Annie's Stories (4 page)

“Oh, love,” Mrs. Hawkins called out before she could leave. “I left a gift for you on your bed.”

“A gift?”

“I believe it is your birthday, isn’t it?”

Annie was sure she hadn’t mentioned that. She had tried not to think about her birthday arriving without a gift from her father. “How did you know, Mrs. Hawkins?”

The woman swatted the air. “Oh, you must have mentioned it sometime.”

“I . . . uh . . . That was not necessary, Mrs. Hawkins. How kind of you.”

“I wanted to, love. I overheard you and the postman discussing a book you’d like to read. I happened to be in the bookshop and they had it. Do you know the papers say the editions of that book have been selling out almost as quickly as they come off the presses?”

Annie put a hand to her jaw just in case she was gawking. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.” Annie could not comprehend what had motivated this action, but she was more than delighted. No one other than her father had ever been so thoughtful. The woman’s hawk-like senses at work again.

Mrs. Hawkins beamed at her. “Hurry along now.”

Annie rushed to her room and found a book with a green cover waiting for her. She snatched it up and felt the weight of it in her hand. She’d seen thicker books, but
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
was not at all as abridged as she had imagined. She set the book on the mahogany desk. Flipping it open, she noted brilliant illustrations similar to the spectacle-wearing lion on the front cover. How remarkably the book was colored. What a valuable gift this was. Her father would have loved . . . She
blinked back the thought. She did not want the emptiness in her heart to shadow this moment. She rubbed her hand over the surface of the book. Stories always revealed more than most folks realized. She could not wait to discover this one’s meaning.

As Annie read about Dorothy’s house landing on the Wicked Witch of the East, someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”

Kirsten entered, wringing her hands in her skirt. “I just wanted to thank you for writing my brother for me.”

“You are welcome.” Annie wanted to get back to the dreamworld of the book. She had visions of brightly dressed Munchkins frolicking in her head.

Kirsten did not leave. “I was wondering if I could ask another favor.”

Annie only had one hour before dinner, and she had to find out more about the good witch in the story. A good witch had to be more interesting than Dorothy’s gray Aunt Em and Uncle Henry.

“That dance you are going to. Tomorrow? I am usually working, but I will ask to leave early, like the Irish girls do . . . and I was wondering if I might go with you.”

Annie would not mind doing things for Kirsten that she would soon begrudgingly have to do for Aileen. “Certainly. Be ready at half seven. That’s when the driver comes.”

“You do not mind?”

“Not if you don’t. ’Tis an Irish dance. You know that?”

“
Ja.
If the
gut
people of Hawkins House go there, it must be a place I should like to go too. I . . . uh . . . I want to be with
gut
people, you know.”

“’Tis a bit of fun for sure. You are most welcome.”

“I will be ready.” She nearly bounced out the door.

Annie shut the door behind her. If only she could stay in Oz, where dreams were real. Unlike Dorothy, she could never
hope to go home again. She stared at the book lying on her bed. Just because someone gives you a gift doesn’t mean there is love, and like Da said, home is where the people you love are. Grace’s employer was generous, but the Parkers were no more Grace’s family than Mrs. Hawkins was Annie’s.

As Annie struggled with those logical thoughts, she wasn’t sure she’d convinced her heart. She walked over and stroked the pages of the gift. Her very own book, and a new copy at that. If it could be true that Hawkins House could be Annie’s home . . . but nay. Her genuine home only existed now in her dreams.

4

S
TEPHEN HAD NOTHING
to look forward to this evening but a good book. He was almost finished with Jules Verne’s
Facing the Flag
and had brought it to work to read during lunch. He pulled the novel from his bag as he approached his apartment building, musing to himself that if there was ever a way to read while working, he’d absorb a greater number of books. Wouldn’t that be grand? Books while he walked. Authors like Verne were always coming up with fanciful inventions of the future. Imagine some type of recording device like a phonograph that could capture someone reading aloud and was small enough to be transportable. Stephen was always reading in the
Times
about H. G. Wells’s quirky futuristic ideas. He wondered if Wells or Verne had ever thought of that.

Stephen practically tripped over his landlord, who met him inside the entry door. Stephen’s apartment was located up a flight of stairs inside the building. The offices of Davis Publishing were on the ground floor just to the right of the entry, and Alan Davis owned the entire building.

“Adams.” The portly man tipped his head.

“Davis. Fine day, wasn’t it?”

“What’s that you’re reading, son?”

Stephen handed the book to him. Alan Davis squinted at
the cover. He flipped through the pages, noting Stephen’s bookmark near the end. “Did you enjoy this?”

“I have, yes. I didn’t know much about ships and submarines before reading this. And the way the governments were all vying to keep a weapon capable of massive destruction from being produced by a mentally unsound man. Fascinating.”

Davis handed the book back. “Verne. Quite the imagination, hasn’t he?”

Stephen shifted on his sore feet. “Well, actually most everything he proposes seems viable.”

“Hmm. What else have you read lately?”

“I’ve reread some Dickens. Some George MacDonald, a few of those serials by that Redmond fellow
 
—a Brit, isn’t he?”

“I think so. Mysterious lad, though. No one knows much about him, except that he’s passed on now.”

“Pity.”

“Yes.” Davis pulled on his lapels the way college professors tended to do when they were about to say something scholarly. Stephen had become a thorough observer of human idiosyncrasies while working his route. Davis smacked his lips before he spoke. “Here’s something the average postman wouldn’t know. Redmond used a mark on every manuscript, to identify his work. Apparently the fellow was a bit of a traveler, and verifying that a manuscript was truly his became problematic, so he used a secret design only publishers knew about. Even after he had an exclusive publishing agreement, the practice continued.”

“That so? You’ve seen it?”

“I have, over at the club. Walter Page showed it to me.”

Stephen scratched his head. “Why does that name sound familiar? Who is he?”

“A new partner with Doubleday. You probably read about him in the papers.”

“I suppose so. Doubleday published Redmond?”

“No. Don’t know where he got it. Those old boys in the club, they collect such artifacts, and now that the author has left this earth, some wealthy gent will probably pay good money for that paper.”

“Hmm. What do you publish?” Stephen had always wondered, but the opportunity to ask had never presented itself before now.

“Dime-store novels and a few British reprints.” The man puffed out his chest. “But we’re looking to make some major acquisitions in the near future.”

Stephen had no idea what he meant. “Sounds splendid.”

“Have you always liked to read?”

“Since I was a boy. Reading took me places I could never travel to. Reading was . . . You know, sometimes kids prefer to live in an imaginary world rather than the real one.”

“Good that children enjoy reading. Parents buy books for kids who like to read.”

“Uh, yes, that would delight a publisher, I would imagine.”

“Suppose you’d spend your money at the bookshop, if you had it to spend.”

Stephen lacked a natural proficiency for managing money, although he did try. And with little discretionary income to spare, he needed to pay close attention to ensure his paycheck covered his necessary expenses, something he was not very good at. Leave it to Davis to point that out. “Books are hard to come by. A friend who owns a diner lent me this one. I should finish it tonight so I can return it. If you will excuse me, I am going to retire. Nice speaking with you, Davis.”

“Of course. Good evening, Adams.” The man lifted his hand and then turned back to his office, where he accessed the stairs to his own apartment.

Stephen unlocked his door and entered his dark, cold home. He pulled the string near the door, which lit the room from an overhead fixture. Being in a building where there were offices meant he had electric lights, and he enjoyed that benefit, especially since there was no one there to warm things up for him after a long day at work. The furnishings he’d purchased were sparse and well used, but he didn’t care for a lot of furniture anyway. Cluttered up the space.

He hung his coat on a row of pegs behind the door and plopped down on his lumpy sofa. This place would not do for a wife. Women liked pretty trappings, flowered fabrics, and ornate lamps and mirrors
 
—things his mother had once used to decorate the apartment he grew up in. He’d left it all behind when . . .

He rubbed his eyes. He could not have kept any of it, not with the memories. His brother, Hank, hadn’t wanted to take anything because he roomed with other men and had no space of his own. If Stephen were able to make a home with someone, he would have to buy new things. How much did they cost? He didn’t need much for himself, but having a family would require more than he currently had. He looked around his apartment and tried to imagine it filled with children and a wife. Laughter, singing, board games, and all sorts of toys
 
—he would not mind how crowded that would be.

First, however, he needed to lift the burden that hung on him like a concrete anchor. It was his responsibility to bear the cost of three burials: his mother’s, his father’s, and not long ago his brother Hank’s. He disliked owing the undertaker but bore his lot alone because he had to. Unfair, but what in life was fair?

His arms felt cold and empty. To embrace someone, not just shake the hands of acquaintances, would bring life back to his heart. He enjoyed reading books about families and could,
through the pages, imagine being a father himself, a good one, the kind of man God intended fathers to be. He patted the old black Bible on the spindly end table next to him. The greatest commandments were to love God and to love others.

Show me how.

He added the novel to his pile on the end table and picked up the evening paper he’d brought home. He ignored the news columns and turned to the advertisements. Life insurance, telephone service, ladies’ garments
 
—all expenses he didn’t now have but hoped to take on when he had a family. Skirts and gowns cost nearly fifty cents apiece.

He tossed the paper aside. The tune he liked to whistle came back to him as he prepared a meal of cold chicken from his icebox and sweet buns baked a few days ago by his neighbor.

After he ate, he opened the small box where he kept photographs of his family. In one, taken during a time when his father had been employed, his mother stood with her hand on his father’s shoulder while he sat stiffly on a stool. Stephen perched on his father’s knee and Hank held on to his mother’s hand. His mother had thick, red hair, and she was so young in this photograph. He didn’t remember his father ever having such a bright expression. He gazed at the faces of those people who were blissfully unaware of what their future held.

Stephen’s eyes went to the brooch pinned at his mother’s throat. He dug into the box and pulled out the piece of jewelry. He reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and rubbed the tarnished silver filigree that surrounded the enameled heart. One day he hoped to give this to his love. If something as disastrous as his father’s lost savings ever befell Stephen, he would not crumble from it. He would never abandon a wife and children. Such cowardice, if it ran in bloodlines, could be extinguished, he hoped, with effort and prayer.

5

W
HEN THE DRIVER ARRIVED
Thursday evening, Annie, Kirsten, and the other boarder, Grace, climbed into the wagon bed. It was worth the inconvenience of riding in a farm wagon rather than in a carriage if it meant a crowd would fill the dance hall. Annie tried to attend whenever she could, if for no other reason than to allow the music to send her back to a happier time.
Keep the good; discard the bad.
Her father loved music and was always whistling one of the old tunes. Annie loved the throng. The dance reminded her of neighbors in Ireland gathering in the evenings for music,
craic
, and dancing. It was as close to the memory of her father’s mass storytellings as she could get.

“You’ve brought a new friend,” Emma called from somewhere within the sea of black skirts.

Annie made her way over to the friend she’d met at one of these dances as smiling lasses pulled aside their shiny boots to let her through. “A new boarder from Hawkins House,” she explained. “This is Kirsten Wagner.”

“I’m Emma. So pleased to meet you.”

“
Ja.
And you.” Kirsten was so shy she didn’t meet Emma’s gaze.

Emma reached for Kirsten’s hand, then turned back to Annie. “Gerry’s band is playing.” Emma held a gloved hand to her lips.

Annie bent her head toward Emma. “I know you’re sweet on him. May the most you wish for be the least you get, Emma. And all happiness to follow.”

“Ah, so. But there’s another lad, an Italian, who’s nice too. So many handsome young men in America, and what about you, Miss Annie? Sure and you’ll never find a husband if you don’t start looking.”

“A husband? I’m an independent woman, don’t you know?” She said it in a jesting manner, but she did mean it. She’d have to make her own way. Men as noble and caring as her father had been were rare. Out there, somewhere, there had to be a path to guide her to a better place, a place she’d travel to alone. Father Weldon had spoken of it when he blessed her.

Before he sent her off on the ship, he had asked her to rise. His hand hovering over her head, he blessed her in the way of Saint Patrick with a prayer of protection:
“May the strength of God pilot you. May the wisdom of God instruct you. May the hand of God protect you. May the Word of God direct you. This day and forevermore.”

Direct her where? If only he had told her how to find it, but find her way home she would, somehow.

At the dance hall, Annie led Kirsten to a crowd of other maids as Emma tagged along. Kirsten could find friends here. After a few introductions Annie directed her to the refreshments table and watched as she sipped on a glass of ginger beer.

Grace joined them, wiping fizz from her lips with her fingers. “I love my job, but I’m so happy to have some time off.”

“Ja,”
Kirsten agreed.

“Even without your betrothed?” Emma teased.

“He works nights,” Grace explained.

Annie marveled at Grace’s transformation. She’d come over a frightened immigrant, like so many, and now after a
time of courtship, she was getting married and moving into a home of her own. Happiness comes to some. Others have to go after it.

Kirsten’s sullen expression spoke of some kind of unmentioned heartache. Annie tried to engage her. “You have a fine job, don’t you, Kirsten? Make lots of money?”

Kirsten slid her boot in an arching motion in front of her. “I do fine.”

Grace smiled at her. “And you’re not changing nappies, either.”

The sounds of a fiddle and accordion covered any further conversation.

“Let’s dance.” Emma pulled Annie away.

Annie caught a glimpse of someone she thought she recognized. Near the door stood a man in a dark suit twirling a cap between his hands. Curly black hair and pensive posture . . . Was that the postman? An all-American lad like him here? He did seem to enjoy Irish tunes, but she could not get a clear enough view to be sure it was him.

Emma led her closer to the band, probably to get a better look at the fellow she was fond of, and when Annie glanced back, she no longer saw the stranger. It probably hadn’t been the postman.

The room bulged with men and women in black and brown clothing, but the music was a thriving, glorious kaleidoscope. It wasn’t until after the third reel that Annie realized Kirsten was sitting alone. Taking pity on the girl, Annie left the center of activity and joined her on the outskirts. They exchanged smiles and Annie was about to ask if she was enjoying herself but decided to ask about Kirsten’s brother instead.

“He is a very fine gentleman, Annie.”

“He sounded quite kind, I mean from the sound of his words in the letter.” The girl hadn’t lost all connection with her home since her brother cared about her.

“You would like him if you truly knew him.” A distracted expression filled Kirsten’s eyes.

“Truly?”

The girl’s face brightened. What had she been thinking just a moment earlier? “Everyone likes my brother. No reason they should not.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right, darlin’. I suppose I was thinking everyone’s a matchmaker these days. Emma’s afraid I’ll be a spinster.”

“You? With your
gut
looks?”

“You flatter me.”

“I would wish for hair as wavy as yours, and the color of a sunset, Annie.”

“A sunset? Thank you, Kirsten, but your hair is lovely too.”

“Ja.”
She twisted a strand around her index finger. “Did you post the letter yet?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“You wait and see. He will send a quick reply.” Again the words sounded hopeful, but Kirsten’s demeanor did not match.

“He is very devoted to you.”

Kirsten’s face drained of color. She glanced toward the door and turned back to whisper. “There is someone . . . I do not know, but it seems someone is following me.”

Annie looked around. “I don’t see anyone, so.”

“I know.” She flagged her hand. “Nothing. Must be nothing.” She excused herself. Annie watched as she wandered over to a group of giggling lasses. They enveloped Kirsten and Annie soon lost sight of her.

The girl was so new to America she had likely not become accustomed to the crowded city, if such a thing were possible. Or perhaps, like Annie, she had tried to escape the pains of some miserable happening.

On Friday misery did descend, but not in a manner Annie or anyone else could have expected.

“People on the trolleys are saying no one is safe if the president cannot attend a public gathering like the Pan-American Exposition without fearing for his life,” Grace exclaimed as they sat around the silent piano.

Mrs. Hawkins shook out the evening newspaper, but the words still stuck to the pages. The president had been shot. “Buffalo, where it happened, is a long train ride north,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “Still in the state of New York.” She nodded at Grace. “They should have had well-trained men there, like your Owen, protecting the president.”

Grace’s face reddened. Annie hoped there was more than one good man in New York. But this shooting proved that evil men lurked everywhere, even in music halls in Buffalo. If God was not with the president, then how could Annie ever expect he would protect her?

Mrs. Hawkins stared at the paper again. “The
Times
says the assassin was a man named Czolgosz, an anarchist, who lives in Cleveland.”

Grace stood and gazed out the window. “There is no answer for why these things happen.”

Annie knew Grace had to be thinking of the sorrow the Parker family had endured. She turned to Mrs. Hawkins. “How do you suppose
 
—I mean, surely Reverend Clarke has mentioned something, some way to overcome evil and injustice? Can nothing be done but just endure it? If the American president can be harmed like this . . .”

“Jesus told us, love, that in this world there will be tribulation, but he has overcome the world.”

The woman seemed content with that. So did Grace. The thought that one must wait for Jesus to return unsettled Annie.
Inaction only led to injustice. Annie longed to retreat to her book, where surely following a yellow brick path led to better things.

Move on, Dorothy. Find your way home.

Mrs. Hawkins took a sip of her evening tea and kept reading. “Thankfully it looks as though President McKinley will recover. The king of Italy last year. And now this. Oh, dear God.”

Two days later, with the city still abuzz over the assassination attempt, Annie sat with Grace and Mrs. Hawkins in their usual pew at First Church. Kirsten should have been off work like everyone else, but her boss insisted she return on Sunday mornings to catch up on whatever had not been finished that week. Annie thought about the lass while the choir sang.

When the choir finished, Reverend Clarke approached the lectern, looking grave. Annie tried to listen, but Kirsten and her brother were still on her mind. She pondered why Kirsten was so restrained and skittish. Within the mass of people in Manhattan, Kirsten surely couldn’t believe there was someone watching her with more than mild curiosity. When Annie realized how inattentive she’d been, she gave her head a shake and tried to focus on the man’s words.

All she managed to catch before he concluded with prayer was a sort of poem that he recited. The words seemed to dance in her head like music:

     
There in my Father’s home, safe and at rest,

     
There in my Savior’s love, perfectly blest;

     
Age after age to be, nearer my God to Thee.

Then everyone rose and sang from a hymnal. Annie blinked back tears. She missed the rest she’d had in her father’s presence, and she never knew when some turn of phrase would set off her
grief. Thankfully Annie could usually rein in these emotions. She did not want to share her grief with anyone and was grateful she had the length of the hymn to regain her composure. This moving-on business was arduous.

A week later the newspaper’s reports proved wrong. President McKinley would not recover. Annie didn’t know him, of course
 
—had not read anything in detail about him in the newspapers since she’d arrived
 
—but somehow she felt that he’d been a good man like her da. Secretly she feared that without President McKinley to lead them, the United States might slip into the orphan-like nothingness where she was.

After supper that night Grace and Mrs. Hawkins began talking about the sorrowful passing of President McKinley. “I do believe his family will suffer from losing him, as will the entire country,” Grace said.

Mrs. Hawkins sighed. “I suppose we all empathize with their grief, don’t we, girls?”

Although Annie understood it, she did not want to discuss it. She could not control her tears as it was. She rose to serve tea and occupy her thoughts.

“Oh, that dear man’s wife,” Mrs. Hawkins exclaimed. “As a widow myself I know the pain.”

Grace placed her hand gently on the woman’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Hawkins could easily be moved to tears, as she had been when Queen Victoria died. Annie wished she had an excuse to quit the room because she hated seeing others in this kind of misery. It made hers all the worse.

“New York’s own Theodore Roosevelt shall now be president,” Mrs. Hawkins said.

So the country was not left without a ruler. “Will he be a good
leader, Mrs. Hawkins?” Annie knew there were disreputable folks in positions of authority, such as the doctor in the Magdalene Laundry. The thought sent a spasm down her arms.

“I believe so, love. He did some good works here in this state.”

“That’s admirable, so.” She bit the inside of her cheek as she fought to keep bad thoughts away.
Focus on the good.

Grace picked up her camera, which for her was as precious as Annie’s stories. She began winding a roll of film. “A pity Mr. Roosevelt had to take office in this manner.”

The Hawk exhaled. “They say the president’s last words were from a Christian hymn.”

“Truly?” Annie poured tea.

“It’s right in the newspapers, love. It’s been widely reported. In fact, bands will be playing the hymn during his funeral procession.”

Annie sat back down. She welcomed the distraction from talking about the pain of being left behind. “Do you know this dirge?” She had not yet learned all the American hymns.

The Hawk swallowed hard. “I do indeed. The words were penned by an Englishwoman. I read that the poor now-departed president recited some lines on his deathbed. I don’t know which lines, but this is what I remember.” She cleared her throat. “‘Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me, still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee.’”

The woman choked back a sob, and Grace embraced her.

Annie thought the words sounded familiar. “How does the tune go, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Mrs. Hawkins sipped her water and then answered. “I do not mind at all, love. It is a beautiful hymn.”

When she began to hum, Annie knew she had heard it recently. “We just heard that at church, now, didn’t we?”

Both Grace and Mrs. Hawkins sighed. “I don’t remember singing it for some time,” the elder woman answered.

“Oh, but I was sure
 
—”

“Those exact words and that tune?”

“Well, I think so. It all sounds so familiar.”

Grace stared down at her camera’s viewfinder as she spoke. “Perhaps Reverend Clarke mentioned the hymn at some time, Annie.”

Annie conceded this and collected the teacups to return to the kitchen, the tune playing out in her head as clear as an Irish church bell.