Circled Heart (5 page)

“Yes, very well. What do you know about the Anchorage?” The abrupt change of topic did not faze me.

“I know it’s one of many Crittenton homes dotted across the country, and that it offers shelter to unwed mothers whose families either cannot or will not care for them.”

“Your tone speaks your disapproval.”

“Not of the girls,” I interjected quickly. “I would never hold their circumstances against them. It’s the families with whom I have little patience, shipping the young woman off to an unfamiliar place to have her baby among strangers, then bringing her back and pretending she’s been visiting Aunt Molly in Omaha.”

“Sometimes that is the best course for everyone concerned, Miss Swan. The young woman picks up her life and the baby goes to a loving home, to parents who have longed for a child of their own.”

“Sometimes,” I agreed grudgingly, “but can you really tell me that every young woman willingly gives away her baby without feeling grief or rebellion at the action her family forced upon her because they did not wish to deal with public opinion and the unkind and hypocritical judgments society will make?” Hilda Cartwright did not answer my question, simply met my eyes and smiled.

“I see exactly what Sally Gray meant. The Anchorage mission began as a safe haven for prostitutes who wished to leave their lives on the streets. Following that, it grew into the conventional home for unwed mothers that you describe, but today under the leadership of Dr. Barrett it is evolving into something much more expansive and inclusive. We offer refuge to all women of all ages, Miss Swan, not just unwed mothers. We continue to have our share of those, of course, and it might surprise you that most of them are poor girls or young immigrants with little family support and no real home. We provide other options besides giving the child up for adoption. In fact, we encourage the mothers to keep their children and offer various means of support for them to do so. That’s one of the many areas where I envision your assistance.”

I was quiet, listening carefully. My plans for my future had not included this environment. Instead, I had pictured a gleaming hospital, something modern and progressive, where I would work with those truly ill. Yet the passion in Miss Cartwright’s voice and her obvious dedication to the Anchorage and its mission were making an unexpected and favorable impression.

“We have women here who have fled brutish husbands and fathers but have no idea how to get on in the world. If we don’t give them viable skills and help them find employment, they will be forced to return to an environment that could quite literally kill them. We have women who can hardly speak a word of English, lured to Chicago by unscrupulous men for lives of prostitution or demeaning labor, slave labor I call it, regardless of the fact that slavery was forbidden almost fifty years ago. The Anchorage offers protection, education, and encouragement, and we could use you, all of you, your skills, your education, and your temperament.”

“If anything,” I warned, “Miss Gray was too kind. I’ve led an unusual life and I am very flawed. Why do you think I would suit?”

She rose from her desk. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

We went out of her office and down the hall toward the back of the house, stopping outside a pair of partially open double doors. Miss Cartwright put her finger to her lips and we stood there, shamelessly eavesdropping. From within I could hear a woman’s voice.

“—judged by her quiet nature, Mrs. Stanislaw,” the speaker droned. “Men who have worked all day in the rigors of the world prefer to be greeted with a smile and a soft hello. It would hardly be appropriate for you to hold one of the office jobs that modern women so enthusiastically pursue. That may be for women of a certain class, but you would be better served finding a husband or, lacking that, seeking domestic service.”

Those words were almost too much for Miss Cartwright, who frowned and reached for the door to enter the room. She stopped mid-gesture, however, took me by the arm, and urged me back down the hall and into her office.

“That was Mrs. Fereon, one of several volunteers who need to leave. They disapprove of a woman working outside the home, regardless of her circumstance. They do not believe in advanced education for women, and they long for the old order of things, a caste system that’s a relic of an old generation. They create rebellion with their unrealistic advice and then wonder why the girls are scornful and rude to them.” Miss Cartwright spoke vehemently. “Unfortunately, I need a replacement before I can tactfully ask Mrs. Fereon to leave.”

“And you think I’m suited to be that replacement?”

“You’re young and straightforward and I believe our residents would listen to you. You don’t appear to stand on pretense, and I can’t imagine you’ve ever been pompous in your life. You’ve seen the world and you know what skills it would take for these women to survive in it. The Anchorage could use your services, Miss Swan.” At my silence, she went on, “We can’t pay you very much and it may not be what you planned for your future, but give us a year of your life and see what a difference you can make. You’ll have free rein to set up educational and training programs and if, after a year, you decide it’s not for you, so be it. You won’t have lost all that much and I sincerely believe the Anchorage will have gained immeasurably. What do you say?”

I thought through her offer and all she said, then answered simply, “I say yes. I’ll give it a year. Yes.”

That simply I arranged my future, realizing as Hilda Cartwright spoke that I might never again have the opportunity to make such a difference in people’s lives. What had all my training been for, after all, the years of college and nursing school, if not for this time and place? I knew without a doubt that at this moment in my life, the Anchorage was where I was meant to be.

The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

The secret anniversaries of the heart.

Chapter Three

Because I have absolutely no patience, once I made my decision I wanted to start immediately.

“Next week will be fine, Miss Swan,” Hilda Cartwright replied, smiling. “You’re just back from two years away from home and your return trip, I understand, was far from uneventful. It’s perfectly understandable if you’d like to spend time with your family before beginning a new venture.”

“Please call me Johanna, and I would prefer to start tomorrow. I’d like to sit in on everything you do and accustom myself to the routine, acquaint myself with the organizations you currently interact with, meet the women who reside here now, and try to understand their needs.” I stopped abruptly, then grinned. “Now you see my flaws exposed and realize Miss Gray was right on target about me. Grandmother says I’m like a locomotive roaring down the track when I get an idea. Please forgive me. Of course, you may have completely different plans for my first days here, and I will start whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Could we compromise and say Thursday, Johanna? That will give me a day or two to prepare Mrs. Fereon for her departure.” Miss Cartwright had the guilty look of a little girl caught in mischief. “I’m too critical, I suppose, and too ready to dismiss her. She’s been a volunteer here for many years, and I know she means well.”

“‘She means well’ are some of the most damning words in the English language, if you ask me,” I responded bluntly, rising, “but I am the newcomer and too ignorant to criticize. Thursday it is. Could you and I spend some time together Thursday morning? I’ll write out a few of my ideas and bring them with me. Then you can set me straight and tell me which ones are completely unsuitable.”

She rose, too, and we walked together from her office down the hall toward the front door. I was once more impressed by the bright cleanliness of the foyer, the fresh lemon scent of furniture oil, and the crisp, starched curtains. Ahead of us, two women of very different ages walked up the stairs, deep in conversation. The younger woman, whose vivid red hair I could see from the back, had an arm around the other’s shoulders and was talking to her in a low voice. For a moment the red-haired woman turned, threw a quick smile down to Miss Cartwright, and gave me a cooler but just as quick examination. Then she and her companion reached the top of the stairs and were out of sight. Miss Cartwright followed my gaze up to the retreating redhead and looked back at me.

“You’ll meet Crea later in the week. She’s invaluable to us.”

“A staff member then?”

“Not exactly.” Changing the subject, she added, “I’m looking forward to your presence here more than I can say, Johanna. You’ll be a breath of fresh air and just what we all need. We’ve done things the same way for many years, but times are changing and we have to change with them. I believe you’re the woman to help us do that. I’ll look forward to Thursday morning.”

I took the train home but got off downtown and took time to walk along the lakeshore before finishing the trip. As usual, the wind off the lake was much too cool for comfort, but I was possessed of a familiar energy that needed to be walked off. I loved new ventures and relished a challenge, and this opportunity appeared to offer both. To make a difference in people’s lives, to be something and do something worthwhile, had always been my heart’s desire, a legacy from my parents, whose example I could never fully emulate. Somehow, though, I knew they would approve of my plans. For years after their deaths, upon my return to the States and coming to my grandmother’s house, I had dreamed of my parents, usually lovely dreams although dark ones crept in now and then. Sadly, the dreams came with less frequency and lately I felt an odd panic, unable any longer to picture their faces in my mind or recall the sounds of their voices. I supposed that explained why the loss of their photograph as it sank along with the Titanic so affected me. Somehow, though, I seemed to have found them again there at the Anchorage, having retrieved a clear memory of my mother’s passionate kindness and my father’s relentlessly optimistic nature. A good omen, I thought, and felt both buoyed and comforted.

Grandmother did not raise an eyebrow when I told her of my decision, not even when I explained that I would take the train to work every day. Anticipating an argument, I continued sternly, “I will not be chauffeur driven to the Anchorage in an expensive automobile. It would look ostentatious, and I wouldn’t be comfortable.”

Grandmother resettled her reading glasses on her nose and went back to her book, saying only, “You may ride a bicycle while wearing a hair shirt for all I care, Johanna. As your legal guardian, however—”

“For only two more years,” I grumbled.

“As your legal guardian,” she repeated without acknowledging my interruption, “I am forced to warn you about becoming a snob.”

“A snob! I am no such thing.”

She still didn’t look at me but pretended interest in her book as she spoke. “You are the one who is making appearance so important. It could well be that no one but you cares how you arrive at the front door. Beware of hypocritical elitism. I detected it among the anarchists, where the leaders pretended to a sympathy with the poor while their speeches sometimes betrayed a secret scorn for them. Poverty is not synonymous with stupidity, and it’s foolish to assume that people are not smart enough to see through such a façade. That kind of superficiality is not worthy of you.”

“You’re being unkind,” I retorted, stung by her words.

My tone made her look up. “I didn’t intend to be unkind, Johanna. Anyone who knows you knows your intentions are benevolent. My words were meant as a friendly warning. Despite what we prefer to believe, human beings do not usually appreciate public charity or being the recipient of self-satisfying humanitarian gestures. Be careful not to patronize.”

“Do I do that?” I was horrified at the idea.

Grandmother went back to her book. “I have never heard it in you, and I never saw it in your mother. Just be aware.”

Her tone said she was finished with the conversation, but she had given me something to think about. The Anchorage was not the rarified and intellectual environment of college or as controlled and objective as nursing school. It was inhabited by living, breathing human beings, some desperate, some hurting, some undoubtedly angry and rebellious. Honesty was my greatest strength and at times my greatest flaw. I thought it would serve me well at the Anchorage, but it still would not hurt to follow my grandmother’s advice and remain aware, not so much of my surroundings as of myself and my own motives.

That night as I readied for bed, I took Douglas Gallagher’s jewelry out of its case and held it in my hand, appreciating as usual the twinkle of the diamonds in the stickpin and the smooth, mirrored finish of the ring. I felt a strong, clear guilt as I did so. I, who prided myself on always keeping my promises, had yet to follow through on a pledge I made to a man rightfully anticipating death. I could not account for my reluctance but knew it to be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I said out loud. “I promised and I will follow through. You deserved better from me and I’m sorry.” Ridiculous as it was, the spoken apology provided some relief. As soon as I became acclimated to my new position at the Anchorage, I would make finding Andrew Gallagher my top priority. Uncle Hal would be a big help because he had all the resources of Chicago at his fingertips and—prophetically as it turned out—I believed I was only a week away from finding Douglas Gallagher’s brother.

The first week I spent at the Anchorage flew by. My initial Thursday morning meeting with Hilda Cartwright extended into the afternoon. Finally, both of us satisfied with my purpose and schedule, Miss Cartwright went to the door of her study.

“I’m going to find Crea so you can meet her. She’ll prove indispensable to you.” The matron returned with the red-haired young woman I had seen earlier in the week. “Johanna, this is Crea O’Rourke. Crea, Miss Swan is here to bring the Anchorage into the twentieth century. I believe you’ll find her to be exactly what we need.”

Crea O’Rourke was a lovely girl, her copper red hair, flawless porcelain skin, and deep green eyes all giving the impression of a china doll. She had a charming voice with an Irish lilt that made music of every word she spoke.

“Welcome, Miss Swan. Matron has spoken very highly of you.”

“It’s Johanna, not Miss Swan, if I may call you Crea in return. What a beautiful name!”

“Thank you. It’s old Irish for heart.” She quickly moved on to another subject. “I’ve told the ladies you were coming, and they’re curious about what exactly you can do for them. These aren’t college-educated women of society families. These are women who know what hard times are.” Her tone held poorly veiled skepticism, if not hostility, and I couldn’t blame her. I must have looked the part of a spoiled young woman trying to find an outlet for her boredom, but if that was what she thought and what her ladies expected, they would realize their mistake soon enough.

“I understand that, and I believe I can help in a number of ways. You—” I was interrupted by the breathless arrival of a woman in the open doorway.

“Matron, come quick. Flora’s bad. It’s not her time, but she’s cramping something fierce.”

Miss Cartwright stepped into the hallway to call Eulalie and send her for the doctor, and I headed for the stairs behind Crea, explaining to the young woman, “I’m a nurse and I may be able to help. Show me where Flora is.”

Crea led me upstairs to a room that held several beds, one of which was inhabited by a girl of sixteen at most. She lay on her side beaded with sweat, her arms wrapped tightly over her rounded stomach. Even with her hair plastered to her head by perspiration and her face uncommonly pale, the girl was pretty, with fair hair and a clear complexion. As I stepped into the room, she moaned in pain and doubled up in a contortion, her knees nearly touching her chest.

I knelt beside the bed, brushing back the girl’s hair from her damp forehead, and said, “Flora, my name is Johanna and I’m going to try to help you. Have you had any bleeding?”

Flora only looked at me piteously out of mute eyes and moaned again. As I knelt there, I reached down my hand to steady myself and felt something against my knees, a glass object of some sort just under the edge of the bed. I brought it out for a closer look and then asked gently, “Did you drink this whole bottle of Mr. Peckham’s Syrup, Flora?” She hesitated, then nodded and moaned again. I stood. “I’ll need a large glass of water mixed with a heaping tablespoon of baking soda and a basin of some kind for Flora to be sick in. Mr. Peckham’s Syrup needs to come up.” Behind me, Miss Cartwright turned without a word and exited. Flora took my hand and squeezed it hard, whether in protest or understanding I couldn’t tell.

“The stuff won’t hurt you on the way up, Flora, but it will continue to cramp you like this if we don’t get it out.” Leaning closer to her, I said quietly, “I know what you thought you were doing, Flora, but Mr. Peckham’s Syrup won’t have any effect on the baby. All it will do, in the quantity you drank, is make you as sick as you feel right now. We’ll deal with the baby sensibly when you’re feeling better.”

Crea, standing on the other side of the bed, met my look. “Do you really understand?” she asked obliquely.

“I think so. Desperation makes people do desperate things, things they wouldn’t think of doing under normal circumstances if they could see any other way out of their situation.”

“You don’t blame her?”

“She’s a child herself. How old is she? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen.”

“I don’t blame her, Crea, but that’s why I’m here, to help women find ways out of desperate situations, to help them through those hard times you mentioned.”

“I didn’t know you were a nurse.”

“When you get to know me, you’ll find I’m a lot of things. A nurse is just one of them.” We exchanged brief smiles before Flora moaned again and a woman appeared at the door with soda water and a large pan. After that we were busy, with nothing to smile about for the next hour or so. The doctor appeared just as Flora shuddered and retched one last time, then lay back down, exhausted and still very much pregnant.

“What happened here?” the doctor asked us.

Wrapping the bottle nonchalantly in a towel before rolling down my sleeves, I replied, “I’d guess some kind of food poisoning. She must have eaten something that didn’t agree with her delicate condition. She and the baby will be all right.” He came forward to examine Flora, and Crea and I stepped out of the room into the hallway.

“I’ll take that,” Crea told me, reaching for the basin.

“I can handle the slops as well as you,” I responded tartly, “in spite of my college education and society family.” My words made her grin.

“It isn’t becoming in a woman like yourself to be so touchy, Johanna. You’ll have to grow a thicker skin if you intend to spend more time at the Anchorage.”

Holding my unpleasant burden out in front of me, I answered, “My skin is plenty thick enough, thank you, but my sense of direction could use some help. Where do I dump this?”

Laughing a little under her breath, Crea went ahead of me down the hall and then descended some steps that led to a small water closet.

“We have indoor plumbing” was all she said and opened the door with a flourish and a grin.

Sitting on the train on the way home, I decided I liked Crea O’Rourke and thought we might even become friends. She had taken the wrapped empty bottle from me without a word and disposed of it, coming to the front door later as I was putting on my coat to tell me, “The doctor says Flora will be none the worse for wear.”

“Good. Who will watch her tonight?

“I will.”

I looked at her curiously. “Do you live at the Anchorage, Crea?”

“It’s my home.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“We’re both women of mystery, then.”

I laughed. “There’s absolutely no mystery about me. I am exactly what you see, a woman plain and thin and stubborn. And thick-skinned.” Crea smiled at my words, an honest smile that hinted she might be able to approve of me after all, and said good night.