A-Splendid-Ruin(101)
Two weeks after the article was published, I received a postcard. On a photograph of palm trees lining a street, someone had drawn a girl smiling. The figure was crudely drawn, but she had long black hair, and beneath the picture’s caption—Palm Drive, West Adams St., Los Angeles CAL—were written two Chinese characters. I could not read them, but I understood the message.
Shin was free.
The Benefit for the Rebuilding of San Francisco was the event of the year. It was held in a great circus tent erected in the ruins of Market Street, ironically with a perfect view of the majestic destruction of city hall. Everyone who could buy a ticket was there, with all proceeds going to the rebuilding fund, or to whichever millionaires ran such things. The point was not the money. The point was to be seen. It was to be my first major appearance since I’d been discovered to be a Van Berckyl—an illegitimate one, which was made clear by my relatives in New York, who asked me quite politely by letter to abide by the terms of my mother’s agreement, lest I face legal action (very litigious people, my relatives) and on no account use the Van Berckyl name. It didn’t matter what I called myself; San Franciscans still insisted on referring to me as “May Kimble, our own Van Berckyl.” Despite their claim to care nothing for New York’s opinion, or for the snobbery of the old wealth in New York, or for New York’s claims to superiority, the coup of having a member of a real New York Four Hundred family in society’s midst, bastard or not, was a source of pride and excitement.
The hypocrisy was astounding, and I chafed at it. These people had been more than willing to throw me to oblivion a year before. I dressed anxiously for the benefit and wondered why I even bothered to care what they thought. I’d bought one of the ready-made gowns that were just coming in to the temporarily relocated department stores. Mrs. Oelrichs had been kind enough to lend me her seamstress, who had done her best to turn the gown into something befitting my position.
It was pale bronze, with darker embroidery all over the bodice that left off in a fringe at the hips, and quite the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned. I felt like a queen in it, which was good, because I knew who had been invited to the benefit. All of society, as it was, after all, a benefit meant to raise money.
It would be the first time I’d see the Sullivans face-to-face since they’d put me away.
“You seem nervous,” Stephen said as he helped me and his mother from his automobile. “You don’t need to be. Remember who you are.”
My mother’s words again. How odd they sounded coming from his mouth, and yet here I was, at another ball, another assault on society. How well I remembered my first night in San Francisco, how the memory returned now, the hundreds of glowing candles, the gleam upon the torso of the bacchante in the middle of the ballroom. The champagne. The way I’d stumbled from the room and into a labyrinth of secrets and lies.
No more of those. No more.
The tent was decorated lavishly. Mrs. Oelrichs and Mrs. Hoffman had been on the planning committee, and I had heard Mrs. Oelrichs complain about the scarcity of supplies for decoration, but they had done themselves proud. The makeshift ballroom was festooned with gold bunting, transformed into a glittering forest of bare branches draping from oil lamps suspended from the canvas ceiling, along with pearl-like beads dripping to look like rain.
At the far end, a small orchestra played. Ned Greenway, whom I’d never met, but who was impossible not to recognize, given Dante’s description—and it was true how much he looked like my imaginary society reporter—stood laughing with a young lady near a champagne fountain, supplied by Greenway himself. There were some benefits to being a champagne salesman. How, with the relief efforts still going on, they had managed oysters and paté, I had no idea. I had no appetite for any of it, in any case. It was as boring as any other society event, and the thought of a lifetime of this brought a fluttering desperation. I was not going to live like this. There must be something else. Once again, I thought of the classified advertisement Dante and I had placed, of which I’d still heard nothing.
I would think of it after tonight. Tonight, I had one more thing to do.
I looked around the room for someone I might recognize, aware of how many gazes turned back to me, of the quiet talk—not mocking or disparaging this time, but admiring. I had to admit that I did enjoy the power of it as I heard—or thought I did—Van Berckyl, whispered over and over again. I could probably call them hypocrites and spit in their faces and they would still smile back at me and ask if they could fetch me a lemonade.
In spite of the fact that I had been to society parties many times with Goldie, there were many people here I didn’t know. A different set entirely. I struggled to keep both my composure and my smile. Stephen brought me some champagne and then went to speak with a friend of his. I saw Thomas O’Keefe standing with Linette Wall near the orchestra, both staring at me as if they could not quite believe their eyes, and I remembered our drunken afternoon at the Cliff House so very long ago.
My nerves tumbled in my stomach. I sipped the champagne, which tasted sour.
“Miss Kimble,” said a familiar voice at my shoulder.
I wanted to cry with relief. I turned to Dante with a smile. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“You sent me a ticket. How could I resist?”
“I expected you would be tired of balls.”
He tugged at his formal collar. “I am, but you pleaded so prettily.”