The Address, page 18
Sore and shivering, she got out of the tub and dried herself, before being offered a nubby underskirt and a calico dress. The stains on both indicated they’d been worn by previous inmates. On the back of the dress, in black letters, read LUNATIC ASYLUM, B.I., H. 6.
The dormitory was located down the hall from the washroom. Sara walked to one of the large windows and stared out into the cold, wintry night. Somewhere out there was the Dakota, and Theo. By now, Daisy had to have reached him, and maybe he was already tracking her down.
“Into bed, there’s no mooning out the window here.”
Nurse Garelick’s massive hand gripped the back of Sara’s neck. She squirmed as the woman shoved her down onto one of the beds, which creaked under her weight.
Sara’s eyes welled up with tears. “You have no right to treat us like this; it’s inhumane.”
The woman leaned over her. “No one cares what you think or what you say. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you. Best to keep your mouth shut from now on. Understand?”
Sara nodded.
“Now, go to sleep.”
The bed was covered by an oilskin and a sheet, with a rough wool blanket on top. She shivered with cold and fear, and when the lights went out, she turned and cried into the pillow. How had she fallen so far?
Her sobs subsided and for a while she had a fitful sleep, until the loud bang of the door pulled her awake. A nurse entered and walked the length of the room, every so often smacking her truncheon on the metal footboard of a bed. Not to get them up, just as a way to keep them from sleep. This occurred four times in the night, so that there was no way to get any real rest. The snores and grunts of the other inmates didn’t help matters.
After the third check, Sara heard a soft crying in the bed next to hers. She turned her head to see a woman with long, gray hair and a face filled with wrinkles. One of the women from the wagon.
“There, there, you’ll be all right,” whispered Sara.
At the sound of her voice the woman’s cries increased in volume and several of the other inmates shouted out for her to stop.
Sara quietly slipped out of her bed, wrapping the scratchy blanket around her, and knelt down by the woman. She took her cold hand in her own and rubbed it. The woman’s cries softened back to low moans, and Sara sang softly to her, as she would a child. Soon, her neighbor’s breathing lengthened.
Only when she was certain the woman was asleep did Sara slip back into her own bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
New York City, September 1985
“Here’s what I’m thinking we should do.”
Melinda opened up a glossy architecture and design magazine. She’d shown up on Sunday night on her way back from the Hamptons, grinning from ear to ear, and plunked down at the kitchen table, where Bailey was heating up a can of chili.
“The house where I went to a pool party this weekend had a bamboo divider between the dining room and living room. Like this.”
She pointed to a photo of a minimalist space with a low planter running down the middle, from which eight or ten bamboo poles ran up to the ceiling. Some crisscrossed, others were exactly vertical. It resembled some kind of POW jail cell in the jungles of Vietnam.
“It’s very striking.” The best Bailey could do.
“I know, right? According to Tony, Oriental is coming back with a vengeance. I thought we could tear out the wall between the library and the parlor and put something like this there.”
“But the fireplace is in the middle of it.”
“Well, we’ll do it on either side.”
“Let’s take a look.” Bailey stood up and held her breath the entire way, hoping her instincts were correct.
They were.
“Shoot. Check this out.” She knocked on the walls to either side of the fireplace. “You see how the wall sticks out about three feet on either side?”
“Yeah.” Melinda drew out the syllable, her eyes wary.
“Well, that’s all the flues from the other fireplaces. You can’t break through there. Which means you’ll only get a foot or so of bamboo at the very far right-hand corner, and another foot next to the wall to the living room.”
“What if we got rid of the door and put all bamboo between the flue and the left-hand wall? That’s like five feet of bamboo.”
“Do you think that would look right, on only one side? The symmetry might be off.”
Melinda wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “Well, check with Steve. See how much it will be and we’ll go from there.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know what I hear back tomorrow.”
They wandered back into the kitchen. “You were pretty messed up on Friday night. You doing okay?”
Bailey went to the stove and stirred the chili before turning off the heat. Her face probably burned the same color as the flame. “I’m fine. Need to stop that from happening again.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have invited you out.”
“No, it’s not your fault. I need to get tougher with myself.” She turned back. “Did I make another huge scene?”
Melinda shook her head of blond curls. “Not at all. We hung out down in that room the whole time; you were perfectly well behaved. If rather fucked up. I tried to tell you to stop.”
Had she, really? Bailey couldn’t remember that. Melinda was the type of person who drew power from others’ frailty, and Bailey was vulnerable. Had been for a couple of years now.
But thoughts like that were ungenerous and unkind. Look how much Melinda had done for her just this past week.
Time for a change of topic. “Hey, what do you know about how your great-grandfather died?”
“Not much. Just what you know. He was stabbed in the library with a knife. Like a game of Clue is how it always sounded to me. Don’t you think?”
“It does. But what about my grandfather? Did your mother say anything about who he was or how he ended up a ward of the family?”
“Not that I remember. They did that all the time back then. You had orphans and they got raised by someone else. It was the right thing to do. Otherwise, he’d have been dumped in some orphanage and then where would you be?”
If her grandfather had been raised in an orphanage, there was a good chance she’d be right where she was anyway: broke, an addict, a loser.
“What do you know about the woman who killed him?”
“You’re quite the history buff. Where’s all this coming from?”
Bailey explained her expedition to the basement and the discovery of the trunks. She didn’t mention Renzo’s part in her investigation, since that would probably make Melinda shut right down. She also didn’t bring up the sketch. Not yet. It had been passed down on Bailey’s side of the family, and for now, she wanted to keep it to herself.
“I found an article about the killing as well, from the 1880s. It said that the woman who did it had worked at the Dakota. That she was insane or something. Also, there’s this photo. Hold on a sec.”
She plucked it off the windowsill in her room, where she’d perched it next to the bottle of Dr. Walker’s Vinegar Bitters, and handed it over to Melinda.
“Who are these people?”
“If you turn it over, it says that the woman is Sara Smythe, the lady who killed Theodore Camden, standing with Theodore’s son and two daughters. The boy is your grandfather, Luther. I’m pretty sure this is the ward, my grandfather, in the woman’s arms.”
“Huh. This was in the trunk?” Melinda looked up at her. And it wasn’t her normal “I’m so pretty and want to make sure you’re looking at me” glance. She was studying Sara’s face, her eyes flicking from feature to feature. She’d noticed the resemblance, just as Renzo had.
Bailey pointed to the photo. “This seems crazy, but don’t you think I look like her?”
Melinda placed the photo on the table. “Not really. She’s harsh-looking, and you’re such a sweetie.”
“Black-and-white photography, along with corsets, will do that to a girl.” Bailey took a deep breath. “This may be a long shot, but what if Sara Smythe was Christopher’s mother? I’d love to find out why Theodore Camden and his family took in the kid of someone who then killed him.”
“Who knows.” Melinda chewed on the inside of her mouth. “Sounds like a bunch of looney-toons.”
“Maybe Theodore Camden was the father of the kid.” There. She’d said it. “That it was a crime of passion, not madness.”
Melinda shook her head. “Ugh. Now I’m just confused.”
Her resistance only increased Bailey’s fervor. “Sara Smythe looks like me. A lot. I know you see it, too. That’s not all. See the outfit the baby is wearing? It was in Sara’s trunk. Not Theodore or his wife’s. Sara’s.”
“So they raised this woman’s child because she wasn’t married. Seems really generous of them. But it doesn’t mean Theodore Camden was the father.” Melinda put her hand over Bailey’s. “Does this make you miss your mother?”
The non sequitur threw Bailey for a moment. But then it clicked. If Bailey was the great-grandchild of Theodore Camden, then she was also a threat. By sharing the family legacy, she might also deserve a share in the family trust.
She refused to be deterred. “I do miss her. But seriously, what if Christopher was the love child of Sara Smythe and Theodore Camden?”
Melinda yawned, obviously bored with the subject. “It’s not General Hospital. The lady was a freak, a sociopath. No way do you want that hanging over your head.”
“Like I’m not enough of a nut already?”
“You’ve had a tough time, but I think right now it’s important for you to move forward, not back. All that happened a long time ago. Let it lie. My mom and dad were horribly embarrassed about the notoriety of the murder. No one wants to talk about that.”
No one but Bailey. If only she had the courage to show Melinda the drawing.
No, not yet. The evidence was still flimsy at best.
Melinda snapped her fingers. “In any event, I totally forgot something really important I wanted to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Koi pond.”
Bailey offered a polite smile, hoping Melinda would eventually speak in a whole sentence. “What about it?”
She clapped her hands together like a little child. “We’re going to put one in the living room! How cool will that be?”
“So cool.” Bailey sighed.
There would be no more talk of Sara Smythe.
Sunday evenings were usually quiet in New York, as families retrenched for the coming week, and the streets were fairly empty, except for a group of guys slouching outside the bodega on Seventy-First Street. Even though Bailey knew it was smarter to cross the street than get too close, tonight she couldn’t be bothered, and she took their nasty words in stride, staring straight ahead, shoulders hunched. Like she deserved it.
Bailey practically ran up the steps to the AA meeting at the church on Sixty-Ninth Street, avoiding any eye contact with the people standing outside, smoking and chatting, and took a seat near the back. Everyone seemed to know one another and she was content to listen to their snatches of conversation rather than join in. The room was warm and close and smelled like smoke and burned coffee, but that didn’t bother her. She took a deep breath and joined in the serenity prayer.
When the time came for people to share concerns of the week, Bailey lifted her hand. The chairperson, a woman of about sixty with bright red hair, nodded in her direction. Bailey spoke without making any eye contact, her gaze directed at the front wall.
“I was recently in rehab but I went out and drank on Friday night. I put myself in a situation where I knew I might drink and do coke, with friends who I knew would drink and do coke.” She shook her head. “Stupid, I know. But I guess, in a way, it was good. It showed me just how precarious I am in recovery. It’s not a joke, a passing phase. If I drink, I can’t stop.”
Her throat strained from the effort of keeping the tears at bay. “I’m not in a good situation at the moment, and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage. But it’s helpful to come here and hear your stories and I thank you for that.”
“Keep coming back.” The phrase echoed around the room once she’d finished, and the man sitting next to her offered her a tissue.
She took a deep breath. The best thing about meetings was that you could vomit up all your thoughts and feelings and crap, but you didn’t get advice in return. Just acceptance. That’s what she needed right now.
At the end, Bailey tried to sneak out but got caught in the bottleneck near the door. The redheaded woman touched her on the arm and pressed a pamphlet for newcomers in her hand. Bailey thanked her and folded it in half, embarrassed by the attention.
“Hey.”
She turned to see Renzo right behind her.
“Oh, hi.”
When she’d first arrived, she’d glanced around the room to see if he’d come, and been relieved that he hadn’t. She knew she wanted to share but didn’t think she could do it with him in the room. Hopefully, he’d arrived late and missed her pathetic whining.
“I appreciated your share.”
No such luck.
“I guess I have a lot to learn.”
“Don’t we all.”
Great. Now the guy knew what a fuck-up she was. He was probably one of those book thumpers, sponsoring people right and left, an all-knowing guru of all things sober.
“When did you go to rehab?”
She laughed. “Got out a week ago. Nice, right?” The words came out harsher than she meant them to, and she could have sworn he flinched. She sounded coarse, like a New Orleans tramp in some Tennessee Williams play.
“Took me about a day to start back up again, so don’t beat yourself up.”
She looked up at him. His expression was soft but guarded, and his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. He didn’t seem like a self-righteous counselor type. He was as nervous as she was.
“You were in rehab?”
“Not exactly. I went to Alaska. I figured, out in the wilderness I’d get dry.”
“What happened?”
“Turns out Alaska is full of bars and lushes. Not much else to do there.”
“You lasted a day? I’m impressed.”
She’d forgotten what a relief it was in rehab to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Renzo shrugged and hooked a thumb toward the door. “Wanna grab a hot dog on the way back?”
“Okay.”
This time, as they strolled by the bodega, the guys outside yelled out to Renzo by name.
“Yo, Renzo, you got a girl now? Nice goin’.”
“Mind your own business, Mortimer, and go home and take care of your own woman.”
The man cracked up, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Mr. Renzo, she’s a fine one.”
“‘Mortimer’?” Bailey waited until they were out of earshot. “Is that really his name?”
“We used to play together in Central Park. As we got older, we’d steal beers from that bodega and go drink there instead of play.”
Outside Gray’s Papaya, a sign read: RECESSION SPECIAL, $1.95 FOR TWO FRANKS AND A MEDIUM DRINK.
Bailey pointed to it. “Aren’t we out of the recession?”
“I think they just can’t be bothered to change the sign.”
“I like that. Everything else changes so fast. Especially in New York.”
“Not Gray’s Papaya.” He ordered the hot dogs and handed one to Bailey. While he paid, she pumped mustard in a long, thin line out of an enormous plastic tub.
Delicious. The hot dog snapped when she bit into it, and the piquancy of the mustard made her smile.
“You look happy.”
“This is amazing. I guess I’m a cheap date.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them. This wasn’t a date. “You live in the Dakota?”
“I do. My family’s been there for years. My grandfather was a porter, my dad became super, then me.”
“Where’s your apartment?”
“I’m on the first floor, west side. Facing the courtyard.”
“So you can keep an eye on the neighbors.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it. Some sunlight would be nice, but it’s not a bad address to have.”
“Was it fun, growing up in the Dakota?”
“Sure. Even though it’s a lot of wealthy folks, it’s different from what you find on Park Avenue. Lots of singers, actors, producers. People who are loaded, sure, but also have an artistic bent. I don’t know how long that’ll last, though. The city’s changing fast. And there are tenants, like Melinda, who just don’t care.”
She really should stick up for her cousin, but she couldn’t help herself. “Now she wants a koi pond in her living room.”
“I can see why you needed a meeting tonight.”
A lump built up in her throat again. Did she have the courage to tell him what was really bothering her? The quiet hum of the street noise and the darkness enveloped her, made her feel safe. As did walking beside Renzo. “And yesterday was the anniversary of my mother’s death.”
Renzo stopped. He didn’t attempt to make any comforting movements or noises, just stood still. “What happened?”
She took a deep breath, close to bursting into tears. “Twelve years ago. I was eighteen. She was on her way home to celebrate my dad’s birthday. Car crash.” Talking about the subject, which was taboo at home, was difficult. Saying the words out loud made it real. She didn’t want it to be real.
