Laura and Harry made their way outside, where a fine mist had settled over Bryant Park, coating the benches and walkways and turning the bark of the trees black. Empty of the usual pedestrians, the space felt slightly sinister. Jack had told them that the land underneath the library had been a graveyard for the poor during the first half of the last century. After the bones were moved to Ward Island across the Harlem River, a giant reservoir had been erected over the same spot. He’d pointed out how some of the old reservoir’s stone walls had been incorporated into the library’s foundation down in the basement, and Laura had wondered if the stones had been excavated from the graveyard, amazed at the way the layers of history settled upon each other over time. One day, would the white marble walls of the library support an even grander building? It was hard to imagine one grander than the New York Public Library.
As she and Harry tossed a ball back and forth, her mind returned to what she’d witnessed at Patchin Place. For some reason, the physical interaction between Jessie and Amelia consumed her more than the radical causes and viewpoints discussed in the meeting above Polly Holladay’s restaurant. The words and sentences, spoken in voluble, passionate cadences, were nothing compared to the quick touch of lips of the two women. That was unnervingly physical, tactile, in a way that Laura couldn’t quite comprehend.
She fumbled a throw from Harry, who teased her. “You have to hold your hands like this, Mother. Here, try again.”
She did, purposefully flubbing it this time. Her son’s physical skills took after her side of the family, unfortunately, instead of Jack’s, and she wanted to encourage him. “You’re much better suited to this than I am,” she said. “Try once more, let me see if I can get it right.”
This time, she did, and he cheered her success as if she’d swum the English Channel. She loved her boy. His gradual transformation out of his shy awkwardness was everything she had wished for. Lately, he could match Pearl friend for friend as they recounted their day at the dinner table, although, every so often, Pearl surprised Laura by retreating into a sullen moodiness. Laura knew she missed having her mother around, even if she wasn’t able to express it. Laura’s own mother was no substitute, no matter how she spoiled them. But didn’t Laura get to have a life outside of the library walls? She was in her prime, brimming with energy. Wasn’t that only fair?
The temperature was dropping with the sun, and she shuttled Harry back inside. Upstairs, she offered the children bread and butter and then headed uptown to Columbia.
Professor Wakeman was waiting behind his desk. “You’re late.” He checked his timepiece with obvious disdain.
Laura apologized but then got right down to business. “For my thesis, I was thinking it might be interesting to write an in-depth profile of Max Eastman, who edits the downtown magazine The Masses, and his wife, Ida. You may remember they got into some hot water when they married and she decided to keep her maiden name. Put it on their mailbox, even.”
Professor Wakeman regarded her as if she’d pulled a bomb out of her satchel. “I remember that. Caused quite a stir.”
“The press mocked them, said that she regarded the title of ‘Mrs.’ as a badge of slavery. Even the letters to the editor were nasty and abusive.” Laura pulled some of the pieces she’d dug up in the morgue on the first floor. “They’re all written by men, saying that such a notion will unleash a slew of divorces and other scandalous behavior. I want to do a follow-up.”
“It’s old news. Nothing there.” Still, he picked up his pen and scratched something on a notepad near his elbow. She caught sight of the words just as he placed a piece of blotting paper over them: Eastman—potential story idea.
So far, so good.
Laura had noticed over the course of the first semester that students’ story ideas that had been summarily dismissed by Professor Wakeman sometimes turned up under his byline in the press. To ensure she got the thesis subject she’d wanted, she’d decided to pitch a throw-away idea first, to divert his attention. She waited.
“Anything else?” Professor Wakeman asked.
“Well, how about something on the Heterodoxy Club?”
He yawned. “What a horror of a name.”
“They’re a group of women who meet in Greenwich Village every two weeks and debate progressive causes.”
“It’s a ridiculous name for a women’s club. Heterodoxy? Sound like they’re trying too hard to be intellectual, if you ask me.”
“I think it’s a valuable story to cover.”
“Well, all right,” he said finally. “You may write on this subject. Do not try to shock me with any vulgarities, though.”
Two weeks later, Laura attended her second meeting. This time, instead of formal speakers, each woman was asked to stand and give a brief summary of her background and why she was drawn to be a member. The stories were so varied, the family origins fascinating—from an isolated farmhouse in Maine to a decrepit mansion overlooking the Hudson River, from barely having enough to eat to a childhood of rich indulgence—yet somehow they’d all ended up in this one place, united not for a common cause, but simply to be able to speak their minds freely, without the disapproval of husbands and fathers. The women were vastly different from each other, yet united by their desire to achieve, to overcome discrimination against their sex. During a break, Laura ducked into an empty meeting room and scribbled some notes, which she then hid in the very bottom of her satchel.
Amelia invited her back for tea at Patchin Place, and again Laura accepted, but this time she didn’t get flustered when Jessie appeared from the back room and placed another kiss on Amelia’s lips, wrapping her arms loosely around Amelia’s neck. She understood that down here in Greenwich Village the old traditions were being subverted and altered, and that the two men standing closely on the corner might be friends, or they might be lovers, and that was fine.
Jack asked her about the Heterodoxy Club meeting after he crawled into bed late that night. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep, but they hadn’t had any time to check in with each other lately. She rubbed her eyes, fighting the urge to snuggle back under the quilt.
“It’s strange, going downtown,” she answered. “I feel like I’m visiting some European city, if that makes any sense. Different customs, different issues, it’s all so unfamiliar.”
“Did you see your school friend, the one you’d mentioned at your parents’?”
“Dr. Potter. Yes, she was there.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you ever mentioning her before.”
Part of her wanted to tell Jack all about Amelia, as she’d told him about Professor Wakeman and some of the other larger-than-life characters from her outside life, but it would be too difficult. There were too many angles to the woman that Jack would find contradictory, and if she tried, she’d end up missing something important, or stressing the wrong thing. She didn’t want to talk about Amelia.