The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (39 page)

Charlie handed Ritzi a towel and left the bathroom.

Once Vivian was clean and dry and diapered, Ritzi lay her in the middle of the bed to kick her feet in the air. She stood next to the open window and looked out at the fields. The corn was ready for harvest, and in the darkness it looked like a black wave rolling from the house in all directions. A breeze gathered the long, rough leaves and rubbed them together. When she closed her eyes, it sounded like summer rain. The sky was clear and the stars bright, and Ritzi was overwhelmed with the simplicity and beauty of that evening. She hadn’t seen the stars one time in New York City. Before shutting the window, she leaned out a bit and inhaled the scent of grass and wind. The earthy fragrance of geraniums drifted up from the porch below.

Ritzi slipped out of her shoes and pulled her dress over her head. She didn’t notice Charlie in the doorway watching until she saw his reflection in the window. She could see his eyes trail down the curve of her back, the roundness of her bottom beneath her slip. He swallowed. She hoped he would come into the room. That he would talk to her. Touch her. But when he caught her eyes in the reflection, he turned and walked away. Ritzi flipped out the light and curled around the tiny form of her daughter. She lay in the bed wide awake.

The hall was dark, and she heard Charlie’s familiar steps heading toward the linen closet. He grabbed a blanket, like he’d done every night since she’d come home, then picked his way down the stairs to the living room. His feet shuffled across the hardwood floor. In her mind, she could see him sitting on the edge of the couch and taking off his boots, the left one first and then the right. He would unbutton his shirt, fold it, and set it on the chair. Same with his pants. Socks laid neatly on top of the pile. Ritzi imagined him standing in the living room, moonlight grazing his face and chest, and longing crept through her.

The couch groaned beneath his weight in the room below. He fussed with his blanket and pillow. Slowly the house grew quiet, only the faint creaking of wind and the settling of old plaster walls.

Vivian whimpered in the bed beside her, and Ritzi laid a hand on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. Then she sang a few
lines from her favorite Gershwin song, soft and low, so as not to disturb Charlie: “I never had the least notion that I could fall with such emotion … ’cause I’ve got a crush, my baby, on you.”

At the sound of her mother’s voice, Vivian grew still, and her breathing evened. She stuck one fist in her mouth and sucked. The little smacking sound of her lips made Ritzi smile, and she closed her eyes as well. An owl hooted outside, and together mother and baby drifted off to sleep to the lullaby of cornstalks rustling in the wind.

Some time later Ritzi woke when the blanket lifted from her. And then the weight of Charlie on the mattress. She looked up at him in the moonlight. His eyes were dark and shone like obsidian, and the shadows chiseled the lines of his face. Without a word, he slid next to her, and the heat of his skin against hers quickened her pulse. He smelled of leather and soap and fresh air, and she could feel the stubble of his chin rest against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It sounded like a gasp, full of apology and grief.

Charlie tucked his legs in behind hers and reached over to play with one of Vivian’s curls. His lips brushed against her ear and he traced callused fingertips up her arm. Gooseflesh rose at his touch and she took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of his desire. “I’m glad you came home,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ORCHARD STREET, LOWER EAST SIDE, THURSDAY, AUGUST 20, 1931

MARIA
listened to the sound of Jude’s key in the lock. She lay on the couch, afghan spread across her legs, and waited to see the look on his face. He stopped in the doorway, breath balled in his throat. The apartment was transformed, awash in candlelight and floating in the sounds of Haydn’s Third Symphony. It had taken them months to save up for the record player, but the splurge seemed reasonable, given the circumstances. The soft scratch of the needle traveling through the groove added texture and depth to the music. A faint blush of orange light painted the upper half of their living room window as the sun set behind the skyline.

“Welcome home.” She smiled.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” Jude crossed the room and kissed her forehead. He joined her on the couch. “I got a really interesting cold case today.”

She raised her eyebrows in question.

“Apparently, a New York State Supreme Court judge disappeared a year ago, and no one ever found out what happened to him.” He cupped her face in his palms, kissed her deeply. It felt like the brush of apology against her lips. “So now I’ve got all the time in the world to make it right. I promised I would.”

“I know.” A flash of worry crossed her face. Every time Joseph Crater came up in conversation, she grew anxious.

Jude tucked her into the tender circle of his arm. “I have something for you.” He pulled a small box from his pocket and set it in her palm. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a shoelace.

Maria glanced at his feet. One of his shoes had sacrificed a lace. She touched her smile with two fingers as her eyes glassed over with tears.

“Open it.”

Jude tensed around her, eager, but Maria took her time, slowly unraveling the crude bow and peeling the paper off one edge at a time. She gasped when she lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a soft bed of cotton, lay her rosary. The silver chain was repaired, all fifty-nine glass beads were set back in place, and the crucifix dangled at the bottom, newly polished. He held it up for her inspection.

Maria ran a tentative finger across the chain. “It’s even more beautiful than I remembered.”

“Finn helped. I wasn’t exactly sure how it all went.” Jude placed it around her neck. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Forgive me?”

“Ages ago.”

Jude stretched out on his side and drew her to him, her spine against his stomach. In the background, the symphony played on, dipping and curling around the silence. Her breathing slowed, softened, as their bodies melted together. She fought the sleep that tugged at her eyes, wanting to savor this. It happened often lately, a sudden exhaustion that swept her away from the moment, only to release her hours later to find that a chunk of time was gone—a blank spot in an increasingly precious number of days.

When she’d finally shared Dr. Godfrey’s diagnosis with Jude, they had both wept, arms thrown around one another, knotted together in grief. Her lengthy battle with infertility was explained by two excruciating words:
ovarian cancer
. The life they’d always hoped for was replaced by an urgent need to soak up every minute they had left. All talk of cancer and dishonesty was abandoned. They allowed no room in their conversation for words acquainted with heartbreak. They spoke only of love and faith and hope. Of each other.

Haydn wound to a close, the record player humming, and was replaced by the symphony of New York. Cars and people and the never-ending rattle of the El. Their neighbors fought in Polish, indiscernible words drifting through the poorly insulated walls. Someone paced in the apartment above them, a cane tapping against the floor. Jude patted her back in rhythm. Pulled her closer. Breathed in the scent of her soap. She felt his lips smile against the nape of her neck. And she knew that she would rather have this than a baby. She would rather have Jude.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

FINANCIAL DISTRICT, MANHATTAN, MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 1931

STELLA
reported for work at eight. Unable to justify the cab fare, she’d taken the subway, and she was still unsettled as she walked through the intricately detailed lobby of the Transportation Building. One of the newer skyscrapers in Lower Manhattan, it had a masonry exterior with a charming stepped-back form. But it was the capped copper roof in the shape of a pyramid that set the building apart from its neighbors. It was lovely, and Stella was grateful to be there, as opposed to a retail store. Or, God forbid, the garment district. Her mother had objected, of course, had said she was too good for the job, that she should hold out for something more dignified. But Stella brushed aside the comment, noting that beggars couldn’t be choosers. She had brought this on herself, after all. So she stood tall, lifted her chin, and resumed the role of working woman for the first time in fourteen years.

“Name?” the receptionist asked when Stella approached the sprawling counter in the lobby.

“Stella,” she said.

The woman stared at her with an insolent expression, waiting for elaboration.

“Stella Clark,” she added. “I’m one of the new switchboard operators.”

She slid a long fingernail down a clipboard until she found Stella’s name, then tapped it as if to say,
Here you are
. She jutted the clipboard toward Stella. “Sign in.”

Stella scratched her name on the paper with a pen that was almost out of ink, then stepped around the desk and walked toward the elevator.

“Where do you think you’re going? The switchboard is in the basement.”

Stella pointed toward the ceiling. “I interviewed up there.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be working down there.” She pointed toward a hallway off the lobby. “Stairwell is at the end. Don’t forget to sign out when you leave.”

Stella turned away from the elevator and the bright lobby and walked down the narrow hallway. She wouldn’t be working in a high-rise, after all, but in a dark, dank basement. The air seemed to close in around her as she nudged the stairwell door open and peered down the flight of steps. Flickering bulbs cast a cold gray light. Stella descended to the floor below, wishing she’d worn more practical shoes. She’d purchased the twenty-dollar heels two years earlier after seeing Joan Blondell wear them in
Life
magazine. They’d been a special order from Saks, and she’d had to wait three weeks for them to arrive from Hollywood. Stella had been so proud of the shoes, but since she’d left her apartment, they’d already rubbed a blister on her ankle where the strap buckled. She limped toward a solid metal door that read
SWITCHBOARD
. Stella pushed it open and stood, dazed at the chaos within.

Fifteen women sat on swivel chairs before a wall of lights and wires and plugs. Each wore a headset and a solemn face as she directed calls to the offices above.

An older woman with a brash voice and unkempt hair barreled toward her. Her name tag read
LOIS
, and she held a roster in the crook of her arm. “Are you Stella Clark?”

Stella winced at the fake last name she’d given when applying for the job. Her real name was too controversial. Too easy to reject out of hand. “Yes, I am.”

“You’re late.”

“It’s eight—”

“The Transportation Building opens for business at eight o’clock. Your
shift
begins at seven forty-five. Now get to work. The other girls have been covering your station.”

Stella received a glare or two as she followed the floor manager down the row to an empty station at the end. “Go on, we don’t have all day.”

She sat, only to find that her swivel chair was broken and her headset was taped together in two spots. Stella held it in place with one hand to stop it from sliding off her head.

“What are you waiting for?” Lois asked.

Stella glanced at the massive contraption in front of her. With all the
cables and bulbs and coils of wire, it looked as though its innards were spilling out. “I don’t know how to work this thing yet.”

“If you’d gotten here on time, that wouldn’t be a problem.” Lois lifted the roster and put a small mark next to her name. “You’ll have to figure it out as you go.”

Stella’s throat tightened and her tongue felt dry. “How do I start?”

“Plug your headset in there.” Lois pointed to a small opening. “It lets the switchboard know you’re available.”

She pushed the long metal prong into the outlet, and within a few seconds lights on her board went from black to red and began pulsing. The girl next to her sighed in relief as a number of her calls transferred to Stella’s station. She stiffened in her chair, unsure what to do next.

Lois rattled off instructions for directing the incoming calls to their proper locations in the building. Stella tried to pay attention, but the rush of noise in her ears made it difficult. She could feel the panic rising in her chest. Her pulse quickened. The room suddenly felt warm and small, and she tugged at her lace collar.

“Take those stupid gloves off,” Lois ordered. “It works better with bare hands.”

Stella peeled the satin gloves from her fingers and tossed them to the floor. She tried to remember the instructions as she reached toward the closest blinking light. With a deep, rattling breath, Stella flipped the switch on her new life.

CLUB ABBEY

GREENWICH VILLAGE, AUGUST 6, 1969

It is a case which seems to have become the symbol of all men and women who have vanished. Every year on August 6, newspapers recount the story, often adding new touches or theories. Comedians use it in their acts. Many legends have sprung from it. A great number of them were, and still are, myths born of imagination
.