Annie's Stories (24 page)

31

K
IRSTEN WAS A GROWN WOMAN,
the doctor had stated. No one could keep her in the infirmary if she wanted to leave, and she was under no obligation to contact Hawkins House. That made Annie sad, but she knew people walked in and out of her life with frequency, and she would have to accept it.

After washing up the supper dishes
 
—and noting that the potato bin needed filling already, probably due to Aileen’s presence in the house now
 
—Annie went to her room to relax. Reclining on her bed, she closed her eyes and imagined the soft green grass of Ireland, the ancient stones blue with age, the towering castle ruins, the glowing turf fires that engulfed every town with a sweet smell. She could still see the tumbledown abbeys where she and her father entertained townsfolk with stories of old under a canopy of ever-changing clouds.

She could almost smell the fresh rain-misted air. She could almost dip her fingers in the blades of grass. She could almost hear her father’s lilting laughter.

Almost.

But like those mist-covered islands a younger Annie had thought she saw in the lough, none of it was real. A mirage. A long-ago memory.

The past was gone.

Her father was gone.

She had been young and naive while her father was alive, but the more she thought about it now, it made sense that her father had additional income. They’d always had what they needed, despite the fact his storytelling had been paid for with bartered goods on fortunate days and just a slap on the back during hunger seasons. Marty Gallagher’s mysterious family never showed their faces, and if he’d had money from an inheritance, surely there would be more kin coming to lay claim.

Why didn’t you tell me, Da?

She hated that she would never know with certainty why he hadn’t trusted her with the truth.

“Mine enemies would daily swallow me up.”

Annie had been reading in Psalms where David continually asked God to protect him from his enemies. Could it be that was exactly what her father was trying to do for her? Protect her from Neil’s greediness?
If you had only told me, Da, I never would have gone to the O’Shannons.

His illness must have skewed his good sense. How could she blame him, as ravaged by fever and sickness as he was?

Annie sat at her desk and rubbed her hands over the ragged pages open to the book of Psalms. Of course! He’d worked so hard through his illness to give her the stories, knowing they’d be valuable one day, the last works of a famous writer. He’d made sure of it by adding that hallmark. And then he’d hidden them in the desk’s secret compartment and confided in the priest. All that had been necessary because the stories were immensely valuable, as it seemed the New York publishers understood. Tears dripped down her face as she realized how her father had provided for her.

She lifted the Bible to her forehead, wondering if it was
possible that someday this hurt might heal. She didn’t want to think about it right now and open her raw heart.

She returned to her bed and fumbled around underneath until she found the
Wizard
book and flipped to the last page she had read. She laughed at herself for having hidden it there. There was no reason to keep it under her bed, but folks hide things when they’re valuable.

She lifted the book to her nose. A book had a smell more soothing than any of Mrs. Hawkins’s herbs. There was nothing like a good story to take her out of a world she didn’t much like. Sighing, she closed her eyes a moment, focusing her mind on the imaginary world described within those pages until she was ready to reread them.

Ah, the Emerald City. Dorothy was waiting to see the Terrible Oz, and she was beautifully dressed, of course, in green silk. Dorothy entered the throne room to talk to Oz, who appeared as a mysterious talking head.

“Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard and I am only a little girl.”

Oh, she knew how Dorothy felt!

Annie knew what came next. Dorothy and her friends would be given a monumental assignment, the one thing they were terribly fearful of doing. Oz wanted them to kill the Wicked Witch. None of them could have what they wanted until they did that. Dorothy told her friends there was no hope. She couldn’t kill the witch. Dorothy would never get home, or so she thought.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Aileen. Annie, I want to show you something.”

“Come in.”

They sat on Annie’s bed.

“I showed these to the postman too, but he did not stay long enough to tell me what he thought of them.” She spread some drawings on the bed.

“Very nice.”

“I made them for the Parker children. Grace is taking me over there tomorrow. She needs someone to watch them while she finishes sewing lace on her wedding veil.”

“Oh. I’m sure they’ll like them.”

“They tell a story.”

“Truly?”

“They do. Here, let me show you. ’Tis pretty simple, but Grace thinks they’ll like it and might even want to create their own. Even wee Linden can do it because you don’t have to know how to read.”

“Wonderful.”

“’Twas that book of yours that gave me the idea. This one first. See the bears?”

“Oh, is this ‘The Story of the Three Bears’?”

“’Tis, and I can tell the story this way.”

Annie realized how much people who couldn’t read were lacking when they couldn’t enjoy a book.

“Aileen, you have given me a stupendous idea.”

Annie rushed out of the room to find Mrs. Hawkins and Grace. They were discussing Grace’s new home that was two blocks over, so Annie waited. Finally they looked up at her.

“Aileen has given me an idea.”

Aileen shuffled up behind her. “I wish you would tell me what it is.”

“Sit down.”

She waited until everyone was assembled. “As you know,
with my profits from the publishers, I’m going to purchase a building and open a library, or at least I was.”

Mrs. Hawkins raised her brows. “Oh? What are you planning now, love?”

Annie thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to make her own plans. “Aileen helped me to see that stories are told in many ways. Truly my father understood that. He brought stories to the people, many of whom could not have read them if they indeed had a book.”

The three women smiled, waiting. Annie paced around the room, lifting a finger into the air as each thought rushed through her mind. “More people need to know how to read. That’s one thing. I can teach them.”

“A worthy undertaking, love.” Mrs. Hawkins looked charmed.

“Hear me out. There is something else. Grace, you read stories to the children you care for, don’t you?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Have you told them some of the ancient tales, the stories only the Irish know?”

“I have. Why do you ask?”

Annie clapped her hands together. “Who will tell these stories in future generations? I mean, if the Irish stop coming to America, who will share them?”

“We can write them down,” Grace said.

“True, we can, but wouldn’t you say something is lost that way? Don’t children in particular enjoy stories better that are told aloud? In acts and voices and gestures?” She turned to Aileen. “The way you and Jules were enjoying talking about the Oz drawings. The way you intend to use the drawings you made.”

Aileen held her papers to her heart. “’Tis true enough. What is the lovely idea, Annie?”

“I will teach others. You can help, all of you. If you would like.”

“I would like,” Aileen said.

Grace and Mrs. Hawkins bobbed their heads.

“We will teach interested folks the art of telling a story, how to become
seanchaithe
, and thus continue what my father did.”

Mrs. Hawkins applauded. “A lovely tribute to your father.”

Someone knocked on the door.

Annie answered it. A man stood before her. “Forgive me for calling so late. Your neighbor was outside and I inquired. She said the lights are usually burning in your parlor this time of the evening, and she told me you wouldn’t mind.”

The Irish brogue, the umbrella he carried, the way he dipped his head, all seemed strangely familiar.

“You may not remember me, Miss Gallagher. I am Mr. Barrows. We met at your father’s wake.”

32

S
TEPHEN RUSHED BACK HOME.
There was a light on in the publishing office. He rapped on the door.

“Adams, my boy! I did not expect to see you so soon.” Davis led him into the office and pointed to a scarred leather chair. “You must have come with something.”

“I have.” Stephen pulled the bundle from his pocket and handed it over.

Much later Davis laid the final page on his desk and tapped the papers as though stroking a pet kitten.

Stephen stood. The ticking of the huge wall clock made him jittery. “I have to return these as soon as possible.” He stuck out his arm and frantically wriggled his hand.

“What’s the hurry? I’ll guard them with my life.” Davis grinned wide, his mouth absent of the usual cigar.

“I . . . um . . . I have to ask her first.”

Davis’s mouth dropped open. “Huh? You telling me she doesn’t know you brought them to me?”

“I . . . couldn’t . . . Look, I gotta return them. They have sentimental value. She’ll want them back without delay.”

“Of course they have sentimental meaning to her. I’m not an insensitive muttonhead.” Davis carefully stacked the papers.
He lifted them from his desk and held them up in both hands. Then he let them fall back to the desk. “Be that as it may, I don’t want to take a chance on losing this, Adams.”

“You won’t. You might have to publish them under the name Gallagher, is all.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“I’m still trying to convince her. In time, I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“Perhaps so.”

“How about I take them back now and bring her in the morning. I shouldn’t have brought them.” He began to pace. “This was a bad idea.”

Davis hung his head. “No, no. I’ll take good care of them, like I said. If I let these go . . . if I allow them out of my sight for a minute . . . Things happen, Adams. I realize you do not know the world of publishing. Trust me on this. These stories could end up in the hands of another publisher. You brought them to me. I will guard them. That way we will both know our future success is secure.”

“Uh . . . I don’t know.”

“Remember that empty apartment of yours.” He held up the yellowing papers. “These, my boy, could make those troubles go away.” He grabbed a newspaper from his desk and held it up. “Do you know what this is?”

“The
Times
?”

“That’s right. And a mention of Luther Redmond’s lost stories. The whole world knows about this now. Do you know how publicity like that profits us? This is tremendous, bigger than I had dared to imagine.”

“Bully for you, Davis. Now, make a copy of these pages if you must, but give them back, and soon.”

“I suppose we can type it up. I must have your word you will
take these papers directly to the owner and safely deliver them. We can’t risk them falling into other hands.”

“I will. I don’t want anyone but her to have them.”

Davis tapped his fat fingers together. “In fact, if I have my own copies, I’ll be ready to roll out the book all the quicker. After my boys type it up, I’ll give it a once-over before the typesetting stage. Looks like pretty clean copy to me, but I’ll need to change a word here and there for today’s American reader. We will decide on the illustrations later.”

The man was already moving ahead in his mind. “Do you have a worker here who can type quickly?” Stephen asked.

“I do, as a matter of fact. He’s working overtime on another project, but we’ll make this a higher priority. He’ll get it done.”

“Thank you.”

Davis switched on a couple of electric lights. “You better be right about this. Disputes can delay publishing for years. We don’t want that.”

Stephen put an open hand on top of the papers and leaned forward. “Wait.”

“What? Now you got a conscience?”

“Yeah . . . I mean . . . we won’t do anything with the copies unless she agrees, right?”

“Right.”

33

“F
ROM
D
UBLIN?
” Annie asked.

“That is correct,” the man said, tapping his black umbrella on the stoop.

“Won’t you come in?”

Mrs. Hawkins came to the door. “How may we help you, sir?”

“Madam.” He dipped his head. “I have come to speak to Miss Gallagher. I was a business associate of her father’s.”

She glanced at Annie and narrowed her eyes. Annie could not hide her apprehension. Anyone from Ireland could send her mind slithering back to screeching metal doors and deep, dark passageways.

“You will excuse me, sir, but as proprietor of this house, I look out for my girls. I must be certain you are who you say you are.”

He pinched his lips a moment. “Forgive me. My popping around like this must appear unorthodox.”

“’Tis all right, Mrs. Hawkins.” Annie reached for the man’s coat. “I do remember Mr. Barrows.”

After introductions, they invited him into the parlor.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you, sir,” Annie said.

“I know I must seem like a bolt from the blue. I had thought
to find you at your uncle’s farm, but he said you had gone away and he didn’t know where.”

Annie tried to stay calm. “I am afraid he was not honest about that, Mr. Barrows.”

“Indeed, as I was to learn. When I first inquired, just days after your father’s death, even Father Weldon did not know where you had gone. My business called me back to Dublin, but although I inquired from time to time, I could not discern your whereabouts.”

Annie remembered what Mrs. Hawkins had told her about the trouble her father had had finding her mother. The Irish didn’t speak about another’s trouble for fear it may be visited upon them. And especially when it involved a woman. Women were dispensable.

Mr. Barrows shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I do apologize I did not find you earlier, Miss Gallagher. My failure was an injustice to your father. I am pleased to see you looking so well now and living in America. It must have been quite a journey for you.”

“Thank you. It was.” She wanted to ask why he’d been looking for her, but she decided to wait until he explained himself.

“I regret that I was not the one to arrange your journey. If I had only known, you would have had better accommodations on the ship.”

His concern was puzzling. Annie knew many people held her father in high regard, but this seemed beyond the duties of friendship.

“I want to tell you why I am here. I have been in New York on business. I travel here quite a bit. I picked up a copy of the
Times
and was surprised to see that Luther Redmond’s lost stories are being published. I immediately sent a telegram to Father
Weldon. He told me where to find you. I do regret not finding you sooner, Miss Gallagher.”

Mrs. Hawkins reached for her newspaper. “The
Times
? I didn’t realize.”

“The piece came out a few days ago. It seems to say that there are more stories than the one that has been published.”

Suddenly Annie remembered what Mr. Barrows had said at Da’s graveside.
“The entire world will mourn his passing.”
If she’d had trouble believing it before, the pieces were falling together now as though dropped from heaven by her father. Annie interrupted Mrs. Hawkins. “Mr. Barrows, can you confirm that my father really did write under the name Luther Redmond?”

“Yes, my dear. I regret I was unaware he had taken ill. We were waiting to hear of his latest whereabouts and did not know where he was until news of his death reached us.”

“The decision to publish the one tale under Redmond’s name was not my own. If that is the reason for your visit, I suggest you speak with the editors at
Harper’s
.”

“I have. Your father’s stories, whether under the name Gallagher or Redmond, fall under the same copyright.”

Copyright?
Truly she didn’t understand these things.

“Did everyone know this but me?” She rushed to the breakfront and retrieved her writing desk, wondering if all the stories had that mark Stephen had insisted belonged to the author Luther Redmond. She pulled open the lid and felt inside. She took out some writing paper, but that was all it contained. “My stories! They’ve been stolen!” She popped up the hidden compartment just in case, but it was empty too.

“This is quite disturbing,” Mr. Barrows said. “Are you sure you haven’t laid them aside somewhere?”

“They were here and now they’re not.” She suddenly
remembered Stephen Adams sitting alone in the parlor with the writing desk in his lap. He had left quickly, not even staying for supper. He’d taken one story already, but he apparently thought he was entitled to them all!

“I think I know what may have happened,” she said, an ache forming in her head. “I will see to it in the morning.” She turned to Mr. Barrows. “Thank you for your concern. I will handle my own affairs, however. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

He stood as Aileen brought him his coat. “I’m afraid I have not explained myself fully. Please allow me.” He slung his coat over his arm and took his umbrella. “I published Luther Redmond’s work. His true name was Marty Gallagher. I have legal rights to all of his work, even after his death, Miss Gallagher. As I explained to your uncle, who I must say was extremely vexed to learn he had no claim, you are the only surviving heir; thus my agreement with your father falls to you. But you understand, I still hold the copyright.
Harper’s
violated this copyright, although without malice. But I will not agree to have any more of these stories published in America, if indeed you recover them.”

Mrs. Hawkins strode forward. “This is preposterous, Mr. Barrows. Surely you understand how much that income means to this young girl. She has plans. Her father would have wanted
 
—”

“You cannot presume what her father wanted, Mrs. Hawkins. I will work with Miss Gallagher now that I have uncovered her whereabouts, but the courts will support me in this. The executives at
Harper’s
magazine suggested I pay a visit to a man who is planning on publishing the stories in book format. His name is Alan Davis. Have you met?”

Annie felt affronted. They were her stories! She crossed her arms. “We have indeed met.”

“It would be appropriate, I believe, for you to be there too,
Miss Gallagher. We have business to attend to, you and I. Say eight o’clock tomorrow morning at Davis Publishing?”

“Indeed. I will be there.” Annie opened the door for him. They would not discuss her business without her if she had anything to say about it.

Early the next morning Annie prepared to leave the house. “I want to go alone, Mrs. Hawkins. Please.”

“All right, love. But you telephone over to Mrs. Jenkins if you need me.”

“I will. And I’ll stop at the market and pick up potatoes and turnips.”

“We don’t need them yet, Annie.”

“Oh, we do. I just checked.”

“Hmm. I thought for certain . . . Better pick up some more cheese as well, since you’ll be out anyway. I can’t say for sure, but I think one of the delivery boys must have stolen a few things.”

“Truly? I will have to watch closer.”

“I don’t mind as long as it’s only a bit, and it has been. If I catch him, I’ll give him a lecture, certainly, but I do understand hunger.”

Annie grabbed her pocket purse and hurried to the door, wanting to arrive before Mr. Barrows got there. Mr. Davis and Stephen, if she could get there before he left for work, had better explain themselves. If she couldn’t save the publishing agreement, all her hopes of honoring her father were in vain. She had told Stephen she wanted to wait, get legal advice, perhaps have the stories published under her father’s real name. But she did want them published in the not-too-distant future so she could open that library. Mr. Barrows had an unfair hold on the stories, and she had no idea how long it took to resolve such publishing disputes. She should have control over
her
stories,
not some man from Dublin or the postman, both of whom obviously thought she needed their help. She did not.

Only the newsboys were out on the street when she arrived. No businessmen commuting to their offices yet. She gazed into the plate-glass window of Davis Publishing. Someone tugged at the hem of her cloak. She looked down to see a wee lad. “Oh, hello.”

“Swell, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“How they make books. Mr. Adams showed me once. Want to go in and see yourself?”

“I would. Thank you.”

She followed the lad inside. The first man they saw greeted them. “Hello, Matty. Miss. Come for another look-see, son?”

“You bet, Mr. Keaton.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Keaton. My name is Annie Gallagher. Would you be kind enough to tell me if Mr. Davis is in?”

“I expect he will be soon, Miss Gallagher. I’ve been working extra hours on a special project, so I opened up early. I will alert him you are here to see him.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime, if you don’t mind, our buddy Matty here will show you around if you’ve a mind to see the workings of our office, miss. Mr. Adams brought him in one day and he’s stuck around, sweeping up and all. Thinks he wants to be a bookman one day, don’t you, Matty?”

“Yep.”

“Very kind of you.” Annie smiled at the man and then allowed Matty to take her on a tour. “How nice of Mr. Adams and Mr. Davis to teach you things, young man.”

“Yeah. They’re swell.” He pointed to a massive metal machine that was uniquely connected to some kind of typewriter. “They
just typeset here. They pay other folks to print the books.” He pointed to a tray just above the keyboard, where a piece of paper with typed words on it rested.

Mr. Keaton paused from his work and leaned to one side so they could see what he was working on.

Annie pointed to the paper. “Is this going to be in a book?”

“Yes, Miss Gallagher.”

She gazed in amazement at the paper until she made out the words.
“Omah was the leader of a great clan of mice.”
She gasped. Looking down, she saw the yellowed papers the typesetter had been working from. She considered snatching up her stories right then but thought better of it. The worker would not understand and would probably escort her out. She needed to confront the publisher. “How long have you had this . . . book, if I may ask?”

“Got it last night.” He pointed to a stack of papers in a bin behind him. “Those stories have been waiting much longer, but sometimes one jumps to the front of the line, like this one.”

She touched her jaw to keep from stammering. “Thank you.” She rushed outside and let the cold air fill her lungs. Stephen had stolen the stories, and they were about to manufacture them into a printed volume when she hadn’t even signed a contract with Davis Publishing yet, bypassing her completely. Not to mention the trouble they’d be in with Mr. Barrows.

She heard the door behind her open and close. She cringed. She was not yet ready to face Stephen Adams.

“Hey, Miss Gallagher.” Matty bumped up against her leg. “You leaving already?”

“Aye. Uh, I mean no. I am waiting for Mr. Davis.”

“Want me to go find out if he’s here yet?”

She pulled up the boy’s coat collar to keep out the wind. “You should get on home, so. ’Tis awfully cold out.”

The boy frowned. “Nothing but chores.” He dashed off toward a group of boys who were playing with a broomstick and a ball in the alley.

She entered again and noticed a light on in a room behind a door that had
Mr. Alan Davis
stamped on the nameplate. She knocked loudly. The door opened. “Miss Gallagher. Keaton told me you were here. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was just tidying up a bit. Please, come in. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“No thank you. I won’t be staying.”

He kept his hands on the back of a chair as though she might change her mind. “We
 
—that is, Stephen Adams has the contract for you to sign. I’m sorry you made the trip in here. He’s supposed to bring the contract to you.”

“I bet you are sorry I stopped in.”

His eyes widened. He wiggled his neck, sending his jowls wobbling. “Oh no. Not sorry. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Is that right? I stopped in the workroom. Had a look at what the typesetter was working on.”

The man’s face turned paler than new snow. “Uh, well, Stephen assured me you were going to sign the contract. And I wanted to get the ball rolling.” He pulled at his shirt collar. “Your father’s stories are already very popular, Miss Gallagher. They are going to earn you a lot of money.”

Annie felt tears bubbling to the surface. She blinked her eyes. “All of you went on with this without so much as asking me. . . .” She struggled to keep her voice from rising to an irritated pitch. “You do not understand. I want Stephen Adams to have nothing to do with Omah.”

She bolted out the door just as her chest heaved and her eyes burned with tears. Stephen pretended he cared for her. He only wanted to get the stories. That had been his plan all along. She
had been an
eejit
for not trusting her instincts. He had been a very good actor.

She raced toward the trolley stop. Matty tried to stop her, but she brushed him away and kept going. Suddenly a hulking figure in a trench coat stepped into her path. She couldn’t stop and slammed right into his chest.

“Hey there, Irish
Fräulein
.”