spoke quietly, fervently. "Three-quarters of the people in New York live in tenements. The Eleventh Ward has almost a thousand people to every one of its thirty-two acres. The only city that even comes close to that is Bombay. The buildings are fire traps without sanitation or ventilation, the stairs choked with garbage, common privies constantly stopped up—"
"Who's making them—"
"Hundreds of people crammed inside tiny rooms, poverty-stricken newcomers who have no alternatives, no choices—"
"Then why don't—"
"—and from a safe distance uptown, the owners count their profits and stuff
more
people in,
more
rent-paying tenants—"
"Let 'em leave, then!" Cochrane boomed, finally drowning her out. He laughed falsely to break the tension. "What did they come here for, a handout? How do they
expect
to live, bunched up down there like ants? It's a big, wide country," he said, spreading his arms and smiling with odious magnanimity, "there's room for everybody. Let 'em move west, or south, wherever they want. It's the land of opportunity, isn't it? Everybody starts out the same, am I right?"
Nods and murmurs of agreement. Alex watched Sara turn a teaspoon over and over on the cream lace tablecloth; her face was smooth, but the long fingers pinching the spoon were white from strain. "Of course, that's a little easier to say if one is sitting in a Louis XVI chair, dining on lobster and tournedos at one's Venetian Renaissance table." She softened the words with a smile that made the others titter in self-conscious amusement.
Cochrane didn't smile. "And that's easy to say if 'one' doesn't have to lift one of her dainty little fingers to live like a goddamn queen."
"The lobster is excellent, by the way," Constance put in diplomatically when the silence went on too long. "Maine, isn't it?"
Sara sat back in her chair. The tension seemed to drain out of her, replaced by fatigue. The brittle look she sent her husband down the length of the table was a combination of weariness, contempt, and spite. Alex saw it; if anyone else did, they gave no sign. It made him shiver.
A little later, a maid came in and spoke quietly in her ear. She put down her fork, smiling in apology. "Would you excuse me for just a few minutes? It's Michael."
"Is he ill?" worried Mrs. Donovan.
"No, it's only a nightmare. He's been having them rather frequently. I'll just run up—"
"Leave him be," Cochrane commanded. "The only problem Michael's got is that he's spoiled. As long as he knows you'll come running, he'll keep on having his dreams."
"Carla says he's been crying for twenty minutes, Ben. I really think I should—"
"Leave him."
A pause. Sara folded her napkin with great care and laid it beside her plate. "Do you know," she said slowly, looking at no one, "I think I'd better look in on him just for a moment. Please don't wait dessert on me." She rose and went from the room.
Alex spoke up into the new silence, talking on about Newport, hardly aware of what he was saying. Cochrane's dark eyes narrowed on the wine glass he spun in slow half-circles beside his plate. Alex took unwilling note of his small, fleshy hands and beefy forearms, the round, powerful breadth of his shoulders. A prickling sensation started at the back of his neck and crept up his scalp. He was glad Sara had won that battle of wills—the thought of Michael sobbing alone in childish terror was not to be borne. But he wondered what price she would pay for the victory later.
It was her usual punishment, crude and unimaginative. He hadn't inflicted it on her in more than a year, but neither of them had forgotten anything. At least it came swiftly—but tonight she had known it would. She preferred it that way. Sometimes he postponed his retribution, and the anxiety she suffered waiting for it added to his satisfaction. She had infuriated him tonight, though, and he didn't have the patience for delay.
His timing was flawless. He pushed the door open—it was unlocked, of
"Who's making them—"
"Hundreds of people crammed inside tiny rooms, poverty-stricken newcomers who have no alternatives, no choices—"
"Then why don't—"
"—and from a safe distance uptown, the owners count their profits and stuff
more
people in,
more
rent-paying tenants—"
"Let 'em leave, then!" Cochrane boomed, finally drowning her out. He laughed falsely to break the tension. "What did they come here for, a handout? How do they
expect
to live, bunched up down there like ants? It's a big, wide country," he said, spreading his arms and smiling with odious magnanimity, "there's room for everybody. Let 'em move west, or south, wherever they want. It's the land of opportunity, isn't it? Everybody starts out the same, am I right?"
Nods and murmurs of agreement. Alex watched Sara turn a teaspoon over and over on the cream lace tablecloth; her face was smooth, but the long fingers pinching the spoon were white from strain. "Of course, that's a little easier to say if one is sitting in a Louis XVI chair, dining on lobster and tournedos at one's Venetian Renaissance table." She softened the words with a smile that made the others titter in self-conscious amusement.
Cochrane didn't smile. "And that's easy to say if 'one' doesn't have to lift one of her dainty little fingers to live like a goddamn queen."
"The lobster is excellent, by the way," Constance put in diplomatically when the silence went on too long. "Maine, isn't it?"
Sara sat back in her chair. The tension seemed to drain out of her, replaced by fatigue. The brittle look she sent her husband down the length of the table was a combination of weariness, contempt, and spite. Alex saw it; if anyone else did, they gave no sign. It made him shiver.
A little later, a maid came in and spoke quietly in her ear. She put down her fork, smiling in apology. "Would you excuse me for just a few minutes? It's Michael."
"Is he ill?" worried Mrs. Donovan.
"No, it's only a nightmare. He's been having them rather frequently. I'll just run up—"
"Leave him be," Cochrane commanded. "The only problem Michael's got is that he's spoiled. As long as he knows you'll come running, he'll keep on having his dreams."
"Carla says he's been crying for twenty minutes, Ben. I really think I should—"
"Leave him."
A pause. Sara folded her napkin with great care and laid it beside her plate. "Do you know," she said slowly, looking at no one, "I think I'd better look in on him just for a moment. Please don't wait dessert on me." She rose and went from the room.
Alex spoke up into the new silence, talking on about Newport, hardly aware of what he was saying. Cochrane's dark eyes narrowed on the wine glass he spun in slow half-circles beside his plate. Alex took unwilling note of his small, fleshy hands and beefy forearms, the round, powerful breadth of his shoulders. A prickling sensation started at the back of his neck and crept up his scalp. He was glad Sara had won that battle of wills—the thought of Michael sobbing alone in childish terror was not to be borne. But he wondered what price she would pay for the victory later.
It was her usual punishment, crude and unimaginative. He hadn't inflicted it on her in more than a year, but neither of them had forgotten anything. At least it came swiftly—but tonight she had known it would. She preferred it that way. Sometimes he postponed his retribution, and the anxiety she suffered waiting for it added to his satisfaction. She had infuriated him tonight, though, and he didn't have the patience for delay.
His timing was flawless. He pushed the door open—it was unlocked, of
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