Annie's Stories (26 page)

“I don’t mind it, Mrs. Hawkins, but what do you do with all your money?”

“The Benevolents, remember?”

“Aye, I know they help you with your outreach to immigrant girls.”

“They support me, that much is true. They help me make decisions. But I fund everything.”

“Kirsten’s medical care?”

“Yes. And your passage to America. I never wanted anyone beyond the Benevolents to know about this. Harold and I kept an inconspicuous public image. We never attended the wealthy balls or other events, even if they benefited charity. Once his parents passed on and his siblings moved to California, folks tended to forget who we were, and we quite liked that. Therefore, the people in our neighborhood have no idea how well off he left me. Folks treat you differently if they know you own grave plots next to the Astors, love.”

“I suppose not many would understand you turning your back on your wealth.”

The Hawk approached a headstone and tenderly laid her hand on top. “Oh, I didn’t turn my back on the money. I just put it to good use. All the blessings we have are God’s anyway.”

God wasn’t blessing Annie, but it was good Mrs. Hawkins had God’s favor and had in turn blessed others, like Annie.

“I brought you here not to boast about what I do at Hawkins House, but to show you I do trust you. This is not something I want just anyone to know.” She kissed her fingers and then patted her husband’s tombstone. Turning with watery eyes, she walked forward and reached for Annie’s hand. “But there is something else. I want to ask you, love, if you would become the second female member of the Benevolents.”

“Me?”

“If you would like. And I promise you I have no more secrets and do not plan to keep any from you ever again.”

Annie nodded, and the woman embraced her.

36

E
ARLY ON THE MORNING
of Grace and Owen’s wedding, Stephen met with the postmaster. Mr. Sturgis’s office chair squealed as he leaned back. “So the man is still in town. There may be hope yet this ledger will still show up.”

“I don’t know, sir. He said he’s been looking for his sister everywhere and she’s the one who has it.”

“Nonetheless, bring this man in to speak to me. He may have helpful information.”

“Bring him in?”

“That’s why you came to speak to me, yes?”

“Well, I’m not sure where he is, but I will inquire at Hawkins House. I just thought you’d like to know Jonas Wagner has not left town.”

“Better get on it, Adams. Remember you owe me for getting you out of that other mess.”

Stephen stood. “Yes, sir.” He had another matter to see to before he continued his mail delivery.

A half hour later Stephen arrived at No. 105 Thirteenth Street. The gray block building bore no lettering or advertisement of any kind. He hoped he was in the right place. He knocked on the metal door.

A few minutes later he tried the doorknob. Finding it unlocked, he went inside. A mountain of crates, carriage
wheels, and cast-off items rose before him, but he did not see any people. “Hello?” he called out.

A moment later he heard footsteps. A wisp of a man appeared wearing no suit coat over his shirt and suspenders. His trousers were soiled and in need of mending. “Come to claim something?” he chirped.

Stephen handed over the letter he’d found pinned to his door. He wasn’t thinking about getting his furniture back, though. He hadn’t even brought a wagon.

The man chewed on a toothpick as he spoke. “Got the rental fee, have ya?”

“I do have it, along with a statement of settlement from Mr. Archibald Murray.” He handed the document to the attendant. The finder’s fee Davis had given him waited in his pocket. “However, I would like to know, do you ever purchase the items stowed here?”

The man scratched his back. “So ya don’t have it.” He handed the papers back. “We don’t usually, no.”

“But sometimes?”

“Only if it’s good stuff. Adams, right? I’ll go take a look.”

“Wait.”

The man retraced his steps.

“There is one thing I do want back.” He held his hands apart in front of him. “A box. About this wide. Not valuable particularly, but of great sentimental value.”

“I will check.” The man disappeared down a row of bins marked with metal numbers.

He returned some time later with a clipboard in one hand and Stephen’s prized box in the other. “A bed with linens, a small dresser, a box of dishes, a box of clothing, a small table and a chair, a well-used sofa, a lamp, matches, and a rug. That sound about right, Mr. Adams?”

“Yes, about right.” He claimed his box and opened it. Everything seemed in order, although obviously rummaged through.

The man studied Stephen. “Think I’d take anything? Against my duties.”

“Perhaps not, but you looked.”

“If I was gonna steal
 
—and on my mother’s grave I would not
 
—ya got nothing I’d want. ’Cept maybe that bed.”

“Come on. You could resell all that stuff.”

“The rug, perhaps.”

The man was bluffing. “How much would you give me for the lot?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“I’ll sell it myself, then. You know it’s worth twice that, and I’ll throw in the books you didn’t account for.”

“Ah.” He tossed his hand the way Stephen had seen Italians do when they were dismissing what had been said. “All right. A deal.” He pulled some bills from his pocket and waved them in the air. “Here you go, minus the rental fee.”

Stephen shoved the box into his mailbag, accepted the money, signed a paper on the man’s clipboard, and departed the building the way he’d come. Slinging his mailbag over his shoulder, he headed down the street. He would spare two dollars to purchase one of Mrs. Jacobs’s woven blankets as a wedding gift and then use the rest of his proceeds along with his finder’s fee to enable Annie to hire an attorney. Delaying settling up with Davis, going without a hot lunch, polish for his shoes, a train ride
 
—those sacrifices would be inconsequential if he could actually help Annie Gallagher get what she wanted.

37

A
NNIE,
A
ILEEN,
and Mrs. Hawkins sat in a pew near the front. The wedding ceremony would be small, and then they would proceed to Hawkins House for the celebration. Annie was pleased for Grace, but her mind wandered. Her thoughts kept turning to her father’s stories. The night before, Annie had studied the design on the ceiling
 
—a mindless activity she hoped would wash away the sense of loss from the failure of her dream, and the turmoil over finding out her mother had suffered in a laundry, freed only by death. But her mind had kept working. The design resembled wee paths leading in and out of circular shapes, and she was reminded of the carved circles on standing stones near where she played as a girl. She had almost forgotten that her father’s fictional animals trod circles in the dirt of the farmers’ fields. He had probably used those stones as inspiration when he created the tales. She closed her eyes, remembering.

Omah, one of the mice, said he furrowed those circles in order to remind the farmers of the spiritual significance of the land they plowed. The mouse’s name was a form of Omagh, a wee Irish town in the north. She remembered that
Omagh
meant
fertile plain
. She wondered if there was any other symbolism in the stories, anything else her father might have been trying to tell
her. Stories, especially Irish ones, often hold a deeper meaning than what first appears. Her father might have had more reasons to conceal the truth about Luther Redmond. There were many things she did not understand, but one thing she knew when he had been alive and she still believed
 
—he loved her without condition. She was eager to recover the stories and look for meaning that she might have missed before. Spiritual truths. Perhaps like the farmers, she needed some reminders.

She stared at the stained-glass window. The setting sun backlit the colors, giving off their true hues. The window, the Hawk had once told her, had been commissioned from Louis Comfort Tiffany, a master glassmaker. It entranced her as she studied it in detail. Down in the far left corner appeared the figure of a mouse. She had never noticed it before. A mouse, of all things.

She turned her head to the front as the organ began. Earlier she had placed a pillar candle on the altar, sent all the way from Ireland by Grace’s mother.

“’Twas on the church altar when I was baptized,” she told Annie. “A tradition from home.”

Grace was also far from her homeland, but wee reminders like this kept home alive in her heart as she prepared to make a new home with Owen, she’d said. There were traditions observed in weddings that signified the mixing of the past with the present, like wearing something old and something new. Annie wondered if starting over in America did not mean turning one’s back on everything past. Father Weldon had said to keep the good memories.

Grace, Owen, and Reverend Clarke entered from a side door. There would be no processional like some of the larger weddings at Trinity Church she’d read about. Grace and Owen had not seen a need. Grace was represented by Hawkins House in the pew where Annie sat, and Owen’s parents, looking like
Buckingham Palace guards, stoic and regal, occupied a pew on the opposite side of the aisle.

Behind Annie the pew was filled with the Parker family. Aileen flung an arm back to tickle the children. She’d enjoyed spending the day with them.

“On this auspicious occasion,” Reverend Clarke began, “we are gathered here to celebrate the union of this man and this woman.”

Annie didn’t hear the rest. That wee mouse in the window distracted her. Why would the window maker put a mouse there? Had she been so occupied with mice lately that she’d imagined it? What seemed like only moments later, the church organ rang out again and Grace and Owen marched down the aisle. Annie scrambled to keep up with the others. She stole a glimpse backward, wondering if she was not only dreaming up hearing things in church that had not been said, and recalling bits of stories she had not been specifically thinking about, but now seeing things as well. The mouse was no longer visible. A shadow had descended behind the window. She had to hurry to keep up.

Earlier the silver had been polished and the table set. Biscuits and scones had been placed on platters, and frosty pitchers of cider waited in the icebox. The ham had been sliced and the bread baked. All the table linens had been ironed and positioned, and the floors were swept, the furniture dusted, and the candlewicks trimmed. Perhaps the bustle of readying the house had made Annie so weary she imagined she saw mice in the church stained glass.

As Owen and Grace took their places in the parlor to greet guests as they arrived, Annie pulled Aileen aside. “Tell me, am I mad or does the church window, the one next to our pew, have a wee mouse in the corner of it?”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want to know.”

Aileen shrieked playfully. “Surely not. A church mouse? I thought only the stone churches in Ireland had those.”

Annie tented her hands and shook them in front of her. “Not a real mouse, Aileen.”

“I do understand how the mind can wander during services.”

Annie leaned against the kitchen wall. “I . . . well . . .” She couldn’t deny it entirely. She had been too wrapped up in her thoughts of late. She gave up and stomped off to open the door for guests.

Aileen joined her. After collecting coats, she whispered to Annie. “I saw it too. The mouse in the church window. I saw it.”

Annie released a breath. “Fine, so.”

“I saw them in the graveyard in Ireland too,” Aileen said.

“Mice are all over Ireland, Aileen. Just like they are in New York.”

“We are not talking about real mice now, are we?”

“We are not. Why are they there, I wonder?”

“I saw a mouse carved at the foot of a high cross. I heard, though I don’t know if ’tis true, that the monks drew mice in the Book of Kells
 
—you know, that illuminated manuscript they have at Trinity College.”

“That’s very interesting, Aileen. I thought you didn’t do well with your lessons.”

“I listened. I might not have been able to read, but I was not lame-headed, Annie.”

“Of course you weren’t. I’m sorry.”

At the next knock, Annie was surprised to see Mr. Barrows. “I see you are having a party, Miss Gallagher. I had hoped you and I could discuss matters before I leave for Dublin.”

“Come in. We are celebrating a wedding.”

He took off his hat. “I won’t detain you. Until we can talk longer, please take this.” He handed her an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Mail from Mr. Redmond’s readers. Please, humor me. Examine a few of these. I will call again in a few days.” His face softened. “I would like you to understand why we cannot allow those children’s stories to be published by just anyone. I’m a businessman, true. But I do care about your father’s legacy.”

He glanced to the crowd in the parlor. “Later, when you have time.” He replaced his hat and turned toward the door. “Please excuse my intrusion.”

38

S
TEPHEN THOUGHT
he was late when he got to the gate outside Hawkins House, but a couple was just entering ahead of him. After they were admitted, Aileen greeted him.

“Fancy seeing you here, Stephen Adams.”

He took a step backward. “I was invited.”

She pulled on his arm. “’Tis frightfully cold out. Get inside. Of course you were invited.” She winked and took the wrapped gift he brought.

Embarrassed, he kept his gaze on the entry rug as he removed his coat. He didn’t think Annie would have been so glad to see him had she answered the door, but he hoped to remedy that soon.

The doorbell chimed behind him. He scooted farther down the hall to allow the newcomers to enter.

“Hard to hear that thing. Most folks just knock.” Aileen opened the door. “Welcome, Dr. Thorp, Mrs. Thorp.”

The house was stuffed with merry folks chattering in clusters. He tipped his head toward the parlor but could not see as much as a foot-sized empty spot on the floral rug. He turned at the sound of his name.

“Ah, Mr. Adams. So good of you to join us.”

The hostess held out a tray of cookies. “Please, have one. I used my own coriander from my summer garden.”

“Delightful. Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.” He took two.

“Annie is here somewhere. Please be sure to speak to her, love. She has had quite a day.” She moved on, wiggling between guests.

He made his way down to the kitchen, where there was a bit more unoccupied space. Annie was bent over a pot on the stove. He waited, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips.

When she turned, he pulled some banknotes from his pocket and laid them down on the table. “I want to make a donation, Ann . . . I mean, Miss Gallagher. To your library. Or perhaps to assist with getting your stories published.” He was about to explain that the stories were in his coat pocket out in the hall, but she seemed rather employed at the moment and unable to accept them just then.

She pushed the tray of meatballs toward him, mumbling something about how fast they were disappearing. She glanced down at his offering and then met his gaze. “What a kind gesture. I . . . I don’t think that is possible now. Mr. Barrows, a man from Dublin . . .” She bit her lip as though trying not to say more.

“Yes, I know. I was in Davis’s office when he dropped by, and I heard about the copyright issue. Don’t give up. I know how much it means to you.”

“I imagine you are concerned about your dividends . . . what you might have received from the arrangement as well.” She picked up the money. After a moment’s hesitation, she handed it back.

“No, that’s not how it is at all.”

“It’s all right. I’m sure you need this, and as I said, it’s very nice of you to offer. However, it seems neither you nor I will be making any money with those stories.”

Reluctantly he put the banknotes back in his pocket, telling himself he’d find a way to help her even if he had to do it anonymously.

She pointed to the tray.

He speared a meatball with the fork she handed him. “I’m afraid you have misjudged me.”

“And Jonas Wagner as well? You think I’ve misjudged him?” she whispered. “You threatened Kirsten’s brother.”

“It’s complicated. I do hope you will let me explain.”

Aileen entered and tugged on Annie’s arm. “I can’t do all the work myself. Come.”

Annie smiled tight-lipped as if to say there was nothing she could do, and the two women dashed off.

Stephen picked up the tray and followed after them. The hall was still filled with guests. Someone called to him.

“Ah, Stephen!”

“Dex. What a surprise.”

“The police sergeant has been a great friend to many of the shop owners in the neighborhood. He invited us.”

Stephen lost sight of the women just short of the parlor.

Dexter took a meatball from the tray. “Keeping these for yourself, fella?”

“Oh no. Please.” He held the tray out. When Dexter took hold of it with both hands, Stephen let go. As he wove through the crowd of black coats and evening dresses topped with pearl necklaces, he heard Dexter calling after him.

“I need this recipe for the diner,” he said.

Stephen held a hand up over the crowd to let his friend know he’d heard.

The piano music paused just then, and even though a fiddler Stephen recognized from the dances had not yet begun playing, the house was anything but quiet. The din of chatter
made it hard to concentrate. If he were only a few inches taller. He dipped low, then rose up on his toes. Finally he spotted the women standing near the doctor, who was seated by the window.

The bespectacled man lifted his head to look at Mrs. Hawkins. “Your German girl has gotten away from the trouble that plagued her. So it seems this matter is finished for all of you. And what a fine party and delicious food you have prepared. My warmest congratulations,” he said to Grace and Owen. He motioned toward the center of the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll join Ella now.”

The matter wasn’t over for Jonas Wagner. Stephen didn’t know if they realized that.

A few hours later the crowd thinned as celebrants began departing. Stephen retrieved his overcoat from among the pile on a hall coat tree. Annie found him there. “Leaving?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Everyone else seems to be.”

Mrs. Hawkins called from the parlor. “Annie, come sit. Grace and Owen are going to open some of their gifts.”

Annie did not seem willing to break the gaze they held. Stephen blinked but did not move.

“I shouldn’t intrude,” he finally said.

“Nonsense.” She nodded toward the room.

“Come in, love,” Mrs. Hawkins said to him.

He stood awkwardly in front of the window, sending the candle holding watch there fluttering.

The couple opened boxes containing silver platters and linen tablecloths. The Parker children reclined near the hearth, where Aileen sat in a rocking chair holding the youngest, who slumbered peacefully.

“Thank you, Mr. Adams. What a well-made woven blanket,”
Grace said, pulling his thoughts back to the purpose of the gathering.

He smiled.

As the others chatted, he whispered to Annie, “I have something in my coat pocket for you. Let me get it.” He hurried to the coat tree, found the fat envelope containing her stories, and handed it to her. He’d gotten them back from Davis that afternoon, after Davis had finished making copies.

Aileen came into the hall as the Parkers prepared to leave. Mr. Parker’s sister took the toddler from Aileen and they handed coats around. Annie helped, so Stephen sat quietly on one of the floral chairs. Grace and Owen began to pack up their presents. “Allow me to help.” He grabbed his coat again and started gathering boxes and baskets.

By the time he finished loading up a wagon parked in the rear alley, the hour was very late. But Mrs. Hawkins asked him not to leave yet. “Annie would like to thank you.”

“For what?”

She urged him inside. He sat in the parlor with the woman and Annie, who was still wearing a coat after having helped to carry gifts. Aileen had gone with the Parkers, the newlyweds had departed for their new house, and all the guests had left.

“I do thank you for returning these, Mr. Adams.”

“I apologize sincerely. I’m afraid my enthusiasm
 
—”

Annie held up a hand. “Do not speak of it. What’s done is done.”

He bit his lip.

Annie gently lifted the yellowed pages to put them away in the writing desk she held in her lap, but as she did, a puzzled look passed over her. “The desk feels weighty.” She dug her hand around inside. “Hmm.” She slid her hand along the back and Stephen heard a click. Then she opened what appeared to
be a hidden compartment and pulled out a small black leather book. “Who put this in here?”

“What is it, love?” Mrs. Hawkins asked, settling into a chair by the tea table.

Annie opened the cover, and Stephen gazed over her shoulder. The writing was peculiar, not in English. Being a postman, he’d seen foreign writing before. “This looks like German to me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hawkins, I think I found Jonas’s ledger.”

Indeed it would have barely fit inside a letter box.

A noise on the stair made them all turn to look. Stocking feet appeared and then a long, thin hand as someone bent low to gaze into the parlor. Finally a face peered from between the balusters. Miss Kirsten Wagner!

A clatter erupted as the women gathered around the girl. Stephen picked up the ledger so many people had been clamoring to get. He wanted to take it, but after what he’d done with the stories, he thought better of it. He would trust Mrs. Hawkins to guard it, but he’d have to let the postmaster know it had been found.

With all the hubbub over the reappearance of the missing girl, Stephen felt like someone who had sneaked into a theater without paying. His pounding heart accused him of intruding. He shouldn’t be there. Even when he’d slipped a gift into Annie’s coat pocket as they sat together on the sofa, she had not noticed. He hoped when she found it, she would finally understand where his heart truly was.

As both women fussed over Kirsten Wagner where she stood on the stairs, he went to the front door. “I should be going.” No one looked at him. “Good-bye.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the frosty night. Glancing up and down the sidewalk, he did not see Jonas anywhere. His sister had returned; the ledger was found.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and then remembered he’d forgotten the new mittens Mrs. Jacobs had made for him. He’d taken them off to return the papers to Annie.

He turned and looked back at the house, its windows glowing with candlelight. He’d sent his heart down a sledding hill for a woman who lived there, but she wouldn’t even hear him out.

He opened and shut the gate, letting himself out like he always did when he delivered mail. He walked toward First Church.

When he rounded the corner of Rayburn Street, he saw lights on in the windows. He pulled off his hat, entered the building, and sat in a rear pew.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder.

“Reverend Clarke. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? This is God’s house, son. Stay as long as you like. If you need me, I’m right here. Just wanted to let you know that.”

Stephen glanced up toward the altar, tears blurring his sight. Reverend Clarke was one of the few he’d told about the circumstances surrounding his father’s death. “I have tried not to be a failure like my father was.”

“Oh, son, your father was a troubled man who made a poor decision that he likely didn’t foresee the consequences of. What he did has injured you, but it need not destroy you. The very fact that you are struggling proves you are not defeated.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s dealing with our troubles that wearies us and causes us to come into the sanctuary late at night. And that’s good, in fact. Someone who runs away from strife is not someone who will prevail when all is said and done. What your father did was give up. I don’t see you surrendering. And if you’re not, then you must be trying. And so long as you do, you will never be a failure. There is always a new beginning waiting for you.”

Stephen took a long deep breath. They sat in silence a good while. Finally Stephen turned to him. “Sometimes I’m just so angry.” The muscles in his jaw tightened. He hated the feeling.

“Being angry is understandable. I can’t say how you should be feeling. It was an awful thing.”

Stephen pounded his fists together, frustrated. “I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

“That is an important thing to consider. All your anger is doing is hurting you inside.”

“How do I stop it?”

“Forgive him.”

“I . . . I did not realize . . . That’s a hard thing, Reverend.”

“And that’s the very thing you are struggling with. It taints every aspect of your life, I imagine. True, it’s hard, but if you cannot do it, it’s you alone who suffers.”

Stephen thought about this. “How do I ensure that my life turns out better? How can I know I’m not destined for the same fate? I’ve tried to be nice to everyone. I’ve never said a harsh word to anyone on my mail route. I’ve tried to maintain a good financial standing, even though I’ve not done well thus far. But I’ve improved my situation. I’ve worked so hard, and still . . .” He put his head in his hands. “I’m alone.”

“There you’re wrong. You most certainly are not alone.”

“I mean . . . I have no family, Reverend.”

“I believe God intends for everyone to be in a family. You are God’s child.”

“I know. But I have no earthly family, despite how I’ve tried. I feel . . . unlovable. What it is about me that makes people want to leave me?”

The reverend gripped Stephen’s shoulder with more force. “I do not believe your father wanted to leave you, son. He was so
caught up in his own grief, he probably could not even remember he had a family.”

“Is that possible?”

“It is, unfortunately. I have counseled many people over the years. Feelings of despair so overshadow some folks, they cannot think outside of themselves. They forget to eat, forget they have a job, fail to even get out of bed sometimes. So certainly they don’t think about their families. It is not within their ability during those moments, not because they don’t care about their loved ones, but because they cannot perceive anything besides the pain they feel.”

“Truly I never thought of that. So he might not have even thought about me when he took his life.”

“Anguish can consume people, son. They are in a place where they do not even allow the light of God to shine through. That is not the family’s fault. Now for you, there are many standing with you, Stephen. You are not alone. You are a child of God and a member of the saints. I baptized you myself, just after your father died. Have you forgotten?”

“No, Reverend, I haven’t forgotten. I was desperate then and seeking peace.”

“And God brought peace, but he does not promise you will not have trouble again. He offers refuge and shows you the way to walk through hard times. We all stumble, but we rise again because of the hope he gives.”

Stephen tapped his chest with a closed fist. “I know these things, but somehow . . . knowing doesn’t help here. Where it hurts the most.”