She shoved his desk chair back into place and whirled around. “Mr. Gaillard brought me to his office, asked me questions, and then told me they were searching our home. It was humiliating.”
“I gave him full permission as I have nothing to hide. They’re just doing their jobs.”
“He said that four books have been stolen. You’d said two.”
“Again, if you’d been around more, I might have mentioned it.”
“What was stolen?”
“Two more first editions. Nothing as valuable as the Tamerlane. The thief learned from his mistake, it appears.” Jack crossed his arms. “They’ve taken my key away, which is fine with me, as then they’ll see I’ve done nothing wrong. And now, if you’re done with your interrogation, I’d like to get back to my writing.”
“So you’re angry with me for being away, while you spend hours at a time on your book. Do you see how this isn’t fair?”
“You’re a mother. What did you expect?”
“You’re a father, doesn’t that count?” She remembered that cold day playing catch with Harry, how she’d created a fond memory for their boy instead of yet another disappointment. “You’ve been down in that basement more than up here these days.”
“It’s the only place I can write without all these distractions.”
Harry poked his head out from his bedroom. “I’ll be quiet, I promise. I won’t be loud anymore.”
“Harry, no, it’s not you,” Laura assured him.
“Laura?”
Her mother’s voice rang out from the bottom of the stairs.
“Distractions,” whispered Jack. “Everywhere I look. You should be here, not her.”
Laura ignored him. “Mother, please come on up.”
Her mother paused on the top stair, one hand on the banister, unsure. She wore a Persian lamb’s wool coat with a thick bow at the waist, a reminder of the cold that had encased the city the past few days. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. The children are in their rooms, dinner is in the icebox. Jack was just on his way out.” She avoided looking at him.
After he’d left, Laura’s mother shrugged off her coat. “You look tired, my dear.” She brushed Laura’s cheek with her fingers.
Laura took her mother’s hand and gently kissed it, the ring finger adorned with only a gold wedding band. They hadn’t spoken of her sacrifice; Laura couldn’t bear it.
“Things may be difficult right now,” her mother said. “But I want you to know that I admire what you’re trying to do.”
“‘Trying’ is the key word. So far, barely succeeding.”
“He’s a good man. You know that, don’t you? He loves you so much.”
Laura couldn’t help wondering what might have been if she hadn’t been so awestruck by Jack’s dapper bearing and charm back when they met. He did love her, it was true, but their competing demands for self-fulfillment didn’t fit well together, like two balloons stuffed into a small box.
Her mother only wanted love out of life, and even if she hadn’t achieved it for herself, she’d made sure Laura attained that goal. But at what cost? Even worse, would Laura pass on a similar blind spot to her own daughter? She was simply too entrenched in quotidian concerns to be able to step back and view her own biases as a parent clearly.
After settling the children with her mother, Laura began writing the first draft of her thesis. The first paragraph had taken a good half hour, but the subsequent pages came more rapidly, albeit roughly. She’d edit and smooth out the prose later, like a sculptor working with words instead of clay. As long as she had something down on the page, she’d be able to make it work. There was so much to cover, so much going on that wasn’t even mentioned in the big newspapers. She’d prove to Professor Wakeman that a “woman’s story,” as he liked to call it, could impact history.
Two hours later, Laura slid her arm into Amelia’s as they climbed the front stairs of a handsome brownstone on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street. She’d been invited by Amelia to a salon at what she’d said was the premier gathering place for bohemians. Inside the town house, the entire parlor was done in white—a white marble mantel, white painted woodwork, white velvet chairs and silk curtains, a white bearskin rug on the floor. The effect was both pristine and shocking.
“Who lives here?” Laura asked. “It’s like being in a blizzard.”
Amelia laughed. “Mabel Dodge came to the city a couple of years ago from Europe and decided to pull together the people necessary to ‘dynamite New York,’ as she put it. Every week, she holds a salon for a hundred that brings together those willing to shake things up.” The room pulsed with energy and laughter, a contrast to the dinner parties Laura’s parents had given uptown when they were still flush, where dulcet, moderated tones were the only ones tolerated.
Amelia subtly pointed out the guests. “You’ve seen some of the women already at the Heterodoxy Club meetings, like Elizabeth Gurley Flynn and Emma Goldman. Near the fireplace is Alfred Stieglitz. Max Eastman, editor of The Masses, is over there, next to his wife, Ida.”
Laura had to smile.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” said Amelia.
“What am I thinking?”
“That they look so normal.”
Laura laughed. After all that terrible uproar in the press, there they were, standing side by side, sipping cocktails like any other young married couple, as if nothing had happened. As if it just didn’t matter. “I guess I look pretty normal as well,” said Laura with a shrug.
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re running with the new bohemians these days.”
“I’m here as a reporter. To report, not to run.”
“I see.” Amelia playfully bumped Laura’s shoulder with her own. “You have a mission.”
“That’s the truth. I want to write about so much, I can hardly stand it. The world is changing, and I want to be out there, taking it all down.”
“I love your enthusiasm, Laura. You remind me of me when I first went into medicine.”
“You’re much tougher than I am, though. I know I have a lot to learn.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“What? Sipping cocktails?”
“If you want to get dangerous, I can make that happen.” Amelia held Laura’s gaze.