup of hot milk, just tinted with coffee. Three bells. His head snaps up, startled. The dishes clink, and the coffee spills as the ship shakes. Then there’s a thud and rattle of anchor chains, followed by gradual quiet. Muddy gets up to look through the porthole.

“Why it’s going to be a great day after all. I think the sun will break through the mist.... Just think about it, dear; home at last. This is where you were born, sweetheart.”

“And it’s the Fourth of July.”

“Such bad luck.... Now Jimmy, you have to promise me to stay on the promenade deck and be really careful. Mom needs to finish packing. Promise me you won't get into any trouble.”

“I swear.”

He trips on the brass threshold of the smoking room door and falls onto the deck, getting up and rubbing his bare knee just in time to see the sun break through dark clouds and send a red stream of light across the off-white water. Billy, who has freckles on his ears and whose family supports Roosevelt instead of Parker like his mom does, is waving a silk flag the size of a handkerchief at the men on a yellow and white tugboat.

“Did you see the sunrise?” he asks as if he owned it.

“You bet I saw it from my porthole,” says Jimmy, walking away after giving the silk flag a long look. There’s land just on the other side; the closest is a green bank with trees and large white houses with gray roofs.

“Well, young man, how does it feel to be home?” asks the man in the tweed jacket with saggy mustaches.

“Is that the way to New York?” Jimmy points across the calm water shining in the sunlight.

“Yep, right behind that bank of fog is Manhattan.”

"Excuse me, sir, what's that?"

“That’s New York... You see, New York is on Manhattan Island.”

“Is it really on an island?”

“Well, what do you think about a guy who doesn’t even know that his own hometown is on an island?”

The well-dressed guy's gold teeth shine as he laughs with his mouth wide open. Jimmy strolls around the deck, kicking his heels, feeling all bubbly inside; New York’s on an island.

“You look really happy to be home, little boy,” says the Southern lady.

“Oh, I really feel that way; I could just fall down and kiss the ground.”

"Well, that's a great patriotic thought... I'm happy to hear you say that."

Jimmy is covered in burns. "Kiss the ground, kiss the ground," plays in his mind like a catcall. Around the deck.

“That’s the quarantine boat with the yellow flag.” A stout man with rings on his fingers—he’s a Jew—is talking to the man in tweed. “Ha, we’re off again.... That was fast, right?”

“We’ll be in for breakfast, an American breakfast, a good old-fashioned home breakfast.”

Muddy walked down the deck, her brown veil billowing. “Here’s your overcoat, Jimmy; you need to carry it.”

“Muddy, can I take down that flag?”

"What flag is that?"

"The silk U.S. flag."

“No, sweetheart, it’s all taken care of.”

“Please, I really want that flag because it’s the Fourth of July and everything.”

“Now don’t whine, Jimmy. When mom says no, she means no.”

Stinging tears; he swallows hard and looks up into her eyes.

“Jimmy, it’s stored in the shawl strap, and Mom is so tired of dealing with those awful bags.”

“But Billy Jones has one.”

“Look, dear, you’re missing things... There’s the Statue of Liberty.” A tall green woman in a robe standing on an island, holding up her hand.

“What’s she holding?"

"That’s a light, my dear... Liberty lighting up the world... And there’s Governors Island on the other side. That's where the trees are... and look, that’s Brooklyn Bridge... What a beautiful sight! And check out all the docks... that’s the Battery... and the masts and the ships... and there’s the spire of Trinity Church and the Pulitzer building." ... The sound of steamboat whistles is mooing, ferries moving around like ducks churning up white water, a whole train of cars on a barge pushed by a tugboat chugging beside it, puffing out cotton-like steam in perfect little puffs. Jimmy’s hands are cold, and he’s chugging along inside.

“Dear, you shouldn’t get too excited. Come down and see if Mom left anything in the stateroom.”

Streaks of water covered in splinters, grocery boxes, orange peels, and cabbage leaves, getting narrower between the boat and the dock. A brass band shining in the sunlight, white caps, sweaty red faces, playing Yankee Doodle. “That’s for the ambassador, you know, the tall guy who never left his cabin.” Down the slanted gangplank, careful not to trip. Yankee Doodle went to town.... Shiny black face, white enameled eyes, white enameled teeth. “Yes ma’am, yes ma’am” ... Stuck a feather in his hat, and called it macaroni..... “We have the freedom of the port.” A blue customs officer shows a bald head bowing low ... Tumte boomboom BOOM BOOM BOOM ... cakes and sugar candy....

“Here’s Aunt Emily and everyone.... Oh, how nice of you to come.”

“My dear, I've been here since six o'clock!”

"Wow, he's really grown."

Light dresses, the sparkle of brooches, faces leaning into Jimmy's, the scent of roses and uncle's cigar.

“Why, he’s such a little guy. Come here, sir, let me see you.”

“Well, goodbye Mrs. Herf. If you ever come our way.... Jimmy, I didn’t see you kiss the ground, young man.”

“Oh, he’s so outdated, he’s such an old-fashioned kid.”

The cab smells moldy, bumping and swaying up a wide street filled with dust, through brick roads that reek and are crowded with dirty, shouting kids, and all the while the trunks creak and bang on top.

“Muddy dear, you don't think it'll break through, do you?”

“No, dear,” she laughs, tilting her head to one side. She has pink cheeks, and her eyes sparkle under the brown veil.

“Oh, muddy.” He stands up and kisses her on the chin. “So many people are muddy.”

"That's because of the Fourth of July."

"What's that guy doing?"

"He's been drinking, dear, I'm afraid."

From a small stand decorated with flags, a man with white facial hair and little red garters on his shirt sleeves is giving a speech. “That’s a Fourth of July speaker.... He’s reading the Declaration of Independence.”

“Why?”

“Because it's the Fourth of July.”

Crang! ... that’s a cannon cracker. “That awful boy might have scared the horse... The Fourth of July, dear, is the day the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776 during the Revolutionary War. My great-grandfather Harland died in that war.”

A funny little train with a green engine clatters above.

“That’s the Elevated ... and look, this is Twenty-third Street ... and the Flatiron Building.”

The cab turns sharply into a sunlit square, smelling of asphalt and crowds, and pulls up in front of a tall door where men in colorful uniforms with brass buttons rush forward.

“And here we are at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

Ice cream at Uncle Jeff’s, that cold, sweet peachy taste thick against the roof of my mouth. It's funny how, even after you’ve left the ship, you can still feel the motion. Blue chunks of dusk melting into the neatly cut uptown streets. Rockets shooting bright in the blue twilight, colored balls falling, Bengal fire, Uncle Jeff attaching pinwheels to the tree outside the apartment door, lighting them with his cigar. Roman candles you have to hold. “Be sure to turn your face away, kiddo.” A hot thud and sputter in your hands, egg-shaped balls soaring, red, yellow, green, the smell of powder and burnt paper. Down the fizzing, glowing street a bell clangs, clangs closer, clangs faster. Hooves of galloping horses striking sparks, a fire engine roars by, turning the corner red and smoky and shiny. “Must be on Broadway.” After it comes the hook and ladder and the fire chief’s fast-paced horses. Then the tinkling of an ambulance. “Somebody got hurt.”

The box is empty; gritty powder and sawdust get under your nails when you touch it. It's empty—wait, there are still a few little wooden fire trucks with wheels. Real fire trucks. “We have to set these off, Uncle Jeff. Oh, these are the best of all, Uncle Jeff.” They have squibs in them and zoom off quickly over the smooth asphalt of the street, propelled by sparkling, fiery tails, leaving smoke behind just like real fire trucks.

Tucked into bed in a tall, unwelcoming room, with burning eyes and sore legs. “Growing pains, sweetheart,” muddy said as she tucked him in, leaning over him in a shimmering silk dress with drooping sleeves.

“Muddy, what’s that little black spot on your face?”

“That,” she laughed, and her necklace made a little tinkling sound, “is to make mom look prettier.”

He lay there surrounded by tall, bumping wardrobes and dressers. From outside came the sounds of wheels and shouting, and occasionally a band playing in the distance. His legs hurt as if they might fall off, and when he closed his eyes, he imagined speeding through fiery darkness on a red fire truck that shot flames, sparks, and colorful balls out of its smoking tail.

The July sun shone through the holes in the faded blinds on the office windows. Gus McNiel sat in the Morris chair with his crutches resting between his knees. His face was pale and swollen from months spent in the hospital. Nellie, wearing a straw hat adorned with red poppies, rocked herself back and forth in the swivel chair at the desk.

“Better come and sit by me, Nellie. That lawyer might not like it if he sees you at his desk.”

She scrunched up her nose and stood up. "Gus, I declare you're scared to death."

“You’d be scared too if you had what I went through with the railroad doctor examining me and looking at me like I was a criminal, and the Jewish doctor the lawyer hired telling me I was completely incapacitated. Gosh, I’m totally worn out. I think he was lying though.”

“Gus, you do what I say. Keep your mouth shut and let the other guys do the talking.”

“Sure, I won’t let a sound out of me.”

Nellie stood behind his chair and started to smooth his hair back from his forehead.

“It’ll be great to be home again, Nellie, with your cooking and everything.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

“Just think, maybe I won't have to do any.”

“I don’t think I’d like that very much.... Gosh, if we don’t get that money, I don’t know how we’ll manage.”

“Oh, Dad will help us like he always has.”

“Hope to the Lord I’m not going to be sick my whole life.”

George Baldwin walked in, slamming the glass door behind him. He paused for a moment, looking at the man and his wife with his hands in his pockets. Then he said quietly, smiling:

“Well, it's done, everyone. As soon as the waiver of any further claims is signed, the railroad's lawyers will give me a check for twelve thousand five hundred. That's the amount we finally agreed on.”

“Twelve thousand iron men,” Gus gasped. “Twelve thousand five hundred. Hold on a second.... Hold my crutches while I go out and get run over again.... Wait until I tell McGillycuddy about this. That old devil will throw himself in front of a market train.... Well, Mr. Baldwin, sir,” Gus propped himself up onto his feet.... “You’re a great man.... Aren’t you, Nellie?”

"Definitely, he is."

Baldwin attempted to avoid making eye contact with her. Waves of nervous energy surged through him, causing his legs to feel weak and shaky.

“I'll tell you what we should do,” said Gus. “How about we all take a cab up to old McGillycuddy's and grab a drink in the private bar? My treat. I could use a drink to lift my spirits. Come on, Nellie.”

“I wish I could,” said Baldwin, “but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m really busy these days. But just give me your signature before you leave and I’ll have the check for you tomorrow.... Sign here ... and here.”

McNiel had trudged over to the desk and was leaning over the papers. Baldwin sensed that Nellie was trying to signal him. He kept his gaze low. After they had left, he spotted her purse, a small leather purse with pansies embossed on the back, on the corner of the desk. There was a knock on the glass door. He opened it.

“Why won’t you look at me?” she said breathlessly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“How could I with him here?” He held the purse out to her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips. “What are we going to do? Should I come over this afternoon? Gus will be drinking to excess and making himself sick again now that he's out of the hospital.”

“No, I can’t, Nellie... Business... business... I’m busy every minute.”

“Oh yes you are.... Fine, do it your way.” She slammed the door.

Baldwin sat at his desk, biting his knuckles while staring blankly at the stack of papers in front of him. “I need to stop this,” he said out loud and stood up. He paced back and forth in the small office, glancing at the shelves of law books, the Gibson girl calendar hanging above the phone, and the dusty patch of sunlight on the floor by the window. He checked his watch. It was lunchtime. He wiped his forehead with his hand and walked over to the phone.

“Rector 1237.... Is Mr. Sandbourne there?... Hey Phil, how about I swing by to take you out for lunch? Want to go right now?... Sure.... Hey Phil, guess what? I got the milkman his compensation. I'm super happy about it. I’ll treat you to a nice lunch because of it... See you later....”

He walked away from the phone smiling, took his hat off the hook, placed it carefully on his head in front of the small mirror above the hat rack, and rushed down the stairs.

On the last flight, he met Mr. Emery from Emery & Emery, who had their offices on the first floor.

“Well, Mr. Baldwin, how's it going?” Mr. Emery of Emery & Emery was a man with a flat face, gray hair and eyebrows, and a jutting wedge-shaped jaw. “Pretty good, sir, pretty good.”

“They say you’re doing really well... Something about the New York Central Railroad.”

“Oh, Simsbury and I worked it out outside of court.”

“Humph,” said Mr. Emery of Emery & Emery.

As they were about to say goodbye on the street, Mr. Emery suddenly asked, "Would you like to have dinner with me and my wife sometime?"

“Why ... um ... I’d be happy to.”

“I like to catch up with some of the younger guys in the profession, you know.... Anyway, I’ll send you a message.... One evening next week. It would give us a chance to have a chat.”

Baldwin shook a veiny blue hand in a shiny, stiff cuff and headed down Maiden Lane, moving with a lively step through the midday crowd. On Pearl Street, he climbed a steep set of black stairs that smelled of roasting coffee and knocked on a frosted glass door.

“Come in,” shouted a deep voice. A dark-skinned man, thin and in his shirtsleeves, stepped forward to greet him. “Hey George, I thought you weren’t going to show up. I’m starving!”

“Phil, I’m going to get you the best lunch you’ve ever had in your life.”

“Well, I’m just waiting to be released.”

Phil Sandbourne put on his coat, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the corner of a drafting table, and shouted into a dark inner office, “Going out to eat, Mr. Specker.”

"Okay, go ahead," replied a shaky voice from the inner office.

“How’s the old guy?” asked Baldwin as they walked out the door.

“Ole Specker? He's about done ... but he's been that way for years, poor guy. Honestly, George, I’d feel really bad if anything happened to poor ole Specker.... He’s the only honest man in New York City, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders too.”

“He's never really made anything significant from it,” Baldwin said.

"He might still.... He might still.... Man, you should see his plans for all-steel buildings. He's got this idea that the skyscraper of the future will be made of steel and glass. We’ve been trying out vitreous tile lately.... gosh, some of his plans would blow your mind.... He has a great saying about some Roman emperor who found Rome made of brick and left it made of marble. Well, he says he found New York made of brick and that he’s going to leave it made of steel ... steel and glass. I’ll have to show you his project for a rebuilt city. It’s quite a daydream."

They settled on a cushioned bench in the corner of the restaurant that smelled of steak and grilling meat. Sandbourne stretched his legs out under the table.

“Wow, this is luxurious,” he said.

“Phil, let’s grab a cocktail,” Baldwin said from behind the menu. “I’m telling you, Phil, it’s the first five years that are the toughest.”

“You don’t need to worry, George, you’re the busy type... I’m just the one who doesn’t change much.”

“I don’t see why not; you can always get a job as a draftsman.”

“That’s a great future I must say, to spend my life with the corner of a drafting table stuck in my belly... Good grief, man!”

“Well, Specker and Sandbourne might still be a well-known firm.”

“People will be flying around in machines by then, and you and I will be six feet under with our toes to the daisies.”

“Good luck anyway.”

“Here’s the lead for your pencil, George.”

They downed the Martinis and began eating their oysters.

“I wonder if it’s really true that oysters turn into leather in your stomach when you drink alcohol with them.”

“Search me... By the way, Phil, how’s it going with that stenographer you were dating?”

“Man, the food, drinks, and theaters I’ve wasted on that little girl.... She’s got me running in circles.... Honestly, she has. You’re a smart guy, George, to stay away from women.”

“Maybe,” Baldwin said slowly, spitting an olive pit into his clenched fist.

The first thing they heard was the shaky whistle from a small cart at the curb across from the ferry entrance. A young boy broke away from the group of immigrants hanging around in the ferryhouse and ran over to the little cart.

“Sure, it’s like a steam engine and it’s full of nonsense,” he yelled as he ran back.

"Padraic, you stay here."

“And this is the L station, South Ferry,” continued Tim Halloran, who had come down to meet them. “That way is Battery Park, Bowling Green, and Wall Street and the financial district.... Come on, Padraic, your Uncle Timothy is going to take you on the Ninth Avenue L.”

There were only three people left at the ferry landing: an old woman with a blue handkerchief on her head and a young woman wearing a magenta shawl, both standing at either end of a large trunk covered in brass tacks; and an old man with a greenish stub of a beard and a face lined and twisted like the root of a dying oak. The old woman was whimpering with tearful eyes: “Where are we going, my Lady, my Lady?” The young woman was unfolding a letter, squinting at the fancy handwriting. Suddenly, she walked over to the old man, saying, “I can’t read,” and held out the letter to him. He wrung his hands, letting his head roll back and forth, repeating something she couldn’t understand. She shrugged and smiled, then returned to the trunk. A Sicilian with sideburns was talking to the old woman. He grabbed the trunk by its cord and pulled it over to a spring wagon with a white horse that was parked across the street. The two women followed the trunk. The Sicilian extended his hand to the young woman. The old woman, still muttering and whimpering, painfully hoisted herself onto the back of the wagon. When the Sicilian leaned over to read the letter, he nudged the young woman with his shoulder. She tensed up. “Alright,” he said. Then, as he shook the reins on the horse’s back, he turned back toward the old woman and shouted, “Five two... Alright.”

Through the rain-streaked window, Jimmy Herf was watching the umbrellas bob in the slowly swirling traffic on Broadway. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Jimmy, turning back to the window when he saw that the waiter wasn’t Pat. The waiter switched on the light. Jimmy saw him reflected in the windowpane—a lean, spiky-haired man holding up a dinner tray with silver covers grouped like domes. Breathing heavily, the waiter stepped into the room, dragging a folding stand with his free hand. He quickly opened the stand, set the tray on it, and laid a cloth on the round table. A greasy pantry smell came from him. Jimmy waited until he had left to turn around. Then he walked over to the table and lifted the silver covers: soup with little green bits in it, roast lamb, mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, spinach—no dessert either.

“Muddy.” “Yes, dear,” the voice cried weakly through the folding doors.

“Dinner’s ready, mom.”

“You start, sweet boy, I’ll be right there....”

“But I don't want to start without you, Mom.”

He walked around the table straightening knives and forks. He draped a napkin over his arm. The head waiter at Delmonico’s was setting the table for Graustark, the Blind King of Bohemia, and Prince Henry the Navigator and ...

“Mom, who do you want to be, Mary Queen of Scots or Lady Jane Grey?”

“But they both got their heads chopped off, honey.... I don’t want to lose my head.” Mom was wearing her salmon-colored tea gown. When she opened the folding doors, a stale smell of cologne and medicine drifted out of the bedroom, following her long lace-fringed sleeves. She had applied a bit too much powder to her face, but her beautiful brown hair was styled perfectly. They sat down across from each other; she placed a bowl of soup in front of him, lifting it between her long, blue-veined hands.

He ate the soup that was thin and lukewarm. “Oh, I forgot the croutons, honey.”

“Muddy ... mom, why aren't you eating your soup?”

“I don’t really like it much this evening. I couldn’t think of what to order tonight because my head hurt so much. It doesn’t matter.”

“Would you rather be Cleopatra? She had a great appetite and ate everything that was served to her like a good little girl.”

“Even pearls.... She dropped a pearl into a glass of vinegar and drank it all down....” Her voice shook. She reached out her hand to him across the table; he confidently patted her hand and smiled. “Just you and me, Jimmy boy.... Sweetie, you’ll always love your mom, right?”

“What’s wrong, muddy dear?”

“Oh, nothing; I feel off this evening... Oh, I’m so tired of never really feeling good.”

“But after you’ve had your surgery....”

“Oh yes, after I’ve had my surgery.... Honey, there’s a package of fresh butter on the windowsill in the bathroom.... I’ll put some on these turnips if you grab it for me.... I’m afraid I’ll have to complain about the food again. This lamb isn’t quite right; I hope it won’t make us sick.”

Jimmy rushed through the folding doors and his mom's room into the small hallway that smelled of mothballs, with silky pieces of clothing thrown over a chair. As he opened the bathroom door, the red rubber tubing of a douche swung in his face, and the scent of medicines made his stomach churn with pain. He pushed the window up at the end of the tub. The ledge was gritty and covered in feathery specks of soot that sat on the plate turned over the butter. He paused for a moment, staring down the air shaft, breathing through his mouth to avoid the coal gas rising from the furnaces. Below him, a maid in a white cap leaned out of a window, talking to one of the furnace workers who stood below, looking up at her with his bare, grimy arms crossed over his chest. Jimmy strained to catch what they were saying; it must be tough to be dirty, handling coal all day, with grease in your hair and up to your armpits.

"Jimmee!"

“Coming, Mom.” Blushing, he slammed down the window and walked back to the living room, moving slowly so the redness could fade from his face.

“Dreaming again, Jimmy. My little dreamer.”

He placed the butter next to his mom's plate and sat down.

“Hurry up and eat your lamb while it’s hot. Why don’t you try a bit of French mustard on it? It’ll taste better.”

The mustard scalded his tongue and made him tear up.

“Is it too hot?” Mom asked with a laugh. “You need to learn to enjoy hot stuff... He always liked hot stuff.”

"Who's the mother?"

“Someone I loved deeply.”

They were quiet. He could hear himself chewing. A few rattling sounds from cabs and trolleycars broke through the closed windows. The steam pipes knocked and hissed. Down the airshaft, the furnace worker, covered in grease up to his armpits, was spitting dirty words at the maid in the starched cap. Mustard’s the color of ...

"What's on your mind?"

“I wasn't thinking about anything.”

“We shouldn’t keep any secrets from each other, dear. Remember, you’re the only comfort your mother has in the world.”

“I wonder what it would be like to be a seal, a little harbor seal.”

“It’s really cold, I think.”

“But you wouldn’t feel it.... Seals are insulated by a layer of blubber, so they stay warm even when resting on an iceberg. But it would be so much fun to swim around in the ocean whenever you wanted. They travel thousands of miles without taking a break.”

“But Mom has traveled thousands of miles without stopping, and so have you.”

“When?”

“Going abroad and coming back.” She was laughing at him with bright eyes.

“Oh, but that’s on a boat.”

“And when we used to go cruising on the Mary Queen of Scots.”

“Oh, tell me about that muddy one.”

There was a knock. “Come in.” The waiter with spiky hair poked his head through the door.

"Can I clear Mom?"

"Yeah, and bring me some fruit salad, but make sure the fruit is freshly cut... Things are terrible this evening."

Puffing, the waiter was stacking dishes on the tray. “I’m sorry, mom,” he panted.

“All right, I know it’s not your fault, waiter... What do you want, Jimmy?”

“Can I get a meringue glacé muddy?”

“All right if you’ll be really good.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy shouted.

“Darling, you shouldn't shout like that at the table.”

“But we don’t mind when it’s just the two of us.... Hooray for meringue glacé.”

“James, a gentleman, always acts the same way whether he’s at home or out in the wilds of Africa.”

“Gee, I wish we were in the wilds of Africa.”

"I'd be scared, dear."

“I’d yell like that and scare off all the lions and tigers.... Yes, I would.”

The waiter returned with two plates on the tray. “I’m sorry, ma'am, but the meringue glacé is all out... I brought the young man chocolate ice cream instead.”

"Oh mom."

“Don't worry, sweetie.... It would have been too much anyway.... You eat that and I'll let you go out after dinner and buy some candy.”

“Ooh, yay.”

“But don't eat the ice cream too fast or you'll get a stomachache.”

“I’m done.”

"You locked it, you little brat... Put on your rain boots, sweetheart."

“But it’s not raining at all.”

“Do what mom wants, dear... And please don’t take too long. I’m counting on your word to come back right away. Mom isn’t feeling well tonight and she gets really anxious when you’re out on the street. There are such terrible dangers...”

He sat down to put on his rain boots. While he was fastening them over his heels, she approached him with a dollar bill. She wrapped her arm, with its long silky sleeve, around his shoulder. “Oh my darling.”

She was crying.

“Mom, you really shouldn't.” He squeezed her tightly; he could feel the ribs of her corset against his arms. “I’ll be back in a minute, in the tiniest little minute.”

On the stairs where a brass rod kept the dull crimson carpet in place on each step, Jimmy took off his rubber boots and stuffed them into the pockets of his raincoat. With his head held high, he hurried through the web of curious looks from the bellhops sitting on the bench next to the desk. “Going for a walk?” the youngest light-haired bellhop asked him. Jimmy nodded knowingly, slipped past the staring buttons of the doorman, and stepped out onto Broadway, bustling with noise, footsteps, and faces that seemed to wear shadow masks as they moved out of the patches of light from stores and street lamps. He walked briskly uptown past the Ansonia. In the doorway stood a dark-browed man with a cigar in his mouth, possibly a kidnapper. But nice people live in the Ansonia, just like where we live. Next was a telegraph office, dry goods stores, a dyers and cleaners, and a Chinese laundry sending out a strange, scorched, steamy smell. He quickened his pace; the Chinese must be terrible kidnappers. Thieves. A man with a can of coal oil brushes past him, a greasy sleeve touching his shoulder, smelling of sweat and coal oil; what if he’s an arsonist? The thought of an arsonist gives him goosebumps. Fire. Fire.

Huyler’s; there’s a cozy fudgy scent mixed with the smell of coins and polished marble outside the door, and the aroma of melting chocolate wafts warmly from the vents under the windows. Black and orange crêpe paper favors for Halloween. He’s about to go in when he remembers the Mirror place two blocks up, those little silver steam engines and toy cars they give you as change. I’ll hurry; on roller skates it would take less time, you could dodge bandits, thugs, and robbers on roller skates, firing over your shoulder with a long gun, bam ... one of them down! that’s the worst of them, bam ... there’s another; the roller skates are magic roller skates, whee ... up the brick walls of the buildings, over the roofs, vaulting chimneys, up the Flatiron Building, zipping across the cables of Brooklyn Bridge.

Mirror candies; this time he goes in without hesitating. He stands at the counter for a while before anyone comes to help him. “Can I get a pound of the mixed chocolate creams at sixty cents a pound?” he quickly says. She is a blonde woman, slightly cross-eyed, and looks at him resentfully without responding. “Please, I’m in a hurry if you don’t mind.”

“All right, everyone, take your turn,” she snaps. He stands there blinking at her with bright red cheeks. She hands him a box wrapped up with a check on it. “Pay at the desk.” I’m not going to cry. The lady at the desk is small and has grey hair. She takes his dollar through a little door, like the tiny doors that small animals go in and out of at the Small Mammal House. The cash register makes a cheerful jingle, happy to receive the money. A quarter, a dime, a nickel, and a little cup— is that forty cents? But just a little cup instead of a steam engine or a car. He picks up the money and leaves the little cup behind, hurrying out with the box under his arm. Mom’s going to say I’ve taken too long. He walks home, looking straight ahead, stinging from the unkindness of the blonde lady.

"Ha ... been out buying candy," said the light-haired bellhop. "I’ll give you some if you come up later," whispered Jimmy as he passed by. The metal rods clanged when he kicked them while running up the stairs. Outside the chocolate-colored door with the number 503 on it in white enamel letters, he remembered his rubbers. He set the candy on the floor and pulled them on over his wet shoes. Luckily, Muddy wasn’t waiting for him with the door open. Maybe she’d seen him coming from the window.

“Mom.” She wasn’t in the living room. He was scared. She’d left, she’d gone somewhere. “Mom!”

“Come here, dear,” her voice called weakly from the bedroom.

He took off his hat and raincoat and hurried inside. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, honey... I just have a headache, that’s all, a terrible headache... Please put some cologne on a handkerchief and gently place it on my head, and please, dear, don’t get it in my eye like you did last time.”

She was lying on the bed in a light blue quilted robe. Her face looked pale with a hint of purple. The silky salmon-colored te gown hung loosely over a chair, while her corsets were tangled on the floor with pink strings. Jimmy gently placed the damp handkerchief on her forehead. The strong scent of cologne overwhelmed his senses as he leaned over her.

“That’s so good,” she said faintly. “Please call Aunt Emily at Riverside 2466 and see if she can come over this evening. I need to talk to her... Oh, my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

His heart pounding hard and tears blurring his vision, he went to the phone. Aunt Emily's voice came quicker than he expected.

“Aunt Emily says Mom is feeling a bit sick.... She wants you to come over.... She’s on her way, Mom dear,” he shouted, “isn’t that great? She’s coming right over.” He tiptoed back into his mom’s room, picked up the corset and the teagown, and hung them in the wardrobe.

“Dear,” came her delicate voice, “take the hairpins out of my hair, they’re hurting my head.... Oh honey, I feel like my head is going to explode....” He carefully sifted through her brown hair, which was silkier than the teagown, and removed the hairpins.

"You’re hurting me."

"Mom, I didn’t mean to."

Aunt Emily, wearing a blue raincoat over her evening gown, rushed into the room, her thin lips pursed in sympathy. She saw her sister lying on the bed, twisted in pain, and the skinny pale boy in short pants standing next to her, holding a handful of hairpins.

“What’s wrong, Lil?” she asked softly.

“My dear, something terrible is wrong with me,” came Lily Herf’s voice in a gasping hiss.

“James,” Aunt Emily said sternly, “you need to go to bed now.... Mom needs complete quiet.”

“Good night, my muddy dear,” he said.

Aunt Emily patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, James. I’ll take care of everything.” She went to the phone and started dialing a number in a calm, precise voice.

The box of candy was on the living room table; Jimmy felt guilty when he tucked it under his arm. As he passed the bookcase, he grabbed a volume of the American Cyclopædia and slipped it under his other arm. His aunt didn’t notice when he went out the door. The dungeon gates opened. Outside was an Arab stallion and two loyal attendants ready to take him across the border to freedom. Three doors down was his room. It was filled with thick, silent darkness. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the cabin of the schooner Mary Queen of Scots. All right, Captain, weigh anchor and set your course for the Windward Isles, and don’t let me be disturbed before dawn; I have important documents to read. He ripped off his clothes and knelt beside the bed in his pajamas. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Then he opened the box of candy and arranged the pillows at the end of the bed under the light. His teeth sank into the chocolate, revealing a soft and sweet filling. Let’s see ...

Darn it, that’s a tough one...

Wow, he looks funny...

His cheeks felt hot as he read:

No; his hands were cold and he felt a bit queasy from eating so many chocolates.

He got up to drink a glass of water before Abyssinia with images of desert mountains and the burning of Magdala by the British.

His eyes stung. He felt stiff and drowsy. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. A wave of terror suddenly hit him. What if his mother was dead...? He buried his face in the pillow. She stood over him in her white ballgown, adorned with crisp lace and a train that flowed behind with satin rustling ruffles, and her softly fragrant hand gently stroked his cheek. A rush of sobs caught in his throat. He thrashed on the bed, face pressed hard into the lumpy pillow. For a long time, he couldn't stop crying.

He woke up to find the light glaring and the room stuffy and hot. The book was on the floor and the candy squashed beneath him, oozing stickily from its box. The watch had stopped at 1:45. He opened the window, put the chocolates in the dresser drawer, and was about to turn off the light when he remembered. Shivering with fear, he put on his bathrobe and slippers and tiptoed down the dark hallway. He listened outside the door. People were talking quietly. He knocked softly and turned the knob. A hand yanked the door open, and Jimmy blinked at a tall, clean-shaven man with gold eyeglasses. The folding doors were closed; in front of them stood a starched nurse.

“James, dear, go back to bed and don’t worry,” Aunt Emily said in a tired whisper. “Mom is very sick and needs complete quiet, but there’s no more danger.”

“Not right now, at least, Mrs. Merivale,” said the doctor as he breathed on his eyeglasses.

“The little dear,” the nurse said in a soft, soothing voice, “he’s been sitting up worrying all night, and he never bothered us at all.”

“I’ll go back and tuck you in,” Aunt Emily said. “My James always enjoys that.”

“Can I see Mom, just for a second so I’ll know she’s okay?” Jimmy looked up shyly at the big face with the glasses.

The doctor nodded. “Well, I have to go now.... I'll stop by around four or five to check on how things are going.... Goodnight, Mrs. Merivale. Goodnight, Miss Billings. Goodnight, son....”

“This way....” The nurse placed her hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. He wriggled out from underneath it and walked behind her.

There was a light on in the corner of Mom’s room, covered by a towel pinned around it. From the bed came a strange rasping sound of breathing he didn’t recognize. Her crumpled face was turned toward him, her closed eyelids a shade of violet, her mouth twisted to one side. For half a minute, he stared at her. “Okay, I’ll go back to bed now,” he whispered to the nurse. His heart was pounding loudly. Without looking at his aunt or the nurse, he walked stiffly to the outer door. His aunt said something. He ran down the corridor to his own room, slammed the door, and bolted it. He stood stiff and cold in the center of the room with his fists clenched. “I hate them. I hate them,” he shouted aloud. Then, swallowing a dry sob, he turned off the light and slipped into bed between the icy cold sheets.

“With all the work you have, ma'am,” Emile was saying in a playful tone, “I would think you’d need someone to help you with the shop.”

“I know that ... I’m working myself to death; I know that,” sighed Madame Rigaud from her stool at the cash register. Emile was quiet for a long time, staring at the cross section of a Westphalia ham that lay on a marble slab beside his elbow. Then he said shyly, “A woman like you, a beautiful woman like you, Madame Rigaud, is never without friends.”

“Ah, well... I've lived too much in my time... I have no more trust... Men are just a bunch of brutes, and women, oh, I just don’t get along with women at all!”

“History and literature ...” began Emile.

The bell above the door jingled. A man and a woman burst into the shop. She had blonde hair and a hat that looked like a flowerbed.

“Now Billy, don't be extravagant,” she was saying.

“But Norah, we have something to eat... And I’ll be all good by Saturday.”

“Nothing will be fine until you stop betting on the horses.”

“Aw, go on with you.... Let’s have some liverwurst.... Wow, that cold turkey breast looks good....”

“Piggywiggy,” cooed the blonde girl.

“Back off, will you? I’m handling this.”

“Yes, sir, the turkey breast is very good... We have whole chickens too, still hot... Emile, my friend, look for one of those little chickens in the kitchen.” Madame Rigaud spoke like a prophet without getting up from her stool by the cash register. The man was fanning himself with a wide-brimmed straw hat that had a checked band.

“Warm tonight,” said Madame Rigaud.

“It sure is... Norah, we should have gone down to the Island instead of hanging around this town.”

“Billy, you know exactly why we couldn’t go.”

“Don’t push it. Didn’t I tell you it'll be all good by Saturday?”

“History and literature,” Emile continued after the customers had left with the chicken, leaving Madame Rigaud a silver half dollar to put in the cash register ... “history and literature teach us that there are friendships, and that sometimes love arises that deserves our trust....”

“History and literature!” Madame Rigaud scoffed, suppressing laughter. “That’ll be so helpful for us.”

“But don't you ever feel lonely in a big foreign city like this...? Everything is so tough. Women look in your pocket, not in your heart... I can't take it anymore.”

Madame Rigaud’s wide shoulders and large breasts shook with laughter. Her corsets creaked as she lifted herself off the stool, still laughing. “Emile, you’re a good-looking guy and reliable, and you’ll do well in life.... But I’m never going to put myself under a man’s control again.... I’ve been through too much.... Not even if you came to me with five thousand dollars.”

“You're a really mean woman.”

Madame Rigaud laughed again. “Come on, you can help me wrap things up.”

Sunday hung silently and sunnily over downtown. Baldwin sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, reading a leather-bound law book. Occasionally, he jotted down notes on a scratchpad in a large, neat handwriting. The phone rang loudly in the hot stillness. He finished the paragraph he was reading and walked over to answer it.

“Yes, I’m here alone; come over if you want.” He hung up the phone. “Damn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Nellie walked in without knocking and found him pacing back and forth in front of the window.

“Hey Nellie,” he said without looking up; she stood still, staring at him.

“Listen, Georgy, this can’t keep happening.”

“Why can't it?”

“I’m tired of always pretending and deceiving.”

"Nobody has figured anything out, right?"

“Oh, definitely not.”

She approached him and adjusted his necktie. He kissed her softly on the lips. She was wearing a frilly muslin dress in a reddish lilac shade and held a blue sunshade in her hand.

“How’s it going, Georgy?”

"That's great. You know, you guys have brought me good luck? I’ve got several promising cases right now, and I’ve made some really valuable connections."

“Not much luck it's brought me. I haven’t dared to go to confession yet. The priest will think I’ve turned into a heathen.”

"How's it going with Gus?"

“Oh, he’s so full of himself with his plans... You’d think he actually earned the money; he’s getting really cocky about it.”

“Look, Nellie, what if you left Gus and came to live with me? You could get a divorce, and we could get married... Everything would be fine then.”

“Like fun it would.... You don’t really mean it anyway.”

“But it’s been worth it, Nellie, really it has.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her soft lips passionately. She pushed him away.

“Anyway, I’m not coming here again.... Oh, I was so happy coming up the stairs thinking about seeing you.... You’re paid, and the business is all finished.”

He saw that the little curls around her forehead were loose. A strand of hair hung over one eyebrow.

“Nellie, we shouldn’t part on bad terms like this.”

“Why won't you tell me?”

“Because we’ve both loved each other.”

“I’m not going to cry.” She dabbed at her nose with a small rolled-up handkerchief. “Georgy, I’m going to hate you.... Goodbye.” The door shut abruptly behind her.

Baldwin sat at his desk and chewed on the end of a pencil. A faint scent of her hair lingered in his nostrils. His throat felt stiff and lumpy. He coughed, and the pencil fell from his mouth. He wiped the saliva off with his handkerchief and got comfortable in his chair. The blurry, crowded paragraphs of the law book started to come into focus. He tore the written page off the scratchpad and clipped it to the top of a stack of documents. On the new page, he began: Decision of the Supreme Court of the State of New York.... Suddenly, he sat up straight in his chair and started biting the end of his pencil again. Outside, he could hear the endless, sultry whistle of a peanut wagon. "Oh well, that’s that," he said out loud. He continued writing in a wide, regular script: Case of Patterson vs. The State of New York.... Decision of the Supreme ...

Bud sat by a window in the Seamen’s Union, reading through a newspaper slowly and carefully. Next to him, two men with freshly shaved cheeks that looked like raw steak, squeezed into white collars and blue serge suits, were heavily playing chess. One of them smoked a pipe that made a soft clucking noise when he took a drag. Outside, rain pounded continuously on a large, shining square.

“Checkmate,” said the man with the pipe. “Damn it, let’s go grab a drink. This is not a night to be sitting here sober.”

“I promised the old lady ...”

“None of that crap, Jess. I know your kind of promises.” A big red hand, thickly covered in yellow hair, swept the chess pieces into their box. “Tell the old woman you had to take a drink to keep the cold out.”

"That's no lie either."

Bud watched their shadows, hunched against the rain, pass by the window.

“What’s your name?”

Bud turned sharply from the window, startled by a high-pitched, squeaky voice in his ear. He was looking into the fire-blue eyes of a little yellow man who had a face like a toad, a big mouth, bulging eyes, and thick, closely cropped black hair.

Bud clenched his jaw. “My name’s Smith, so what?”

The little man extended a square, calloused hand, “Nice to meet you. I’m Matty.”

Bud took the hand despite himself. It squeezed his until he winced. “Matty what?” he asked. “I’m just Matty ... Laplander Matty ... Come have a drink.”

“I’m broke,” said Bud. “I don’t have a dime.”

“On me. I have too much money, take some....” Matty stuffed a hand into each pocket of his loose checked suit and punched Bud in the chest with two handfuls of cash.

“Aw, keep your money... I’ll have a drink with you, though.”

By the time they reached the bar on the corner of Pearl Street, Bud’s elbows and knees were wet, and a cold drizzle was running down his neck. When they approached the bar, Laplander Matty laid down a five-dollar bill.

“I'm treating everyone; I'm really happy tonight.”

Bud was enjoying the free lunch. “I haven’t eaten in ages,” he said when he returned to the bar for his drink. The whiskey burned his throat all the way down, dried out his wet clothes, and made him feel like he used to when he was a kid heading out to a baseball game on Saturday afternoon.

“Put it there, Lap,” he yelled, giving the little man a hearty slap on the back. “You and I are friends from now on.”

“Hey landlubber, tomorrow you and I are sailing together. What do you say?”

"Absolutely, we will."

“Now we're heading up Bowery Street to check out the girls. I'll pay.”

“Ain't a Bowery girl going out with you, you little yap,” shouted a tall, drunken man with drooping black mustaches who had stumbled between them as they swayed in the swinging doors.

“Are they coming, are they?” said the Lap, pulling back. One of his hammer-shaped fists suddenly shot up in an uppercut under the man’s jaw. The man lifted off his feet and flew diagonally through the swinging doors that closed behind him. A shout erupted from inside the saloon.

“I can’t believe it, Lappy, I can’t believe it,” roared Bud and slapped him on the back again.

Arm in arm, they staggered up Pearl Street in the pouring rain. Bars glowed at the corners of the rain-soaked streets. Yellow light from mirrors, brass railings, and gold-framed pictures of pink naked women spilled into whiskey glasses, which were slammed back with tipped heads, rushing through their blood, bubbling out of their ears and eyes, dripping off their fingertips. The dark, rain-soaked houses loomed on either side, and streetlamps swayed like lanterns in a parade, until Bud found himself in a back room full of nudging faces, with a woman in his lap. Laplander Matty wrapped his arms around two girls' necks, pulled his shirt open to reveal a naked man and woman tattooed in red and green on his chest, coiled around each other like a sea serpent, and as he puffed out his chest and wiggled the skin with his fingers, the tattooed couple danced, making all the nudging faces laugh.

Phineas P. Blackhead opened the big office window. He looked out over the harbor, which sparkled with slate and mica, listening to the chaotic sounds of traffic, voices, and construction rising from the downtown streets, swirling and twisting like smoke in the strong wind pushing down the Hudson from the northwest.

“Hey Schmidt, bring me my binoculars,” he called over his shoulder. “Look ...” He was adjusting the binoculars to get a better view of a stout white steamer with a dirty yellow chimney that was next to Governors Island. “Isn’t that the Anonda coming in now?”

Schmidt was an overweight man who had lost some weight. The skin on his face hung in loose, tired wrinkles. He glanced through his glasses. “Yeah, it is.” He lowered the window; the noise faded away, echoing softly like the sound of a seashell.

“Wow, they were fast about it... They’ll be here in thirty minutes... You head over and track down Inspector Mulligan. He’s ready to go... Don’t take your eyes off him. Old Matanzas is on the warpath trying to get an injunction against us. If every bit of manganese isn’t gone by tomorrow night, I’ll cut your commission in half... Do you understand that?”

Schmidt's loose jowls shook when he laughed. "No danger, sir... You should know me by now."

“Of course I do... You’re a good guy, Schmidt. I was just kidding.”

Phineas P. Blackhead was a tall man with silver hair and a sharp, hawkish face; he settled back into the mahogany armchair at his desk and rang an electric bell. “Alright Charlie, show them in,” he said gruffly to the blond office boy who appeared in the doorway. He stood up stiffly from his desk and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Storrow... Nice to meet you, Mr. Gold... Make yourselves comfortable... That’s it... Now listen, about this strike. The position of the railroad and dock companies that I represent is one of openness and honesty, you know that... I have confidence, I can say I have complete confidence, that we can resolve this matter amicably and agreeably... Of course, you’ll need to meet me halfway... I know we have the same interests in mind— the interests of this great city, of this great seaport...” Mr. Gold tipped his hat back and cleared his throat with a loud, barking noise. “Gentlemen, we have two paths ahead of us...”

In the sunlight on the windowsill, a fly sat cleaning its wings with its back legs. It groomed itself all over, twisting and untwisting its front legs like someone soaping their hands, carefully stroking the top of its round head; brushing its "hair." Jimmy's hand hovered over the fly before slapping down. The fly buzzed dully in his palm. He fumbled for it with two fingers, holding it slowly and squeezing it into a mushy gray paste between his finger and thumb. He wiped it off under the windowsill. A hot, sick feeling washed over him. Poor old fly, after cleaning itself so meticulously, too. He stood for a long time staring down the airshaft through the dusty window where the sun sparkled on the dust. Occasionally, a man in shirtsleeves crossed the courtyard below with a tray of dishes. Orders were shouted, and the sound of dishwashing drifted up faintly from the kitchens.

He gazed through the small specks of dust on the window. Mom had a stroke, and next week I’ll be going back to school.

“Hey Herfy, have you learned to fight yet?”

“Herfy and the Kid are going to fight for the flyweight championship before the lights go on.”

“But I don't want to.”

“Kid wants to.... Here he comes. Make a ring there you guys.”

“I don't want to, please.”

“You better do it, or we’ll really give you both a beating if you don’t.”

“Hey Freddy, that’s a five-cent fine for swearing.”

“Wow, I forgot.”

"There you go again... Stick him in the slats."

“Go for it, Herfy, I’m betting on you.”

"That’s it, hit him."

The Kid’s pale, messed-up face bounces in front of him like a balloon; his fist connects with Jimmy's mouth, leaving a salty taste of blood from the cut on his lip. Jimmy swings back, takes him down onto the bed, and digs his knee into his stomach. They pull him off and slam him back against the wall.

"Go for it, Kid."

"Go for it, Herfy."

There’s a smell of blood in his nose and lungs; his breath rasps. A foot shoots out and trips him.

"That's enough, Herfy's done."

“Girlboy... Girlboy.”

“But damn, Freddy, he had the Kid down.”

“Quiet down, stop making so much noise... Old Hoppy’ll be coming up.”

“Just a little friendly match, wasn't it Herfy?”

“Get out of my room, all of you, all of you,” Jimmy screams, tears in his eyes, waving his arms in all directions.

“Crybaby... crybaby.”

He slams the door behind them, pushes the desk against it, and crawls, shaking, into bed. He rolls over onto his face and lies there squirming with shame, biting the pillow.

Jimmy looked through the small sparkle of dust on the window.

A wrinkled face on a pillow; Mom had a stroke and next week I’ll be back in school. Dark skin becoming saggy under her eyes, gray creeping into her brown hair. Mom never laughs. The stroke.

He suddenly turned back into the room and threw himself onto the bed with a thin leather book in his hand. The surf crashed loudly against the barrier reef. He didn’t need to read. Jack was swimming quickly through the calm blue waters of the lagoon, standing in the sun on the yellow beach and shaking off the salty water, opening his nostrils wide to the smell of breadfruit roasting next to his solitary campfire. Birds with bright feathers screamed and chirped from the tall, ferny tops of the coconut palms. The room was drowsy and hot. Jimmy fell asleep. There was a strawberry-lemon scent, a smell of pineapples on the deck, and his mother was there in a white suit with a dark man in a yachting cap, while sunlight shimmered on the tall, milky sails. His mother's soft laugh escalated into a shriek: O-o-o-ohee. A fly the size of a ferryboat crawled toward them across the water, reaching out jagged crab claws. “Yump Yimmy, yump; you can do it in two jumps,” the dark man shouted in his ear. “But please, I don't want to... I don't want to,” Jimmy whined. The dark man was urging him on, yump yump yump.... “Yes, one moment. Who is it?”

Aunt Emily was at the door. “Why do you keep your door locked, Jimmy? I never let James lock his door.”

“I prefer it that way, Aunt Emily.”

“Picture a boy sleeping at this time of the afternoon.”

“I was reading The Coral Island and I fell asleep.” Jimmy was blushing.

“All right. Let’s go. Miss Billings said not to stop by Mom’s room. She’s asleep.”

They were in the small elevator that smelled like castor oil; the Black boy smiled at Jimmy.

“What did the doctor say, Aunt Emily?”

“Everything's going as well as can be expected... But don't worry about that. This evening, you need to have a great time with your little cousins... You don't spend enough time with kids your own age, Jimmy.”

They were walking toward the river, leaning into a harsh wind that swirled up the street, made of iron, under a dark, silver-streaked sky.

“I guess you’ll be happy to go back to school, James.”

“Okay, Aunt Emily.”

“A boy’s school days are the happiest time in his life. You need to make sure to write your mom at least once a week, James.... She counts on you now.... Miss Billings and I will keep you updated.”

"Yes, Aunt Emily."

“And James, I want you to get to know my James better. He’s the same age as you, just maybe a bit more mature and all that, and you two should really be good friends.... I wish Lily had sent you to Hotchkiss as well.”

"Okay, Aunt Emily."

There were pink marble pillars in the lower hall of Aunt Emily’s apartment building, and the elevator attendant wore a chocolate-colored uniform with brass buttons. The elevator was square and decorated with mirrors. Aunt Emily stopped in front of a wide red mahogany door on the seventh floor and searched her purse for her key. At the end of the hall was a leaded window through which you could see the Hudson River, steamboats, and tall columns of smoke rising against the yellow sunset from the yards along the river. When Aunt Emily managed to open the door, they heard the piano. “That’s Maisie practicing.” In the room with the piano, the rug was thick and mossy, the wallpaper was yellow with shiny silvery roses between the cream-colored woodwork, and there were gold-framed oil paintings of forests and people in a gondola, along with a fat cardinal drinking. Maisie tossed her pigtails off her shoulders as she jumped off the piano stool. She had a round creamy face and a slightly pugnacious nose. The metronome continued to tick.

“Hey James,” she said after she tilted her mouth up to her mother’s for a kiss. “I’m really sorry that Aunt Lily is feeling so sick.”

“Are you not going to kiss your cousin, James?” said Aunt Emily.

Jimmy shuffled over to Maisie and pressed his face against hers.

"That's a strange kind of kiss," said Maisie.

“Well, you two can keep each other company until dinner.” Aunt Emily rustled through the blue velvet curtains into the next room.

“We can't keep calling you James.” After she stopped the metronome, Maisie stared seriously at her cousin with her brown eyes. “There can't be two Jameses, can there?”

"Mom calls me Jimmy."

“Jimmy’s a pretty common name, but I guess it’ll work until we come up with a better one.... How many jacks can you pick up?”

"What are jacks?"

"Seriously, don’t you know what jackstones are? Just wait until James gets back; he’ll be laughing!"

“I know about Jack roses. My mom used to like them more than any other kind.”

“American Beauties are the only roses I like,” Maisie declared, flopping into a Morris chair. Jimmy stood on one leg, kicking his heel with the toes of his other foot.

“Where's James?”

“He’ll be home soon.... He’s having his riding lesson.”

The twilight was heavy and quiet between them. From the train yards came the loud scream of a train whistle and the clanking of couplings on switched freight cars. Jimmy ran to the window.

“Hey Maisie, do you like engines?” he asked.

"I think they are awful. Dad says we're going to move because of the noise and smoke."

Through the darkness, Jimmy could see the sleek shape of a big train. Smoke billowed from the stack in thick bronze and lilac swirls. Down the track, a red light turned green. The bell began to ring slowly and lazily. With a powerful draft and a loud snort, the train clanked and picked up speed, gliding into the twilight with a swinging red taillight.

“Wow, I really wish we lived here,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got two hundred seventy-two pictures of trains; I can show them to you sometime if you want. I collect them.”

“What a funny thing to collect... Look, Jimmy, you pull the shade down and I’ll turn on the light.”

When Maisie flipped the switch, they saw James Merivale standing in the doorway. He had light, wiry hair and a freckled face with a pug nose like Maisie’s. He was wearing riding breeches and black leather gaiters and was swinging a long peeled stick around.

“Hhello Jimmy,” he said. “Welcome to our city.”

“Hey James,” shouted Maisie, “Jimmy doesn’t know what jackstones are.”

Aunt Emily stepped through the blue velvet curtains. She was wearing a high-necked green silk blouse decorated with lace. Her white hair flowed smoothly from her forehead. “It’s time for you kids to wash up,” she said, “dinner’s in five minutes... James, take your cousin back to your room and quickly change out of those riding clothes.”

Everyone was already seated when Jimmy followed his cousin into the dining room. Knives and forks clinked softly in the glow of six candles with red and silver shades. At the end of the table sat Aunt Emily, next to her a man with a sunburned neck and no back to his head, and at the other end Uncle Jeff, sporting a pearl pin in his checkered necktie, filled a wide armchair. The maid moved around the edge of the light, passing toasted crackers. Jimmy ate his soup stiffly, worried about making a noise. Uncle Jeff was talking in a loud voice between spoonfuls of soup.

“No, I’m telling you, Wilkinson, New York isn’t what it used to be when Emily and I first moved up here around the time the Ark landed... The city’s filled with Jews and low-class Irish, that’s the problem... In ten years, a Christian won’t be able to make a living... I’m telling you, the Catholics and the Jews are going to push us out of our own country, that’s what they’re going to do.”

“It’s the New Jerusalem,” Aunt Emily said with a laugh.

“It’s not funny; when a man has worked hard all his life to build a business and all that, he doesn’t want to be pushed out by a bunch of damn foreigners, does he Wilkinson?”

“Jeff, you're getting all worked up. You know that gives you indigestion...”

“I'll stay calm, mom.”

“The problem with the people in this country is this, Mr. Merivale,” Mr. Wilkinson said, frowning deeply. “The people of this country are too tolerant. There’s no other country in the world that would allow this... After all, we built this country, and then we let a bunch of foreign people, the worst of Europe, the dregs from Polish ghettos, come and run things for us.”

“The truth is that an honest person won’t get involved in politics, and he has no reason to take on public office.”

"That's true, these days, a living person wants more money, needs more money than they can earn honestly in public life... Naturally, the best people look for other ways."

“And add to that the ignorance of these dirty Jews and Irish immigrants that we make voters before they can even speak English ...” began Uncle Jeff.

The maid placed a big plate of fried chicken surrounded by corn fritters in front of Aunt Emily. Conversation paused while everyone was served. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Jeff,” Aunt Emily said, “we’re going up to Scarsdale on Sunday.”

“Oh mom, I hate going out on Sundays.”

"He's great at staying home."

“But Sunday’s the only day I have at home.”

“Well, here’s how it happened: I was having tea with the Harland girls at Maillard’s when who should sit down at the next table but Mrs. Burkhart ...”

“Is that Mrs. John B. Burkhart? Isn’t he one of the vice presidents of the National City Bank?”

“John's a great guy and someone to watch in the downtown scene.”

“Well, as I was saying, dear, Mrs. Burkhart said we just had to come up and spend Sunday with them, and I just couldn’t say no.”

“My father,” Mr. Wilkinson went on, “used to be the doctor for old Johannes Burkhart. The old guy was a real character; he made his fortune in the fur trade back in Colonel Astor’s time. He had gout and would swear like a sailor.... I remember seeing him once, a red-faced old man with long white hair and a silk skullcap covering his bald spot. He had a parrot named Tobias, and people walking down the street never knew if it was Tobias or Judge Burkhart who was cursing.”

“Ah well, things are different now,” said Aunt Emily.

Jimmy sat in his chair, his legs all tingly. Mom had a stroke, and next week I’ll head back to school. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday... He and Skinny were coming back from playing with the toads by the pond, wearing their blue suits because it was Sunday afternoon. Smokebushes were blooming behind the barn. A bunch of guys were teasing little Harris, calling him Iky because they said he was Jewish. His voice rose in a whiny singsong: “Knock it off, guys. Can’t you see I’ve got my best suit on?”

“Oy Oy Mister Solomon Levy in his best Yiddish clothes all on sale,” teased mocking voices. “Did you get that at a five-and-dime, Iky?”

“I bet he got it at a fire sale.”

“If he got it at a fire sale, we should spray him with the hose.”

“Let’s spray Solomon Levy with the hose.”

“Oh stop it, guys.”

“Shut up; don’t yell so loud.”

“They're just kidding, they won't hurt him,” whispered Skinny.

Iky was carried kicking and screaming down toward the pond, his tear-soaked face upside down. “He’s not a Jew at all,” said Skinny. “But I’ll tell you who is a Jew, that big bully Fat Swanson.”

“How do you know?”

“His roommate said to me.”

“Wow, they’re really going to do it.”

They were running in every direction. Little Harris, with his hair covered in mud, was crawling up the bank, water pouring out of his coat sleeves.

There was hot chocolate sauce with the ice cream. “An Irish guy and a Scottish guy were walking down the street, and the Irish guy said to the Scottish guy, ‘Sandy, let’s grab a drink....’” A long ringing of the front doorbell distracted them from Uncle Jeff’s story. The Black maid rushed back into the dining room and started whispering in Aunt Emily’s ear. “... And the Scottish guy said, ‘Mike... What’s wrong?’”

“It’s Mr. Joe, sir.”

“No way it is.”

"Well, maybe he’s okay," Aunt Emily said quickly.

"A little whimsical, ma'am."

“Sarah, why on earth did you let him in?”

"I didn't let him; he just came."

Uncle Jeff pushed his plate away and tossed his napkin down. “Oh man ... I’ll go talk to him.”

“Try and make him go ...” Aunt Emily had started; she paused with her mouth partly open. A head poked through the curtains that hung in the wide doorway to the living room. It had a birdlike face, with a thin drooping nose, topped by a mass of straight black hair like an Indian’s. One of the red-rimmed eyes winked quietly.

“Hey everyone!... How’s everything going? Mind if I join in?” His voice sounded rough as a tall, skinny figure pushed through the curtains. Aunt Emily forced a chilly smile. “Well, Emily, you must ... um ... excuse me; I thought an evening ... um ... with the family ... um ... would be ... um ... good for us. You know, the comforting influence of home.” He stood bobbing his head behind Uncle Jeff’s chair. “So, Jefferson old chap, how’s the market?” He clapped a hand on Uncle Jeff’s shoulder.

“Oh, fine. Want to take a seat?” he grumbled.

"They tell me ... if you’ll take a tip from an old-timer ... uh ... a retired broker ... brokering every day ... haha. But they say that Interborough Rapid Transit is worth checking out. Don’t give me that look, Emily. I’m going right away ... Well, hi there, Mr. Wilkinson ... The kids are looking good. I can’t believe that’s Lily Herf’s little boy ... Jimmy, you don’t remember your ... uh ... cousin, Joe Harland, do you? Nobody remembers Joe Harland ... except you, Emily, and you wish you could forget him ... haha. How’s your mom, Jimmy?"

“A little better, thank you,” Jimmy managed to say through a tight throat.

“Well, when you get home, give her my love... she’ll understand. Lily and I have always been good friends, even if I’m the family skeleton... They don’t like me; they wish I’d just disappear... I’ll tell you what, boy, Lily’s the best of the bunch. Isn’t she, Emily? Isn’t she the best of us all?”

Aunt Emily cleared her throat. “Of course she is, the most beautiful, the smartest, the most genuine.... Jimmy, your mother’s an empress.... She’s always been too good for all of this. By golly, I’d love to raise a glass to her health.”

“Joe, you might want to tone down your voice a bit,” Aunt Emily said, her words coming out like a typewriter.

“Aw, you all think I’m drunk.... Remember this, Jimmy.” ... he leaned across the table, brushed his hand over Jimmy’s face with his whiskey-soaked breath ... “these things aren’t always a guy’s fault ... circumstances ... um ... circumstances.” He knocked over a glass as he stumbled to his feet. “If Emily keeps giving me that look, I’m out of here.... But remember to send Lily Herf Joe Harland’s love even if he’s gone to the dogs.” He staggered out through the curtains again.

“Jeff, I know he’s going to knock over the Sèvres vase... Make sure he gets out okay and call him a cab.” James and Maisie erupted in high-pitched giggles from behind their napkins. Uncle Jeff was furious.

“I’ll be damned if I put him in a cab. He’s not my cousin.... He should be locked up. And next time you see him, you can tell him this from me, Emily: if he ever comes here like that again, I’ll throw him out.”

“Jefferson, sweetheart, there's no point in getting upset... It's not a big deal. He's gone.”

“No harm done! Think about our kids. What if a stranger had been here instead of Wilkinson? What would he have thought of our home?”

“Don’t worry about it,” croaked Mr. Wilkinson, “accidents happen even in the best-run families.”

“Poor Joe’s such a sweet boy when he’s being himself,” said Aunt Emily. “And remember how it seemed for a bit years ago that Harland had the whole Curb Market under control? The papers called him the King of the Curb, don’t you remember?” “That was before the Lottie Smithers situation....”

“Well, why don’t you kids go play in the other room while we have our coffee?” chirped Aunt Emily. “Yeah, you should have gone a while ago.”

"Can you play Five Hundred, Jimmy?" Maisie asked.

“No, I can’t.”

“What do you think of that, James? He can't play jacks and he can't play Five Hundred.”

“Well, they’re both girls' games,” James said arrogantly. “I wouldn’t play them either except for you.”

“Oh really, Mr. Smarty.”

“Let’s play animal catch.”

“But there aren’t enough of us for that. It’s not as fun without a crowd.”

“Last time you laughed so hard, Mom made us stop.”

“Mom made us stop because you kicked little Billy Schmutz in the funny bone and made him cry.”

"How about we go check out the trains?" Jimmy suggested.

“We can’t go downstairs after dark,” said Maisie sternly.

"I'll tell you what, let's play stock market. I've got a million dollars in bonds to sell, and Maisie can be the bulls while Jimmy can be the bears."

“All right, what should we do?”

“Oh, just run around and yell mostly... I’m selling short.”

“All right, Mr. Broker, I’ll buy them all for five cents each.”

“No, you can't say that... You say ninety-six and a half or something like that.”

“I’ll give you five million for them,” Maisie yelled, waving the blotter from the writing desk.

“But you idiot, they’re only worth one million,” shouted Jimmy.

Maisie stood frozen in her tracks. “Jimmy, what did you just say?” Jimmy felt a rush of shame; he looked down at his chunky shoes. “I said, you idiot.”

“Have you never been to Sunday school? Don’t you know that God says in the Bible that if you call someone a fool, you’ll be in danger of hellfire?”

Jimmy couldn't bring himself to look up.

“Well, I’m not going to play anymore,” Maisie said, straightening up. Jimmy suddenly found himself in the hall. He grabbed his hat and ran out the door, down the six flights of white stone stairs, past the brass buttons and chocolate uniform of the elevator boy, and out through the hall with pink marble pillars onto Seventy-second Street. It was dark and windy, filled with heavy advancing shadows and echoing footsteps. Finally, he was climbing the familiar crimson stairs of the hotel. He rushed past his mother’s door. They would ask him why he had come home so early. He burst into his own room, slammed the bolt, double-locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

“Well, are you married yet?” was the first thing Congo asked when Emile opened the door to him. Emile was in his undershirt. The shoebox-shaped room was stuffy, lit and heated by a gas crown with a tin cap on it.

“Where are you coming from this time?”

“Bizerta and Trondjhemb.... I’m a skilled sailor.”

"That's a terrible job, working at sea... I've saved two hundred dollars. I'm working at Delmonico's."

They sat down next to each other on the messy bed. Congo produced a pack of gold-tipped Egyptian Deities. “Four months’ pay,” he said, slapping his thigh. “Have you seen May Sweitzer?” Emile shook his head. “I’ll have to track that little son of a gun down... In those damn Scandinavian ports, big, chubby blonde women come out in small boats...”

They were quiet. The gas hissed. Congo let out a whistle. “Whee ... That’s classy, Delmonico ... Why haven't you married her?”

“She likes having me around.... I’d run the store better than she does.”

“You're too easy; you have to be tough with women to get anything out of them... Make her jealous.”

“She’s got me hooked.”

“Want to see some postcards?” Congo pulled a package wrapped in newspaper out of his pocket. “Look, these are from Naples; everyone there wants to come to New York... That’s an Arab dancing girl. Wow, they've got slippery bellybuttons...”

“Hey, I know what I’ll do,” Emile exclaimed, suddenly dropping the cards on the bed. “I’ll make her jealous...”

“Who’s there?”

“Ernestine ... Mrs. Rigaud....”

“Just walk up and down Eighth Avenue with a girl a few times and I bet she’ll fall for you hard.”

The alarm clock went off on the chair next to the bed. Emile jumped up to turn it off and started splashing water on his face in the sink.

“Merde, I have to go to work.”

"I'll head over to Hell's Kitchen and see if I can find May."

“Don’t be an idiot and spend all your money,” said Emile, standing in front of the cracked mirror with his face scrunched up, buttoning up a clean boiled shirt.

“It’s a sure thing I’m telling you,” the man said repeatedly, leaning in closer to Ed Thatcher and tapping the desk with his flat hand.

“Maybe it's Viler, but I've seen so many of them fail, honestly, I don't see how I can take that risk.”

“Man, I’ve pawned the wife's silver tea set, my diamond ring, and the baby’s mug... It’s a sure thing... I wouldn't tell you about it, except you and I have been pretty good friends, and I owe you money and everything... You’ll make twenty-five percent on your money by tomorrow noon... Then if you want to hold on, you can gamble, but if you sell three-quarters and hold the rest for two or three days on a chance, you’re as safe as... the Rock of Gibraltar.”

“I know Viler, it definitely sounds good....”

“Come on, man, you don't want to be stuck in this awful office your whole life, do you? Think about your little girl.”

"I'm the problem, that's it."

“But Ed, Gibbons, and Swandike had already started buying at three cents when the market closed this evening…. Klein figured it out and will be right there first thing in the morning. The market will go wild over it….”

“Unless the guys doing the dirty work change their minds. I know that stuff inside and out, Viler.... Sounds like a great deal.... But I’ve looked over the records of too many people who went broke.”

Viler stood up and tossed his cigar into the spittoon. “Well, do what you want, damn it all... I suppose you must enjoy commuting from Hackensack and working twelve hours a day...”

“I believe in working my way up, that’s all.”

“What’s the point of having a few thousand saved up when you’re old and can’t enjoy it? Man, I’m diving in with both feet.”

"Go for it, Viler... You tell him," muttered Thatcher as the other man stormed out, slamming the office door.

The large office with its rows of yellow desks and covered typewriters was dim, except for the patch of light where Thatcher sat at a desk stacked with ledgers. The three windows at the far end were uncurtained. Through them, he could see the tall mass of buildings adorned with lights and a sliver of dark sky. He was copying memoranda onto a long sheet of legal paper.

FanTan Import and Export Company (statement of assets and liabilities up to and including February 29) ... Branches New York, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Straits Settlements....

“A bunch of damn crooks,” Thatcher growled out loud. “Not a single thing in the whole deal that isn't fake. I don’t believe they have any branches in Hong Kong or anywhere...”

He leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window. The buildings were getting dark. He could barely spot a star in the sliver of sky. I should go out and eat; it’s not good for my digestion to eat irregularly like I do. What if I had taken a risk on Viler’s hot tip? Ellen, how do you like these American Beauty roses? They have eight-foot-long stems, and I want you to check out the itinerary for the trip abroad I've planned to complete your education. Yes, it would be a shame to leave our nice new apartment overlooking Central Park.... And downtown; The Fiduciary Accounting Institute, Edward C. Thatcher, President.... Puffs of steam were rising across the patch of sky, blocking the star. Take a risk, take a risk ... they’re all crooks and gamblers anyway ... take a risk and come up with your hands full, pockets full, bank account full, vaults loaded with money. If only I had the guts to take that chance. It’s foolish to waste your time mulling it over. Get back to the FanTan Import. Steam, faintly glowing red from the reflected streetlights, quickly swirled up across the patch of sky, twisting and scattering.

Goods on hand in U.S. bonded warehouses ... $325,666.00

Take a leap and come up with three hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred sixty-six dollars. Money swirling up like steam, twisting and scattering against the stars. Millionaire Thatcher leaned out of the window of the brightly scented room filled with patchouli to gaze at the dark, jagged city bursting with laughter, voices, and twinkling lights; behind him, orchestras played among the azaleas, private wires clicking away, sending dollars from Singapore, Valparaiso, Mukden, Hong Kong, Chicago. Susie leaned over him in a dress made of orchids, whispering in his ear.

Ed Thatcher stood up with his fists clenched, sniveling; "You poor fool, what's the point now? She's gone. I should probably go eat or Ellen will scold me."

A steamroller was rumbling back and forth over the freshly tarred surface of the road at the cemetery entrance. A smell of burned grease, steam, and hot paint came from it. Jimmy Herf carefully walked along the edge of the road; the stones felt sharp against his feet through the worn-out soles of his shoes. He brushed past swarthy-necked workers and continued over the new road, a mix of garlic and sweat lingering in the air around him. After a hundred yards, he paused over the gray suburban road, tightly lined on both sides with telegraph poles and wires, looking over the gray paperbox houses and the jagged lots of monument makers; the sky was the color of a robin’s egg. Little worms of May were squirming in his blood. He yanked off his black necktie and stuffed it in his pocket. A tune was crazily spinning through his mind:

There’s one brilliance of the sun, another brilliance of the moon, and another brilliance of the stars; for one star differs from another star in brilliance. So it is with the resurrection of the dead.... He walked quickly, splashing through puddles full of sky, trying to shake the monotonous, well-rehearsed words out of his ears, to get the feeling of black fabric off his fingers, to forget the scent of lilies.

He walked faster. The road went up a hill. There was a bright stream of water in the ditch, flowing through patches of grass and dandelions. There were fewer houses; on the sides of barns, peeling letters spelled out LYDIA PINKHAM’S VEGETABLE COMPOUND, BUDWEISER, RED HEN, BARKING DOG.... And muddy had had a stroke and now she was buried. He couldn’t remember how she used to look; she was dead, that was all. From a fencepost came the moist whistling of a songsparrow. The tiny rusty bird flew ahead, perched on a telegraph wire and sang, then flew ahead to the edge of an abandoned boiler and sang, then flew ahead and sang. The sky was turning a darker blue, filled with flaked mother-of-pearl clouds. For a last moment, he felt the rustle of silk beside him, felt a hand in a trailing lace-frilled sleeve gently close over his hand. Lying in his crib with his feet pulled up cold under the looming shaggy shadows; and the shadows scuttled, melting into corners when she leaned over him with curls around her forehead, in silk-puffed sleeves, with a tiny black patch at the corner of her mouth that kissed his mouth. He walked faster. The blood flowed full and hot in his veins. The flaked clouds were turning into rose-colored foam. He could hear his steps on the worn macadam. At a crossroad, the sun glinted on the sticky pointed buds of a beech sapling. Opposite him, a sign read YONKERS. In the middle of the road wobbled a dented tomato can. Kicking it hard in front of him, he walked on. One glory of the sun and another glory of the moon and another glory of the stars.... He walked on.

“Hey Emile!” Emile nodded without turning his head. The girl ran after him and grabbed his coat sleeve. “Is that how you treat your old friends now? Since you’re hanging out with that deli queen ...”

Emile pulled his hand back. “I’m in a hurry, that’s all.”

“How would you feel if I went and told her how you and I set it up to stand in front of the window on Eighth Avenue hugging and kissing just to make her fall for you?”

“Zat was Congo's concept.”

"Well, didn't it work?"

"Of course."

“Well, isn't there something owed to me?”

“May, you’re a really nice little girl. Next week my night off is Wednesday.... I’ll come by and take you to a show.... How’s hustling?”

“Worse than hell... I’m auditioning for a dancing job up at the Campus... That’s where you meet guys with money... No more of these sailor boys and beach bums... I’m becoming respectable.”

“Have you heard from Congo?”

“Got a postcard from some damn place I couldn’t read the name of.... Isn’t it funny when you write for money and all you get is a postcard.... That’s what the kid gets me for asking any night.... And he’s the only one, you know what I mean, Frogslegs?”

“Goodbye, May.” He suddenly pushed the straw bonnet decorated with forget-me-nots back on her head and kissed her.

“Hey, stop it, Frogslegs ... Eighth Avenue isn’t the right place to kiss a girl,” she complained, pushing a yellow curl back under her hat. “I could get you in trouble, and I’m half tempted to.”

Emile walked away.

A fire truck, a hose wagon, and a ladder truck rushed past him, making a loud noise that echoed through the street. Three blocks away, smoke and occasional bursts of flames were coming from the roof of a house. A crowd was packed against the police lines. Through the sea of backs and hats, Emile caught sight of firefighters on the roof of the next house and of three sparkling streams of water hitting the upper windows. It had to be right across from the deli. He was pushing his way through the crowd on the sidewalk when the crowd suddenly parted. Two police officers were pulling out a Black man whose arms flailed like broken cables. A third officer came up from behind and hit the man first on one side of the head, then on the other with his billy club.

“It’s a light that sparked the fire.”

“They caught the arsonist.”

"That's the incendiary."

"Wow, he's a scary dude."

The crowd gathered around. Emile was standing next to Madame Rigaud in front of her store's door.

“Chérie, ça me fait une émotion... J’ai horriblement peur du feu.”

Emile was standing slightly behind her. He slowly wrapped one arm around her waist and patted her arm with his other hand, “Everything’s alright. Look, there’s no fire, only smoke.... But you have insurance, right?”

“Oh yes for fifteen thousand.” He squeezed her hand and then pulled away. “Come on my little one, let's go home.”

Once they were inside the shop, he took both of her soft hands. “Ernestine, when are we getting married?”

“Next month.”

“I can’t wait that long, it’s impossible.... Why not next Wednesday? Then I can help you take stock of inventory.... I think maybe we can sell this place and move uptown, make more money.”

She patted him on the cheek. “Little ambitious one,” she said through her hollow laugh that made her shoulders and her large chest shake.

They had to change at Manhattan Transfer. The thumb of Ellen's new glove had split, and she kept nervously rubbing it with her finger. John wore a belted raincoat and a light gray felt hat. When he turned to her and smiled, she couldn’t help but look away and stare out at the long rain that shimmered over the tracks.

“Here we are, Elaine, dear. Oh, princess, you see we take the train from Penn Station.... It’s kind of funny waiting out here in the wilds of New Jersey like this.” They got into the parlor car. John made a little clucking sound with his mouth at the raindrops that created dark spots on his pale hat. “Well, we’re off, little girl.... Look, you are beautiful, my love, you are beautiful, you have dove's eyes in your hair.”

Ellen's new fitted suit was snug at the elbows. She wanted to feel cheerful and listen to his soft whispers in her ears, but something had set her face in a firm frown; she could only gaze out at the brown marshes and the countless black windows of factories and the soggy streets of towns and a rusty steamboat in a canal and barns and Bull Durham signs and round-faced Spearmint gnomes all marked and crisscrossed with bright streaks of rain. The jeweled stripes on the window ran straight down when the train stopped and became more and more slanted as it picked up speed. The wheels rumbled in her mind, saying Manhattan Transfer. Manhattan Transfer. Anyway, it was a long time before Atlantic City. By the time we get to Atlantic City ... Oh it rained forty days ... I’ll be feeling cheerful.... And it rained forty nights.... I’ve got to be feeling cheerful.

“Elaine Thatcher Oglethorpe, that’s a really nice name, isn’t it, darling? Oh, refresh me with drinks, comfort me with snacks because I am tired of love....”

It was so cozy in the empty parlor car, sitting in the green velvet chair with John leaning towards her, chatting away as the brown marshlands rolled past the rain-streaked window, and a scent like clams wafted into the car. She looked at his face and laughed. A blush spread across his face, reaching the roots of his red-blond hair. He placed his hand in its yellow glove over her hand in its white glove. “You’re my wife now, Elaine.”

“You're my husband now, John.” And laughing, they looked at each other in the warmth of the empty parlor car.

White letters, ATLANTIC CITY, loomed ominously over the rain-streaked water.

Rain pounded down the bright boardwalk and slammed against the window like water splashed from a bucket. Beyond the rain, she could hear the occasional roar of the waves along the beach between the lit piers. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Next to her in the big bed, John slept peacefully, breathing softly like a child with a pillow bunched under his head. She felt freezing cold. Carefully, she slid out of bed to avoid waking him and stood looking out the window at the long stretch of lights on the boardwalk. She pushed the window open. The rain hit her face harshly, stinging her skin and soaking her nightdress. She pressed her forehead against the frame. Oh, I want to die. I want to die. All the tight coldness in her body was clenching in her stomach. Oh, I’m going to be sick. She went into the bathroom and shut the door. After she vomited, she felt better. Then, she climbed back into bed, careful not to touch John. If she touched him, she would die. She lay on her back, hands pressed tightly against her sides and feet together. The train rumbled cozily in her head; she fell asleep.

The wind rattling the window frames woke her up. John was far away, on the other side of the big bed. With the wind and the rain pouring in through the window, it felt like the room, the big bed, and everything were moving forward like a dirigible over the sea. Oh, it rained for forty days.... Through a crack in the cold stiffness, the little tune flowed warm like blood…. And it rained for forty nights. Carefully, she ran her hand through her husband’s hair. He scrunched his face in his sleep and whined “Don’t” in a little boy’s voice that made her giggle. She lay there giggling on the far edge of the bed, laughing desperately like she used to with girls at school. And the rain poured through the window, and the song grew louder until it felt like a brass band in her ears:

Jimmy Herf is sitting across from Uncle Jeff. Each of them has a chop, a baked potato, a small pile of peas, and a sprig of parsley on a blue plate in front of them.

“Well, take a look around you, Jimmy,” says Uncle Jeff. Bright light from the top story fills the walnut-paneled dining room, shining oddly on silver knives and forks, gold teeth, watch chains, and scarf pins. It gets lost in the darkness of broadcloth and tweed but glistens on polished plates, bald heads, and dish covers. “So, what do you think of it?” asks Uncle Jeff, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his fuzzy buff vest.

“It’s a great club, for sure,” says Jimmy.

“The richest and most successful people in the country have lunch up here. Check out the round table in the corner. That’s the Gausenheimers’ table, just to the left...” Uncle Jeff leans in and lowers his voice, “the guy with the strong jaw is J. Wilder Laporte.” Jimmy cuts into his mutton chop without replying. “Well, Jimmy, you probably know why I brought you down here... I want to talk to you. Now that your poor mother has... has passed away, Emily and I are your legal guardians and the executors of poor Lily’s will... I want to explain to you exactly how things are.” Jimmy puts down his knife and fork and sits there staring at his uncle, gripping the arms of his chair with cold hands, watching the jowl move blue and heavy above the ruby stickpin in the wide satin cravat. “You’re sixteen now, right Jimmy?”

"Yes, sir."

"Well, here’s the deal... Once your mother's estate is all sorted out, you’ll have about five thousand five hundred dollars. Luckily, you’re a smart guy and you’ll be ready for college soon. If you manage that money well, it should last you through Columbia, since that’s where you want to go... I, along with your Aunt Emily, would much rather you consider Yale or Princeton... In my view, you’re quite lucky. At your age, I was cleaning an office in Fredericksburg and making fifteen dollars a month. What I really wanted to say is this... I haven’t seen that you feel enough responsibility about money matters... or show enough enthusiasm for making your way in the world. Look around you... Hard work and drive have made these men successful. It’s given me the ability to provide you with a comfortable home and a cultured environment... I know your education has been a bit unconventional, and that poor Lily had different views on many topics than we do, but the truly important period of your life is starting now. It’s the time to step up and lay the groundwork for your future career... My advice is to follow James’s example and work your way up through the firm... From this point on, you’re both my sons... It will involve hard work, but it will eventually lead to great opportunities. And remember this, if a man succeeds in New York, he’s truly successful!” Jimmy listens as his uncle’s serious face forms the words, without really enjoying the juicy mutton chop in front of him. “Well, what are you going to make of yourself?” Uncle Jeff leaned in closer across the table, his gray eyes wide with interest.

Jimmy chokes on a piece of bread, blushes, and finally stammers weakly, “Whatever you say, Uncle Jeff.”

“Does that mean you’ll work in my office for a month this summer? Get a feel for what it’s like to earn a living, like a man in a man’s world, and see how the business operates?” Jimmy nods. “Well, I think you’ve made a smart choice,” Uncle Jeff says as he leans back in his chair, letting the light shine on his steel-gray hair. “By the way, what do you want for dessert?... Years from now, Jimmy, when you’re a successful guy with your own business, we’ll look back on this conversation. It’s the start of your career.”

The hatcheck girl smiles from beneath her messy pile of blond hair as she hands Jimmy his hat, which looks squashed, dirty, and floppy among the big-bellied derbies, fedoras, and stylish panamas hanging on the pegs. His stomach does a flip with the drop of the elevator. He steps out into the bustling marble hall. For a moment, unsure of which way to go, he leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets, watching people push their way through the constantly revolving doors: soft-cheeked girls chewing gum, girls with sharp faces and bangs, pale-faced boys his age, young toughs wearing their hats tilted, sweaty messengers, darting glances, swaying hips, red-faced people chewing cigars, sallow concave faces, slim bodies of young men and women, overweight bodies of older men, all jostling, shoving, shuffling, funneled through the revolving doors out onto Broadway, and back in off Broadway. Jimmy caught in the flow in and out of the revolving doors, day and night, the revolving doors grinding out his years like sausage. Suddenly, his muscles tense. Uncle Jeff and his office can go to hell. The words resonate so loudly inside him that he looks to one side and then the other to see if anyone heard him say them.

They can all go straight to hell. He stands tall and pushes his way through the revolving doors. His heel lands on someone's foot. “For crying out loud, watch where you're stepping.” He's out on the street. A gusty wind down Broadway blows dust into his mouth and eyes. He walks down toward Battery Park with the wind at his back. In Trinity Churchyard, secretaries and office workers are eating sandwiches among the graves. Odd people gather outside the steamship companies: towheaded Norwegians, broad-faced Swedes, Poles, dark-skinned men who smell like garlic from the Mediterranean, tall Slavs, three Chinese men, and a group of Lascars. On the little triangle in front of the Customhouse, Jim Herf turns and stares up the long stretch of Broadway, facing the wind head-on. Uncle Jeff and his office can go straight to hell.

Bud sat on the edge of his cot, stretched out his arms, and yawned. All around him was the smell of sweat, sour breath, and damp clothes, mixed with the sound of men snoring, moving in their sleep, and bedsprings creaking. In the distance, a single electric light glowed through the haze. Bud closed his eyes and let his head droop onto his shoulder. Oh God, I just want to sleep. Sweet Jesus, I want to sleep. He pressed his knees together against his clasped hands to stop them from shaking. Our Father who art in Heaven, I want to sleep.

“What's wrong, partner? Can't you sleep?” came a quiet whisper from the next cot.

"Definitely not." "Same here."

Bud looked at the large bunch of curly hair resting on an elbow that was angled toward him.

“This is a really terrible flop,” the voice continued calmly. “I’ll tell everyone ... Forty cents too! They can take their Hotel Plaza and ...”

“Been in the city long?”

“Ten years this August.”

“Awesome snakes!”

A voice grumbled down the line of cots, “Cut the act, you guys, what do you think this is, a Jewish picnic?”

Bud lowered his voice: “It's funny, I've been thinking about and wanting to come to the city for years... I was born and raised on a farm upstate.”

“Why don't you go back?”

“I can’t go back.” Bud was cold; he wanted to stop shivering. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and rolled over to face the man who was talking. “Every spring I tell myself I’ll hit the road again, go out and plant myself among the weeds and the grass and the cows coming home at milking time, but I don’t; I just kind of hang on.”

“What do you do all this time in the city?”

“I don’t know.... I used to hang out in Union Square most of the time, then I hung out in Madison Square. I’ve been up in Hoboken and Jersey and Flatbush and now I’m a Bowery bum.”

“God, I swear I’m getting out of here tomorrow. I get scared here. Too many cops and detectives in this town.”

“You could survive on handouts... But trust me, kid, go back to the farm and your folks while you still can.”

Bud jumped out of bed and roughy tugged at the man’s shoulder. “Come over here to the light, I want to show you something.” Bud’s own voice sounded strange in his ears. He walked down the line of cots where people were snoring. The guy, a scruffy man with curly, sun-bleached hair and a beard, and eyes that looked like they were forcefully put in his head, got up fully dressed from the blankets and followed him. Under the light, Bud unbuttoned the front of his long underwear and pulled it off his knotted, muscular arms and shoulders. “Look at my back.”

“Christ Jesus,” the man murmured, running a dirty hand with long yellow nails over the large, white and red, deeply gouged scars. “I've never seen anything like it.”

"That's what the old man did to me. For twelve years, he beat me whenever he felt like it. He would strip me down and hit my back with a piece of light chain. They said he was my dad, but I know he isn't. I ran away when I was thirteen. That's when he caught me and started beating me. I'm twenty-five now."

They went back to their cots in silence and lay down.

Bud lay staring at the ceiling with the blanket up to his eyes. When he looked down towards the door at the end of the room, he saw a man in a derby hat with a cigar in his mouth standing there. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. When he looked again, the man was gone. “Hey, are you awake yet?” he whispered.

The bum grunted. “I was going to tell you. I smashed his head in with the grub hoe, just like when you kick a rotten pumpkin. I told him to back off, but he wouldn’t.... He was a tough, god-fearing man, and he wanted you to be scared of him. We were digging up the sumac from the old pasture to plant potatoes there.... I left him lying there until night with his head all smashed in like a rotten pumpkin. A bit of brush along the fence hid him from the road. Then I buried him and went up to the house and made myself a pot of coffee. He never let me drink any coffee. Before dawn, I got up and walked down the road. I was telling myself that in a big city, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack to find you. I knew where the old man kept his money; he had a roll as big as your head, but I was scared to take more than ten dollars.... You awake yet?”

The bum grunted. “When I was a kid, I was close with old man Sackett’s girl. We used to hang out in the old icehouse down in Sackett’s woods and talk about how we’d go to New York City and get rich. Now that I’m here, I can’t find work and I can’t shake this feeling of being scared. There are detectives following me everywhere, men in derby hats with badges under their coats. Last night, I wanted to go with a hooker, but she saw it in my eyes and kicked me out... She could see it in my eyes.” He was sitting on the edge of the cot, leaning over, talking into the other man’s face in a hissing whisper. The bum suddenly grabbed him by the wrists.

“Listen up, kid, you’re going to be in big trouble if you keep this up... Got any cash?” Bud nodded. “You’d better give it to me to hold onto. I’m an experienced guy and I’ll help you out of this. You get dressed and take a walk around the block to a diner and eat something hearty. How much do you have?”

“Change a dollar.”

“You give me a quarter and eat all the stuff you can get off the rest.” Bud pulled on his pants and handed the man a quarter. “Then you come back here and you’ll sleep well and tomorrow you and I will go upstate and get that roll of bills. Did you say it was as big as your head? Then we’ll get out of here where they can't catch us. We’ll split it fifty-fifty. Are you in?”

Bud shook his hand awkwardly, then with the laces flicking around his shoes, he shuffled to the door and down the spit-stained stairs.

The rain had stopped, and a cool breeze that smelled like the woods and grass was stirring the puddles on the freshly washed streets. In the lunchroom in Chatham Square, three men sat asleep with their hats pulled over their eyes. The guy behind the counter was reading a pink sports sheet. Bud waited a long time for his order. He felt relaxed, carefree, and happy. When it arrived, he savored the browned corned beef hash, thoroughly enjoying each bite, pressing the crispy bits of potato against his teeth with his tongue, in between sips of heavily sweetened coffee. After cleaning his plate with a piece of bread, he grabbed a toothpick and headed out.

Picking his teeth, he walked through the grimy entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. A man in a derby hat was smoking a cigar in the middle of the wide tunnel. Bud brushed past him, walking with a tough swagger. I don’t care about him; let him follow me. The arched walkway was empty except for a single policeman who stood yawning, looking up at the sky. It felt like walking among the stars. Below, in both directions, the streets narrowed into dotted lines of lights between square black-windowed buildings. The river shimmered underneath like the Milky Way above. Silently and smoothly, the cluster of lights from a tugboat glided through the damp darkness. A car whizzed across the bridge, causing the girders to rattle and the web of cables to thrum like a shaken banjo.

When he reached the tangled girders of the elevated railroads on the Brooklyn side, he turned back along the southern driveway. It doesn't matter where I go; I can’t go anywhere now. A hint of blue night began to glow behind him like iron glowing in a forge. Beyond the black chimneys and lines of roofs, the faint rosy outlines of the downtown buildings were brightening. All the darkness was turning pearly, warming up. They’re all detectives chasing me, all of them—men in derbies, drunks on the Bowery, old women in kitchens, bartenders, streetcar drivers, cops, prostitutes, sailors, longshoremen, people in job agencies... He thought I’d tell him where the old man’s stash was, the lousy bum... One on him. One on all those damn detectives. The river was smooth, sleek like a blue steel gun barrel. It doesn’t matter where I go; I can’t go anywhere now. The shadows between the wharves and the buildings were powdery like washing blue. Masts lined the river; smoke, a deep chocolate color turning flesh pink, climbed into the light. Can’t go anywhere now.

In a swallowtail suit with a gold watch chain and a red seal ring, he rides to his wedding next to Maria Sackett, taking a carriage to City Hall pulled by four white horses to be made an alderman by the mayor; and the light behind them grows brighter and brighter, riding in satins and silks to his wedding, wrapped in pink plush in a white carriage with Maria Sackett beside him, passing through lines of men waving cigars, bowing, tipping their brown derbies, Alderman Bud rides in a diamond-filled carriage with his million-dollar bride.... Bud is sitting on the rail of the bridge. The sun has risen behind Brooklyn. The windows of Manhattan are ablaze. He jerks himself forward, slips, and dangles by one hand with the sun in his eyes. The yell gets stuck in his throat as he falls.

Captain McAvoy of the tugboat Caution stood in the pilothouse with one hand on the wheel. In the other, he held a piece of biscuit he had just dipped into a cup of coffee that was sitting on the shelf next to the binnacle. He was a solidly built man with bushy eyebrows and a bushy black mustache that was waxed at the tips. Just as he was about to put the coffee-soaked biscuit in his mouth, something black fell and hit the water with a loud splash a few yards off the bow. At the same moment, a man leaning out of the engine room door shouted, “A guy just jumped off the bridge.”

“Damn it to hell,” said Captain McAvoy, dropping his biscuit and spinning the wheel. The strong ebb tide spun the boat around like a straw. Three bells rang in the engineroom. A Black man ran forward to the bow with a boathook.

“Give a hand there, Red,” shouted Captain McAvoy.

After a struggle, they dropped a long black lifeless object onto the deck. One bell. Two bells. Captain McAvoy, looking tired and worn out, turned the tug’s bow back into the current.

“Is there any life in him, Red?” he asked hoarsely. The Black man’s face was pale, his teeth were chattering.

“Nah, man,” said the redheaded guy slowly. “His neck is completely broken.”

Captain McAvoy sucked half of his mustache into his mouth. “Damn it to hell,” he groaned. “What a nice thing to happen on a guy's wedding day.”

Jimmy Herf climbed up four creaky flights and knocked on a white door marked with fingerprints above the knob, where the name Sunderland was displayed in old English letters on a card neatly held in place by brass thumbtacks. He waited a long time next to a milk bottle, two cream bottles, and a copy of the Sunday Times. He heard a rustle behind the door and the sound of a step, then nothing else. He pressed a white button in the doorframe.

“Then he said, Margie, I have such a huge crush on you, and she replied, Come in out of the rain, you’re soaking wet....” Voices drifted down the stairs, a man’s feet in polished shoes, a girl’s feet in sandals, her legs in pink silk; the girl wore a fluffy dress and a Spring Maid hat; the young man had white trim on his vest and a necktie with green, blue, and purple stripes.

"But you're not that type of girl."

“How do you know what kind of girl I am?”

The voices faded down the stairs.

Jimmy Herf gave the bell another tap.

“Who is it?” came a lisping female voice through a crack in the door.

“I want to see Miss Prynne, please.”

Glimpse of a blue kimono held up to the chin of a fluffy face. “Oh, I’m not sure if she’s awake yet.”

"She said she'd be."

“Can you please wait a second so I can get away?” she giggled from behind the door. “Then you can come in. Sorry, but Mrs. Sunderland thought you were the rent collector. They sometimes come on Sundays just to trick you.” A shy smile peeked through the gap in the door.

“Should I bring in the milk?”

“Oh, please sit down in the hall and I’ll get Ruth.” The hall was quite dark; it smelled like sleep, toothpaste, and massage cream. In one corner, a cot still had the impression of a body on its rumpled sheets. Straw hats, silk evening wraps, and a couple of men's overcoats were hanging in a jumbled mess from the staghorns of the hat rack. Jimmy picked a corset cover off a rocking chair and sat down. Women’s voices, the quiet rustling of people getting dressed, and the sounds of the Sunday newspaper came through the partitions of the different rooms.

The bathroom door swung open; a beam of sunlight streaming through a mirror split the dim hallway in two. From the light emerged a head of hair like copper wire, paired with dark blue eyes in a fragile white, egg-shaped face. Then the hair turned brown down the hall above a slim back dressed in a tangerine slip, casual pink heels peeking out from beneath the bath slippers with every step.

“Ou-ou, Jimmee...” Ruth was calling out to him from behind her door. “But you can’t look at me or my room.” A head wrapped in curlers poked out like a turtle’s.

"Hello Ruth."

“You can come in if you promise not to look.... I’m a mess and my room’s a disaster.... I just need to do my hair. Then I’ll be ready.” The small gray room was crammed with clothes and pictures of celebrities. Jimmy stood with his back to the door, some kind of silky fabric that hung from the hook brushing against his ears.

“How’s the new reporter?”

“I’m on Hell’s Kitchen... It’s great. Got a job yet, Ruth?”

“Um... A couple of things might happen during the week. But they won’t. Oh Jimmy, I’m getting desperate.” She shook her hair loose from the crimpers and combed out the new mousy brown waves. She had a pale, startled face with a big mouth and blue under-eyelids. “This morning, I knew I should be up and ready, but I just couldn’t. It’s so discouraging to get up when you don’t have a job... Sometimes I think I’ll just go to bed and stay there until the end of the world.”

“Poor Ruth.”

She tossed a powder puff at him, dusting his necktie and the lapels of his blue suit with powder. “Don’t you pity me, you little rat.”

"That’s a nice thing to do after all the effort I put in to look respectable.... Damn you, Ruth. And the smell of the carbon isn’t off me yet."

Ruth tossed her head back and laughed loudly. “Oh, you’re so funny, Jimmy. Give the whisk broom a try.”

Blushing, he blew down his chin at his tie. “Who’s the funny-looking girl who opened the front door?”

“Shush, you can hear everything through the wall.... That’s Cassie,” she whispered, giggling. “Cassah-ndrah Wilkins ... she used to be with the Morgan Dancers. But we shouldn’t laugh at her, she’s really nice. I’m very fond of her.” She burst out laughing. “You nut, Jimmy.” She stood up and punched him in the arm. “You always make me act like I’m crazy.”

“God did that.... No, but look, I’m really hungry. I walked up.”

"What time is it now?"

“It’s past one.”

“Oh Jimmy, I don't know what to do about time.... Like this hat? Oh, I forgot to tell you. I went to see Al Harrison yesterday. It was just terrible.... If I hadn't gotten to the phone in time and threatened to call the police....”

“Check out that funny woman across from us. She has a face that's just like a llama.”

“It’s because of her that I have to keep my shades drawn all the time ...”

“Why?”

“Oh, you’re way too young to understand. You’d be surprised, Jimmy.” Ruth was leaning close to the mirror, applying a stick of lipstick between her lips.

“So many things surprise me; I don't think it matters much... But come on, let’s get out of here. The sun’s shining outside, and people are coming out of church and going home to overeat and catch up on their Sunday papers among the rubber plants..."

“Oh Jimmy, you’re a scream ... Just a minute. Watch out, you’re caught on my favorite shimmy.”

A girl with short black hair in a yellow sweater was folding the sheets off the cot in the hallway. For a moment, beneath the amber-colored powder and the blush, Jimmy didn't recognize the face he had seen through the crack in the door.

“Hey Cassie, this is ... Sorry, Miss Wilkins, this is Mr. Herf. Can you tell him about the lady across the airshaft, you know, Sappo the Monk?”

Cassandra Wilkins lisped and pouted. “Isn’t she terrible, Mr. Herf? She says the most awful things.”

"She just does it to annoy."

“Oh Mr. Herf, I'm so glad to finally meet you! Ruth talks about you nonstop... Oh, I'm afraid I was indiscreet to say that... I feel really bad for being indiscreet.”

The door across the hall opened and Jimmy found himself staring at the pale face of a man with a crooked nose, whose red hair was styled in two uneven mounds on either side of a straight part. He was wearing a green satin bathrobe and red leather slippers.

“What’s up, Cassandrah?” he said with a careful Oxford accent. “What prophecies do you have today?”

“Nothing except a message from Mrs. Fitzsimmons Green. She wants me to visit her in Scarsdale tomorrow to discuss the Gweenery Theater... Sorry, this is Mr. Herf, Mr. Oglethorpe.” The red-haired man raised one eyebrow while lowering the other and offered a limp handshake to Jimmy.

“Herf, Herf... Let me think, it's not a Georgiah Herf? In Atlanta, there's an old family of Herfs...”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Too bad. Once upon a time, Josiah Herf and I were good friends. Now, he’s the president of the First National Bank and a prominent figure in Scranton, Pennsylvania, while I... just a lowly con artist, dressed in rags and patches.” When he shrugged his shoulders, the bathrobe slipped off, revealing a flat, smooth, hairless chest.

"You see, Mr. Oglethorpe and I are going to perform the Song of Songs. He reads it and I interpret it through dance. You should come up and watch us rehearse sometime."

“Your navel is like a round goblet that doesn’t lack for liquor, your belly is like a pile of wheat surrounded by lilies ...”

“Oh, don't start now.” She giggled and squeezed her legs together.

“Jojo, close that door,” came a soft, deep girl’s voice from inside the room.

“Oh poor dear Elaine, she wants to sleep... So glad to have met you, Mr. Herf.”

"Jojo!"

“Yes, my dear…”

Through the heavy drowsiness that weighed him down, the girl’s voice made Jimmy tingle. He stood beside Cassie awkwardly, not saying a word in the dimly lit hall. The smell of coffee and burnt toast wafted in from somewhere. Ruth approached them from behind.

“All right, Jimmy, I'm ready... I wonder if I forgot anything.”

“I don't care if you have or not, I’m starving.” Jimmy grabbed her shoulders and gently pushed her towards the door. “It’s two o’clock.”

“Well, goodbye, Cassie dear. I’ll call you around six.”

“All right, Wuthy ... So nice to meet you, Mr. Herf.” The door shut on Cassie’s giggling lisp.

“Wow, Ruth, that place gives me the creeps.”

“Now Jimmy, don’t get grumpy just because you’re hungry.”

“But tell me, Ruth, what on earth is Mr. Oglethorpe? He’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, did the Ogle come out of his hideout?” Ruth burst out laughing. They stepped into the dirty sunlight. “Did he tell you he was from the main branch, don’t you know, of the Oglethorpes of Georgia?”

“Is that beautiful girl with copper hair his wife?”

“Elaine Oglethorpe has reddish hair. She’s not that great looking either.... She’s just a kid, and she’s already stealing the spotlight. All because she had a bit of success in Peach Blossoms. You know, one of those tiny, perfect roles that everyone makes a big deal about. She can act just fine.”

“It’s a shame she’s stuck with him as her husband.”

“Ogle has done everything for her. If it hadn't been for him, she’d still be in the chorus ...”

“Beauty and the Beast.”

“You’d better watch out if he focuses his attention on you, Jimmy.”

“Why?”

"Odd fish, Jimmy, odd fish."

An elevated train broke the barred sunlight overhead. He could see Ruth’s mouth moving as she spoke.

“Hey,” he shouted over the fading noise. “Let’s go get brunch at the Campus and then take a walk on the Palisades.”

"You crazy, Jimmy, what's brunch?"

“You’ll have breakfast and I’ll have lunch.”

“It’ll be a blast.” Laughter erupted as she linked her arm with his. Her silver bag bumped against his elbow as they walked.

“And what about Cassie, the enigmatic Cassandra?”

"You shouldn't laugh at her; she's really sweet... If only she wouldn't keep that awful little white poodle. She keeps it in her room, it never gets any exercise, and it smells really bad. She has that little room next to mine... Then she's got a boyfriend..." Ruth giggled. "He's worse than the poodle. They're engaged, and he just takes all her money. For heaven's sake, don't tell anyone."

“I don't know anyone to tell.”

“Then there’s Mrs. Sunderland...”

"Oh yeah, I caught a glimpse of her heading into the bathroom—an elderly woman in a fluffy dressing gown with a pink hair cap on."

“Jimmy, you shock me... She keeps losing her false teeth,” Ruth started, but an L train drowned out the rest. The restaurant door closing behind them muffled the loud noise of wheels on rails.

An orchestra was playing When It’s Appleblossom Time in Normandee. The place was filled with swirling smoke and beams of sunlight, paper decorations, and signs saying Lobsters Delivered Daily, Eat Clams Now, Try Our Delicious French-Style Steamed Mussels (Recommended by the Department of Agriculture). They sat down under a red-lettered sign Beefsteak Parties On The Upper Floor and Ruth made a play for him with a breadstick. “Jimmy, do you think it’d be wrong to eat scallops for breakfast? But first, I need coffee, coffee, coffee...”

“I’m going to have a small steak with onions.”

“Not if you plan to spend the afternoon with me, Mr. Herf.”

“Oh fine. Ruth, I’m putting my onions at your feet.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you kiss me.”

“What ... on the Palisades?” Ruth's giggle turned into a burst of laughter. Jimmy turned bright red. “I never asked you, ma’am,” he said.

Sunlight trickled onto her face through the little holes in the brim of her straw hat. She was walking with quick, short steps because of her tight skirt; the thin china silk made the sunlight feel like a hand gently stroking her back. In the oppressive heat, the streets, stores, people in their Sunday clothes, straw hats, sunshades, streetcars, and taxis shimmered around her, hitting her with sharp, cutting glints as if she were moving through piles of metal shavings. She was constantly navigating through a mess of gritty, sharp noise.

At Lincoln Square, a girl rode slowly through the traffic on a white horse; her chestnut hair hung down in soft waves over the horse’s pale back and over the gilded saddlecloth where green letters outlined in crimson read Danderine. She wore a green Dolly Varden hat with a crimson plume; one hand in a white gauntlet casually played with the reins, while the other held a gold-knobbed riding crop.

Ellen watched her walk by; then she followed a streak of green through a side street to the Park. The smell of trampled, sunburned grass came from boys playing baseball. All the shady benches were filled with people. When she crossed the curving road, her sharp French heels sank into the asphalt. Two sailors were lounging on a bench in the sun; one of them popped his lips as she walked by, and she could feel their greedy eyes stick to her neck, her thighs, her ankles. She tried to keep her hips from swaying too much as she walked. The leaves were wilted on the young trees lining the path. To the south and east, sunlit buildings surrounded the Park, while to the west, they were shaded in violet. Everything felt itchy, sweaty, dusty, constrained by policemen and Sunday clothes. Why hadn't she taken the L? She found herself looking into the dark eyes of a young man in a straw hat who was pulling up in a red Stutz roadster at the curb. His eyes sparkled as they met hers; he leaned back with an upside-down smile, pursing his lips so they seemed to brush her cheek. He pulled the brake lever and opened the door with his other hand. She quickly looked away and walked on with her chin up. Two pigeons with metallic green necks and coral-colored feet waddled out of her way. An old man was trying to coax a squirrel to fish for peanuts in a paper bag.

All in green on a white horse rode the Lady of the Lost Battalion.... Green, green, danderine ... Godiva in the proud flowing of her hair....

General Sherman in gold interrupted her. She paused for a moment to take in the Plaza that shone like mother of pearl.... Yes, this is Elaine Oglethorpe’s apartment.... She hopped onto a Washington Square bus. Sunday afternoon, Fifth Avenue slid by in a dusty, rosy blur. On the shady side, there was the occasional man in a top hat and frock coat. Sunshades, summer dresses, and straw hats were vibrant in the sunlight that glinted in patches on the upper windows of buildings, glistened in bright slivers on the sleek paint of limousines and taxis. The air was filled with the smells of gasoline and asphalt, spearmint, talcum powder, and perfume from the couples that inched closer together on the bus seats. In the occasional store window, there were paintings, deep red draperies, and polished antique chairs behind plate glass. The St. Regis. Sherry’s. The man next to her wore spats and lemon gloves, likely a floorwalker. As they passed St. Patrick’s, she caught a hint of incense wafting through the tall doors that led into the shadows. Delmonico’s. In front of her, the young man’s arm was slipping around the narrow gray flannel back of the girl next to him.

“Jez ole Joe had terrible luck; he had to marry her. He’s only nineteen.”

“I guess you would think it was bad luck.”

“Myrtle, I didn’t mean us.”

“I bet you did. Anyway, have you ever seen the girl?”

“I bet it isn't his.”

"What did you say?"

"The child."

“Billy, you talk so badly.”

Forty-second Street. Union League Club. “It was such an entertaining gathering ... really entertaining.... Everyone was there. For once, the speeches were enjoyable; they reminded me of the good old days,” croaked a refined voice behind her ear. The Waldorf. “Aren't those flags great, Billy.... That funny one is there because the Siamese ambassador is staying there. I read about it in the paper this morning.”

When you and I, my love, have to part, then I will press an indescribable last kiss on your lips and go ... heart, start, who you are ... Bliss, this, miss ... When you ...

Eighth Street. She got off the bus and headed into the basement of the Brevoort. George was sitting there with his back to the door, clicking the lock of his briefcase open and closed. “Well Elaine, it’s about time you showed up... There aren’t many people I’d wait three quarters of an hour for.”

“George, you can’t scold me; I’ve been having the time of my life. I haven’t enjoyed myself like this in years. I had the whole day to myself and walked all the way from 105th Street to Fifty-ninth through the Park. It was filled with the most amusing people.”

“You must be tired.” His thin face, with bright eyes trapped in a network of fine wrinkles, kept leaning into hers like the bow of a steamship.

“I guess you’ve been at the office all day, George.”

“Yes, I’ve been going through some cases. I can’t count on anyone else to handle even the basic tasks properly, so I have to do it myself.”

“Did you know I totally expected you to say that?”

“Seriously?”

"Waiting for fifty minutes."

“Oh, you definitely know too much, Elaine... Want some pastries with your tea?”

“Oh, but I don’t know anything about anything, that’s the trouble... I think I’ll have a lemon, please.”

Glasses clinked around them; through blue cigarette smoke, faces, hats, and beards nodded, reflecting a greenish hue in the mirrors.

“But my dear, it’s always the same old issue. It might apply to men, but it doesn’t say anything about women,” droned a woman’s voice from the next table.... “Your feminism creates an insurmountable barrier,” came a man’s deep, careful tones. “What if I am selfish? God knows I’ve paid the price for it.” “A fire that cleanses, Charley....” George was speaking, trying to get her attention. “How’s the famous Jojo?”

“Oh, let’s not bring him up.”

“The less said about him, the better, right?”

“Now George, I won't let you make fun of Jojo. For better or worse, he’s my husband until divorce do us part.... No, I won’t let you laugh. You’re too crude and simple to understand him anyway. Jojo’s a very complicated and somewhat tragic person.”

“For God’s sake, let’s not talk about husbands and wives. The important thing, little Elaine, is that you and I are sitting here together without anyone to bother us... Look, when are we going to see each other again, actually see each other, really...”

“We're not going to get too serious about this, are we, George?” She laughed quietly into her cup.

“Oh, but I have so much to say to you. I want to ask you so many questions.”

She looked at him laughing, balancing a small cherry tart that had one bite taken out of it between a pink square-tipped finger and thumb. “Is that how you behave when you have some poor soul on the witness stand? I thought it was more like: Where were you on the night of February thirty-first?”

“But I'm completely serious, that's what you can't understand, or won't.”

A young man stood at the table, swaying a bit, looking down at them. “Hey Stan, where on earth did you come from?” Baldwin looked up at him without smiling. “Listen, Mr. Baldwin, I know it’s really rude, but can I sit at your table for a minute? There’s someone looking for me who I just can’t face. Oh God, that mirror! But they’d never look for me if they saw you.”

“Miss Oglethorpe, this is Stanwood Emery, the son of the senior partner at our firm.”

“Oh, it's so great to meet you, Miss Oglethorpe. I saw you last night, but you didn't see me.”

“Did you go to the concert?”

“I almost jumped over my own feet because I thought you were so amazing.”

He had a reddish-brown complexion, worried eyes close to the bridge of a sharply defined nose, a large mouth that was always in motion, and wavy brown hair that stuck up. Ellen watched them, stifling giggles. All three of them were tensing up in their seats.

“I saw the elegant lady this afternoon,” she said. “She really impressed me. Exactly what I picture a great lady on a white horse to be.”

“With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, and she will make trouble wherever she goes.” Stan quickly muttered it under his breath.

“Music, right?” Ellen chimed in with a laugh. “I always say it’s mischief.”

“Well, how’s college?” asked Baldwin in a flat, unfriendly tone.

“I guess it’s still there,” Stan said, blushing. “I wish they’d burn it down before I get back.” He stood up. “You have to excuse me, Mr. Baldwin... My intrusion was incredibly rude.” As he turned to lean toward Ellen, she caught the smell of his grainy whiskey breath. “Please forgive me, Miss Oglethorpe.”

She found herself reaching out her hand; a bony, dry hand squeezed it tightly. He walked out with a confident stride, bumping into a waiter on his way.

“I can't figure out that annoying young guy,” Baldwin exclaimed. “Poor old Emery is really upset about it. He’s smart and has a lot of charisma and all that, but all he does is drink and cause trouble... I guess what he needs is to get a job and understand what truly matters. Too much money is what’s wrong with most of these college kids... Oh, but Elaine, thank God we’re alone again. I’ve worked non-stop my whole life since I was fourteen. It’s time for me to take a break from all that. I want to live, travel, think, and be happy. I can't handle the hustle of downtown like I used to. I want to learn how to relax, to take the pressure off... That’s where you come in.”

"But I don’t want to be the person on anyone’s safety valve." She laughed and let her eyelashes fall over her eyes.

“Let’s head out to the countryside this evening. I’ve been suffocating in the office all day. I can’t stand Sundays anyway.”

"But my practice."

“You might be unwell. I’ll call for a ride.”

“Wow, there’s Jojo.... Hi Jojo!” she waved her gloves over her head.

John Oglethorpe, his face powdered, his mouth in a deliberate smile above his standup collar, moved between the crowded tables, extending his hand tightly squeezed into buff gloves with black stripes. “How do you do, my dear, this is truly a surprise and a pleasure.”

“You know each other, right? This is Mr. Baldwin.”

“Sorry if I’m interrupting ... um ... a private conversation.”

“Not at all, take a seat and let’s all enjoy a highball together.... I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you, Jojo.... By the way, if you don’t have any plans this evening, you should come by the front for a few minutes. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my reading of the part....”

“Of course, my dear, nothing could bring me more pleasure.”