593 Riverside Drive - 13. Chapter 13

If Laurie needed to do schoolwork after Ella picked him up in the afternoons, they often went to the reading room of the Historical Society. Otherwise, they went to a museum or to see a moving picture. It was getting too cold for the zoo, but not cold enough for ice skating. They also visited some of Laurie’s friends, to play, while Ella chatted with the boys’ mothers or their housekeepers. Either way, I knew where they’d be in the afternoons, so I could go safely to Joe’s apartment to talk with Laurette.

She was happy to see me. “It’s been quiet,” she began, “and the main thing I have to look forward to tonight is a party.”

“That sounds like fun,” I told her. “Howard and I almost never get to go to parties. If we have the same evening free, we spend it together.”

“I’d rather have Howard,” she admitted. “From the few times I’ve met him, he seems very nice.”

I smiled, and she went on.

“Not that I’m ready to get married, and that’s what this party’s about tonight. The friend I’m going with met a man at another party, but he’s going to be at this one, and she thinks he might be a good man to marry.”

“After only one date?”

“Not even a date – they were barely introduced. But she said they talked for a half hour, and he seems more interesting than anyone she’s met since we finished school. And she really wants to get married.”

“I take it you don’t.”

“ I’m not even looking.”

“Fortunately, I don’t have to. Just now, it would only get in my way.”

“You’re lucky you have so many things to do. I’m jealous every time we talk.”

“Why? You’re always as busy.”

“But you seem happier. I’m best when I’m at camp in the summer, especially for the last two years when I’ve been the arts and crafts counselor. But I still break the rules and teach my campers how to break them. That was the best part about going away for school. In the beginning, I missed my mother, but the only way I could be with her was by visiting the cemetery, so I persuaded my father to send me away. He’s a sweetheart that way and will do almost anything I ask. School was still boring, but at least, I had some friends from camp there, and after we finished our easy ‘girl’ assignments, we went looking for trouble.”

“Is that why you haven’t gone to college?”

Laurette nodded. “I’m happiest when I’m drawing, even more than painting or using water colors. But I’m really not that good. I have the skills but no inspiration. I can mimic, I’m a great copyist and can give you a Helleu or Schiele sketch without thinking. But left alone with a model or a basket of fruit, I only draw what I see.”

“Your pencil sketches are beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “My teachers say I’m an excellent illustrator, but that’s not an artist.”

“I’m sure you’ve developed since high school.”

“These are my present teachers – the ones at the Art Students League. They want me to teach classes – they think I’m advanced enough for that. At the beginning level, of course, and some to children since I have that experience. And I’m considering it, but I’m also thinking about art restoration. I keep learning about that, and it might be a better use of my abilities.”

“Still, it’s nice to be asked.”

She grinned. “Of course, the teachers who’ve asked are all men, and they’re thinking of something else.”

“Are they handsome?”

She laughed. “You know, that’s not the kind of question I thought you’d ask. You’re not you’re aunt.”

“No – so I’d never be in the position she is with your father.”

Laurette looked at me quizzically, and I was surprised that I needed to explain.

“Poor Ella,” she said when I was finished. “I didn’t know.”

“Not at all?”

“It’s not the kind of discussion I’d have with my father.”

“Or me with mine.”

“Is that why she wants to leave us? I thought it was about Grandpa and me.”

“There’s some of that. But she idealizes me and thinks all young ladies should be as well behaved.”

Laurette laughed again. “I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

“Me, either.” And we both laughed.

“Poor Grandpa,” she went on. “Even five years ago, I could still have a conversation with him. Now, nothing make sense, his thoughts don’t follow, and they’re full of the most foolish information from the worst newspapers.”

“Your father doesn’t seem to know.”

“He does. But he doesn’t know what to do about it, so he stays away. He was the same way when my mother was carrying Laurie. She worried about having another baby, especially that late in her life – she was thirty eight – and with her history. I was the third of five children, and none of the others survived the hospital – not until Laurie. And there were several more that my mother couldn’t carry to term, so she was frightened. She wouldn’t talk about it with me because I was too young. But she talked with my aunt, and later, Minnie told me – I think she was trying to make me feel better.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No – it did make me feel better. Even more in the past several years, when I’ve had time to think and the sense to understand. And Minnie still talks with me, and I’m glad.”

“Have you ever tried talking with Ella?”

She shook her head. “It’s too private, and I simply don’t want to.”

I nodded.

“But it’s made me think carefully about men. And I’d never be in the position Ella is because I’d never marry a man I hadn’t been with.”

I nodded again.

“Does Howard know that?” she teased.

“More than know.” Then I smiled. “I have nothing to worry about with him.”

“Except having a baby too soon.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Good.” She laughed. “I carry condoms in my purse – that’s something I learned in boarding school. The boys are never prepared, and even sometimes the men. And you’d think the married ones would be more careful, but they’re afraid their wives will find them. That’s also the pleasure of being with artists. They’re sometimes more creative than practical.”

“Howard learned from his father – have you met Murray?” She shook her head. “And I learned about diaphragms from reading.”

“If I believed in saints, Margaret Sanger would be one.”

She paused and seemed to be thinking. “In some ways, I wish I could be like my friend – the one I’m going to the party with tonight. She likes the old days better – when school was finished when you were fourteen, and you married a year later.”

“Even my parents didn’t do that.”

“Nor my father. He left school at twelve and was selling his father’s least expensive hats – the ones that didn’t sell in years before – off a pushcart. He opened his own store – his first one – when he was twenty.”

“When did he get married?”

“When he was twenty-three. My mother was five years younger and came from Germany just to be his wife.”

“Had they known each other?”

“They’d met, but he was born here. So they mainly wrote letters.”

That sounded familiar, and then I remembered. “Actually, I knew that,” I reminded her. “Your mother was my grandmother’s niece.”

“I forget that, too,” Laurette admitted. “That’s why our families know each other. I always think my father met your aunt in Asbury Park and wonder if that would have happened if I hadn’t been at camp. But even when we’re at the lake, my father goes to work almost every day. From what Rose said, that changed when he met your aunt again. All that summer, he drove to Jersey City in the early mornings and was home in time to take your aunt to a late lunch. Then they’d spend the afternoons at the lake and in the evenings, they’d go out for dinner and dancing.”

“It sounds romantic.”

“That’s what Rose said. She also said she hadn’t seen him that happy since before my mother died. But after he came back from his honeymoon, he returned to his old ways, and your aunt came in with all her rules. It was just like being in school again except without my friends.”

“Do you see them very often?”

“No – very few of them are from New York, and I wasn’t from the city then. My father thought your aunt would be more comfortable living closer to her family, and I have to admit it’s been wonderful. But most of the girls I know here were from camp.”

“And the boys?”

“I’ve never had any trouble meeting boys.” We laughed. “But they’re not truly my friends. I don’t know them well enough.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s what I’m used to. My school was all girls.”

“So was mine, but there were always boys nearby. And there are so many ways to be introduced and places to do that in the city.”

“I’m realizing that.”

“What do you like to do most?” I asked, and Laurette again seemed to think.

“Everything, really. Rose says my mother was the same way. And I like seeing Laurie more than I ever have, but he’s still only eight. We can play and explore, but it’s not like I can talk with him. And he doesn’t remember our mother – he’s only seen her pictures – so it doesn’t matter when I tell him how things were different.”

“Ella adores him.”

“Yes. If I’d love her for anything, it would be that.”

“Could you try?”

Laurette hesitated. “I can be nicer,” she allowed. “Especially since what you’ve told me.” She sighed. “Who could that way?”

“One of my uncles is an illustrator,” I went on. “The youngest – my mother and Ella’s baby brother. Of course, he doesn’t like being reminded of that, maybe because he still lives with my grandparents.”

“It’s hard to find training and earn a living. That’s why the Art Students League was developed.”

“No, he makes enough money. He says the advertising company he works for pays well. That wasn’t the case with Herbert, my father’s younger brother, and that’s partly why he and Papa went into my grandfather’s business. But you could do worse than be an illustrator.”

“Maybe. If they’d hire a woman.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought artists would have as many rules.”

“They don’t – but advertising agencies have preferences. Besides, if I found one that would take the chance, I might start breaking rules again. Then where would I be?”

“Happier?” I asked.

She grinned. “Always.”