New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [303]
“Where were you?” she asked. “We couldn’t see you.”
Uncle Luigi put Salvatore down. “I came through before you. I’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”
“Thanks be to God,” she cried.
But Salvatore was even more excited. “They let you into America, Uncle Luigi. They let you in after all.”
“Certainly they let me in. Why shouldn’t they let me in?”
“Because you’re crazy. They send all the lunatics back.”
“What’s this? You’re calling me a lunatic?” His uncle slapped Salvatore’s face. “Is this a way to talk to your uncle?” He turned to Concetta. “Is this how you bring your children up?”
“Salvatore!” cried his mother. “What are you saying?”
Hot tears came to Salvatore’s eyes. “It’s true. They put a cross on the lunatics, and the doctors from the madhouse question them, and send them home,” he protested.
Uncle Luigi raised his hand again.
“Enough,” said his mother, while Salvatore buried his face in her skirt. “Luigi, help Giovanni with the suitcases. As if we hadn’t enough troubles in the world. Poverino, he doesn’t know what he is saying.”
Minutes later, when Salvatore was beside his father, he whimpered, “Uncle Luigi hit me.”
But his father gave him no comfort.
“It’s your own fault,” he said. “That will teach you to keep a secret.”
1907
It was just before noon on October 17 when the telephone rang. The butler answered. Then he came to inform Rose that her husband needed to speak to her.
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” she said. She was fastening her pearl choker. It looked elegant with her gray silk dress.
Much as she loved William, she’d rather that he hadn’t called just then. He ought to have remembered she’d be busy. For this was the day of the month when she took his grandmother out for a drive.
Taking old Hetty Master out once a month might be a duty, but Rose also found it a pleasure. Hetty was almost ninety now, but her mind was still sharp as a razor. She sometimes went out in her own carriage, but she liked to be taken out too, and there was never any shortage of things to talk about. She read the newspapers every day, and once Rose had brought her up to date with the latest doings of the children, Hetty would be sure to ask her sharp questions about the relative views of the Pulitzer newspapers or those of Mr. Hearst, which Rose often had some trouble in answering.
It was also very agreeable for the family—and her ambitions for them—to have such a splendid figure in the background.
Sometimes, on the pretext that it might entertain the old lady, she would bring society friends with her on these monthly expeditions. Then the friends, having seen inside the fine old house on Gramercy Park, could not only marvel at how sharp Mrs. Master was—which reminded them that Rose’s own children inherited good brains from every side—but also, at Rose’s gentle prompting, hear the old lady reminisce about the days when the opera was still just down the street on Irving Place and the Master family had one of the few boxes there. Newer money hadn’t been able to get those boxes, despite the huge sums it was ready to pay. Vanderbilts, Jay Gould, even J. P. Morgan himself, had all been unsuccessful—which had caused them to set up the new Metropolitan Opera House where everyone went now. But the Masters had always had a box at Irving Place. That told you everything.
“And didn’t your husband leave the Union Club?” Rose would prompt.
“I always liked the Union Club,” Hetty would say. “I don’t know why people left it.”
“They said it was letting in too many of the wrong sort,” Rose would remind her. “That’s when they set up the Knickerbocker Club,” she’d explain to her guests, “where my father-in-law’s a member now.”
“There was nothing wrong,” old Mrs. Master would repeat, “with the Union.”
Anyway, it was time to put on her coat and go out. Rose hoped her husband wasn’t going to delay her. Downstairs, the butler handed her the telephone.
“What is it, dear?” she said.
“Just thought I’d call. Things are a little rough down here, Rose.”
“In what way, dear?”
“I don