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Oscar slowed to a stop, the empty table at the back of the tavern he’d been headed for forgotten, arrested by the sight of a very familiar face in the glow of the table’s lantern. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, to make the man at the table change into some stranger who simply resembled someone he knew, but no. The line of the jaw and the nose; the neat, blond hair; the charming smile, they were all features he’d seen a hundred times and would recognize anywhere.
They had no business being here, sitting at one of the tables across from a handsome, dark haired man Oscar knew as a regular. Oscar glanced around, taking in the number of customers, drinking their beer and eating their cuts of chicken or pork, either alone or chatting in pairs. It was not an ideal place for a confrontation. It would have to stay civilized as anything loud would be shut down least it attract the attention of the police. Then again, that could also work to his advantage, since it would apply to the other man as well and after all, Oscar was no stranger to civilized confrontation. After another moment’s deliberation during which the seat he’d been aiming for was taken by another customer, Oscar walked over to the two at the table, a practiced smile on his face. He stopped next to them and addressed the blond man. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you here, Charles.”
Charles Fane looked up, startled at his presence. His hand, which had been sitting on the table, closer to his companion’s hand than his beer, jerked back toward him. “Cousin Oscar!” he exclaimed, then forced a very stiff smile. His face, which had gone white, did not regain its color. “I didn’t expect to see you either. Why aren’t you at home with Aunt Agnes?”
“Mrs. van Rhijn is out for the night,” Oscar replied, correcting the other man’s form of address with raised eyebrows and a pointed tone. The smile, still hinted at by the corners of his mouth, was an after thought by this point. “As are the other ladies of the house, so I have my evening to myself. And what about you? Aren’t you meant to be gazing into Mrs. Lipton’s eyes and murmuring sweet nothings?”
The other man’s jaw clenched briefly, then he replied, “She had other engagements, so I thought I’d do a bit of slumming.”
“Slumming.” To be fair, Charles was dressed more nicely than a tavern like this warranted. It lent credence to the idea that he was simply there for the novel experience, rubbing elbows with society's degenerates, or it would have been if it weren’t for the fact he’d been nearly holding his companion’s hand. Oscar looked pointedly between the two of them. “You’re doing a rather thorough job of it.”
Blue eyes slid just as pointedly over him, taking in his clothes which, while as well tailored as ever, were carefully chosen to blend in with the tavern’s clientele rather than stand out like Charles. “I could say the same.”
Oscar concerned the point with a nod that was half shrug, then turned his attention to the brunet on the other side of the table. The other man was neatly clipped and his clothes were respectable, although not as nice as either Oscar or Charles. Oscar put him as respectable working class, probably a shop man, in his Sunday best. The hand that had rested on the table was now holding his beer, as if it was what he’d always intended, and the other hand was under the table, presumably resting on a leg or in his lap. Oscar gave him a polite smile. “I hate to intrude, but would you mind if I had a conversation with my…acquaintance?”
“Of course not.” The man stood, not meeting Oscar’s eyes, and made to leave, his drink still in his hand.
Still smiling, Oscar reached out and pushed the glass back down to the table. “You can leave that. I’ll pay for it.” The other man paused, poised to argue the point, then thought better of it and promptly abandoned the seat, Charles, and the beer. Once he was safely away, Oscar dropped bonelessly into the now vacant chair and took a drink.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Oh, I disagree.” Oscar set aside the pint and pulled out his cigarette case, deftly retrieving a cigarette. “I think you and I should have a conversation about your treatment of my cousin.” He held the other man’s eyes as he lit the cigarette and waited.
Charles set his jaw mulishly, staring Oscar down as he took his first drag and blew a stream of smoke into the air. He finally gave a displeased huff and dropped his eyes to his drink before grabbing the glass and downing a quarter of its contents. His tone, as he set the pint heavily down on the table and finally addressed Oscar, was one of forced civility. “Look, Oscar. You know perfectly well how the world works. If a man reaches a certain age and is not looking for a wife, people talk. Maybe not in public, but behind closed doors, and a respectable man does not necessarily want that sort of reputation.” He held up a hand against any possible protest. “Some people can get away with it, it’s true, but you need the right friends and the right occupation. Besides, even Harry Lehr is married.”
“Of course,” Oscar replied. He was well aware of society’s and dictates, and Charles knew it. As the only heir to the van Rhijn name they had ruled his life as long as he could remember, and while he slipped between them as much as he could, there were certain edicts that couldn’t be avoided, no matter what John had thought.
“Then you know I had to get married!” Charles laughed as he said it, a noise born more of frustration than mirth. “It didn’t matter if I cared about Aurora or not, I needed a wife and she was available, willing, and from the right part of society. It was all very convenient at the time.” He gave Oscar an assessing look, as if trying to guess how many of life’s truths he’d managed to figure out. “But you’ve not managed it yet, so you don’t know..twenty years of sneaking around, of trying not to get caught. It wears on you. I wanted my freedom.”
On some level Oscar might have sympathized. However, there was a fundamental lie in the statement, or so he thought. It was the same lie John had told himself, the only lie he’d ever told, at least in Oscar’s presence. “But you’ll still be sneaking around.” He countered. “You’re doing it right now, pretending to be slumming when we both know the real reason you’re here. We all do it, those of us who don’t want the risk of rejection. It’s still lying.”
“You have no room to throw stones!” Charles insisted, flinging the words down like a challenge. “You’re no better, a fortune hunter who sneaks out of his mother’s house to have a bit of fun, and who would do the same with his wife.”
The inaccuracy, partially ignorance, partially accident, made Oscar smile despite himself. Another night, perhaps, the words would have been true. Tonight, though, he’d wanted nothing more than to sit alone in a familiar, smokey room and remember the man who used to sit with him. That, he knew instinctively, was something Charles would never understand. “Oh no,” he replied, the shake of his head implied rather than an action. “No, no. You misunderstand. I don’t object to your marrying Cousin Aurora. I don’t even object to your being unfaithful. That’s expected.” He remembered the one night he’d been there when his father had come home smelling of alcohol and perfume; the look on his mother’s face as she raised her chin and turned away from him; the way he had ignored her existence as he made his way up the stairs. He’d only seen it once, but he knew, somehow, that it was more than one time. If she could endure that — the cheating, the verbal abuse, the things Oscar knew went on even though, to the best of his knowledge, his father than never hit anyone — then Charles could have survived boredom. He leaned forward, once again holding the other man’s eyes. “I object to your deliberately attempting to ruin her life when you got tired of her.”
“And what was I supposed to have done? Spent the rest of my life tied to someone I felt nothing for?”
“Well, since you apparently didn’t bother to think about how long you’d have to live with her and choose a wife you liked, then yes.” Oscar shrugged, his cigarette burning forgotten in his fingers. He remembered it and took a drag.
Charles looked anything but convinced. “As if you’ve ever cared a thing about the women you’ve chased, beyond their money.”
“I have never courted a woman I didn’t care for,” Oscar snapped, his face sober, his words razor sharp at the edges. “Never. Divorce is not part of my game plan. I may have a different idea of being faithful than the clergy, but any woman I marry will be part of my life until death do us part.” She wouldn’t be conveniently falling over the edge of Niagara falls on their honeymoon either, but he didn’t say that out loud, lest it come back to bite him somehow.
The other man stared at him, jaw slack. Oscar continued to hold his gaze, even as he took a drink of beer and a last drag on his cigarette. He silently dared the other man to accuse him of lying. John might have, in his high toned, moralizing manner, but John had had that right. They’d loved each other, despite their differences, and despite the fact that Oscar could never force the words past his throat. And John would have thrown himself off the Brooklyn bridge before he treated a woman as badly as Charles had. John had been better than Oscar. Charles was worse, and therefore not allowed to put on airs.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try, apparently. “You honestly expect me to believe that?” he finally scoffed, his lips pulling up in a disbelieving smile.
“No,” Oscar admitted, eyes still locked on the other man. “I don’t expect anyone to believe it. That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
On some level the truth of the words hurt, a dull ache so familiar he barely even felt it anymore. It flared briefly at certain memories — memories of John, of his mother, even of Cousin Aurora, begging him not to break Maud Beaton’s heart, as if the other woman was her bosom companion. Marian might have believed him. Whether through fondness or lack of familiarity, she tended to have more faith in him than the others. Still, whether anyone believed him or not, it was true.
Gladys had been sweet, and fun, and funny. He’d seen himself in her longing for freedom from a mother whose expectations threatened to smother her.
Maude had been elegant, and intelligent, and insightful. Even now that he knew the truth, there were times he wished he could talk to her and unburden himself, to listen to her calming observations and sympathy, however feigned it had been.
Enid, his betrothed, the woman he would marry, was a kindred spirit. They both saw the new world that was rising up around them, a world of luxurious splendor, and were determined to be part of it.
He would have gladly dedicated a significant part of his life to making any of them as happy as he could. Them and his mother and aunt and all of his cousins. John, if the other man had been there and hadn’t been so stubborn in his disapproval. Alright, there would have been men on the side, lovers hidden in the shadows. Someone, if not John, someone else, who would wait for him with open arms. But Oscar would have jumped off the Brooklyn bridge before he asked any of them to ruin themselves for him. He took another drink and asked, “And what of Mrs. Lipton? Do you plan on divorcing her as well, when you grow tired of her?”
“Mrs. Lipton will grow tired of me, not the other way around,” Charles informed him, his words clipped and decisive, brooking no argument. “And it will happen before the wedding. She likes the freedom of being a widow, of not being tied to one man, and she’s not afraid of scandal.”
“Not a victim, then, but a willing accomplice.” Oscar narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening on the handle of his drink. The image of upending the last of his beer over the other man’s head or throwing it in his face was so satisfying, as was the idea of screaming him into submission, but he couldn’t. Not here. So instead he said, with as much deliberate calm as possible, “I think, once your engagement with Mrs. Lipton falls through, you should leave New York.”
“Excuse me?” the other man sputtered, half laughing.
“You should leave New York,” Oscar replied. “Go to Chicago, perhaps, or Europe. Have you ever been to France? Paris really is lovely, except for the Parisians.”
Charles grinned at him, half condescending, half mocking. “You don’t have to power to make me leave. You never did, and even if you had, the van Rhijns are ruined. You saw to that.”
Oscar didn’t reply immediately. He drained the least of his beer, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, breaking eye contact without surrendering. In the dark behind his eyelids, he pictured his family.
His mother, standing in front of the New York Historical society, giving instruction to people who, possibly for the first time in her life, valued her for herself, rather than for her money or status.
His Aunt Ada, stepping out of the shadows at an age far past the point when most women were finding their place in society, finding a way to make a purpose in the hollow of a too-brief love.
His cousin Marian, arriving as a penniless orphan in a strange city, entirely reliant on two women she’d never met, growing to meet the demands of her new life while struggling to stay true to herself.
His cousin Aurora, dedicating twenty years of her life to a man who thought nothing of willfully destroying her for his own gain.
Himself. Standing in the living room of his mother’s house, listening to her berate him for greed and stupidity. Listening to his Aunt giving him motivational speeches about rebuilding rather than the money he needed to actually do it. Standing on the sidewalk, watching people gather around the still, broken body of the man who had saved him, who had loved him, left with the knowledge that he would never be able to say the words he’d wanted to so badly.
He brought the empty glass down with enough force that several nearby patrons stopped their conversations to look at him. Once again his dark eyes locked with Charles’s blue ones. Softly, almost too softly to hear over the continued conversation in other parts of the room, “And yet, we’re still here. The van Rhijns are tougher than you give us credit for.”
The smile faded from Charles’s face and he licked his lips nervously. “I’m still an alderman,” he pointed out, holding the position in front of him like a shield.
“You are,” Oscar agreed, his pleasant smile and bright tone making a reappearance. “An elected official. Maybe next term I’ll run against you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Leave.” Still smiling, Oscar stood. He looked down at the empty glass on the table and added, “And you can pay for that.” Catching the eye of the barman, who was watching the two of them closely, clearly prepared to intervene if necessary, he smiled and nodded, indicating that the drama was over and all was well. Then he turned, locating a now vacant table by the window and walked toward it, followed by knowing snickers and low whistles from other tables. One or two men gave him appraising looks as he walked past. On another night he’d have met their gazes, would have smiled at one or another and nodded for them to join him, but tonight was a night for him and his ghosts.
By the time he reached the table, Charles Fane was gone.