Love Lies Bleeding (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Ithaca, New York
June 1916

B
reakfast was quiet. Maude read her copy of
The Secret Garden
, even though Harriett had a rule about no books at the table. Today, however, Harriett was preoccupied with directing the servants in their duties. The Morgans were entertaining several other attorneys and their wives that night, and Harriett wanted everything to be just so before their arrival. Libbie watched with amusement as her mother harangued poor Juliana about the linens, the flowers, and the courses to be served at dinner, while Jack, their part-time butler, polished her mother’s silver tea service until it glistened.

“Now Juliana, we’ve decided on the Chicken Lyonnaise, tomato aspic, creamed carrots, green turtle soup, jacket potatoes, and some fresh fruit and cheese. For dessert, I’d prefer the pear tart to the brandied nectarines that Mr. Morgan mentioned to you. Several of our guests are teetotalers and may not appreciate liquor in their dessert. We’ll serve the others an after-dinner brandy or cognac instead. Will that be sufficient to get you started?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Juliana said with a half curtsy as she retreated back to the kitchen to plan the cooking marathon that would ensue when she returned from the market.

Libbie finished her poached egg, buckwheat cakes with marmalade, and fruit compote and then made her way upstairs. No one knew of her plans, but she was meeting Tom Estabrook at the nickelodeon later. Their walk several days before had been pleasant but had only left Libbie clamoring for more.

This afternoon, they were buying separate tickets and then sitting together in the darkened theater. She was thrilled even thinking about it. She wasn’t sure she liked the choice of films—something called
Civilization
that Tom was interested in seeing. It was all about the brutality of war or some such. But Libbie supposed it might prepare her for what she would see overseas once she and Olive arrived. She didn’t recognize any of the actors, either. She’d hoped that Lillian Gish might be in it, or Theda Bara. But she supposed she could sit still to watch it anyway.

When she purchased her ticket and the usher showed her to her seat, the theater had not yet begun to fill. The Palace was a recent addition to Ithaca’s architectural milieu. It stood at the intersection of Green and Aurora, near Six Mile Creek, and a grander theater the city had never seen. The owners had built it to accommodate vaudeville shows, but they had added a screen for flicker capabilities as well. The builders had modeled the stone masonry work on the Italian palaces of the Renaissance and constructed a huge proscenium arch over the screen. Casts of cherubs and angels decorated the arch, and deep indigo velvet draperies hung alongside it. The ceiling was the most beautiful of all, with fake paint effects resembling a sky with clouds and glistening stars. It still smelled of new paint and plaster.

Mr. McGillicuddy sat at the piano in front of the stage, entertaining them all with current melodies before the show started, then he started a tinny sort of tune more in keeping with the film. Libbie pulled out the hatpins securing her headwear and set it with care on the seat beside her, in keeping with the “Ladies, please remove your hats” frame on the screen.

At that moment, the usher showed Tom to a seat behind her. As soon as the man retreated to assist another patron, Tom moved up a row and sat down next to her. When he smiled, her heart fluttered a bit.

“I’m glad you made it,” he whispered.

“Me, too.”

They watched in silent fascination at the flickering black and white images for a time, and then he reached for her hand in the dark. She grasped it and smiled, even though he couldn’t see.

After the flicker, as they sat next to each other on the streetcar, Libbie looked over at Tom under hooded lids. He was nervous and twiddled his fingers, trying to steal a glimpse at her while pretending not to. She had never seen a boy so anxious. But she had also never seen a boy so handsome. He seemed unaware of it.

They had taken a stroll down Seneca Street after the film. It wasn’t a long walk, as the neighbors would have gossiped, but then they caught the streetcar, and it didn’t matter much anyway after that. Tom told her of his mother and father, and of living on the farm with his aunt and uncle, and of his sister and her adorable twin daughters. Libbie listened with one ear, as she found his stories of rural life frightfully dull.

“I want to see where you live,” she’d said, turning to him.

It didn’t seem proper to Tom at all. With no chaperone, what would the neighbors say? What would Mrs. Protts say? He found that he was frightened and hoped it wouldn’t look as if he had compromised Miss Morgan’s honor, when that hadn’t been his intention at all. In fact, she was rather insistent on seeing his room.

“They don’t have to know,” she whispered, reading his thoughts. But he noticed she was shaking too.

As they stepped out of the car at his stop, they walked up Linn Street, wanting to hold hands but knowing they couldn’t. They could have been brother and sister for all anyone knew, except for the disparity in the quality of their clothing.

The nondescript two-story clapboard house owned by Mrs. Protts loomed up ahead, with shadows beginning to collect across the afternoon lawn. The dark green shutters framing the two front windows gave it a bit of a brooding look. Tom could have sworn that the house was frowning at them. He surveyed the garden as they walked up the hill, but there was no landlady in sight. During the spring and summer, like now, she was always out cutting flowers or harvesting her small batch of vegetables. After a few moments, he heard her voice warbling a shaky tune from the back summer kitchen as she rinsed something she had dug up. Perhaps they could enter the building unseen. He didn’t know how they did it, but they made it down the corridor, with its peeling green paint, and entered his spare little room. Although he had straightened it before his departure that morning, it was still the rented lodging of a poor man. He was even more self-conscious about it after seeing the luxurious parlor in the Morgan home.

A lonesome bedstead in the center of the room sported a striped mattress and two spare blankets, along with a cheap, lumpy pillow. Next to it was an overturned box, with a small brass alarm clock and a selection of several books: a cheap
Tarzan
serial,
Lord Jim
, and those that she had lent him. In one corner on a cheap table was a small bowl and pitcher for washing up. Some tooth powder stood next to it, and a toothbrush, comb, and straight razor lay beside. A small-looking glass hung nearby on the wall, with a lather mug on a shelf below it. He watched Libbie as she looked around the room, running her fingers over the little table that had belonged to his mother. On it sat a framed photograph of all the Estabrooks before his parents had passed away. He kept it out to remind him of the good times. The only real piece of furniture was the chiffarobe, which contained his meager wardrobe.

She picked up the photograph and touched his figure through the glass. “How old were you here?” she asked.

“About twelve. That’s my sister Della there with me.”

“It’s a sweet picture. You were an adorable little boy.”

“Thank you,” he croaked.

“Is your sister still nearby?”

Tom sighed, since he’d already told her about his family. She must not have been paying attention.

“Yes, she lives down in Newfield with her husband and my two little nieces, Frances and Dorothy.”

“Very sweet,” she said with little interest, continuing her perusal of his place. She crossed to the books that lay on his small table and fingered the spine of
Sons and Lovers
.

“It’s an extraordinary book, don’t you think?”

“Yes. I’m enjoying it. Thank you for recommending it to me,” he acknowledged.

Picking up the book, she said, “I love this part, here, at the beginning, in ‘The Early Life of the Morels,’ when her husband has been out drinking and Gertrude gets angry at him. You can feel the fury on the page. This part here? Where Gertrude tells her husband she would have left years before if it wasn’t for the children? I adore how Lawrence crafts this narrative. It’s brilliant. Gertrude Morel was a fool for marrying beneath her station, and she knew it.” Libbie paused for a moment. “I love reading about her, but that will never happen to me.”

Thomas continued to look at her, engrossed in her words but not even hearing them, so intent was he on the animation in her face as she described the scene.

“Good books are like food for me. I need them to exist,” she finished.

“I’m afraid that you’re better equipped to know good literature than me,” Tom confessed. “I am enjoying it, but my education was a bit simpler than yours, from my one-room school. That’s all you have when you’re poor.”

“Some of the richest men in America came from nothing. Why, Mr. Vanderbilt, Mr. Rockefeller, Mr. Carnegie…they were all poor men who made good. There’s nothing in the cards that says that although you were born poor, you have to stay that way.”

“You’re very clever. All right, someday I shall make a fortune. I shall take over the clockworks from the owners, and I shall buy a grand mansion up on the hill. And there I shall take you so you can live in the grand style you’re used to.” He smiled. He hadn’t been brave enough to tease her before now.

As he approached, she turned, startling him.

“Do you want to kiss me, Tom?” she said.

He gazed at her, his mouth agape that a girl could be so forward.

“I…why….yes…I would very much like to kiss you, Miss Morgan.”

“Libbie….” she whispered, her mouth almost on top of his, as she moved closer and closer to him, her lips tempting and retreating. She kept threatening to kiss him but never completed the act. It was maddening. She smiled, enticing him and enjoying how discomfited she made him. She grabbed the hatpins on her hat and pulled it off, shaking her hair. It fell in a myriad of wanton curls around her shoulders. Setting the hatpins on the nearby table, she dared him to touch her.

And at that moment, a knock came on the door.

“Mr. Estabrook! Oh Mr. Estabrook! Do you suppose you could help me move a small table out of the basement? It’s rather difficult for an old crone like me to lift.”

Blushing at being interrupted in such a compromising position, Tom was reluctant to pull away from Libbie. But he did. She sulked at being neglected.

“Of course, Mrs. Protts. I was just changing. I’ll be there in a moment.” Her heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway outside, so turning to Libbie, he said, “My landlady. She’s a nice old woman, just a bit of a pest at times.”

“Helping her is more important than me?”

“No, not at all, Miss Morgan. I’m very fond of you. I hope I can see you again.”

“We’ll see,” she said, turning coy in light of his resigning her to second place, behind Mrs. Protts.

Chapter Sixteen

W
hen the streetcar dropped her off, Libbie hurried up Seneca Street, hoping she wasn’t late to dinner. She didn’t want to provide any other clues to what she’d been doing. Straightening the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her hat, she turned the front doorknob.

“Libbie? Is that you, dear?” her mother called. “For goodness’ sake, where have you been? The party will be starting any minute! I’ve been worried sick! Now, go freshen up, right away!”

“Yes, Mother,” she said, taking the stairs two at a time.

Reaching her room, she turned the key in the lock and closed the door behind her. She took a deep breath, still unable to believe what had just happened.

With the large number of dinner guests arriving, Libbie did her best to freshen up. She changed into a newer heliotrope-colored frock and wound some ribbon trimmed with pearls through her hair. Trying to act normal at dinner was awful. She wasn’t sure who annoyed her the most: Maude blathering on and on about some book she was reading about gardens, or Mr. Hathaway from the tobacconists’ shop, discussing the merits of southern tobacco versus the recent influx of Cuban to the markets.

Her father once again bored them to tears with his day full of plaintiffs and defendants, aided this time by three other attorneys to join in his lament. Her mother detailed her busy social schedule with the Daughters of the American Revolution meeting and the Ladies of the First Episcopal Church social. Mrs. Stephens, one of the other lawyer’s wives, droned on and on about the respectability and tradition of the Rebekahs organization. Mr. Cady, another of the lawyers at the firm, spoke to Libbie about considering Cornell, as he was familiar with her stellar academic record. Mr. LaBarr, her father’s law partner, leaned in for a quick hug and squeezed just a bit too tight for her taste. Mrs. LaBarr looked a bit glassy-eyed, and Libbie wondered why until her mother whispered that Marguerite LaBarr had already had three glasses of brandy.

There Libbie sat, feeling as if her life had begun at last, and everyone around her droned on and on about the same humdrum things they always had. Couldn’t they see how different she felt? Everything before this moment seemed unimportant. She had to fight to keep a look of triumph off her face and escaped from the table as soon as possible. Even Juliana’s pear tart with meringue couldn’t keep her a moment longer.

Ithaca, New York
June 1916

That evening, Tom also had a visitor. Hi showed up at his door, hat in hand and tears in his eyes.

“Hi, come in! What is it? What’s wrong?”

Hi fought to get the words out. His ruddy complexion was more flushed than usual, and his eyes were almost swollen shut. Tom had never seen his friend so upset.

“Tom, it’s Father…” he began.

“Uncle Zeke? What’s happened?”

The boys sat down on the bedstead, and Hi lowered his head and sobbed as if his heart would break.

“He’s gone, Tom. It must have been his heart. We were out in the barn two days ago, and he grabbed his chest and fell over. Right in front of me. There was nothing I could do…”

Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen a human being in so much pain. Even when their parents had died a few years ago, he and his sister had borne it as well as they could. But Hi and his father had been extraordinarily close. He put an arm around his friend, wishing he could help him somehow.

“When is the service?” Tom asked.

“Tomorrow at four p.m. Do you think you can make it?”

“I’ll try my best. I’ll speak to my supervisor tomorrow. He’s a decent fellow.”

“There’s something else, Tom. Mother saw a lawyer yesterday. We’re in debt. The farm isn’t doing well, in spite of how it looked to us…the mortgage…”

“What are you going to do?”

“The bank’s going to take it. We…we have to move. Mother and Alice and Lucy and me,” Hi said with a sigh.

“Oh, God. What will you do?”

“Mother’s sister Susan and her husband Jeremiah live in Buffalo. We’ll have to stay with them for a while until I can find work. We have to sell everything.”

“What about Alice and Lucy?”

“They can find something as domestics when we get to Buffalo. They’re good at cooking and cleaning, although that means I won’t see them as often. We had hoped that they would be promised by now—” the small arrow stung Tom a bit “—but since they’re not, we all have to go and make the best of it.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Tom said, holding his head in his hands. “Is there anything I can do? Please let me help.”

“That’s why I’m here. And to tell you about everything. I know you were trying to save for a Model T.”

“It was kind of a pipedream, but I was putting a little away, yeah.”

“I can sell you ours for a reasonable price. It’d be a little older than the one you wanted, but I know how you’ve needed one. And it would give us a slight cushion.”

“Now I won’t even need the car as much if I don’t have to come down to visit you on the farm,” Tom said. “Hi, your mother must need this money from the car to pay debts. You can get far more for it than you’d get from me.”

“I know. But I don’t want the vultures to have everything. Father was so proud of that car. Even if we did have to transport feed in it and it was a farm vehicle, it was still his pride and joy. He would have wanted you to have it. You can still come down and visit Jimmy, right?”

“But Hi, what about you? You need the car.”

“No I don’t. We can take the train west. In Buffalo, I can take the streetcar everywhere when I find a job. I know President Wilson’s said he’ll keep us out, but it’s obvious we’ll be entering the war soon, so most likely I’ll be headed over there. When I make it home, I’ll get a soldier’s pension, and they’ll have nicer cars on the market. Better ones.” He tried to smile but wasn’t successful.

“No matter what happens, you have to send me an address there so I can stay in touch with you. Who knows? I may end up in Buffalo someday. If war comes, perhaps we could at least enlist in the same regiment.”

Hi nodded, his face solemn. They sat together for a time, neither saying a word. After a half hour, Tom knew Hi was ready to go.

The boys went outside, where Hi showed Tom how to crank the handle to start the engine, and they took a spin around the block so he could see how it maneuvered. Now Tom would have to speak to Mrs. Protts about where he could park his new acquisition. And he would go to the bank in the morning to get the money for Hi. As they parted, they embraced. He hoped he could make the service tomorrow.

Mr. Farnsworth at the factory seemed like a decent sort. Tom hoped he could manage an hour or two off for the service. At least now he had faster transportation to get there and back. After driving Hiram back to Newfield, he returned home late.

In Newfield, the Methodist Episcopal Church was packed to the rafters for the funeral of Ezekiel Gordon. It was a simple house of worship—white clapboard like most of the farmhouses in the area. The inside was spartan, although the congregation had splurged on one very basic stained glass window behind the altar. In the front pew, Hiram sat with his mother and sisters, all clutching handkerchiefs. Reverend Bliss, clad in his white woven chasuble, spoke of the finality of death but the thrill of everlasting life, then recited from Psalm 91.

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust,’” he quoted. He swung the censer back and forth, scenting the entire church with frankincense.

Tom had always loved the warm, tangy smell, as it reminded him of his mother, who had been the most devout woman he’d ever known. He had always associated the verses, sights, and smells of the church with her. He’d felt guilty turning away from religion after he lost his parents. It seemed to him that any greater power who knew what He was doing would never have taken two such genuine, God-fearing people like his mother and father. He had returned to the fold, but his attentions to the Great Almighty were much more reticent these days. He wasn’t sure of his true feelings, but he supposed if he could behave himself and keep his nose clean for the remainder of his time on Earth, God would decide that he had suffered enough in this lifetime and go a little easier on him in the future.

He looked over and saw Jimmy sitting to the left of Alice and Lucy. He felt far removed from what was happening. Uncle Zeke had been a good man. Good enough to take him in and raise him as his own son, despite the financial pressures of running the farm. Turned out he could have ill afforded the extra mouth to feed.

Tom was wracked with guilt but also thrilled to have his own Tin Lizzie to travel wherever he wanted to go. All he could think of was escorting Libbie around town in it. He wasn’t poorer than poor anymore. He gazed at the car’s features, a bit dust-covered from the ride down, but knew that it would be his ticket to a better life.

He accompanied the Gordons back to their farmhouse, where the neighbors had laid out a bereavement spread of a roasted chicken, small sandwiches, stew, and apple cider on a table set with a white cloth. On another table sat a small white cake adorned with strawberries. The black crepe draped over the windows had dimmed the light in the room. Seeing Uncle Zeke’s favorite chair empty produced a sense of melancholy he had not felt since the death of his parents so long ago. He crossed the room to the mantel where all the photographs sat—portraits of Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke, the girls, and Hi. There was even a picture of Thomas. He couldn’t believe how much he owed all of them. It broke his heart to see them in such reduced circumstances. Tears pricked the back of his eyes as he looked at his adopted family.

“I miss him already,” Jimmy said, approaching him.

“Me, too,” Tom replied.

“It’s so strange for him not to be here. He was always such a good friend to me.”

Jimmy’s connection to Uncle Zeke had been strong too. Jimmy’s father, Alfred, the town blacksmith, was a drinker, leaving Jimmy, his mother Marian, and Jimmy’s five sisters to fend for themselves as best they could. Marian kept a vegetable garden, and Jimmy had a job at the gristmill in town, but the money didn’t go far. He’d also begun doing odd jobs for some of the townspeople, but they were always behind on bills and had to live on credit at the mercantile store. Alfred had passed away of dropsy the year before, so Uncle Zeke had often been wise counsel. Now he too was gone.

“I’m worried about them,” Tom said, fingering the frame of a photograph.

“I’m worried about all of us,” Jimmy said, clarifying which of them he deemed to be worse off. At least the Gordons had relatives to run to. His mother had been an only child, and his father’s side was all drunks like Alfred had been. No one could count on them for any help. Unless you had a fifth of hard cider, he corrected himself. Then, they could always be counted on to help you finish it.

“We’ll be okay.”

“Will we? The wolf is at the door, Tom. I’ve got to figure out how to bring in some more money or we’ll lose our place, too.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“You never know,” Jimmy said, his voice cryptic.

“What?”

“Nothing. Say, how’s your courting going with that rich girl? She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

“Yes she is,” Tom said.

“A looker yes, but kind of a snob, if you ask me.”

“Oh, but she’s not. She’s very interested in literature. She lent me several of those books she told us about. That was thoughtful of her.”

“Yeah? That nonsense she was talking of about dead people? Why would you want to read a bunch of tripe like that?”

“Well, I didn’t like the one about the dead people that much,” Tom agreed, “but the D.H. Lawrence is not half bad. I’m enjoying it.”

“And after you’re done reading, then what?” Jimmy lowered his voice a bit, moving in closer.

“What do you mean, then what?”

“You know what I mean. How is she?”

“Jimmy! How dare you suggest such a thing? She’s a lady—beautiful and honorable. We wouldn’t consider such a thing.”

“Oh, you might not, but that girl knows just what she wants, and she wants you, my friend.”

Tom snorted at Jimmy’s behavior. “I can’t believe you’re talking this way,” he said. .

“That girl is no lady, Tom. You can see it just looking at her that she’s ripe for it. The way she walks, the way she flirts, the way she was looking at you. You’re a lucky man, Tommy. What I wouldn’t give for something sweet like that.” He licked his lips, imagining the heaven that Tom refused to admit he’d visited.