Annie's Stories (11 page)

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, still holding out his hand. “Let me take care of you.”

She inched forward.

“Do you know why you are here?”

When she shook her head, she felt her whole body tremble.

“You are here to cleanse your sins, child. You do know you’re a sinner
 
—and of the worst kind.”

She dared to speak. “What is the worst kind, sir?”

His fingers slid down her arm to her wrist. “The worst are girls who are so lovely, who have skin soft and smooth . . .”

The doctor pressed his face against her neck and she struggled to get free. The door squealed again and he broke from her. The nun reappeared, bringing in two more girls. “Wait,” he ordered the nun.

“I demand you let me out of here,” Annie said.

The back of the doctor’s hand struck her face, sending shards of pain to her eyes. “You will not speak unless you are asked to. Is that understood?”

She nodded, her jaw aching. At that moment she realized what kind of place she had been taken to. She would have no rights. No one would listen to her. She watched as the others received a physical examination, unpleasant but not as frightening as hers had been. As they filed out to leave, Annie was last in line. She felt the doctor’s hand along her back and then across her bottom. She moved to follow the others in time to escape him.

Annie had been lucky. Another day in the laundry and she would have surely suffered the same fate Kirsten had today. Folks didn’t talk about it outside the laundry, but inside, the lasses did, and Annie knew most of them had been assaulted the way Kirsten was. A tremor ran down to Annie’s chin as she forced herself to attend to the frightened girl. “We have to do something.” She rubbed Kirsten’s arms with a towel. The girl’s chill seemed to seep right through her into Annie. Someone had to stand up for women like Kirsten. No one had done so for the women of the Magdalene Laundries. Now, here in America, Annie could not stand by. She could not, though where she’d find the strength for this she did not know.

12

S
TEPHEN GROANED
when the bells clanged on his alarm clock. A postman’s day started early, and today it seemed way too early.

Rising to visit the washroom down the hall, he first pulled on his wool slippers, then kicked them off. It was too warm. Sleepily, he clambered down the hall, tripping and sending an empty metal milk crate scooting across the floor.

“Quiet,” someone called from the next room.

Stephen forgot who was living there now. New tenants came and went almost weekly. It was hard to keep up, and no wonder why. The other room was small, too small. He’d looked at it before he rented his own. Davis had told him Stephen’s apartment used to be bigger but he’d put up a wall and created another apartment to bring in extra income.

“Times are tough all over,” he’d said.

Davis was lucky he had a stable renter with a good job in Stephen. When he returned to his room, he clicked on the electric light and began whisking up shaving suds. When he was done with his razor, he splashed cold water on his face. As he gazed into the mirror and buttoned on his collar, he tried to remember the Irish tune he’d learned last week. After just a brief visit to the dance hall, he’d remembered the tune and tried to repeat it. Perhaps he should learn to play the pennywhistle. He’d heard it wasn’t difficult. Maybe Annie would be impressed.

He paused to sit a moment and pray. His day always went better when he began that way. The times he had felt God with him the strongest, he’d been praying, holding the family Bible. His father had not taught him the ways of God, but Stephen’s mother had been a faithful woman and encouraged Stephen and his brother to seek righteousness. When Stephen was the head of his own household, he would take on the role of spiritual leader like his father should have, not neglect it. He reached for the Bible and thought about the births, deaths, and marriages recorded there.
When will I find my famil
y
, Lord?

Seek me.

Yes. Following God’s laws, being obedient, reading the Bible. The answer would come. Someday.

The psalm he read did quiet his spirit, and he continued to prepare for his day.

He strolled outside just as the horizon brightened above the roofs. A rather warm day for the first of October, but thankfully summer’s humidity had waned. Stephen could not remember a more sweltering summer during his lifetime. Despite snarling dogs and treacherous streets littered with piles of horse manure, he preferred his job to working inside a hot factory.

When he got to the post office to pick up his load, Minnie was waiting for him. “Stephen, great news! Leonard’s got so many investors now, your dollar is worth two.”

“Two dollars? How can that be?” He lowered his voice, feeling as though he shouldn’t announce the profit like a theater barker.

“It’s no secret there’s a lot of money in America. My Leonard has learned how to earn some of it. Hardworking folks like ourselves deserve to join in the prosperity, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t argue.” He could use that money now. “Say, Minnie,
how about
 
—?” He halted when he saw the postmaster glaring at them. “Uh, never mind. Better get back to work.”

Before he set out on his shift, he stopped by his apartment. He’d forgotten his lunch.

Davis saw him coming and waved him into the office. “Listen, son. There was a bill collector asking for you. He didn’t think I knew his business, said he was a friend. But I know these types.”

“I . . . I don’t understand. I’ve kept up on my bills.” He began to sweat, wondering if he could be absolutely certain he had. “Did he say who sent him?”

“He didn’t. I told him it was cowardice to come snooping around after a man’s left for the day.”

“Well, I thank you for that.” It had to be Murray’s doing. What would it take to convince the man Stephen was doing his best?

“Adams, I’ve had tenants before who had thugs come collect from them. If the police come too, I can’t deny entry to your apartment. Wherever you keep your cash up there
 
—bankbooks, whatever
 
—I’d suggest you bring it down here and put it in my safe.”

“Uh, I don’t know, Mr. Davis. I mean, I appreciate the offer. I don’t want to trouble you.”

Davis put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “You can trust me. I run a business here. I’m not going to run off. This is where I live and work. And if your money is in my safe, no bill collectors can claim it. Always better safe than sorry.”

“You’re right. I’ll be right back.” A fellow had to trust somebody, and Davis was a good man.

Stephen dropped his mailbag inside Davis’s door and then hurried upstairs. He grabbed an apple and wrapped a bit of cheese in the brown paper his neighbor Mrs. Jacobs had given him with some sweet rolls. Another reason for never wanting to leave his neighborhood was that woman, who lived a few
buildings down from him. She baked for several restaurants and had made Stephen her taster. Stuffing his food into his coat pocket, he retrieved his money box. He paused and then opened his accounting ledger. When he ran his finger along the line for the undertaker, he realized his mistake. He had skipped that line and forgotten to pay. An honest mistake, but one that set his head to pounding. With his paycheck from last Saturday cashed, he could pay Murray, and he’d do it today.

He took the money box down to Davis, who wrote him a quick receipt.

“Just to make you feel better,” he said. “You come here to get it anytime. I’ll answer this bell. It rings in my apartment if you press the button down here. Ring it with two short taps, and then hold it down for a bit. That way I’ll know it’s you.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Stephen hurried back to work with the payment for the undertaker and a little extra bit of cash in his pocket. He hadn’t left much in that box in Davis’s safe. Not this time, anyway.

Later, as the noon hour drew near, Stephen approached the bookshop. He had dropped off the undertaker’s payment and thought he could now indulge in a book. But even if he found none to buy, he wanted to browse a bit, see what this new trend in children’s literature was that Davis spoke of. He turned onto Worth Street just as his pocket watch showed noon.

Two red- and white-striped awnings tented over the plate-glass windows of Bourne Booksellers. He paused a moment to admire the tomes on display. A book titled
Lives of the Hunted
with a green forest on the cover surrounded by gold-leaf decorative trim. Next to that stood a book with a brown leather cover. Not a new book, but
Pembroke
, a novel by Mary E. Wilkins, was still in demand. Being an avid reader of the
New York Times
,
Stephen had heard of both books and knew
Pembroke
would not be a choice for him. He was not taken by the other title enough to purchase it, either. The window did not hold a copy of H. G. Wells’s
The First Men in the Moon
, which sounded like a good read. Alone in the other window stood the book everyone had been talking about:
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by L. Frank Baum. Despite being introduced last year, the story was still immensely popular. It had even been mentioned as a possible theater production. This book had a green cover and was more lushly illustrated than the others. In fact, the illustrator’s name, W. W. Denslow, was prominently displayed on the cover along with the author’s.

Stephen pushed open the door, sending a little bell jingling much like the one Dexter had at his diner. He greeted the proprietor, who stood behind a counter. “Here’s your mail.”

“Thank you. Care to browse a bit while you’re here?”

“Certainly I would.” Stephen proceeded to weave his way around the book stacks. Near the front, close to the display windows, he noticed two mothers in conversation. One held the hand of a pretty little girl with blonde ringlets, and the other cradled an infant in her arms.

“I wish there were more books like this one for children,” the mother with the infant proclaimed. She held out a copy of Baum’s book.

“I know what you mean. I perused it. You can read a chapter at a sitting and there are delightful illustrations. It’s not just for children, it seems. I would say it’s a story adults would enjoy as well. I might even persuade Mr. Bainbridge to read it to the older children.”

They both laughed over the prospect of a father reading to his children. Stephen would read to his, if he had any, without coercion.

The first mother looked down at her daughter. “Stop pulling, Lucille. Mother is not ready to go yet.”

The infant-toting mother rocked slightly with her bundle. She looked back to her friend. “And what’s more, I tell you, those old-fashioned fairy tales gave me such a fright when I was a child. I’d rather read Dorothy’s adventure in Oz to my own children even if my husband does not.”

“Agreed,” the other mother said.

They both took copies to the cash register counter to purchase them. As they moved away, Stephen noticed that he hadn’t been the only one eavesdropping. Leaning against a bookcase opposite him stood Annie Gallagher. She gave him a slight smile.

He waved and approached her.

“Good day, Mr. Adams. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you in here since you said you enjoyed reading.”

“Indeed I do. Books provide great pleasure for me.”

She wore a sapphire-blue dress with a cream-colored scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Her fair complexion and hazel eyes seemed to glow against the backdrop of brown and black book covers, even though her expression seemed strained.

“Are you feeling well, Miss Gallagher?” He reached for her hand and brushed his lips across the fabric of her glove.

“I am well, just a bit tired. We . . . uh, we are adjusting to having more boarders, is all.”

“Oh, well, it’s delightful you were able to get away and come to the bookshop.”

“I adore books.” She turned to the stack and drew a finger across the spines as though searching for a particular title among those in the children’s literature section.

The cap he’d pressed under his arm as he entered the store grew heavier with each passing moment. The circulating ceiling
fans did little to cool the air. Outside he’d noticed a crispness in the air, but in the bookshop it seemed rather warm.

Stephen had to say something soon or Annie Gallagher would walk right out of his day. “Say, did you notice they have copies of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
?”

She grinned and pointed toward the display in the window.

“Ah, yes. You are reading it, you mentioned. I’m thinking of purchasing a copy.”

“I believe you’d like it, Mr. Adams. And I hope you do get your own copy someday.” She breathed deeply as though just standing in the shop had renewed a weary heart.

Thank you, Lord, for this opportunity.

“Ah, indeed.” He glanced for a moment at the women who were at that instant accepting their wrapped books from the bookseller. He turned back to Annie. “All of New York seems to be buzzing about that book. After I read a few chapters, I’d be delighted if you would have a conversation with me about it.”

Her face reddened. “You did mention that, aye.”

“I mean to say . . . my friend Dexter and I discuss books all the time . . . and I thought if you would like . . .” He was destroying his chance. “If you have the leisure, I mean.”

“While that sounds delightful, I am afraid I have less and less leisure with each passing day. My cousin has come over from Ireland, so, and another boarder needs me
 
—”

“I’m sorry, Miss Gallagher. I should not have imposed.”

“Oh no. I’m delighted you asked me. ’Tis just . . . not the best time.”

“I understand.”

“I should be going, Mr. Adams. I have to finish my errands for Mrs. Hawkins, and I should not be away too long.” Wrinkles formed across her brow. Something was occupying her thoughts.

She took a step toward the door, her skirts sweeping across
the floorboards like a ribbon of dragonflies. Never had he seen such enchanting elegance.

He remembered the concern the police sergeant had voiced earlier. “Is everything all right over at Hawkins House?”

His question seemed to unnerve her. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Uh . . . well, a houseful of ladies. Please do tell me if I can do anything to assist you.”

She looked at him strangely, her expression changing as her facial muscles tightened. “This houseful of ladies, Mr. Adams, can take care of themselves.”

“I did not mean
 
—”

“Thank you for your concern.” She softened a bit. “Very kind of you indeed. Good day, so.”

He was still staring at the bell on the door when the young mothers exited after Annie. He was trying, wasn’t he? He scratched his head. He didn’t know how to act around women as beautiful as Annie Gallagher.

He did want to read that book. He snatched the copy from the window and then decided to take a copy of
The Master Key
, a new novel also by L. Frank Baum, to the counter.

When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he stuffed the wrapped packages into his postal bag. He would read them at night before bed. One had to have something to talk about in social situations, and maybe one day he would actually have a conversation with someone other than Dexter and the publisher to whom he paid rent.