Bellagrand: A Novel (20 page)

They sat, hollow and defeated.

The cold pierced her skin to the bone. The truth was Gina didn’t know how to answer his questions. Had she kept the skates so he would find them? And could she say with certainty—absolute certainty—that the skates and
la piccola vita
had nothing to do with one another? Her knuckles were stiff, her barely beating heart felt faint and pallid.

He stared out at the pond.

“You need powers of second sight to figure out how I might feel about you not telling me you were pregnant?”

“It was a mistake not to tell you,” she said. “I know that. I thought it would make you feel bad.”

“You thought
that’s
what would make me feel bad?”

On the frozen dead grass in front of them, the baby ducks were trying to keep up with their mother, but the last one was having trouble. The mother was not slowing down. Gina was about to get up and help the baby duckling, hurry it along.

“Sometimes it’s really hard to tell what you feel, Harry,” she said at last. “You tell me nothing, you keep it all so close to the vest. And you’re busy, busy, busy. With strikes, with prison,
The Masses.
Busy, in other words,” she added, “with anything and everything but me.”

“I can hardly be busy with you when I’m in prison.”

“Prison is a choice, though, isn’t it?”

“Everything is a choice, Gina,” he said. “Even ice skating.”

She weighed her words. “I came to see you every Sunday.”

“Not every Sunday. In the beginning, maybe. But not at the end. Not nearly.”

“I came when I could. I brought you things you asked for. Had you asked me for other things, I would have brought you those. I brought you newspapers, books. You worked in the laundry. It must have been nice to work with your hands for once, not just your head. You had time to think about things, learn Russian. You had
time
. You didn’t write letters, but then who writes anymore—oh, wait,” Gina said, as if just remembering. “That’s not
entirely
true. You didn’t write to
me
. But apparently you did write
some
letters. You wrote to John Reed, and to Max Eastman, and to Big Bill, you wrote to Elizabeth Gurley Flynn—oh, and also to some woman named Mary Heaton Vorse, a poetess apparently, a suffragette.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. “You have
seen
Mary Vorse, right? You and I went together to New York last month, you met everyone. You found Max Eastman very handsome, remember? Mary Vorse was by his side.”

“She’s quite the letter writer, no?”

“I don’t know. Is she?”

“She is, yes. And I met the attractive Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. You and she were quite chummy in New York. You poured her drinks and held open her doors.”

“Yours first.”

“As long as we’re in the right order then.”

He said nothing.

“I don’t sit in judgment of you, Harry,” Gina said. “You cannot ask your lover to be your judge.”

“You are not
my
lover,” he said, bolting up and facing her. “You’re my
wife
. You keep from me skates in your closet and lost babies. And you don’t find it,” he added, “even remotely ironic, Miss Lover of Irony, that you would go to
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
daughter’s home to meet someone in secret?”

“Harry, I didn’t meet anyone in secret at Rose’s. I worked with many people, Ben included, in full view of everyone.”

“He decided to come to Concord every weekend to work for free by your side?”

“Why not? You go to Boston every day including the weekends to work for free by Mary Vorse’s side.” How Gina kept herself from crying, she didn’t know.

Shivering, Harry walked away.

She came after him. The ducks were forgotten, the freezing March evening unfelt. She was hot around the throat, hot in her eyes. “When your husband is in prison or on strike three and a half years out of the last four, someone has to pay the bills, no?”

“You weren’t just paying the bills, were you? And we are not armchair debaters, Sunday dinner argumentarians like you and your ditch digger. We’re remaking the world. You’d expect it to take some time, no?”

“I don’t know how well you could be advocating for anything while sitting on your rump in prison throwing linen down laundry chutes.”

“I’m not afraid of prison. Not anymore.”

“Yes, but while you were there someone still had to buy food for Mimoo and me. Who do you think that was?”

“I don’t know, Gina,” Harry said. “Perhaps the ditch digger?”

“And who do you think feeds you now?”

He increased his pace until he was almost running. She increased hers to stay by his side. “Perhaps I should write to your father, ask him for a small monthly stipend for you?”

“Get away from me,” he panted.

“Well, why not? The money to feed
you
has to come from somewhere.”

He whirled to face her. “Change the subject all you wish,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pressing his fist hard to her chest. “But I
hear
the pounding of your telltale heart!”

Gasping, she recoiled from him, tried to free herself.

He wouldn’t let her go, blazing and breathless. “Just like I suspected. The whole of Lawrence hears it. Like the fucking bells of Notre Dame.”

“Why do you torture me?” she exhaled, not even trying to push him away. She grabbed at his coat.

He ran off, leaving her with the mother ducks and their babies.

Five

SHE WAITED FOR HIM
near the duck pond, leaning on a railing in Boston’s Public Garden. They had agreed to meet at half-past one in the afternoon. Their overnight train to Chicago was leaving at five, and they wanted plenty of time to do everything properly. It was the end of June, and warm. She hadn’t overdressed, but oh, had she dressed! She had packed her bag for the few days they were going to be away. She had to wear something simple enough for the secular registrar at City Hall, yet glamorous enough to mark this day as she would mark no other. With Harry’s money she went to a fashion store on Newbury Street and bought herself a lawn dress
nonpareil
, in the lightest creamiest silk and lace, with short cap sleeves and an empire waist but no corset or petticoat because that was what he loved best. He said only the truly liberated woman was courageous enough to go without a corset. The dress fit her as though it were stitched onto her body, like a second skin. It sported large pearl buttons on a high bust bodice, like porcelain nipples on cotton milk breasts, and its slim slender train of cascading silk highlighted the length of her legs. The dress came with a short cream silk jacket. Gina added white patent leather pumps and long white gloves past her elbows. On her head was an exquisite wide-brim organza couture hat with wispy layers of tulle flowers and white ostrich feathers. She bought a few daisies and tucked them around her hat and into her hair. She expertly styled her curly hair around the hat to frame her eager face. As she waited for him, afraid to sit down on a bench lest she get dirty, she knew she was a vision,
knew
it. Well, if Harry was discarding his old life for her, changing his world order for her, she wanted to give him a picture of herself like an oil painting, so that he would always remember: her standing under the willows and the flowers in the Public Garden, indifferent to the falling rain, more beautiful than ever. At an instant he would be able to recall her and always know how much she loved him.

Are you sure you want to do this? she had asked him three days earlier when they were in bed with the covers over their heads, whispering as if they were hiding from God.

Never been more sure.

Are you sure about that?

What are you worried about?

That you’re being impulsive. That you’re being rash.

I am being rashly impulsive. That doesn’t make my answer any less true.

What about your family?

What about them? He paused. What about
your
family?

Gina shrugged. Is it too impetuous? she asked. Are we being fools?

Fools for love.

Is it wise?

No, it’s supremely foolish.

She asked if he sometimes thought it might be wiser for them to part.

You are mad.

Am I?

You are the greatest of all created things. The sweetest of all breathing women. You are exclamatory. If being naked were the fashion, you would be the best dressed woman in the United States. You are my dream, my soul, my life. Teach me to say it in Italian.

Mio diletto.

The other thing.

Tu sei il mio sogno, la mia anima, la mia vita.

La mia vita
, Harry repeated. Why do even sweet nothings sound better in Italian?

Because it’s the language of love. She smiled, stretching out her willing, impatient body to him.
Italiano è la lingua dell’amore.

He touched her warm bare stomach with his fingertips. Do you know what the language of love is? He kissed her stomach with his moist and ravenous mouth.
Love
. Thou hast ravished my heart.

Tu mi hai rapito il cuore
.

And now she was waiting and fretting, and suddenly it started to rain. It had been sunny a moment earlier.

When she was truly soaked, for she hadn’t brought an umbrella—why would she, it had been a cloudless day when she woke up—that’s when he showed up. He looked stressed, harried. But when he saw her he beamed with his whole tailored being.
He
had brought an umbrella.

That’s Boston, he said and kissed her, holding the black umbrella over her white dress.

Look, she said, when his lips ceased, my dress is wet with rain.

He touched it with delight.

I have daisies in my hair.

He touched the daisies with delight. They’re a little wilted after the downpour, he said. But you’re glowing.

Did you bring the rings?

I forgot.

She knew he was joking. We have no witnesses, she said.

That’s what happens when you elope. No one can bear witness to the secret truth.

She shivered all the while, but the smile didn’t leave her face.

Arm in arm they walked down the flowered paths to Beacon Street. She was trying not to hurry. She didn’t want to miss their train, but she didn’t want to hurry a second of this day. It would be gone soon enough. Already so much of this day felt too rushed. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. What an idiotic saying. Why did she have to think of it just then? Their love wasn’t in haste, was it? The love that consumed her since she set foot in the New World.
Amore il mio unico
.

What will your father say? she asked. Oh! I shudder when I think of him.

Harry stopped walking. He pulled her to him, held her around the waist, held her close. Propriety be damned. They were about to be married. But even married people didn’t hold each other so intimately in public. It was like a photograph amid red roses of limbs in a rumpled bed.

My father will be upset no question, Harry said. He gave her another squeeze. He kissed her deeply. But I’m his only son. He’ll have to get over it, won’t he? They resumed walking, her arm threaded through his. The rain had stopped, the clouds vanished. It had poured just long enough to soak her.

But will he get over it?

Absolutely, Harry said. Let me tell you about my father. He is easily embarrassed by personal troubles, petty squabbles, little conflicts. You know how some people are squeamish about blood? My father is squeamish about melodrama. He kissed her silk-gloved hand. I see you’re still worried, darling. Do you want me to tell you a little story while we’re panting our way up to City Hall to make you feel better?

If you can walk uphill and tell comforting little stories at the same time, then yes.

Do you remember Billingsworth?

Remember? Harry, he still comes to Lawrence once a month to look over the books for Salvo’s restaurants.

Ah. Of course. Well, one year he and my father were having a conversation about the budget allowances for the household for the coming year.

When was this?

They do this every year, but, in my story, it’s the early 1890s. They were going over the list of expenditures, and Billingsworth, as he’s always done in the past, set aside a certain sum for my mother’s household expenses.

My father stared at the ledger line. Billingsworth said, what is it, sir? Not enough? I can increase it if you wish; it won’t be any trouble. My father blurted out to the man, Billingsworth, I’m so sorry, what an oversight on my part. He looked Billingsworth in the eye and said, Frances passed away. I can’t believe I haven’t told you. Please forgive my moral failing.

Harry emitted a short laugh, amused as he related the story to Gina.

How do you know this?

Billingsworth told me. It’s the only time I’ve seen him do an animated spot-on impression of my father, of anyone, really. Complete with the jab in the forehead, the slapping, the tutting, the intonation.

Oh, Harry.

So Billingsworth said to my father, I’m ever so sorry, sir. Please accept my most sincere condolences, my deepest sympathies. Where is she being laid to rest? I’d like to send a bouquet, if I may. When did this terrible thing happen?

And my father, without missing a beat, said, six months ago.

Flabbergasted, Gina stared at Harry. Harry nodded. I told you. Our banker, our accountant, our family’s chief financial officer, our business manager, the only man my father sees every single day of his life, was not informed of my mother’s death for six months. Harry brought Gina’s stunned hand to his lips. So don’t worry, he said. If
that
could be swept under the rug, this most certainly will be.

He turned to her when they were breathless at the top of Beacon Street, near the side door of City Hall.

I want just one success in my life, he said, and that is to win
you
. I would walk with you soaked up a mountain of mud tireless and full of boundless joy as long as I walked it with you.