“Idealism is just an escape from reality. There is no utopia.”
Marlowe grinned. “That so? I couldn’t disagree more. Is that Nietzsche talking? Ah, the Germans. We have a factory in Germany, you know. Actually, Germany is a fine example, so let’s take Germany: They were crushed in the Great War. Their debt was staggering. A pound of bread cost nearly three billion Marks! The Reichsmark was practically worthless—you’d have better luck papering your house with it than trying to buy goods or pay your bills. But Marlowe Industries is going to help them get on their feet. We’re going to change the world.” Marlowe smiled brightly, the smile that made the newspapers rhapsodize over his can-do qualities. “You might change the world, Jericho.”
“No one would choose this,” Jericho said bitterly.
“Oh, come now. It isn’t as bad as all that, is it?” Marlowe returned to his seat opposite Jericho. “Look at you, Jericho. You’re a walking miracle. The great hope.”
“I am not one of your dreams.” Jericho banged his fist on the table, shattering a saucer.
“Careful,” Marlowe said.
“I… I’m sorry.” Jericho began gathering the pieces, but at a gesture from Marlowe the attendant appeared to whisk the table clean with a small hand broom.
“You have to be careful,” Marlowe said again.
Jericho nodded. Under the table, he clenched his fist, unclenched it. When he felt calmer, he folded his napkin, set it on the table, and rose. “Thank you for the tea, sir. I should be getting back to the museum.”
“Oh, come now. Let’s start this over—”
“I-I have a lot of work to do,” Jericho said. He stood, waiting.
“But you haven’t eaten anything.”
“I should be getting back.”
“Certainly,” Marlowe said after a pause. He walked to the other side of the room, where his briefcase sat with his umbrella. He took a small brown bag from inside the case. “You’re sure you’re fine?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marlowe handed the brown bag to Jericho, who looked down at the floor.
“Thank you,” Jericho mumbled. He hated this. Hated that once a year, he had to submit to this ritual. Had to pretend to be grateful for what Marlowe had done for him. To him.
Marlowe clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing so well, Jericho.”
“Yes, sir.” He shook off Marlowe’s hand and left him standing there.
Alone in the hallway, Jericho made a fist with his right hand, then flexed his fingers, open, closed, open, closed. They moved flawlessly. He unsealed the bag Marlowe had given him. Inside was a brown glass bottle of pills marked MARLOWE INDUSTRIES VITAMIN TONIC. Nestled beside it was a silver case loaded with ten vials of a bright blue serum. For a moment, he imagined dropping the bag into the nearest wastebasket and walking away. Instead, he slid the silver case into his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping and settled the vitamin tonic into his outside pocket. He tucked Nietzsche’s Zarathustra under his arm and walked out into the cool fall day.
Mabel had no time to note the grace of the fall leaves as she walked through the crowd assembled in Union Square. She knew she needed to be on her guard—Pinkerton Detectives posing as workers would often disrupt a peaceful protest, giving the police an excuse to move in, break it up, and make arrests. Sometimes it turned ugly.
The rain had stopped, and Mabel’s mother stood on a makeshift speaker’s platform, inspiring the crowd with her commanding oratorical skills and dark-haired beauty. She was born Virginia Newell, daughter of the famous Newell clan, one of New York’s elite families. At twenty, she’d thrown it all away to elope with Mabel’s father, Daniel Rose, a firebrand Jewish journalist and socialist. Her family had cut her off without a cent. But the Newell glamour remained. They called Mabel’s mother the “Social Register Rebel.” And in some ways, her mother’s throwing it all away for love had made her even more famous than she ever would have been as a society wife. It was the reason they’d been able to move into the Bennington; no one would refuse a Newell girl—even a disgraced one.
But it was hard for Mabel to live in her mother’s shadow. No one was writing about Mabel in the papers. And to add insult to injury, Mabel had taken after her father in the looks department—the round face and strong nose, deep brown eyes, and curly, auburn-tinged hair. “You must take after your father,” people would say, and there would follow an awkward silence. But when her mother smiled and hugged her and called her “My darling, daring girl!” Mabel was suffused with such warmth. And when her mother inevitably got caught up in this cause or that injustice to be righted, Mabel would stand at her side, playing the dutiful daughter, proving just how indispensable she was. People who were helpful and indispensable were loved. Weren’t they?
The only person who didn’t seem to regard Mabel’s mother with awe was Evie. More than once, Evie had imitated her mother perfectly: “Mabel, daaaahling, how can you complain that you haven’t had dinner when the huddled masses have yet to breathe free!” “Mabel, daaaahling, tell me: Which dress says Savior of the Poor and Saint of the Lower East Side to you?” And as much as Mabel felt called to chide Evie and defend her mother, she had to admit that it was one of the things she loved about her old friend: No matter what, Evie always took Mabel’s side. “You’re the real star of the Rose family,” Evie would insist. “One day, everyone will know your name.” She only hoped that Evie could make Jericho see Mabel that way, too.
Jericho. It embarrassed her how often she thought of him. All those romantic fantasies! She was supposed to be so sensible, but when it came to that boy, she was lost to storybook notions. He was so smart and studious and soulful—not some drugstore cowboy, like that Sam Lloyd, all flattery and promises to any girl who’d fall for it. No. Jericho’s affections meant something. That was the challenge, wasn’t it? If you could make a fellow like Jericho fall for you, well, didn’t it prove just how desirable you were?
Mabel thought of all of these things as she moved through Union Square, handing copies of The Proletariat to workers. She waved at the folks manning the table for the Wobblies, but they didn’t notice her, and so she moved on, feeling lost in the crowd. If she decided to disappear, would anyone feel her absence?
“Who are your leaders?” Mabel’s mother called from the platform.
“We are all leaders!” the crowd answered.
Mabel felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see a young woman holding a baby, accompanied by an older woman in a head scarf.
The young woman spoke in fractured English. “You are the great Mrs. Rose’s daughter?”