Flying Jenny Page 22

  He reached behind into the backseat of his disheveled DeSota and grabbed his camera. Cheesy claimed this car was only a year old, but Laura found it hard to believe an automobile could get so tatty in such a short time. Film, cameras, clothes, and old shoes fought for space in the rear with a blanket, pillow, and empty pop bottles. Laura had had to shove aside all sorts of debris, including a pair of dirty socks, to get into the passenger seat.

  “Gotta get some snaps here,” he replied. “Battle building between Vanderbilt and Robert Moses.”

  Laura followed him out of the car. “What battle? That’s crazy. In this bucolic place?”

  “Don’t you read da paper?” Cheesy was busy taking pictures.

  “Oh,” said Laura with a frown of recognition. “Yes. I just didn’t know that’s where we were. This is a new part of the world for me.” The papers had been full of the scrap between the Master Builder Moses, state park commissioner, and William Vanderbilt, who had built the motorway twenty or so years before as a place to run his racing cars, and had since turned it into a private toll road. Moses had grand plans for Long Island freeways and they weren’t compatible with the millionaire’s private raceway.

  “Hmm,” Laura added, “I suppose I could work up a feature to go with your pictures: ‘Battle of the Titans.’ I’m so frustrated, Cheesy. After this story with Jenny, I’ll be back doing obits and tea parties. Something has got to break soon.”

  “It will,” Cheesy said, as he continued snapping pictures. “It always does. Don’t pay to worry.”

  Laura took out her notebook and began writing today’s story while she waited.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE GREETING

  Laura was startled when Jenny stepped off the train at Penn Station to see her dressed in street clothes. She’d never seen her in anything but flying togs.

  She looked chic, even sophisticated, in a mauve ensemble with pleated skirt and fabric belt low at the hips. Pale gray spectator shoes and kid gloves the color of Jenny’s eyes also matched piping on the dress and the lining of her jacket.

  “Wow,” Laura greeted her with a hug, “you look swell. I love the cloche with the turned-up brim.”

  Jenny giggled. “I’m so happy to be here, and see you. You look splendid yourself.”

  Arm and arm the two friends walked the two blocks to the el stop at 33rd Street, Laura carrying Jenny’s small satchel.

  Jenny was still exhilarated and chattering away about her morning’s flight and giving Laura extravagant praise for her role in pushing Jenny into taking a hand in her own future, so it took awhile to get around to the subject that was plaguing Laura—her mother.

  Laura had taken the precaution of sending Evelyn a telegram from the office to alert her that they were having overnight company. They’d never had a telephone, actually few of their friends did, although a number had hall phones in their apartment buildings. Evelyn had laughed when she’d seen a news story the past March that President Hoover finally got a telephone on his desk after years of using a booth in a hall of the White House.

  “With all the dirty business he’s got going on, I would have thought he’d need to be on top of his clients every minute,” she’d said when she saw the story. Evelyn had all sorts of reasons for disliking the conservative Hoover, not the least of which was his branding as “socialism” the proposed help for struggling farmers. “Socialism, my foot,” she would frequently say, “what that prune needs is a good roll in the hay.”

  Laura shuddered, thinking of the possibility that her mother might raise the subject of free love with their guest.

  “Jenny,” Laura began to tentatively broach her subject as they settled on the elevated after paying the nickel fares for both herself and her guest, “I want to warn you that my mother is a bit what one might call eccentric.”

  “Good gravy, that’s no surprise,” Jenny retorted. “She did run off and all those other things, you know.”

  Laura reddened. “Yes, well, you’re being polite about all those other things.”

  Jenny’s laugh tinkled. “I told you before, don’t be so touchy. I’m looking forward to meeting her as a grand adventure.”

  Thank goodness the el was rattling so that it wasn’t easy to say much more. Laura was so anxious she feared she might lose the little she’d had for lunch due to nerves.

  As they descended from the wooden stairs at Sixth Avenue, Laura looked around at the dirty streets and blowing debris, wishing that Jenny could see the idealized view of her neighborhood through a John Sloan painting instead of the grim and unwashed windows of the local Chinese laundry. As the rattle of the el faded, and the normal din of the fast-paced scene resumed, Laura heard a familiar and dreaded sound—a stream of high-pitched laughter and vulgarity coming from the twelve-story women’s detention center.

  Jenny stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my,” she said, as a particularly choice catcall rang loud and clear over the chatter of the several women leaning out the windows.

  The triangle where Greenwich and Sixth avenues met was familiar ground for Laura. Right next to the beautiful Victorian Gothic courthouse was the eyesore jail. She had been hearing these catcalls since the Jefferson Market was torn down two years earlier and replaced by the facility. The beautiful courthouse and the screaming women had been in Laura’s dream in Cleveland, in which Jenny was skipping rope on the P.S. 41 playground and wouldn’t let Laura in. Her subconscious had been telling her then that Jenny was mean and superficial. Bringing her home and letting her into her heart was probably a terrible mistake. In the dream, Laura’s mother had been yelling at her to jump from the taxi-airplane that Laura was driving into the building. For once, Mother was probably right. Laura wished she could bail out right now

  “Just part of the New York street scene,” she said to Jenny with a shrug. “Part of your grand adventure.”

  “Oh my,” Jenny said again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  THE MEETING

  As they turned left onto the block-long Gay Street, Laura pointed at her house. “That’s home,” she muttered.

  “What a grand old place,” Jenny replied. “How nice.”

  “We don’t exactly have the entire building.” Laura could hear the defensiveness in her own voice. “Our apartment is on the second floor.”

  After the flight of steps from the street, Laura noticed Jenny’s perplexed look as they passed through the downstairs hall and climbed the inside staircase.

  Evelyn was standing at the top to greet them. She must have been impressed that I sent her a telegram from the office, Laura thought.

  Jenny stood erect as a ballerina on point, quickly removed her glove from her right hand, and extended it to Evelyn. She took charge before Laura could say a word. “I’m very happy to meet you, Mrs. Bailey.”

  Evelyn just nodded and did not remark on the fact that her name wasn’t Bailey, nor was Laura’s for that matter. Nor did she bother to point out that, indeed, she wasn’t a “Mrs.” anybody.

  “So lovely to be invited to your home,” Jenny cooed. “I’ve brought you a small house gift. A lavender sachet.” She extended a small, exquisitely wrapped box. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  Still having said nothing, Evelyn waved the two girls into the sitting room, a small smile playing around her lips. She finally said, “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Laura’s eyes moved from Jenny to her mother, then back again to Jenny, who seemed riveted on the small, open, closet-sized space at the end of the room that served as their kitchen.

  “I’d love one,” Jenny said as she removed her other gray kid glove and placed the pair firmly on her lap, her back still ramrod straight as she perched on a worn-looking slouchy chair. “I’ve had a dusty train trip from Long Island.”

  Laura was truly astounded watching the two of them, as though they were on some imaginary stage. She was used to seeing Jenny in jodhpurs with her hair blowing, and her mother in her caustic, nihilist mode. Even more
startling, Evelyn was already moving back from the kitchen, Edna’s fragile gift pot and three tiny cups balanced on a small tray. She had prepared the tea in advance! Laura smiled to herself. Her mother’s usual imperious manner seemed ideally suited to the tea ritual.

  After Evelyn poured, inquired about sugar, and passed the cups around, Laura listened with wonder as Jenny began what came close to being a nonstop monologue. It was broken only occasionally by Jenny’s tinkly laughter, or by a seemingly amused “yes” or “no” from Evelyn. Laura wished she had her notebook, could take notes. There was some grand life lesson to be learned here, although at this point, she had no idea what it was. But it would certainly bear further study when she had time.

  “You have such a fascinating life and friends,” Jenny burbled. “Just imagine, actually living in Germany.”

  At this, Evelyn frowned.

  “I saw Edna St. Vincent Millay once on lecture. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Evelyn nodded yes.

  “You have pictures by American artists on your walls.”

  Evelyn replied, “Yes.”

  “I think that’s wonderful. We are not part of really any kind of different art scene in Oklahoma City, except perhaps the Indians.”

  Evelyn frowned.

  “So we only know to buy Old Masters, European artists.” Jenny paused for breath, put her teacup to her lips, and stared hard over its rim at Evelyn for a moment, then said, “Oh my goodness, you’ve known all these influential people. When I was thirteen, I went with my mother on the train to St. Louis to hear Miss Millay read her poetry. Mother is on the board of the library, you know, and tried to get Miss Millay to come to Oklahoma City, but she said she was too exhausted and sick. She had been reading around the country. I remember how beautiful she was, her red hair and a blue dress.” Jenny had to stop to catch her breath. “They called her the poet-girl.”

  Evelyn finally spoke beyond a mutter. “Apparently,” she said, “Laura has told you that Vincent is a good friend.”

  “Vincent?” Jenny said.

  “That’s what her intimates call her,” Evelyn replied. “She’s the one who gave me this tea set.”

  Laura opened her mouth to protest her mother’s expropriation of her fourteenth birthday present, but decided it would be wiser to let this strange encounter play itself out.

  “Oh my.” Jenny followed this with her tinkly laugh as her eyes toured the room, a wide smile on her face. “What a truly exciting life you’ve led!”

  Evelyn responded this time with an expectant, questioning look. Good grief, thought Laura, they are playing some kind of game, and they both seem to know it, understand the rules. She looked from one to the other. What were they doing, what was the point? Were they mad at each other or were they getting along?

  “So, tell me about your life in Germany, Mrs. Bailey.” Not a muscle had moved in Jenny’s smile.

  “Of course,” Evelyn replied with only the slightest hint of resignation. “That’s what you came to ask.”

  “It must have been exciting,” Jenny persisted. “Before the war. So much going on. My husband was in France, you know. In the military.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Evelyn’s face was as set as the stone wall of her answer.

  Laura suddenly felt elated. It was like watching a tennis match. No, more like a wrestling contest, she decided. This dance between the two might make for a long evening, but she was fascinated to see that her mother didn’t seem to have any intention of walking away. Was she in this thing to prove she could best Jenny? Or maybe she had a desire to finally unburden herself. Did she consider Jenny her social equal? Perhaps that was it.

  “Oh my, yes, my husband was in France. In the Lafayette Escadrille. A flier,” Jenny said brightly. “Perhaps Mr. Bailey was in the war?”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Evelyn said with a smirk. She seemed to be taking pleasure in this. “Nor was his name Bailey. Laura made that up. Who knows why, perhaps she was ashamed of her mother.”

  Knowing how Evelyn hated being called Mother, Laura winced.

  Jenny’s bright smile stayed perfectly in place, only her eyes moved, momentarily searching out Laura; her body seemed to grow even straighter, if that were possible. “Isn’t that interesting?” she chirped. “So what was his name, Mrs. Bailey? If I may still call you that for the moment. In fact, how should I properly address you, ma’am?”

  Evelyn laughed out loud. It felt to Laura like the first genuine expression from anyone since she and Jenny had entered the room.

  “Never ma’am. I couldn’t bear it. It’s so bourgeois Midwestern.”

  “So? What shall I call you?”

  “My name is Sampson, Evelyn Sampson. Laura, for some strange reason, insists on referring to me as Mother, with no other identification, as though I had no existence aside from my relationship to her.”

  Jenny’s intake of breath was audible. She made an almost imperceptible shift in her lumpy chair, and momentarily lowered her head to smooth out and rearrange the kid gloves, putting the bottom one on top. Laura’s heart sank. The jig’s up, she thought, Mom has won again. Nonetheless, she still felt a certain exhilaration. This was the first time anyone had been around to fight a battle for her since Aunt Edna.

  Jenny cleared her throat. “Mrs. Sampson,” she began slowly, as though picking through her thoughts, “Laura has told you, I presume, about my friend Clem Donohue, a lawyer who also happens to be Osage. He is of the opinion that, if it is true that Laura’s father was an Indian, Laura may be entitled to the benefits of certain oil rights.”

  Evelyn’s head jerked back as though she’d been slapped.

  “I’m sure this is a private and painful matter that you long ago buried away,” Jenny continued. “But surely you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your daughter’s inheritance.”

  Jenny stopped speaking, and there was silence.

  Laura could hear the drip of the ice in its kitchen box just as she had when she first confronted her mother with the story of the Jesuit philosophy dean. Would this time be different? Would Evelyn finally reveal more to a stranger? Her mother seemed to have a different bearing, though. She looked confused and upset now. Two weeks ago, she had been her usual cold, caustic self.

  “The intellectual life in Munich was inebriating,” Evelyn broke the silence in a soft, slow tone as though she were speaking to herself. “We sat in coffee houses for hours on end, exchanging ideas with artists and intellectuals about expressionism, impressionism, humanism, Marxism. Some of those same people went on to be Dadaist leaders.”

  Watching Jenny’s face, Laura got the feeling that her friend had no idea, nor did she care, what most of these isms were.

  Evelyn went on, her dreamy look morphing into something hard. “These so-called free thinkers in the Village are a joke. Nothing,” she almost spit the word out, “compared to Munich. People here like the baroness floating around with a stovepipe on her head. Truly a joke. No distinction between exhibitionism and true intellectualism.”

  The clock was ticking, the ice dripping—the only sounds in the still room. Jenny cleared her throat and rearranged her gloves again; the bottom one was back on top.

  “If it hadn’t been for her,” Evelyn’s explosive tone was fierce, “I wouldn’t have had to leave Munich.”

  “Her? You mean Laura?”

  At the mention of her name, Laura went rigid with anger. “You kept up the pretense all these years.” She spit out the words. It was the first time she had spoken since she and Jenny had entered the apartment. “You pretended that you couldn’t identify my father. Why?” The indignation of some twenty-odd years of emotional deprivation rose as though she would choke on it. She’d been so overwhelmed two weeks ago to find out that her mother actually knew who her father was, she hadn’t had time or room for the anger to boil up.

  Evelyn looked genuinely surprised. “What are you talking about? I didn’t pretend anything. Nichts verdrängen, repress nothi
ng.”

  “You put Father Unknown on my birth record. Why did you do that?”

  “He is unknown to you, isn’t he? And besides, he was dead. What was the point?”

  Vintage Evelyn—the world revolved around her. Laura had always known how self-absorbed her mother was. She remembered that at the time of Isadora Duncan’s death, she had once again come to the conclusion that her mother’s lamentations were nothing more than self-dramatization. Nothing ever really touched her mother, Laura had decided then. And nothing since had changed Laura’s mind.

  Jenny, who again was busy rearranging her gloves, didn’t appear to have noticed this brief exchange between mother and daughter. She turned now to Evelyn and picked up where they had left off: “Oh, no,” she replied in a soothing tone, as though speaking to a child with a skinned knee. “You wouldn’t have wanted to stay in Munich. In a very few years, Germany was at war.”

  Evelyn mustered a tepid smile. “Not for a number of years, my dear, but those were years I could have used.”

  “Oh,” Jenny said, “you must have loved him very much to have been so empty, for life to have been so devoid of meaning.”

  “The philosophy of nihilism was very appealing after Mickey died. Otto Gross, a friend at the time, scrapped Freud and became a disciple of Nietzsche. And it feeds off itself.”

  “You seem to have managed to be a nihilist in New York as well as Germany, so what’s the difference, Mother?” Laura was beginning to enjoy herself a bit, sniping at Evelyn with someone as cool as Jenny around to reduce the heat and hurt. And who knows, maybe all these revelations presaged a new phase, a new stage for Evelyn’s self-drama.

  “You do persist in calling me Mother, don’t you? You look so much like your father, but are so unlike him.”

  “Phooey,” Jenny said. “Unlike him is not surprising. You two are like each other—trying to act tough, won’t express real feelings, going to fight the world when there’s no fight going on.”