American Decameron Read online

  That later life-altering day of previous reference arrived in the warmer season, when Galveston was clearly on the mend, its citizens once again drinking deep from the waters of hope and high expectancy for a century that promised progress and prosperity and permanent recovery.

  However, such was not the fate destined for Mrs. Pell, who woke early in the morning to the tocsin of her assistant Miss Falcongentle’s frantic, frightened calls. There was a child upon the roof of the orphanage, and that child was none other than Gail Hoyt.

  “How in the name of the blessed virgin did Baby get up there?” cried a hand-wringing Mrs. Pell, as Mr. Hayes held the ladder so that Barnacle, the orphanage’s liveryman and general do-all, could scramble to the girl’s rescue.

  “I have no idea, Mrs. Pell,” answered Miss Falcongentle, her face a worrisome disc within the circular frame of her flannel sleeping bonnet. “Her little bed was empty and I looked all about the rooms and was ready to scour the grounds when I heard her mischievous chortle coming from this most unlikely location.”

  The chortling had, in fact, hardly suspended, for Gail was continuing to take a toddler’s delight in her present predicament, sitting negligently upon the pitch of the wood-shingled roof as if she had been comfortably lodged there since birth.

  And then it happened: just as Barnacle reached out for her, the Rock-a-bye Girl lost her balance. It was not the only time that such an accident was destined to befall Gail.

  Down came baby in a roll and a tumble, bouncing off the eaves as if there were springs attached to her diminutive bottom, and then landing with perfect convenience in the outstretched arms of Mrs. Pell. The child was unharmed, but Mrs. Pell’s right arm was wrenched in its socket, a place in her neck pinched, and her left hip would never be the same again.

  Miss Falcongentle took Gail from the woman who had, in fact, saved the little high-flying girl’s life through involuntary maternalistic outreach. Yet it was the last time that Mrs. Pell would ever touch the child.

  There would be no more nuzzling, no more cuddling of Gail Hoyt. “I can no longer abide her,” confessed Mrs. Pell to a grateful Mr. Mannheim, who now saw no further impediments to the marriage. “There are signs of willfulness even at this young age which give ample evidence of the potential for a lifetime of conflict between the two of us. It saddens me to be bringing to such swift end my hopes for adopting the child, but it simply cannot be otherwise.”

  There was nothing else that could be done for the toddler except to secure her a good home. Five and a half years would pass before this outcome could be effected.

  The husband and wife who adopted Gail were loving and kind, but well into their middle years. They had not been able to have a child of their own, but now decided to make a go of it with one of the many needy orphans of Galveston. But there was another reason for why the Harrisons took her in. Burt and Reva Harrison were trapeze artists. Perhaps you know the song:

  They’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease,

  That daring middle-aged couple on the flying trapeze.

  And Gail Hoyt had already demonstrated her suitability for the profession.

  There is more to this story of how Gail Hoyt came to be upon that roof. If you guessed that the perpetrator was Mrs. Pell’s jealous, black-hearted suitor Mannheim, you would be all but technically correct—it was a man that Mannheim hired who did the dirty deed.

  When the wind blows, the baby shall fall

  And Lana and I shall marry after the bawl.

  But in fairness to the veritable multitude of characters who are waiting to march, strut, stroll, stride, tramp, tiptoe, goose-step, mosey, limp, stumble, sashay, ramble and/or promenade in the cavalcade that is this book, we must leave Gail to the care of her leotarded, high-flying adoptive parents. However, it should be noted that our protagonist’s life was destined to take no small number of interesting twists and turns before her candle finally sputtered out in 2001. Should you wish to spend a few moments with her in the year before her death, by all means skip to the final pages of this book and have done with it. But if you will be patient, you’ll be rewarded by a visit with Gail long before then in a story that puts her back upon a roof and once again in harm’s way.

  Because Gail Hoyt Hopper Rabbitt, human analogue to this century now past, could not keep herself content and quiet and still. It simply was not in her nature. Nor was it in the nature of that which has been called the American Century to go quietly into the annals of history.

  It is a fact from which, this author hopes, we will all derive profit.

  1902

  VEHICULAR IN NEW YORK

  “I should think that he would have better sense. He looks like an absolute fool.”

  “Who looks like an absolute fool, dear?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me, Mother?”

  Rosalinda Eames turned from the window to face her mother, who sat knitting across the room, the older woman’s spectacles resting halfway down her aquiline nose, so that she should better see her daughter just over the rim. The picture was one of maternal scrutiny writ casual, almost transitory.

  “Of course I’ve been listening to you. But you have yet to say his name—the object of your studied observation. Am I to guess it? It’s much too early in the morning for games, my dear.”

  “It’s Cadwalader, Mother.” Rosalinda returned herself to the serious business of descrying. With the sleeve of her green-checkered muslin blouse, she wiped away a little of the condensation from her breath that had clouded her view through the pane

  “Cadwalader? I had heard that the poor man had taken to his bed. What’s he doing standing at the end of our lane looking like a fool, and so very, very sick in the bargain?”

  Rosalinda heaved a theatrical suspiration of impatience. “It isn’t the father to whom I’m referring, Mother, and you know it. It’s Wilberforce. The son.” Rosalinda was set to punctuate her superfluous clarification with another labored sigh, when suddenly her exasperation demanded expression of a different sort: a gasp of overwhelming indignation. “Just look at him—shaking his fist like a character in some wretched melodrama.”

  “At whom is he shaking his fist, dear? God?” Mrs. Eames set her knitting down upon her lap, taking care not to surrender her skein of yarn to the calico that lay at her feet, the creature, no doubt, cogitating upon the skein’s many playtime possibilities.

  “Not God, Mother. The tree. Our tree. Our cherry tree. He’s run his machine into it and then to add insult to injury, he has stepped out of that awful crumpled contraption to indict the tree.”

  “Why has he hit our tree with his motor, dear?”

  “Because he doesn’t know how to steer it, apparently. Had he a carriage, the horse would certainly have avoided collision. As a rule, horses do not run themselves into trees. Oh, for the love of God, Mother, he’s coming this way. He’s heading directly for our door. He’ll want to use our telephone, I’ll wager.” Rosalinda stepped away from the window and quickly drew the curtains. “Be very quiet. Perhaps he’ll think we’re out.”

  “It’s quite early, dear. He must know that people like us don’t leave their homes at such an early hour. It’s only the servants who have business in town betimes.”

  In a strained whisper: “Yet he’s out. Out and about at the crack of dawn like the insufferable fool that he is.”

  “You judge people much too harshly, dear. It isn’t becoming.”

  Rosalinda sat herself upon the divan and tried to compose herself. The door chime sounded and within a moment, Mary Grace, the housemaid, appeared in the adjoining foyer.

  “Mary Grace!” summoned Rosalinda in a raised whisper. “We are not at home.”

  “But of course you’re at home, miss. I can see you sitting right there.”

  Rosalinda turned to her mother. “She’s a dolt, Mary Grace is—a perfect dolt. Sack her, mother. Sack her this very morning.”

  Mary Grace, who now stood halfway in the foyer and halfway in
the drawing room, frowned. “I heard what you said, miss. I may be a perfect dolt but I have perfect hearing as well.”

  “What I mean, Mary Grace, is that you should tell him—Mr. Cadwalader—you should tell him that we are not in. In short, you are to lie. We pay your wages, Mother and I, and so you must do what we ask without question.”

  Mary Grace nodded and went to the door. It was not possible for Mrs. Eames and her twenty-two-year-old daughter to see the door from where they sat in the drawing room, but it was quite easy for them to hear the exchange that took place over its threshold.

  “Good morning, Mary Grace,” said Cadwalader in a voice that seemed almost too sonorous and refined for his youthful twenty-three years. “I’ve had a mishap with my machine. It has hit a tree and is no longer operable. I must have it removed to my garage for repairs.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir—what’s a garage?”

  “It’s like a stable but for automobiles. May I use your telephone?”

  Mary Grace hesitated. “Are you not going to ask if my mistress and the baby mistress are here?”

  “Well, it isn’t necessary for me to speak to Mrs. or Miss Eames. I simply require access to a telephone.”

  “Because they aren’t here. They have both gone into town.”

  Mary Grace, having failed to place herself sufficiently in the way of Cadwalader, was unable to successfully prevent his incursion into the foyer and, subsequently, his sighting of both Mrs. and Miss Eames, neither of whom appeared to be out. In point of fact, both women were sitting in close proximity, their heads identically cocked in an eavesdropping posture.

  Cadwalader removed his cap and brushed the shoulders of his duster with opposite hands. “I believe that you are mistaken, Mary Grace,” he said, with an arch grin. “They are returned already. Here they are. Good morning, Mrs. Eames. Good morning, Miss Eames. I seek use of your telephone, if you will permit me. I have had a vehicular mishap.”

  “You have rammed our prized cherry tree is what you have done!” gnarred Rosalinda, bounding up from her chair. “Planted by my grandfather with great care and devotion. It came all the way from the Orient and will be most difficult to replace.”

  “I have every intention of indemnifying you fully for your loss, Miss Eames. Remind me: where is the instrument so that I may place my call?”

  “Please take Mr. Cadwalader to the telephone, Mary Grace,” said Mrs. Eames in a composed manner. “Mr. Cadwalader, you are welcome to remove your horseless carriage from our front lawn by whatever means best suits your purpose.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Eames. I’m most grateful.” With this, Cadwalader disappeared along with the house servant. The sound of retreating footsteps was quickly replaced by the removed voice of Mr. Cadwalader speaking into the telephone in the library.

  “The absolute nerve!” raged Rosalinda under her breath. “To come barging in here as if he were master of this house. The arrant presumptuousness!”

  “Calm yourself, dear. It was not a burdensome request. Indeed, had we actually been in town, I have no doubt that Mary Grace would have done the proper thing and permitted use of the instrument without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “That is beside the point.” Rosalinda sat back down and drew her hands together in her lap so that the fingers should interlace one another and twiddle and fidget with a sort of nervous energy commonly found among the constitutionally overstrung.

  Not another word was exchanged between mother and daughter before Cadwalader reappeared in the doorway that led from the foyer into the drawing room. “Thank you again. My man Millard is on his way. Irony has won this day: I am to be towed by horses. May I sit here while I wait?”

  “You may…with impertinence!” muttered Rosalinda.

  “Sit as long as you wish, Mr. Cadwalader,” said Mrs. Eames in a louder, more accommodating voice.

  Cadwalader nodded his gratitude and settled himself upon a cushioned settle across the room from the two women. After a silent moment, he said, “So, Miss Eames. Have you given any further thought to the question I put to you last night?”

  “I beg your pardon. Are you addressing me?”

  “I am. The question I asked you yesterday evening within this very room—have you an answer for me?”

  “I have.”

  “And do you intend to give me that answer today, or does my request require another day’s delay?”

  “I’ll give you my answer right here and now if that is your preference, Mr. Cadwalader.”

  The “Baby Mistress” collected herself.

  “I will marry you, Mr. Cadwalader. I don’t know why but you shall have me.”

  The young man beamed. He rose and crossed to Rosalinda. Bowing to her, he took her hand with mock chivalry and kissed it upon the knuckles. “I have no doubt that I shall be the happiest husband on Earth.”

  “And I shall be the most miserable wife upon that selfsame planet. Don’t look at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “As if I am some prized heifer you’ve won at the Dutchess County Fair.”

  “But Miss Eames, you have it all wrong; I regard you—as I have always regarded you—with only the most heartfelt devotion.” A look of concern now betrayed the disparate thought that now crossed the young man’s mind. “I must check on the machine. There were some boys nearby who seemed the sort to engage in a bit of mischief in my absence. I’ll return shortly.”

  Wilberforce Cadwalader departed the room with a gladdened spring to his step. The front door opened and then closed.

  “The audacity of the man!” growled Rosalinda. “Thinking that I would so easily accede to his proposal of marriage.”

  “And yet you have, my daughter.”

  “And did you notice the way he took his leave? That look of smug entitlement—how it adulterated that most ruggedly handsome countenance. And the insolence in his words and in his bearing—at such odds with so fine a figure and such an appealing muscular form. I’ll live to rue this decision, Mother, you may be sure of it.”

  “And I am equally certain that you will not, my dear,” said Mrs. Eames to her fretful daughter, as the elder of the two once again took up her knitting. “For you are looking for contradictions between complexion and character where none actually exist.”

  “Piffle!” declared Rosalinda. She had returned to the window and opened the curtains to gaze out at her fiancé, her eyes clinched, her brow constricted. “Oh, just look at him—chasing after those boys like a clown at the circus.”

  Then a sigh. The melodic sigh of a woman in love.

  “The man absolutely appalls me!”

  1903

  DEDUCTIVE IN MICHIGAN

  Elizabeth Ellsworth handed the revelatory letter to her husband, Thomas. She had found it on her daughter’s made bed, propped up against the bolster. It was addressed to My dear mother and father. Elizabeth had opened the letter then and there, and read it three times. Keeping her emotions in check, she had gone into the sitting room to share it with her husband.

  There was another family member present in the room: Tad. Tad was twelve, a studious, spectacled boy who thought himself brilliant and therefore rejected the general rule that children should be seen and not heard.

  “She must have left in the night,” said Thomas, looking up from the letter.

  Tad shook his head. “It was at daybreak. I heard her go. He was with her. I could hear their whispers.”

  Elizabeth frowned at her son. “And you didn’t wake us?”

  “How was I to know that she was eloping! You know that Longnecker comes by early some mornings to visit with her before he goes off to work. Sometimes she’ll walk him all the way to the sanitarium. May I read the letter?”

  Thomas surrendered the letter to his son with a sigh. “She’s twenty-one. She has the right to run away and marry whomever she pleases—even lowly hospital bedpan emptiers who have scarcely held their job for two months. It’s the twentieth century. Young women have rights no
w.”

  “They don’t have the right to break their mothers’ hearts,” said Elizabeth, blotting her moist eyes.

  “Sit, Elizabeth.” Thomas led his wife to the sofa. “Ethel knows that we don’t approve of the young man. We know hardly anything about him, but apparently she wants to marry him anyway. Elopement was the only course available to her. Where’s Tad?”

  Tad had left the room.

  “Tad! What are you doing? Bring that letter back!”

  Tad returned to the family sitting room. He was wearing his Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat of plaid wool. Tad now had a magnifying glass in his possession.

  “What’s this?” asked Thomas, irritation creeping into his voice. “Your sister has run away and you’ve decided to spend your morning play-acting?”

  Elizabeth blew her nose. “He isn’t play-acting, dear. He’s going to solve the crime. But there is no crime, Tad, dear. It isn’t against the law to turn your back on the love of your family and run away with a man who will probably bring your life to ruin.” Elizabeth sighed. She looked out the window upon a beautiful spring morning that defied her dark spirits.

  Tad sat down at the walnut escritoire where his mother kept track of the household accounts. He laid the letter down and began to scrutinize it closely with the magnifying glass. “Yes, yes,” he said to himself. Then he turned to address his parents. “The letter appears to be in Ethel’s hand.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “That’s a relief, son. For a brief moment, I thought that it might be a forgery and your poor sister had been kidnapped.”

  “I wouldn’t, as of yet, rule out the possibility that the young woman has been abducted, my dear Watson,” said Tad.

  “I am your father, Tad. I’m not Dr. Watson.”

  “Indubitably,” said Tad, lapsing into deep thought.

  “Tad,” said Elizabeth, with deliberate patience, “perhaps you might want to see what Albertha’s preparing for breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  “I can’t eat,” said Tad, his focus returning to his investigative work. “Not until I solve the ‘Case of the Disappeared Daughter.’”