“Of course we can do this.” Alice sat down, holding the old clipping in her hands. “Now talk to me about how this fits into your theme.”
“Oh.” The word emerged slowly, as if that thought was an obstacle she had not considered. She sat down opposite Alice, disappointment dropping into the chair with her. Her mind went back to Semiramis, that queen of the Assyrian Empire, that woman who took unprecedented control at her husband’s death and not only ruled but also expanded, conquered, annexed, succeeded. There was a word for that: success. She accomplished so much, more than her husband had, before her young son came of age.
Constance’s spirits sank at the thought of her lost son. His absence seemed to be with her always, a part of her very anatomy. She was a different person now, never to be free of her baby’s death but obligated to fulfill her role as Benton’s wife in New Orleans polite society, from which he had craved validation. She worked hard to engage again in life, especially with her girls, for her girls. They brought her such joy alongside the emptiness of her son, balancing her emotions like children on a seesaw.
Now she moved into the swirl of ideas filling her mind. Semiramis, a woman who truly succeeded. She looked down at the box and saw the clipping of the Statue of Liberty. She remembered a poem from an old auction catalog her father had saved as a memento of the fundraising efforts for the pedestal of the statue. It had been written for the auction by a Jewish woman, not only a poet and writer of renown, but an ardent activist as well. Constance had tried to memorize it as a girl. Give me your tired, your poor, your . . . your . . . masses, yearning to breathe free.... Her brain would not retrieve all the words for her, but she could feel their kinship. Even the poet’s name—Lazarus—spoke to her now.
That’s who I am, Constance thought. I’m not poor, but I’m tired and struggling to be free—of my fear and these terrifying threats over Benton’s debt. Struggling to know so many things. Can I keep my children safe? Oh God. Can I raise them on my own? The thought assailed her that at any time, Pulgrum could arrive to arrest her. Oh my God, the yearning, yearning to be free. To simply be at rest, at peace, at home.
You’re homeless. Ah, and here was Alice, whom she hardly knew, but with whom she felt a strange connection. This homeless young widow now, with nothing but her skill, seeking to find her way.
Constance’s mind came back to the envisioned design. Her mind tangled with various bits of information she had acquired in her voracious reading of her father’s library. She had devoured those books. Not that her father had approved her reading—perhaps he had believed she would understand and assimilate only the barest thread of it. That would certainly have been his assumption. He tolerated her reading because she was not adept with a needle and her concentration on books at least kept her quiet and out of trouble. Constance attempted once or twice to engage him in discourse on some topic of history or philosophy she’d encountered, only to be met with dismissal, generally an implication that young women were expected only to skim the surface of topics, while their depths were intended for men. But Constance secretly plunged into those depths, immersed herself, swam in them freely. Books were her anchor to life when everything around her, other than outings with her mother, was tamped down into the most boring of bland.
In truth, it was Dorothea’s avid retelling of the story of Semiramis, far more than social ambitions, that had ignited Constance’s desire to participate in this ball. That and the whole enterprise of women turning the tables to organize a krewe, to take advantage of a turn-of-the-century leap year to upend the rules of social intercourse. At the first Les Mysterieuses ball there had been one queen, Arthemise Baldwin, whom she had met once or twice but did not really know. Now there were four, and Dorothea had put her in attendance with one whose story resonated with Constance and magnetized her. Her mind was everywhere.
All this in response to a simple question from Alice.
“I’m sorry, Alice. What was your question again?”
“I want to understand how the Brooklyn Bridge relates to this costume we are designing.” Alice handed the yellowed piece of newspaper back to her.
Constance took it, thinking how her father had first handed it to her, just something to humor a little girl, but a whole troupe of elephants had stamped across that bridge, and it had held. So would she. How little her father had suspected the woman she would become under whatever disguise.
“You were talking about lines, lines of beads, I think, were you not?” Constance tried to focus.
“Yes, something simple. Something linear. I must have triggered something profound. You raced upstairs and returned with the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge!” Alice looked up from her seat and laughed. “That’s quite a connection.”
She laughed again, and Constance joined her, rattling the old newspaper as she lifted her hand to cover her mouth, then threw both hands out toward Alice.
“This woman, Semiramis, did things,” Constance said. “In just a very short time—five years, I think—she stabilized the Assyrian Empire after a terrible civil war.”
“I’m looking for the connection.”
“It was unheard of that a woman should rule, any more than a woman should be president, but she achieved what her husband had not. She—” Constance stopped, a hard knot rising in her chest and tears sudden in her eyes.
Alice rose and touched her arm. “What is it? Here, come sit.” Alice stepped aside for Constance.
Alice guided Constance to the empty chair and pulled a second near, then sat beside her. Constance felt the urge to give in to her desperation, to her grief, to the unexpected relief of someone offering her comfort. She had held herself together now for such a long time, ever since she had found her baby unbreathing. She had come home with a glow of satisfaction at the trove of clothing for the orphanage, however overly fancy. She had imagined those girls’ delight at such lavish trims, their excitement with their sewing teacher there, with remaking the dresses to fit. She had left her parcel at the door and removed her gloves, laid them on the console as on any ordinary day. Her girls had bounded in with hugs and kisses before they ran out the back door with Analee. Constance had mounted the steps to the sound of their laughter. Walked down the hall, half expecting to hear the soft cooing and bubbly sounds of a waking baby. There was Benton, stock still at the nursery window. All was quiet, the baby still asleep. So she thought. She motioned Benton out, closed the door quietly on her dead son. Why had she failed to check? It had all been so ordinary.
Constance took a deep breath. She held it as she raised her chin and held her head back until she could speak again.
“Well, you see, Semiramis had a son. She held that empire together and accomplished all she did for that son.” She took another deep breath, looked Alice in the face. “I had a son, you know. A son who died. Just a baby. I’m sorry. The thought just overwhelmed me for a moment.”
Alice dropped her head and rose. She went to the window. Outside, the bare branches of the sycamore tree rustled in a small wind. All was quiet in the room.
When Alice turned, she said, “I also had a baby son who died.”
“Oh, Alice, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I didn’t mean—”
“No, don’t be sorry, Constance.” Alice looked back and raised her hand. “Here is something we share, you and I. This grief. I know how it can take you unaware. There are moments I cannot hold it at bay.”
As Alice turned her face to the window again, Constance took a ragged breath and rose. She laid the fragment of newsprint, still in her hand, on the sewing table and stared at it, looking at those curving lines, their simple symmetry and beauty holding up what? A bridge? Connection? Life?
“We can do this,” she said to Alice. “We can.”
Alice turned. “Yes,” she said. “We can.”