Another Eden (3 page)

But she knew better than to say any of that to Ben. He despised her work, ridiculed it at every opportunity. As far as he was concerned, her only legitimate occupation was advancing the Cochranes socially. That was what he'd paid for, that was the deal—although she hadn't known it was the deal until after she'd married him. No matter. She knew it now.

"Maybe I'll buy a steam yacht," he was saying. "Vanderbilt's got one, parks it in the bay like a goddamn rajah. It's not like I can't afford one as big as his. Who the hell is he?" Sara didn't answer. "Minnie says to go slow, sometimes it's years before you 'take' in Newport."

She looked at him then. "When did
Minnie
say that?" she asked, icily calm. He had the grace to prevaricate. "Long time ago, I don't remember."

Liar. Minnie Russell had been his mistress—one of them—for nine years. They were 'protégées,' he'd told Sara when he'd introduced them, long ago. In a way, she had Minnie to thank for her marriage, for it was she who had advised Ben all those years ago to broach New York society by taking a titled, aristocratic bride. Disastrous advice, as it had turned out. What Minnie was to him now, Sara wasn't sure, but despite his denials she knew he still saw her and still listened to her counsel.

"So, anyway," he pursued, incapable of staying on the defensive for long. "You'll go up with Michael next month and take care of things."

"Very well, if that's what you want. But I've never even seen the plans for this house, you know."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Shall we not speak of fault, just once?" He grinned nastily. "Sure." A moment passed. He stood up slowly and moved toward her.

She stiffened with premonition. By reflex, she spun back around to face the mirror. "I want to talk to you about Michael's birthday present," she said quickly.

Sly triumph flashed in his big, fleshy face. "What's the problem?" He put his surprisingly small, hair-covered hands on her shoulders. "The boy's old enough to learn how to shoot." He slipped his fingers inside her robe. "Don't worry, Sare, I'll take care of him. He'll be fine."

She fought to repress a shudder. "Ben, he's not. He's so little, and he's fearful, he's not like—"

"That's it, that's it exactly. He's a mewling little milksop."

"No! He's—"

"You've turned him into a coward. He's a sniveling little—" He pushed her down when she tried to jump up, and his hands slid around to cover her bare breasts. He leaned over and spoke in her ear. "I think I'll take him on a hunting trip as soon as I get back from Chicago. We'll go to Long Island, out to Montauk, maybe, and shoot some birds. Ducks, rabbits, whatever we can find."

"Damn you," she whispered. Tears burned behind her eyes. "You want to talk about this?"

"Damn you—" She broke off; he was pinching her nipples lightly, threateningly. She held very still. "Want to talk about it some more? Do you?" She nodded slowly, not looking at him.

Abruptly he released her. "Good. Let's talk." He unfastened his tie and whipped it out of his collar with a violent jerk, smiling at her. "I'll be in my room. Don't be long, Sate."

She heard the door close and glanced up. The sight of her face in the mirror appalled her; she hadn't seen that look in a long time—months. What had made her think he was finally through with her? What madness had made her forget that he loved to toy with her, to lull her into the illusion of well-being just before he sprang the trap? And always, always, he used Michael for the bait.

She stood up. It was only sex, after all. It was only her body. Except on special occasions, when he wanted to punish her, the worst was over as far as their marriage was concerned. Years ago, when they had both felt betrayed, it had been a fiery nightmare of rows, violence, and forced intimacy. But their mutual fury had finally burned itself out until only bitterness and cynicism were left—and bone-deep resentment. Lovemaking was no longer a violation, it was nothing. Two bodies temporarily connected—an abstraction. Not real. She had grown expert in making it not real.

She threw her hairbrush down on the dressing table and unconsciously started to button the top of her dressing gown—then stopped, thinking,
how foolish, he'll only take it off in a minute
. She wanted his hands on her as briefly as possible. Watching her reflection, daring herself to betray shame or revulsion by the slightest sign, she stripped her robe off, then her nightgown. She dreaded the look of possession and triumph she would see in his eyes if she went to him naked—but he would finish with her sooner that way. So it would be worth it.

"I'm sorry, truly I am. If there was anything I could do to change this, Paren, you know I would."

"Well, change it, then," Paren Matthews exclaimed with an artificial laugh. "I don't understand. You say you don't want to go, and yet you're going anyway."

"It's something I have to do, that's all."

"Have to do?"

Sara sighed with frustration. "Ben and I have decided it's something I should do. I'm sorry. We've worked so hard on these projects—believe me, no one wants to see them implemented more than I do, but there's nothing I can do. It's—for the whole summer, beginning in June." In dismay, she watched Paren tuna his back on her, ostensibly to look out the window, but really to hide his displeasure. "Margaret can take my place, can't she? She's especially good with the sewing classes, and the children adore her." He didn't answer. She laid her hand on his arm. "Please don't be angry. It'll work out somehow, it always does."

He turned back, and his kind face behind the full red beard looked pained. "I don't understand," he said again. "We need you here, Sara. I know you're only a volunteer, you're free to do whatever you like. But you tell me you have to spend the summer in
Newport
, supervising the construction of a
mansion
." He almost sneered the words, incapable of disguising his bewilderment and distaste. "Maybe I've made a mistake in thinking the settlement house mattered to you. If so, I apologize."

"Oh, Paren." She dropped her hand and backed away.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "That probably wasn't fair."

"No, that wasn't fair."

He ran his hands through his untidy red hair. "But—
why
do you have to go? Is your husband
making
you go?"

"Don't be absurd," she laughed, "of course not." The precise nature of her failed marriage was something she had never fully confided in anyone, not even Lauren. Paren was a good friend, and they had grown close over the last few years; nevertheless, to speak candidly to him about her relationship with Ben was unthinkable. The outcome of her reserve—or shame, or shyness, or maybe just habit—was intense loneliness, but she'd long ago accepted it as part of the price that had to be paid for the profound mistake she'd made eight years ago.

"Mrs. Cochrane? The English students, they are almost all here now. They are waiting for you downstairs."

"Thank you, Boris, I'll be right there," she told the little Hungarian boy who helped out at the house for five cents a day. She faced Paren one last time. "What else can I say to you? It's not for another month—I can train someone to take my place if you don't think Margaret is up to it. Whatever it takes, I'll do it. We
will
make it work, I promise."

"Yes, of course, I haven't a doubt of it. I'm just being selfish. I don't want you to go because I'll miss seeing you. It's as simple as that."

She smiled with relief. "I'll miss you, too."

He reached for her hands and held them tightly. "I mean it, Sara."

"I mean it, too!"

He let her go abruptly. "Go teach your class."

She moved to the door, disconcerted; he seemed almost angry again. "Let's talk more about it later, shall we? Please?"

"Yes, yes." He waved his hand without looking at her, already sorting through a stack of papers on his desk. She went out frowning.

Her advanced English class met two evenings a week in the basement of the five-story brick building which housed the new, expanded quarters of the Forsyth Street Settlement. Her pupils—all but Mr. Yelteles—were fluent in English by now, and her class ought more aptly to have been called American culture. With very little direction from her anymore, the participants met to discuss anything and everything about this strange new land they'd come to, some fairly recently, some years ago. Today, as usual, they hadn't waited for her, and the painted brick walls resounded with a lively, raucous discussion already in progress. Mr. Yelteles was smoking again. Sara made a shocked face, and he dropped his cigarette on the floor and stamped on it as if it were a dangerous insect—their pleasant, unvarying ritual every time they saw each other. She took her seat in the center of the ragged semi-circle of chairs and called out, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen."

Eight voices echoed, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Cochrane," and immediately went back to talking, seemingly all at once.

"Where's Tasha?" she leaned over to ask Mr. Yelteles, who was smiling his beatific smile at her.

When he shrugged, his eyebrows almost reached to his high, silvery hairline. "Ain't comm yet. You need suspen'ehs? Cullah bottens?"

"How much are stockings today?"

"Six cents, such a deal."

"We'll talk later. Rachele? Let us all hear what you and Katrin are discussing, won't you?" Gradually the room quieted and the talk focused, as she had hoped, on roughly one speaker at a time. Konstantin went on at flamboyant length about the trouble he had to endure nightly to fend off the amorous advances of his employer's wife. Turkish and darkly handsome, Konstantin had arrived in America sis years ago. He'd started out as a newspaper boy, with just enough English to shout the paper's name and enough arithmetic to make change. Now he worked as a waiter in a Russian tea room, soaking up the erudite harangues of the socialist literati who frequented it. His longterm goal in life was to attend City College and become a playwright. In the shorter term, he wanted to seduce Rachele, and he calculated that he was a little over halfway to the goal.

"Enough already," snapped Mr. Clayman, the upholsterer.

"Yah, enough," seconded his wife. They wanted to talk about whether Mrs. Clayman should give up her job in the cigar factory so they could start a family, or keep it so they could afford a better apartment. Everybody had an opinion and there were dozens of factors to take into consideration. The discussion ended the way they all did if related even remotely to personal money matters: Mrs. Cochrane was asked to make the final decision.

Sara never spoke of her personal life, never hinted at what it might be like on the days when she was not on Forsyth Street. She dressed simply; she took the Third Avenue Elevated to work. Nevertheless, somehow, she was never sure how, it had become common knowledge that Mrs. Cochrane was a very rich lady. She was, as a consequence, an object of great interest and speculation. For them she stood as a shining example of the typical successful American, no more and no less, and that she was an immigrant like them only enhanced her appeal.

How much were the Claymans paying now for their two-room apartment? she asked. Fifteen dollars a month, but it was a dump, a "stoop," and whores lived on the first floor. They wanted to move to a three-room flat on Chrystie Street because it had a range, a bath, and a water closet, but the rent was thirty dollars. How badly did they want to have a child? she asked directly—frankness was the order of the day in this class. Mr. Clayman said, "Well, you know, we'd like it, it's a thing we want, we have been waiting—" when all at once Mrs. Clayman burst into tears. She sobbed for several minutes while Rachele and Katrin patted her on the back and Mr. Clayman blew his nose.

"Well," Sara said faintly. Everyone looked sheepish. "I think that eliminates Chrystie Street. Mrs. Akers told me of an apartment house on Avenue A with two-room flats for twenty-two dollars a month. They have no water closets, but they're clean and respectable. Do you think you could afford seven dollars more a month? If so, you could quit your job and begin a family there."

This was greeted with great enthusiasm. No one could find any fault with the plan, and Mrs.

Clayman said she thought she could make seven dollars a month at home, sewing lace on collars for the shirtwaist factory. Eight faces beamed at Sara, as pleased as if J. Pierpont Morgan had personally advised them on their finances. She shook her head at them and asked Rachele how things were going at the tailor shop.

She should have known that would open a can of worms. Rachele sat on the council of her local union, the Brotherhood of Tailors, and her opinions concerning management's greed and viciousness were growing more vocal each day. Sara was attempting to redirect the conversation when she glanced up and saw Tasha in the doorway. She motioned for her to come in, but the girl hung back. "Come," she called. "Tasha, come and join us!"

Conversation continued without a pause while Tasha sidled in and took her customary place next to Mr. Yelteles. Sara sent her a welcoming smile, but she ducked her head and huddled deeper into her shawl. "Are you all right?" she murmured. Tasha nodded vigorously, not looking at her.

But she wasn't; something was very wrong. Sara lost the thread of the discussion of a play at a new Bowery theater and finally dismissed the class ten minutes ahead of time. Mr. Yelteles wanted to "schmooze" with her, as usual, which meant standing outside and listening to his
mayselakh
—anecdotes—while he smoked cigarettes. She told him she couldn't "schmooze" today, and when Tasha got up to leave, she stopped her. "Stay and talk to me," she invited, holding on to the girl's cold hand while the others said good-bye and filed out. "What's wrong? You look so upset."

"No, no, it's nothing." The lustrous black eyes slid away, evading her. "Sorry to be late today. I could not help it."

"Come and sit." Sara gestured to the wooden bench along the wall; the girl hesitated, but finally took a seat beside her. Sara watched her in perplexity. Tasha was always quiet, even aloof, but Sara thought they had become friends lately, and this unapproachability wasn't like her. "Are you ill?" She shook her head. "What, then? What made you late?"

Tasha's throat worked; she looked as if she was going to cry. Her shawl slipped. She reached for it—and Sara saw that the sleeve of her bright red dress was ripped to the elbow.

"Tasha! What's happened?" She took her shoulders and forced the girl to meet her eyes. "Has someone hurt you? Tell me!"

"Yes, yes." She covered her face with her hands and mumbled rapidly in the hybrid mix of languages Sara now knew to be German, Russian, and Rumanian.

Sara seized her by the wrists and pulled her hands away. "Speak English, Natasha," she commanded sharply, giving her a quick shake. She judged her to be on the verge of hysteria. "Tell me what happened to you.
Now
."

"Mrs. Cochrane, I'm so afraid!"

"Why?"

"A man—he follows me. Today he found me alone and he touched me. I ran, but he said he would get me!"

"My God! Who is it? Do you know him?"

"No. He is dark, he speaks like a Greek or a Russian, I don't know. He's strong—big—"

"What did he do to you?"

"He touched me, here." She indicated her breasts. "I was coming home from work, to eat something before the class. No one was in the lobby of my building and he caught me there."

Tasha lived alone in one tiny room in a Fourth Avenue tenement. "You say he's followed you before?"

"Yes, often."

"And you've never told anyone about him?"

"No. Never until today has he touched me, he has only—talked. Now I am afraid to go home." She hid her face in her hands again.