“Oh, dear,” said Abigail.
“Oh, joy,” said Adams.
“Oh, waiter,” said Clara, “more beef.”
“Everyone,” Hay sighed, “will be there.”
4
MR. AND MRS. JOHN APGAR SANFORD occupied a small suite of the Blair-Benton Hotel in Market Street, the main street of St. Louis, not far from the stone-paved Front Street, locally known as the levee, since that is exactly what it was, some four miles of river-front which was used not only as a river-port but, also, as a promenade.
“We were lucky to get even this,” said Sanford, indicating the bedroom with its single four-poster bed; he had duly noted Caroline’s displeasure. They did not, except in emergencies, ever share the same bed. When Sanford had told her that a number of his inventors and their business sponsors would be at the fair, and that he, as their patent attorney, was expected to be on hand to examine all the exhibitions and determine whose patent was being infringed, Caroline had told him that she thought he should go. There was a chance, after all, of additional fees for tea-kettles that were silent, for electrical sockets that did not shock, for engines that would-what was Langley’s phrase?-“free man from earth.” When the Tribune’s best reporter took ill, Mr. Trimble had convinced Caroline that she should herself describe the Exposition, at least the inaugural ceremonies. And though Clara Hay had proposed that the Sanfords join them in their private car, Caroline had spared the Hays and the Adamses the experience of John, who had grown more and more glum, no bad thing, but more and more apologetic for his life, a very bad thing indeed.
They had been shown to the suite by the manager himself. “Everyone,” said the manager, “is in St. Louis this week.”
“I don’t mind,” said Caroline, sweetly, and thanked him for his courtesy.
As John unpacked, Caroline made dutiful notes. The Louisiana Purchase Exposition, as it was properly called, covered one thousand two hundred forty acres, of which two hundred fifty were roofed over-pavilions, halls, restaurants. They had caught a glimpse of the Secretary of State and Clara riding through the brightly decorated city. As Caroline worked at an octagonal table of the shiniest black walnut, John went through a file of papers, with a worried frown. “This should be,” said Caroline, by now an expert at making marital conversation, “a paradise for a patent lawyer.”
“I certainly hope so. Except,” John was already defeated, she could tell, “there is no longer a way of really winning a patent suit. Every inventor takes out a dozen patents for the same invention. If you threaten to sue, he’ll drop three patents but keep nine others in order to confuse the courts and his rival inventors.”
“What an excellent opportunity for the lawyer, endless litigation.”
“They,” said John, at wit’s end plainly, “always settle. Is there any news?”
“Yes. I went to the Jews, as Mr. Adams would say. These particular Jews are a Yankee firm by the name of Whittaker. They are devoted Presbyterians. I asked, as you requested, for half a million dollars, at the going rate.”
“Why did they say no?” John had now been a husband long enough to be able to finish Caroline’s sentences, if not enter, as it were, her bed. A single attempt to fulfill their conjugal duties had failed. Each had been apologetic. Caroline had given what she thought was a convincing performance of a devoted wife. She had even, against her by now better judgment, followed Marguerite’s advice, which was to shut her eyes and imagine that the large body on top of her was that of James Burden Day. But the smell was wrong; the texture odd; the attack askew. She had always known that she was deficient in imagination, as their first and last attempt demonstrated; and she envied those women who could go from one new body to another, like an explorer loose in an endless archipelago of men-women, too, in Paris at least-enjoying this island for its luxuriant trees, and that for its silvery springs. She was no explorer; she was a contented land-lubber, in a familiar satisfying landscape. The attempt to leave home, as represented by James Burden Day, for John was like abandoning a perfect oasis for the surrounding Sahara. John, in no position to complain, complained. Caroline, in no position to moralize, moralized. In time, the matter was dropped. John’s sexuality was soon subdued by the financial ruin which had overtaken him. He could think of nothing else, and, lately, neither could Caroline.
“Mr. Whittaker was evasive.” At first, Caroline had been puzzled; then angry. “I gave the date, next March, when I am twenty-seven. I said there was no way that I could not get my share. He said, ‘There are complications.’ I said, ‘What?’ He wouldn’t answer.”
“Of course not.” John was bitter. “The Whittakers often retain, as counsel, our friend Houghteling.”
Caroline experienced a sudden spasm of purest hatred for her brother. “Blaise is making it appear that the estate is in trouble…”
“Or nonexistent, or that there are obscure liens, or your rights unclear.” John the lawyer was far better company than John the husband. “I’m joining some of my clients for lunch. I may be able…” He did not finish the sentence. He would try to borrow money; so would she.
“I must join the Hays. He speaks this afternoon at the Exposition. Perhaps…” She did not finish her sentence either.
But Caroline had plans which did not include the Hays. Instead, she walked in the warm sunlight along the levee, crowded with visitors from out of town. By and large the natives ignored the river; all the houses, she noted, turned their backs on what was, after all, a phenomenal if not beautiful sight, a wide expanse of yellowish swift water, no uglier than the Tiber, say, and infinitely larger.
At a waterfront saloon called the Anchor she paused. As far as she could see along the levee, black men were loading and unloading cargo from barges, ships. Caroline thought of Marseilles, turned African.
James Burden Day, in statesman’s black, approached her from the saloon. “What a surprise,” he said, and looked at his watch. “You’re exactly on time.”
“I’m always on time.” She took his arm; and they walked along the levee like a contentedly married couple, which, in effect, they were. Caroline had long since accepted as an unalloyed bit of golden good fortune the fact that they were not obliged to live together, day after day, night after night, in the same conjugal bed, listening to the midnight cries of many children, the usual marital fate in this country. Occasionally, she needed him on days other than Sunday; but that was a small price to pay for Sunday itself; and now St. Louis. “Where is Kitty?”
“She chairs the Democratic Ladies’ Committee on Suffrage all morning. She will go with them to hear Mr. Hay at the Exposition. I shall go with you.”
“Or not.”
“Or not.”
They made love in Caroline’s suite at the Blair-Benton Hotel. Jim was nervous that he might be recognized. But the lobby was so crowded that no one could actually see anyone. Also, Caroline was now something of an expert on the use of hotels. Whenever she planned to meet Jim, she insisted on a first-floor suite in a hotel with at least two separate stairways from ground to first floor. Jim thought that had she been a man, she would have been a natural general. Caroline had disagreed. “But I might have succeeded at business,” she answered. “I would have cornered something like wheat, and brought on a highly satisfying financial crisis.”
Caroline watched Jim dress, a sight almost as pleasing as the reverse. He watched her, watching him; divined her mood. “You’re thinking about money,” he said.
“Its lack,” she said. “John has got himself-us, that is-in the deepest water. And Blaise has seen to it that I can’t borrow.”