* * *
—
I locked my jewelry and gems into a vault; what good were precious stones when men were hurling themselves from their Wall Street windows? When mothers and children were queued up around the block, shivering in the cold wind, waiting hours for watered-down soup and a square of hard bread?
I was forty-two years old, but I still felt young, enlivened with a newfound sense of purpose, and I threw myself determinedly into public service. I filled my calendar from morning until evening, organizing benefits for churches and soup kitchens and the Salvation Army. I gave dinners in my home for hospital workers, teachers, police officers, and firemen. I made a gift to my Mount Vernon Seminary so that they could continue to pay teachers’ salaries and keep the facilities in good repair, even as they struggled for lack of funds. I paid to transport the entire New York City Circus troupe down to Mar-a-Lago by train, elephants and all, for a charity benefit to help children who’d lost their parents.
But I wanted to make sure that my help served those closer to home as well: I made it known that any staffer of mine who was facing troubles, from the Adirondacks to Manhattan, from Long Island to Palm Beach, was to come to me immediately. I did not expect recompense, and I did not need credit. I would not have those closest to me feeling desperate in these times, not if I could do something about it.
And yet, in spite of this, I felt like I needed to do more. Something that could extend beyond just my own two arms and hands, beyond just the limited scope of the needs I could see in front of me. My wealth would become a burden on my soul—I could feel that—unless I found some way to truly share it with those who needed it most.
“It’s got to be food,” I declared to Ned one gray winter morning, as I stared out over a snow-covered cityscape. I couldn’t help but think of the many who were standing out on those bleak streets at that very moment, huddled in a line for something warm to eat. “Food, not just for their bodies,” I continued, “but for their spirits, too. I want to open up a public kitchen.”
* * *
“Thank you, Mrs. Hutton,” the woman said, her chapped hands trembling as she clutched a young child with each one. “Oh, God bless you. But how can we ever thank you?”
“Now, no need to thank me until you’ve tasted the food. I just hope it’s good. Come in, come in. It’s so nice to have you.” And with that, I ushered the woman and her two little ones indoors, out of the bitter wind and toward a clean waiting table. I’d opened the Marjorie Post Hutton Canteen on New York’s ravaged West Side, in the neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen. Immediately, they had arrived at our doors: mothers with hollowed-out cheeks and cardboard for shoes, men whose dignity had been worn as threadbare as their old work suits. Immigrants who barely spoke a word of English and native New Yorkers who’d woken up one day to find themselves in a hostile city they didn’t know, even though they’d lived there all their lives. Come to the Marjorie Post Hutton Canteen and be fed, I said. Come and be warm. Come and be safe. And so they came. By the thousands they came. There, I spent hours on my feet ladling thick soup and clearing dishes, hugging the tired young women and coaxing smiles from the shy little ones, listening to the tales of my adopted hometown’s many heartaches.
Because these folks deserved a few hours in a comfortable, clean space, I’d hired a full staff, and I made sure that every table had a starched linen tablecloth and a glass vase of fresh-cut roses. I hired men who were out of work and outfitted them with white gloves and crisp blazers. I asked them to shave, and I paid them to serve as my waiters. I reviewed every menu, making sure the folks who came in would be getting healthy food—and as much as they needed. Gone were my banquets of gold and mahogany; now I fixed my exacting hostess’s eyes on every detail in that canteen. And when they left, I saw them off with hampers and baskets of more food, healthy rations that I hoped might help lighten just the smallest portion of their heavy loads. If a young lady’s clothes looked too thin or her child’s clothes showed rips, I sent them home with clean sweaters and warm wool slacks, items I’d pick up each month at Bloomingdales.
Before long, the locals throughout Hell’s Kitchen were calling me Lady Bountiful. These people, thousands of them, saw me as their patroness, but they did not guess how much they gave me as well. Not since the Great War had I felt such a deep stoking of purpose in my belly. After the delirious recent years of distraction and decadence, I felt that I was finally living in a way that aligned with what Papa and Mother had taught me, that I was finally using my wealth in the service of something larger than myself.